“May we all be ripe for the great gathering, and good for preserving, too,” said Cæsar. “Look at that big one, now—knotted like a blacksmith's muscles, but it'll go rotten as fast as the least lil one of the lot. It's taiching us a lesson, sir, that we all do fall—big mountains as aisy as lil cocks. This world is changeable.”
Philip was not listening, but looking up at Kate, with a face of half-frightened tenderness.
“Do you know,” she said, “I was afraid you must be ill again—your apron, Nancy—that was foolish, wasn't it?”
“No; I have been well enough,” said Philip.
Kate looked at him. “Is it somebody else?” she said. “I got your letter.”
“Can I help?” said Philip. “What is it? I'm sure there's something,” said Kate.
“Set your foot here,” he said.
“Let me down, I feel giddy.”
“Slowly, then. Hold by this one. Give me your hand.”
Their fingers touched, and communicated fire.