hands, he gave himself up to a quieter pleasure in the nature round
him, and in the strength of his own faculty.

To something else also. For while he was sitting there, he found
himself _praying_ ardently for success--that he might do well in
London, might make a name for himself, and leave his mark on English
art. This was to him a very natural outlet of emotion; he was not sure
what he meant by it precisely; but it calmed him.




CHAPTER II


Meanwhile Phoebe Fenwick was watching for her husband.

She had come out upon the green strip of ground in front of Green
Nab Cottage, and was looking anxiously along the portion of high-road
which was visible from where she stood.

The small, whitewashed house--on this May day, more than a generation
ago--stood on a narrow shelf that juts out from the face of one of the
eastern fells, bounding the valley of Great Langdale.

When Phoebe, seeing no one on the road, turned to look how near the
sun might be to its setting, she saw it, as Wordsworth saw it of
old, dropping between the peaks of those 'twin brethren' which to the
northwest close in the green bareness of the vale. Between the two
pikes the blaze lingered, enthroned; the far winding of the valley,