“It was that I came to speak of,” said Philip. “Sorry to say it has had no effect but a bad one. It has only drawn attention to the fact that Manx fishermen pay no harbour dues.”
“And right too,” said Pete. “The harbours are our fathers' harbours, and were freed to us forty years ago.”
“Nevertheless,” said Philip, “the dues are to be demanded. The Governor has issued an order.”
“Then we'll rise against it—every fisherman in the island,” said Pete. “And when they're making you Dempster, you'll back us up in the Tynwald Coort.”
“Take care, Pete, take care,” said Philip.
Then Kate came in from church, and Pete welcomed her with a shout. Philip rose and bowed in silence. The marks of the prayers of the week were on her face, but they had brought her no comfort. She had been constantly promising herself consolation from religion, but every fresh exercise of devotion had seemed to tear open the wound from which she bled to death.
She removed her cloak and stepped to the cradle. The child was sleeping peacefully, but she convinced herself that it must be unwell. Her own hands were cold and moist, and when she touched the child she thought its skin was clammy. Presently her hands became hot and dry, and when she touched the child again she thought its forehead was feverish.
“I'm sure she's ill,” she said.
“Chut! love,” said Pete; “no more ill than I am.”
But, to calm her fears, he went off for the doctor. The doctor was away in the country, and was not likely to be back for hours. Kate's fears increased. Every time she looked at the child she applied to it the symptoms of her own condition.