“Oh, I'll be good—so very good,” she said. “But look! only look at the white horses out yonder—far out beyond the steamer. Davy's putting on the coppers for the parson, eh?”
She caught the grave expression of Philip's face, and drew herself up with pretended severity, saying, “Be quiet, Katey. Behave yourself. Philip wants to talk to you—seriously—very seriously.”
Then, leaning forward with head aside to look up into his face, she said, “Well, sir, why don't you begin? Perhaps you think I'll cry out. I won't—I promise you I won't.”
But she grew uneasy at the settled gravity of his face, and the joy gradually died off her own. When Philip spoke, his voice was like a cracked echo of itself.
“You remember what you said, Kate, when I brought you that last letter from Kimberley—that if next morning you found it was a mistake———”
“Is it a mistake?” she asked.
“Becalm, Kate.”
“I am quite calm, dear. I remember I said it would kill me. But I was very foolish. I should not say so now. Is Pete alive?”
She spoke without a tremor, and he answered in a husky whisper, “Yes.”
Then, in a breaking voice, he said, “We were very foolish Kate—jumping so hastily to a conclusion was very foolish-it was worse than foolish, it was wicked. I half doubted the letter at the time, but, God forgive me, I wanted to believe it, and so——”