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.