it talked with them in a lonely
companionship.

They passed through the fence of the small garden out on to the
fell-side. Dim forms of sheep rose in alarm as they came near, and
bleating lambs hurried beside them. Soft sounds of wind, rising and
falling along the mountain or stirring amid last year's bracken,
pursued them, till they reached the edge of the ghyll, and, descending
its side, found the water murmuring among the stones, the only audible
thing in a deep shade and silence.

They sat down by the stream, and Fenwick, taking up some pebbles,
began to drop them nervously into the water. Phoebe, beside him,
clasped her hands round her knees; in a full light it would have been
seen that the hands were trembling.

'Phoebe--old Morrison's offered to lend me some money.'

Phoebe started.

'I--I thought perhaps he had.'

'And he wants me to go to London at once.'

'You've _got_ the money?'

'In my pocket'--he laid his hand upon it. Then he laughed: 'He didn't
pay me for the portrait, though. That's like him. And of course I
couldn't ask for it.'

A silence.

Fenwick turned round and took one of her hands.

'Well, little woman, what do you think? Are you going to let me go and
make my fortune?--our fortune?'

'As if I could stop you!' she said, hoarsely. 'It's what you've wanted
for months.'

[Illustration: _Husband and Wife_]

'Well, and if I have, where's the harm? We can't go on living like
this!'

And he began to talk, with great rapidity, about the absurdity of
attempting to make a living as an artist out of Westmoreland--out of
any place, indeed, but London, the natural centre and clearing-house
of talent.

'I could make a living out of teaching, I suppose, up here. I could
get--in time--a good many lessons going round to schools. But that
would be a dog's life. You wouldn't want to see me at that for ever,
would you, Phoebe? Or at painting portraits at five guineas apiece? I
could chuck it all, of course, and go in for business. But I can tell
you, England would lose something if I did.'

And, catching up another stone, he threw it into the beck with a
passion which made the clash of it, as it struck upon a rock, echo
through the ghyll. There was something magnificent in the gesture, and
a movement, half thrill, half shudder, ran through the wife's delicate
frame. She clasped her hands round his arm, and drew close to him.

'John!--are you going to leave baby and me behind?'

Her voice