Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping, even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was sinking under sorrow or sin.
"Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me what to do." He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like a man who is worn out with fatigue.

In a quarter of an hour the low cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few storm-beaten fir-trees.

There was a dull glow of red to be seen through the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field behind the house.

She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled the little room from end to end.

It was a familiar place to Roland Sefton, and he took no notice of it.