She did not raise her head until she thought her blush had faded. And why had she blushed? Why had she replied evasively, she who prided herself on speaking truth? Because, her ready mind made answer, to say more would not have been fair to Alexander. And oh, cried the voice of her heart, taking her by surprise, because, like a miser, she could not bear to speak about her gold. She held her friend close, and looked on him as though she tried to appraise his value, which was immeasurable; she saw his strong, lean figure, the quietness of his face with the passions subdued below, and heard the voice he so seldom raised beyond the pitch that accorded with the mountain noises. Looking down, with his hands in his pockets, he had walked beside her, listening, and at a word that pleased him or reached beyond the outskirts of his being, he had swiftly lifted and turned his head to look at her. And when she ceased and he began to speak, it was haltingly at first, with eyes still downcast, but again there came those sudden looks, marking his earnestness. No, of these things she could not speak; they had no parallel in words, and the miser might as hopefully try to express adoration of his stores. And it would certainly not be fair to Alexander, she repeated, doing homage to that useful suggestion of her mind. "Father told me he was very sorry." "Yes, he likes him." "Have you ever thought, Terry, that Father----" She stopped and looked through the window, meditatively biting her lips. "Go on." "No, I won't say it." Already she had acquired something of the matron's discretion, and saw the faint barrier between married and unmarried. In a day her knowledge had so far outspread Theresa's that what she would have said freely two months ago was now checked for consideration. Was it wise to say this to Theresa, who was a girl? There was less danger in silence--so she stood biting her lips. But Theresa knew that Grace also had divined her father's wish, and though she was not angry she felt indescribably sad, nor did she understand why, for the rest of that day, she seemed to move in mist. In the evening Uncle George pierced the veil. He looked unreal and over large as he stood before her. "Theresa, I have found the very thing for you--not the thing I recommend, mind, but the thing you'll like." "Lots of money?" "A hundred a year." "Oh, good! That's better than the Christian stipend you offered me." "I'm afraid this will be anything but Christian." "Oh, good! I mean--tell me about it." He eyed her with the peculiar expression he kept for her, one hovering between a controlled frenzy and an amusement greater than his prejudices. "Have you ever heard of Simon Smith?" "No, but one wouldn't, would one?"