Carrie saw him there—­paused—­and then walked on quickly—­ahead of Miss Mason.

‘Father!’ she said, gravely, and looking at him, she held out her hand.

He took it, and then, drawing her to him, he kissed her hurriedly.

Carrie’s cheeks grew very red, and her eyes moist, for a moment.  But she had long since determined not to cry—­because poor mummy would be sure to.

‘I guess you’ll be wanting your tea,’ she said, shyly, looking from him to her mother; ‘I’ll go and see to it.’

Miss Anna came up behind, concealing as best she could the impression made upon her by the husband and wife as they stood in the porch, under the full western light.  Alack! here was no happy meeting!—­and it was no good pretending.

[Illustration:  Robin Ghyll Cottage]

Fenwick greeted her with little or no demonstration of any sort, though he and she, also, had never met since the year of Phoebe’s flight.  His sunken eyes indeed regarded her with a look that seemed to hold her at bay—­a strange look full of bitterness.  She understood it to mean that he was not there to lend himself to any sham sentimental business; and that physically he was ill, and could stand no strain, whatever women might wish.

After a few questions about his journey, Miss Anna quietly begged him to come in and rest.  He hesitated a moment, then with his hands in his pockets followed her to the parlour; while Phoebe, with Carrie’s arm round her, went falteringly upstairs.

Miss Anna made no scene and asked for no information.  She and Carrie bustled to and fro, preparing supper.  Fenwick at his own request remained alone in the parlour.  But when supper-time came, it was evident that he was too feeble to face an ordinary meal.  He lay back in Miss Anna’s armchair with closed eyes, and took no notice of Phoebe’s timid summons.  The women looked in upon him, alarmed and whispering together.  Then Miss Anna drew Phoebe away, and mixing some milk and brandy sent Carrie in with it.  ‘He will go away to-morrow!’ she said, in Phoebe’s ear, referring to a muttered saying of the patient,—­’we shall see!’

As Carrie entered the parlour with the milk and brandy, Fenwick looked up.

‘Where am I to sleep?’ he asked her, abruptly, his eyes lingering on her.

‘In my room,’ she said, softly; ’I’m going in to Miss Anna.  I’ve lengthened the bed!’

A faint smile flickered over his face.

‘How did you do that?’

’I nailed on a packing-case.  Isn’t it queer?—­Miss Anna hadn’t any tools.  I had to borrow some at the farm—­and they were the poorest scratch lot you ever saw.  Why, everybody in Canada has tools.’

He held her with a shaking hand, still looking intently at her bright face.

‘Did you like Canada?’

She smiled.

‘Why, it’s lovely!’

Then her lips parted eagerly.  She would have liked to go on talking, to make acquaintance.  But she refrained.  This man—­this strange new father—­was ’sick’—­and must be kept quiet.