A sharp pain of joy ran through her, and she had to hold her throat lest a sobbing sigh should be let loose and spoil with human sounds the marvellous stillness of the night. Swiftly she stepped back into the passage and leaned against the wall. Its solidity assured her that this was not another of her lovely dreams, and the smell of tea and hot cakes was confirmation; yet, as she felt her way to the kitchen, she feared to wake. But nothing vanished. James Rutherford, back from returning the cart Janet had lent, was by the fire, and the dog sat with its nose on his knee. "Alexander is away," said Clara. Yes, Theresa had heard that. "You are to have his room. Sit in the armchair again and have your supper by the fire. We're going to have a fine Easter, aren't we, Jim? Jim is weather-wise," she explained. Theresa smiled nervously at the gaunt man who was rhythmically stroking the dog's head. He looked very dark and shadowy where he sat beyond the rays of the lamp. "Yes, it will be fine," he said, and nodded at Theresa. "I should like one day, only one, to be wet," said Edward Webb, fussing up and down between the two doors of the kitchen. "I want Theresa to see the mists. She hasn't seen the mountains until she has seen them hidden. I want her to hear the wind howling and see the rain driven. That's rain personified, half god, half man, urging and urged. In a town, it's nothing more than water falling, but here----" "This is how he goes on," said Clara. "He and Alexander!" "No, no. Alexander keeps a wise silence. It is I who am so--so garrulous, I am afraid." "Oh, we like to hear you," she said. A voice came from the shadows. "I like soft rain on my face, in the dark among the mountains. It is very dark among them in the night."