The family were all at home. Nancy had just finished a noisy churning, and Kate was in the dairy, weighing the butter into pounds and stamping it. Philip read the letter in a loud voice to the old people in the kitchen, and the soft thumping and watery swishing ceased in the damp place adjoining. Pete was in high feather. He had made a mortal lot of money lately, and was for coming home quickly. Couldn't say exactly when, for some rascally blackleg Boers, who had been corrupting his Kaffirs and slipped up country with a pile of stones, had first to be followed and caught. The job wouldn't take long though, and they might expect to see him back within a twelvemonth, with enough in his pocket to drive away the devil and the coroner anyway. “Bould fellow!” said Cæsar. “Aw, deed on Pete!” said Grannie. “Now, if it wasn't for that Ross----” said Nancy. Philip went into the dairy, where Kate was now skimming the cream of the last night's milking. He was sorry there was nothing but a message for her this time. Had she answered Pete's former letters? No, she had not. “I must be writing soon, I suppose,” she said, blowing the yellow surface. “But I wish--_puff_--I could have something to tell him--_puff, puff_--about you.” “About me, Kate?” “Something sweet, I mean “--_puff, puff, puff_. She shot a sly look upward. “Aren't you sure yet? Can't say still? Not properly? No?” Philip pretended not to understand. Kate's laugh echoed in the empty cream tins. “How you want people to say things!” “No, really--” began Philip. “I've always heard that the girls of Douglas are so beautiful. You must see so many now. Oh, it would be delicious to write a long story to Pete. Where you met--in church, naturally. What she's like--fair, of course. And--and all about it, you know.” “That's a story you will never tell to Pete, Kate,” said Philip. “No, never,” said Kate quite as light, and this being just what she wished to hear, she added mournfully. “Don't say that, though. You can't think what pleasure you are denying me, and yourself, too. Take some poor girl to your heart, Philip. You don't know how happy it will make you.” “Are _you_ so happy, then, Kate?” Kate laughed merrily. “Why, what do _you_ think?” “Dear old Pete--how happy _he_ should be,” said Philip. Kate began to hate the very name of Pete. She grew angry with Philip also. Why couldn't he guess? Concealment was eating her heart out. The next time she saw Philip, he passed her in the market-place on the market-day, as she stood by the tipped-up gig, selling her butter. There was a chatter of girls all round as he bowed and went on. This vexed her, and she sold out at a penny a pound less, got the horse from the “Saddle,” and drove home early.