The valley lay below them.  A young moon was near its setting over the farthest pike, and the fine lines of the mountain rose dimly clear, from its base on the valley floor to the dark cliffs of Pavey Ark.  Not a light was visible anywhere.  Their little cottage on its shelf, with the rays of its small lamp shining through the window, seemed to be the only spectator of the fells; 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?’