He was glad to get home, nevertheless, where he need play the hypocrite no longer. Going through Sulby, he dropped out of the brake and looked in at the “Fairy.” The house was shut. Grannie was sitting up for Cæsar, and listening for the sound of wheels. There was something unusual and mysterious about her. Cruddled over the fire, she was smoking, a long clay in little puffs of blue smoke that could barely be seen. The sweet old soul in her troubles had taken to the pipe as a comforter. Pete could see that something had happened since morning, but she looked at him with damp eyes, and he was afraid to ask questions. He began to talk of the great doings of the day at Tynwald, then of Philip, and finally of Kate, apologising a little wildly for the mother not coming home sooner to the child, but protesting that she had sent the little one no end of presents.
“Presents, bless ye,” he began rapturously——
“You don't ate enough, Pete, 'deed you don't,” said Grannie.
“Ate? Did you say ate?” cried Pete. “If you'd seen me at the fair you'd have said, 'That man's got the inside of a limekiln!' Aw, no, Grannie, I'm not letting my jaws travel far. When I've got anything before me it's—down—same as an ostrich.”
Going away in the darkness, he heard Cæsar creaking up in the gig with old Horney, now old Mailie, diving along in front of him.
Nancy was waiting for Pete at Elm Cottage. She tried to bustle him upstairs.
“Come, man, come,” she said; “get yourself off to bed and I'll bring your clothes down to the fire.”
He had never slept in the bedroom since Kate had left. “Chut! I've lost the habit of beds,” he answered. “Always used of the gable loft, you know, and the wind above the thatch.”
Not to be thought to behave otherwise than usual, he went upstairs that night. But—
“Feather beds are saft,
Pentit rooms are bonnie,
But ae kiss o' my dear love
Better's far than ony.”