He smoked or drew in silence; and she sat over her embroidery, lost in morbid reverie.
One morning he discovered amongst her books a paper-covered 'Life of Romney'-- a short compilation issued by a local bookseller.
'Why, whatever did you get this for, Phoebe ?' he said, holding it up.
She looked up from her mending, and coloured.

'I wanted to read it.' 'But why ?' 'Well'-- she hesitated--'I thought it was like you.' 'Like me ?--you little goose!' 'I don't know,' she said, doggedly, looking hard at her work--'there was the hundred pounds that he got to go to London with--and then, marrying a wife in Kendal--and'-- she looked up with a half-defiant smile--'and leaving her behind!' 'Oh! so you think that's like me ?' he said, seating himself again at his drawing.
'It's rather like.' 'You suppose you're going to be left here for thirty years ?' He laughed as he spoke.
She laughed too, but not gaily--with a kind of defiance.
'Well, it wouldn't be quite as easy now, would it ?--with trains, and all that.

There were only coaches then, I suppose.

Now, London's so near.' 'I wish you'd always think so!' he cried.

'Why, of course it's near.
I'm only seven hours away.