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The November day passed on, cloudless, to its red setting over the Coniston fells. Wetherlam stood black against the barred scarlet of the west, and all the valleys lay veiled in a blue and purple mist, traversed by rays of light, wherever a break in the mountain wall let the sunset through. The beautiful winter twilight had just begun, when Nelly heard the step she waited for outside.
She did not run to the window to greet him as she generally did. She sat still, by the fire, her knitting on her knee. Her black dress was very black, with the plainest white ruffle at her throat. She looked very small and pitiful. Perhaps she meant to look it! The weak in dealing with the strong have always that instinctive resource.
'How jolly to find you alone!' said Farrell joyously, as he entered the room. 'I thought Miss Bridget was due.' He put down the books with which he had come laden and approached her with outstretched hands. 'I say!—you don't look well!' His look, suddenly sobered, examined her.
'Oh yes, I am quite well. Bridget comes to-night.'
She hurriedly withdrew herself, and he sat down opposite her, holding some chilly fingers to the blaze, surveying her all the time.
'Why doesn't Bridget stop here and look after you?'
Nelly laughed. 'Because she has much more interesting things to do!'
'That's most unlikely! Have you been alone all the week?'
'Yes, but quite busy, thank you—and quite well.' 'You don't look it,' he repeated gravely, after a moment.