el when I'm with you--I can't breathe--it's just
burning you away--and me too. You've found out what you can do--and
people tell you you're so clever--and then you think you've thrown
yourself away--and that I'm a clog on you. John'--she approached him
suddenly, panting--'John, do you mean that baby and I are to stay all
the winter alone in that cottage?' She motioned towards it.

He protested that he had elaborately thought out all that she must do.
She must go to her father at Keswick for the summer and possibly for
the winter, till he had got a footing. He would come up to see her as
often as work and funds would permit. She must look after the child,
make a little money perhaps by her beautiful embroidery.

'I'll not go to my father,' she said, with energy.

'But why not?'

'You seem to forget that he married a second wife, John, last year.'

'I'm sure Mrs. Gibson was most friendly when we were there last month.
And we'd _pay_, of course--we'd pay.'

'I'm not going to plant myself and Carrie down on Mrs. Gibson for six
months and more, John, so don't ask me. No, we'll stay here--we'll
stay here!'

She began to pluck at the grass with her hand, staring before her at
the moonlit stream like one who sees visions of the future. The beauty
of her faintly visible head and neck suddenly worked on John Fenwick's
senses. He threw his arm round her.

'And I shall soon be back. You little silly, can't you understand that
I shall always be wanting you?'

'We'll stay here,' she repeated, slowly. 'And you'll be in London
making smart friends--and dining with rich folk--and having ladies to
sit to you--'

'Phoebe, you're not jealous of me?' he cried, with a great,
good-humoured laugh--'that would be the last straw.'

'Yes, I am jealous of you!' she said, with low-voiced passion; 'and
you know very well that I've had some cause to be.'

He was silent. Through both their minds there passed the memory of
some episodes in their married life--slight, but quite sufficient to
show that John Fenwick was a man of temperament inevitably attracted
by womankind.

He murmured that she had made mountains out of mole-hills. She merely
raised his hand and kissed it. 'The women make a fool of you, John,'
she said, 'and I ought to be there to protect you--for you do love me,
you know--you do!'

And then with tears she broke down and clung to him again, in a mood
that was partly the love of wife for husband and partly an exquisite