Presently the parson turned to Philip with a softening voice and an inclination of the head.

"Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of 'the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow nor be led by them?"

And Philip answered, in a firm, low voice, "I renounce them all."

The parson took the child from Nancy. "Name this child."

Nancy looked at Kate, but Kate, who was breathing violently, gave no sign.

"Kate," whispered Pete; "Kate, of coorse."

"Katherine," said Nancy, and in that name the child was baptized.

Dr. Mylechreest came in as the service ended. Grannie held little Katherine up to him, and he controlled his face and looked at her.

"There's not much amiss with the child," he said.

"I knew it," shouted Pete.

"But perhaps the mother is a little weak and nervous," he added quietly.

"Coorse she is, the bogh," cried Pete.

"Let her see more company," said the doctor.

"She shall," said Pete.

"If that doesn't do, send her away for awhile."

"I will."

"Fresh scenes, fresh society; out of the island, by preference."

"I'm willing."

"She'll come back another woman."

"I'll put up with the same one," said Pete; and, while the company laughed, he flung open the door, and cried "Come in!" and half a dozen men who had been waiting outside trooped into the hall. They entered with shy looks because of the presence of great people.

"Now for a pull of jough, Nancy," cried Pete.

"Not too much excitement either," said the doctor, and with that warning he departed. The parson went with him. Philip had slipped out first, unawares to anybody. Grannie carried little Katherine to the kitchen, and bathed her before the fire. Kate was propped up with pillows in the armchair in the corner. Then Nancy brought the ale, and Pete welcomed it with a shout. Caesar looked alarmed and rose to go.

"The drink's your own, sir," said Pete; "stop and taste it."

But Caesar couldn't stay; it would scarcely be proper.

"You don't christen your first granddaughter every day," said Pete.

"Enjoy yourself while you're alive, sir; you'll be a long time dead."

Caesar disappeared, but the rest of the company took Pete's counsel, and began to make themselves comfortable.

"The last christening I was at was yesterday," said John the Clerk. "It was Christian Killip's little one, before she was married, and it took the water same as any other child."

"The last christening I was at was my own," said Black Tom, "when I was made an in inheriter, but I've never inherited yet."

"That's truth enough," said an asthmatic voice from the backstairs.

"Well, the last christening I was at was at Kimberley," said Pete, "and I was the parzon myself that day. Yes, though, Parzon Pete. And G.o.dfather and G.o.dmother as well, and the baby was Peter Quilliam, too.

Aw, it was no laughing matter at all. There's always a truck of women about a compound, hanging on to the boys like burrs. Dirty little trousses of a rule, but human creatures for all. One of them had a child by somebody, and then she came to die, and couldn't take rest because it hadn't been christened. There wasn't a pazon for fifty miles, anywhere, and it was night-time, too, and the woman was stretched by the camp-fire and sinking. 'What's to be done?' says the men. _I'll_ do it,' says I, and I did. One of the fellows got a breakfast can of water out of the river, and I dipped my hand in it. 'What's the name,' says I; but the poor soul was too far gone for spaking. So I gave the child my own name, though I didn't know the mother from Noah's aunt, and the big chaps standing round bareheaded began to blubber like babies. 'I baptize thee, Peter Quilliam, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.' Then the girl died happy and aisy, and what for shouldn't she? The words were the same, and the water was the same, and if the hand wasn't as clane as usual, maybe Him that's above wouldn't bother about the diff'rance."

Kate got up with a flush on her cheeks. The room had become too close.

Pete helped her into the parlour, where a bright fire was burning, then propped and wrapped her up afresh, and, at her own entreaty, returned to his guests. The company had increased by this time, and there were women and girls among them. They went on to sing and to playt and at last to dance.

Kate heard them. Through the closed door between the hall and the parlour their merriment came to her. At intervals Pete put in his head, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with laughter, and cried in a loud whisper, "Did you hear that, Kate? It's rich!"

At length Philip came, too, with his hat in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. "The G.o.dfather's present to little Katherine," he said.

Kate opened the lid, and drew out a child's hood in scarlet plush.

"You are very good," she said vacantly.

"Don't let us talk of goodness," he answered; and he turned to go.

"Wait," she faltered. "I have something to say to you. Shut the door."

XI.

Philip turned pale. "What is it?" he asked.

She tried to speak, but at first she could not.

"Are you unhappy, Kate?" he faltered.

"Can't you see?" she answered.

He sat down by the fire, and leaned his face on his hands. "Yes, we have both suffered," he said, in a low tone.

"Why did you let me marry him?"

Philip raised his head. "How could I have hindered you?"

"How? Do you ask me how?" She spoke with some bitterness, but he answered quietly.

"I tried, Kate, but I could do nothing. You seemed determined. Do what I would to prevent, to delay, to stop your marriage altogether, the more you hastened and hurried it. Then I thought to myself, Well, perhaps it is best. She is trying to forget and forgive, and begin again. What right have I to stand in her way? Haven't I wronged her enough already?

A good man offers her his love, and she is taking it. Let her do so, if she can, G.o.d help her! I may suffer, but I am nothing to her now. Let me go my way."