On the evening of the next day, James Rutherford was not at supper. Theresa had been warned of his peculiarities, and she readily obeyed a hint that she should go early to bed; but she went reluctantly, for she grudged missing any new experience, and she lay, reading by candlelight, while the voices of her father and Clara rose, and died away, and rose again. She had taken the book from Alexander's shelves. It was the Keats her father had given him. She saw their two names and the date, and for an instant she held it close. The feel of it produced a vision of her childhood as in a pictured show. She saw herself standing by her father before the breakfast-room fire, listening to that tale of how he was lost among the mountains. That was the day on which they had become part of her life, and when, indissolubly united to them, she had first heard of Alexander. Black-haired boy with the solemn face, clattering about the yard among the geese, he had been stamped on her eager brain, never to be removed. She would keep that old memory, lovingly, for her childhood's sake, and she could feel tender towards the book which she carried into bed, without doing violence to her cherished independence. The pages of the book were well-worn, and the cover had suffered. No doubt it had been with him on many a walk among the hills, on days when the rain had run off his hair into his mouth and eyes and neck, and soaked into his pockets, or when the sun's warmth had curled the leaves while he read. Had he taken it to Oxford? Quickly she began to read. Questions in ancient history she could allow, but these more modern ones were unforgivable. She read until she heard James Rutherford come home. There were sounds outside, then her father's step on the stairs and the closing of his door, and Clara's voice ringing clear through a mournful muttering; more steps on the stairs, the brushing of bodies against the wall, another door opened and shut, and then peace. She blew out the light. When she woke it was to find the book held in her body's curve. Downstairs there was a note for Edward Webb. "You won't be surprised that we have gone out--probably for the whole day," Clara wrote. "There's plenty of food in the larder, and Mrs. Spencer will come and help if you send for her." "It will be rather nice to be alone," said Theresa. "Who's Mrs. Spencer? We don't want her, do we?" "No. It's Easter Sunday. She will be going to church. She is a carter's wife, down by the inn." "What a man to be married to! Mr. Rutherford, I mean." Edward Webb would not discuss his host. He helped to prepare breakfast. "After handling pens and typewriters for three years," said Theresa, as she cut the bacon, "it's a relief to turn to the homelier arts. Put that in the pan, please." He hesitated. "It looks remarkably greasy." "Prod it with a fork, then. You're dreadfully civilised. Here's another piece. Do you think you can cook it while I set the table?" "I'll try," he said.