a nameless artist of the
people, only six months in London. He owed it to Cuningham, and
believed himself grateful. Cuningham was often at the Findons, made a
point, indeed, of going. Was it to maintain his place with them, and
to keep Fenwick under observation? Fenwick triumphantly believed
that Lord Findon greatly preferred his work--and even, by now, his
conversation--to Cuningham's. But he was still envious of Cuningham's
smooth tact, and agreeable, serviceable ways.

As to Welby and his place in the Findon circle, that was another
matter altogether. He came and went as he pleased, on brotherly terms
with the son and the younger daughters, clearly an object of great
affection to Lord Findon, and often made use of by her ladyship.
What was the degree of friendship between him and Madame de
Pastourelles?--that had been already the subject of many meditations
on Fenwick's part.

The cart deposited the school-boy in Brathay and started again for
Langdale.

'Yo couldna get at Langdale for t' snaw lasst week,' said the young
farmer, as they turned a corner into the Skelwith Valley. 'T' roads
were fair choked wi't.'

'It's been an early winter,' said Fenwick.

'Aye, and t' Langdales get t' brunt o't. It's wild livin there,
soomtimes, i' winter.'

They began to climb the first steep hill of the old road to Langdale.
The snow lay piled on either side of the road, the rain beat down, and
the trees clashed and moaned overhead. Not a house, not a light, upon
their path--only swirling darkness, opening now and then on that high
glimmer of the snow. Fresh from London streets, where winter, even if
it attack in force, is so soon tamed and conquered, Fenwick was for
the first time conscious of the harsher, wilder aspects of his native
land. Poor Phoebe! Had she been a bit lonesome in the snow and rain?

The steep lane to the cottage was still deep in snow. The cart could
not attempt it. Fenwick made his way up, fighting the eddying sleet.
As he let fall the latch of the outer gate, the cottage door opened,
and Phoebe, with the child in her arms, stood on the threshold.

'John!'

'Yes! God bless my soul, what a night!' He reached the door, put down
his umbrella with difficulty, and dragged his bag into the passage.
Then, in a moment, his coat was off and he had thrown his arm round
her and the child. It seemed to him that she was curiously quiet and
restrained. But she kissed him in return, drew him further within the
l