Presently he returned with a canvas and palette.

‘Don’t go!’ he said, peremptorily, to Carrie, raising his hand.  ’Stand as you were before.’

‘You don’t want me?’ asked Phoebe, startled, her pale cheeks suddenly pink.

‘Yes, yes, I do!’ he said, impatiently.  ’For God’s sake, don’t move, either of you!’

He went back for an easel, then sat down and began to paint.

They held themselves as still as mice.  Carrie could see her mother’s hands trembling on her lap.

Suddenly Fenwick said, in emotion: 

‘I don’t know how it is—­but I see much better than I did.’

Miss Anna looked up from the low wall on which she was sitting.

‘The doctor said you would, John, when you got strong,’ she put in, quickly.  ’He said you’d been suffering from your eyes a long time without knowing it.  It was nerves like the rest.’

Fenwick said nothing.  He went on painting, painting fast and freely—­for nearly an hour.  All the time Phoebe could hardly breathe.  It was as though she felt the doors opening upon a new room in the House of Life.

[Illustration:  Fenwick stood looking at the canvas]

Then the artist threw his canvas on the grass, and stood looking at it.

‘By Jove!’ he said, presently.  ‘By Jove!—­that’ll do.’

Phoebe said nothing.  Carrie came up to him and put her hand in his arm.

‘Father, that’s enough.  Don’t do any more.’

‘All right.  Take it away—­and all these things.’

She lifted the sketch, the palette and brushes, and carried them into the house.

Then Fenwick looked up irresolutely.  His wife was still sitting on the bench.  She had her sewing in her hands.

‘Your hair’s as pretty as ever, Phoebe,’ he said, in a queer voice.  Phoebe raised her deep lids slowly, and her eyes spoke for her.  She would offer herself no more—­implore no more—­but he knew in that moment that she loved him more maturely, more richly, than she had ever loved him in the old days.  A shock, that was also a thrill, ran through him.  They remained thus for some seconds gazing at each other.  Then, as Carrie returned, Phoebe went into the house.

Carrie studied her father for a little, and then came to sit down on the grass beside him.  Miss Anna had gone for a walk along the fell.

‘Are you feeling better, father?’

‘Yes—­a good deal.’

‘Well, then—­now—­I can tell you my news.’

And she deliberately drew out a photograph from her pocket, and held it up to him.

’Well’—­said Fenwick, mystified.  ‘Who’s the young man?’

’He’s my young man’—­was Carrie’s entirely self-possessed reply.  ‘I’m going to marry him.’

‘What?’ cried Fenwick.  ‘Show him to me.’

Carrie yielded up her treasure rather timidly.

Fenwick looked at the picture, then put it down angrily.