Don't you talk of it--_to any one_.' He looked up to emphasise his words.
Phoebe flushed.
'I wasn't going to talk of it to any one,' she said, proudly, as she moved away.
Presently he took up his hat again and went out, that he might be alone with his thoughts.

The rain had vanished; and a frosty sunshine sparkled on the fells, on the red bracken and the foaming becks.

He took the mountain-path which led past the ghyll, up to the ridge which separates Langdale from Grasmere and Easedale.

Morrison's finely wrinkled face, with its blue, complacent eyes and thin nose, hovered before him--now as he remembered it in life, and now as he imagined it in death.

Hard fate! There had been an adventurous, poetic element in Morrison--something beyond the ken of the ordinary Philistine--and it had come to this.