“And this is your housekeeper, Mrs. Gorry,” said Pete.
Kate did not answer. Her eyes had been fixed in a rigid stare on the hind-quarters of the horse, which were steaming in the light of the lamps. Pete lifted her down as he had lifted her up. Then Mrs. Gorry took her by the hand, and saying, “Mind the step, ma'am—this way, ma'am,” led her through the gate and along the garden path, and up to the porch. The porch opened on a square hall, furnished as a sitting-room. A fire was burning, a lamp was lit, the table was laid for supper, and the place was warm and cosy.
“There! What d'ye say to that?” cried Pete, coming behind with the whip in his hand.
Kate looked around; she did not speak; her eyes began to fill.
“Isn't it fit for a Dempster's lady?” said Pete, sweeping the whip-handle round the room like a showman.
Kate could bear no more. She sank into a chair and burst into a fit of tears. Pete's glowing face dropped in an instant.
“Dear heart alive, darling, what is it?” he said. “My poor girl, what's troubling you at all? Tell me, now—tell me, bogh, tell me.”
“It's nothing, Pete, nothing. Don't ask me,” said Kate. But still she sobbed as if her heart would break.
Pete stood a moment by her side, smoothing her arm with his hand. Then he said, with a crack and a quaver in his great voice, “It is hard for a girl, I know that, to lave father and mother and every one and everything that's been sweet and dear to her since she was a child, and to come to the house of her husband and say, 'The past has been very good to me; but still and for all, I'm for trusting the future to you.' It's hard, darling; I know it's hard.”
“Oh, leave me! leave me!” cried Kate, still weeping.