gift as
that?'

Carrie and Miss Mason were entering the little garden. Eugenie's
smile, as she motioned towards the girl, seemed to reflect the May
sunshine and Carrie's young charm.

But after Madame de Pastourelles was gone, a cloud of nervous
dread fell upon the little cottage and its inmates. Phoebe wandered
restlessly about the garden, waiting--and listening--hour after hour.

The May evening drew towards sunset. Flame descended on the valley,
striking athwart the opening which leads to its furthest recess,
superbly guarded by the crags of Bowfell, and turning all the
mountain-side above the cottage, still dyed with the fern of
'yesteryear,' to scarlet. A fresh breeze blew through the sycamore
leaves, bringing with it the cool scents of rain-washed grass. All
was hushed--richly hued--expectant--like some pageant waiting for its
king.

Alas--poor king! In the full glory of the evening light, a man
alighted from a wagonette at the foot of the cottage hill, and dragged
his weary limbs up the steep ground. He opened the gate, looking round
him slowly to right and left.

Then, in the porch, Fenwick saw his wife. He walked up to her, and
gripped her wrists. She fell back with a stifled cry; and they stood
there--speechless and motionless--looking into each other's eyes.

CHAPTER XIV

Phoebe first withdrew herself. In that first moment of contact,
Fenwick's changed aspect had pierced her to the heart. But the shock
itself brought self-control.

'Come in,' she said, mechanically; 'Miss Anna's gone out.'

'Where's Carrie?'

He followed her in, glancing from side to side.

'She--she'll be here directly.'

Phoebe's voice stumbled over the words.

Fenwick understood that the child and Anna Mason were leaving them
to themselves, out of delicacy; and his exhaustion of mind and body
recoiled impatiently from the prospect of a 'scene,' with which he
felt himself wholly unable to cope. He had been sorely tempted to stay
at Windermere, and telegraph that he was too ill to come that day.
Such a course would at least have given him the night's respite. But a
medley of feelings had prevailed over the impulse; and here he was.

They entered the little parlour, and he looked round him in amazement,
muttering, 'Why, it looks just as it did--not a thing changed.'

Phoebe closed the door, and then turned to him, trembling.

'Won't you--won't you say you're glad to see me, John?'

He looked at her fixedly, the