Her eyelids closed, and a quiver went through the face.

’I don’t know.  I—­I had a fright a few days ago—­at night—­and I suppose I haven’t got over it.’

‘A fright?’

’Yes.  There was a tramp one night came to the door.  I half-opened it—­and his face was so horrible I tried to shut it again at once.  And he struggled with me, but I was strongest.  Then he tried to get in at the window, but luckily I had fastened the iron bar across the shutter—­and the back door.  But it all held, mercifully.  He couldn’t get in.  Then he abused me through the door, and said he would have killed me and the child, if he could have got in—­and some day he would come again.’  She shuddered.

Fenwick had turned pale.  With his painter’s imagination he saw the thing—­the bestial man outside, the winter night, the slender form within pressing against the door and the bolt—­

‘Look here,’ he said, abruptly.  ’We can’t have this.  Somebody must sleep here.  Did you tell the police?’

’Yes, I wrote—­to Ambleside.  They sent a man over to see me.  But they couldn’t catch him.  He’s probably left the country.  I got a bell’—­she opened her eyes, and pointed to it.  ’If I rang it, they might hear it down at Brow Farm.  They might—­if the wind was that way.’

There was silence a moment.  Then Fenwick stooped and kissed her.

‘Poor old girl!’ he said, softly.  She made but slight response.  He returned to his place, repeating with a frowning energy—­’You must have some one to sleep here.’

‘Daisy would come—­if I’d pay her.’

Daisy was their little servant of the summer, the daughter of a quarryman near by.

‘Well, pay her!’

She drew herself up sharply.  ’I haven’t got the money—­and you always say, when you write, you haven’t any either.’

‘I’ll find some for that.  I can’t have you scared like this.’

But, though his tone was vehement, it was not particularly affectionate.  He was horribly discomposed indeed, could not get the terrible image out of his mind.  But as he went on with his supper, the shock of it mingled with a good many critical or reproachful thoughts.  Why had she persisted in staying on in Langdale, instead of going to her father?  All that foolish dislike of her stepmother!  It had been open to her to stay in her father’s farm, with plenty of company.  If she wouldn’t, was he to blame if the cottage was lonesome?

But as though she divined this secret debate she presently said: 

‘I went to Keswick last week.’

He looked up, startled.  ‘Well?’

’Father’s ill—­he’s got a bad chest, and the doctor says he may be going into a consumption.’

‘Doctors’ll say anything!’ cried Fenwick, wrathfully.  ’If ever there was a strong man, it’s your father.  Don’t you believe any croaking of that sort, Phoebe.’

She shook her head.