Pete grunted and glimed, smoked up the chimney, and said, “That'll do, ma'am, that'll do. Don't believe all you hear. John says more than his Amens, anyway.”
“I'm axing your pardon, miss,” said the girl to Kate, “but I couldn't help coming—I couldn't really—no, I couldn't,” and then she began to cry.
“Where's that child?” said Pete, heaving up to his feet with a ferocious look. “What! you mane to say you've left the lil thing alone, asleep? Go back to it then immajent. Good night!”
“Good night, sir, and God bless you, and when you're married to-morrow, God bless your wife as well!”
“That'll do—that'll do,” said Pete, backing her to the porch.
“You desarve a good woman, sir, and may the Lord be good to you both.”
“Tut! tut!” said Pete, and he tut-tutted her out of the house.
She smoothed her baby's hair more tenderly than ever that night, and kissed it again and again.
Kate could scarcely breathe, she could barely see. Her pride and her will had broken down utterly. This greathearted man loved her. He would lay down his life if need be to save her. To morrow he would marry her. Here, then, was her rock of refuge—this strong man by her side.
She could struggle against fate no longer. It's invisible hand was pushing her on. It's blind power was dragging her. If Philip would not come to claim her she must marry Pete.