five pounds!'

'What does five pounds matter, compared to speaking to one's mind?'
said Fenwick, roughly.

There was a silence. Fenwick, looking at the two women, felt them
unsympathetic, and abruptly changed the subject.

'I wish you'd give us some music, Phoebe.'

Phoebe rose obediently. He opened the little pianette for her, and lit
the candles.

She played some Irish and Scotch airs, in poor settings, and with
much stumbling. After a little, Fenwick listened restlessly, his brow
frowning, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. They were all
glad when it was over.

Phoebe, hearing a whimper from the child, went upstairs. The two
others were soon in hushed but earnest conversation.

Miss Anna had gone to bed. Fenwick was sitting with a book before
him--lost in anxious and exciting calculations--when Phoebe entered
the room.

'Is that you?' he said, jumping up. 'That's all right. I wanted to
talk to you.'

'I thought you did,' she said, with a very quiet, drooping air; then
going to the window, which was open, she leaned out into the May