rrier brought her from the lending
library at Windermere. She talked excitedly of some of them, had
'cried her eyes out' over this or that. Fenwick picked up one or two,
and threw them away for 'trash.' He scornfully thought that they had
done her harm, made her more nervous and difficult. But at night, when
he had done his work, he never took any trouble to read to her, or to
talk to her about other than household things. He smoked or drew in
silence; and she sat over her embroidery, lost in morbid reverie.

One morning he discovered amongst her books a paper-covered 'Life of
Romney'--a short compilation issued by a local bookseller.

'Why, whatever did you get this for, Phoebe?' he said, holding it up.

She looked up from her mending, and coloured. 'I wanted to read it.'

'But why?'

'Well'--she hesitated--'I thought it was like you.'

'Like me?--you little goose!'

'I don't know,' she said, doggedly, looking hard at her work--'there
was the hundred pounds that he got to go to London with--and then,
marrying a wife in Kendal--and'--she looked up with a half-defiant
smile--'and leaving her behind!'

'Oh! so you think that's like me?' he said, seating himself again at
his drawing.

'It's rather like.'

'You suppose you're going to be left here for thirty years?' He
laughed as he spoke.

She laughed too, but not gaily--with a kind of defiance.

'Well, it wouldn't be quite as easy now, would it?--with trains, and
all that. There were only coaches then, I suppose. Now, London's so
near.'

'I wish you'd always think so!' he cried. 'Why, of course it's near.
I'm only seven hours away. What's that, in these days? And in three
months' time, things will be all right and square again.'

'I dare say,' she said, sighing.

'Why can't you wait cheerfully?' he asked, rather
exasperated--'instead of being so down.'

'Because'--she broke out--'I don't see the reason of it--there! No,
I don't!--However!'--she pressed back her hair from her eyes and drew
herself together. 'You've never shown me your studies of that--that
lady--John; you said you would.'

Relieved at the change of subject, he took a sketch-book out of his
pocket and gave it to her. It contained a number of 'notes' for his
portrait of Madame de Pastourelles--sketches of various poses, aspects
of the head and face, arrangements of the hands, and so forth. Phoebe
pondered it in silence.

'She's pretty--I think,' she said, at last, doubtfully.

'I'm