r.
Rhys, are you better to-day?"

"I am as well as usual, thank you, Julia."

"I am sorry to see that is not very well, Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor.

"Not very strong--" he said with the smile that she remembered, as he
sank back in the corner of the couch and rested his head on his hand.
His look and manner altogether gave her a strange feeling. Ill and pale
and grave as he was, there was something else about him different from
all that she had touched in her own life for weeks. It was a new
atmosphere.

"Ladies, I hope you are not wet?" he said presently.

"Not at all," said Eleanor; "nothing to signify. We shall dry ourselves
in the sun walking back."

"I think the sun is not going to be out immediately."

He rose and with slow steps made his way to the inner door and spoke to
some one within. Eleanor took a view of her position. The rain was
coming down furiously; no going home just yet was possible. That was
the out-of-door prospect. Within, she was a prisoner. The room was a
plain little room, plain as a room could be; with no adornments or
luxuries. Some books were piled on deal shelves; others covered two
tables. A large portfolio stood in one corner. On one of the tables
were pens, ink and paper, not lying loose, but put up in order; as not
used nor wanted at present. Several boxes of various sorts and sizes
made up the rest of the furniture, with a few chairs of very simple
fashion. It was Mr. Rhys's own room they were in; and all that could be
said of it was its nicety of order. Two little windows with the door
might give view of something in fair weather; at present they shewed
little but grey rain and a dim vision of trees seen through the rain.
Eleanor wanted to get away; but it was impossible. She must talk.

"You cannot judge of my prospect now," Mr. Rhys said as she turned to
him.

"Not in this rain. But I should think you could not see much at any
time, except trees."

"'Much' is comparative. No, I do not see much; but there is an opening
from my window, through which the eye goes a long way--across a long
distance of the moor. It is but a gleam; however it serves a good
purpose for me."

An old woman here came in with a bundle of sticks and began to lay them
for a fire. She was an old crone-looking person. Eleanor observed her,
and thought what it must be to have no nurse or companion but that.

"We have missed you at the Lodge, Mr. Rhys."

"Thank you. I am missing from all my old haunts,