“Good-night, Pete,” she cried from the gate, “and many happy returns of the christening-day.”
“One was enough for yourself, mother,” said Cæsar, and then his voice went rumbling down the street.
Philip had come out into the hall. “You're time enough yet,” said Pete. “A glass first? No? I've sent over to the 'Mitre' for your mare. There she is; that's her foot on the path. I must be seeing you off, anyway. Where's that lantern, at all?”
They stepped out. Pete held the light while Philip mounted, and then he guided him, under the deep shadow of the old tree, to the road.
“Fine night for a ride, Phil. Listen! That's the churning of the nightjar going up to Ballure glen. Well, good-night! Good-night, and God bless you, old fellow!”
Kate inside heard the deadened sound of Philip's “Goodnight,” the crunch of the mare's hoofs on the gravel and the clink of the bit in her teeth. Then the porch door closed with a hollow vibration like that of a vault, the chain rattled across it, and Pete was back in the room.
“What a night we've had of it! And now to bed.”
XII.
Kate was up early the next morning, but Pete was stirring before her. As soon as he had heard the news of Philip's appointment he had organised a drum and brass band to honour the day of the ceremony. The brass had been borrowed from Laxey, but the drum had been bought by Pete.