ilip--Philip somethin' (he were a Frenchman,
I know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. But they were
welcomed by th' whole British squadron as was i' t' Channel for t'
piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a French
port; an' Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an' him as
we used t' call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a
lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' King's service; and is
come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as
is just past!'

A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around
Philip. All this was publicly known about Kinraid,--and how much
more? All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of Philip's
treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate,
and supplanted him in his love.

Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew
must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the
people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury;
and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild
passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and
self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in
such matters, spreads like wildfire.

Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before
him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he
thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; he
lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little
strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look
at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved.

The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face,
made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's
events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with
something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he
remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform,
with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark
eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white
teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn.

The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active
despair.

He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and
on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless
of Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even lef