On the way to Sulby she overtook Philip and drew up. He was walking to Kirk Michael to visit the old Deemster, who was ill. Would he not take a lift? He hesitated, half declined, and then got into the gig. As she settled herself comfortably after this change, he trod on the edge of her dress. At that he drew quickly away as if he had trodden on her foot. She laughed, but she was vexed; and when he got down at “The Manx Fairy,” saying he might call on his way back in the evening, she had no doubt Grannie would be glad to see him. The girls of the market-place were standing by the mill-pond, work done, and arms crossed under their aprons, twittering like the pairing birds about them in the trees, when Philip returned home by Sulby. He saw Kate coming down the glen road, driving two heifers with a cushag for switch and flashing its gold at them in the horizontal gleams of sunset. She had recovered her good-humour, and was swinging along, singing merry snatches as she came--all life, all girlish blood and beauty. She pretended not to see him until they were abreast, and the heifers were going into the yard. Then she said, “I've written and told him.” “What?” said Philip. “That you say you are a confirmed old bachelor.” “That _I_ say so?” “Yes; and that _I_ say you are so distant with a girl that I don't believe you have a heart at all.” “You don't?” “No; and that he couldn't have left anybody better to look after me all these years, because you haven't eyes or ears or a thought for any living creature except himself.” “You've never written that to Pete?” said Philip. “Haven't I, though?” said Kate, and she tripped off on tiptoe. He tripped after her. She ran into the yard. He ran also. She opened the gate of the orchard, slipped through, and made for the door of the dairy, and there he caught her by the waist. “Never, you rogue! Say no, say no!” he panted. “No,” she whispered, turning up her lips for a kiss. X. Grannie saw nothing of Philip that night. He went home tingling with pleasure, and yet overwhelmed with shame. Sometimes he told himself that he was no better than a Judas, and sometimes that Pete might never come back. The second thought rose oftenest. It crossed his mind like a ghostly gleam. He half wished to believe it. When he counted up the odds against Pete's return, his pulse beat quick. Then he hated himself. He was in torment. But under his distracted heart there was a little chick of frightened joy, like a young cuckoo hatched in a wagtail's nest. After many days, in which no further news had come from Pete, Kate received this brief letter from Philip: “I am coming to see you this evening. Have something of grave importance to tell you.”