Cæsar and Grannie came back, both in fearful outbursts of Sunday clothes. Nevertheless Cæsar's eyes, after the first salutation with Philip, fixed themselves on Kate's unfamliar costume. “Such worldly attire!” he muttered, following the girl round the kitchen and blowing up his black gloves. “This caring for the miserable body that will one day be lowered into the grave! What does the Book say?--put my tall hat on the clane laff, Nancy. 'Let it not be the outward adorning of putting on of apparel, but let it be the hidden man of the heart.'” “But sakes alive, father,” said Grannie, loosening a bonnet like a diver's helmet, “if it comes to that, what is Jeremiah saying, 'Can a maid forget her ornaments?'” “It's like she can if she hasn't any to remember,” said Cæsar. “But maybe the prophet Jeremiah didn't know the mothers that's in now.” “Chut, man! Girls are like birds, and the breed comes out in the feathers,” said Grannie. “Where's she getting it then? Not from me at all,” said Cæsar. “Deed, no, man,” laughed Grannie, “considering the smart she is and the rasonable good-looking.” “Hould your tongue, woman; it'll become you better,” said Cæsar. Philip rose to go. “You're time enough yet, sir,” cried Cæsar. “I was for telling you of a job.” Some of the fishermen of Ramsey had been over on Saturday. Their season was a failure, and they were loud in their protests against the trawlers who were destroying the spawn. Cæsar had suggested a conference at his house on the following Saturday of Ramsey men and Peel men, and recommended Philip as an advocate to advise with them as to the best means to put a stop to the enemies of the herring. Philip promised to be there, and then went home to Auntie Nan. He told himself on the way that Kate was completely above her surroundings, and capable of becoming as absolute a lady as ever lived on the island, without a sign of her origin in look or speech, except perhaps the rising inflexion in her voice which made the talk of the true Manxwoman the sweetest thing in the world to listen to. Auntie Nan was sitting by the lamp, reading her chapter before going to bed. “Auntie,” said Philip, “don't you think the tragedy in the life of father was accidental? Due, I mean, to the particular characters of grandfather and poor mother? Now, if the one had been less proud, less exclusive, or the other more capable of rising with her husband----” “The tragedy was deeper than that, dear; let me tell you a story,” said Auntie Nan, laying down her book. “Three days after your father left Ballawhaine, old Maggie, the housemaid, came to my side at supper and whispered that some one was wanting me in the garden. It was Thomas. Oh dear! it was terrible to see him there, that ought to have been the heir of everything, standing like a stranger in the dark beyond the kitchen-door.” “Poor father!” said Philip.