“darlin Kirry how is the mackral this saison and is the millin doing middling and I wonder is the hens all layin and is the grace gone out of the mares leg yet and how is the owl man and is he still playin hang with the texes. Theer is a big chap heer that is strait like him he hath swallowed the owl Book and cant help bring it up agen but dear Kirry no more at present i axpect to be Home sune bogh, to see u all tho I dont no azactly With luv your luving swateart peat.” When she had finished the letter, she turned it over in her fingers, and gave another patient little sigh. “You didn't read it as it was spelled, Philip,” she said. “What odds if the spelling is uncertain when the love is as sure as that?” said Philip. “Did he write it himself, think you?” said Kate. “He signed it, anyway, and no doubt indited it too; but perhaps one of the Gills boys held the pen.” She coloured a little, slipped the letter down her dress into her pocket, and looked ashamed. VIII. This shame at Pete's letter tormented Philip, and he stayed away again. His absence stimulated Kate and made Philip himself ashamed. She was vexed with him that he did not see that all this matter of Pete was foolishness. It was absurd to think of a girl marrying a man whom she had known when he was a boy. But Philip was trying to keep the bond sacred, and so she made her terms with it. She used Pete as a link to hold Philip. After the lapse of some months, in which Philip had not been seen at Sulby, she wrote him a letter. It was to say how anxious she had been at the length of time since she had last heard from Pete, and to ask if he had any news to relieve her fears. The poor little lie was written in a trembling hand which shook honestly enough, but from the torment of other feelings. Philip answered the letter in person. Something had been speaking to him day and night, like the humming of a top, finding him pretexts on which to go; but now he had to make excuses for staying so long away. It was evening. Kate was milking, and he went out to her in the cowhouse. “We began to think we were to see no more of you,” she said, over the rattle of the milk in the pail. “I've--I've been ill,” said Philip. The rattle died to a thin hiss. “Very ill?” she asked. “Well, no--not seriously,” he answered. “I never once thought of that,” she said. “Something ought to have told me. I've been reproaching you, too.” Philip felt shame of his subterfuge, but yet more ashamed of the truth; so he leaned against the door and watched in silence. The smell of hay floated down from the loft, and the odour of the cow's breath came in gusts as she turned her face about. Kate sat on the milking-stool close by the ewer, and her head, on which she wore a sun-bonnet, she leaned against the cow's side. “No news of Pete, then? No?” she said. “No,” said Philip. Kate dug her head deeper in the cow, and muttered, “Dear Pete! So simple, so natural.” “He is,” said Philip. “So good-hearted, too.”