She was too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the change.

When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, and had no more to live for.
The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than a girl so young as Phebe could imagine.

For what is money to a young nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has lavished upon some fellow-mortal?
While she was mourning over the shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his six hundred pounds.

They represented so much to him, so many years of toil and austere self-denial.

He had risen early, and late taken rest, and eaten the bread of carefulness.