[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.