"Are you happy?" Theresa asked one night, when she came on Bessie sitting solitary in the dimly-lighted kitchen. "Happy?" she answered. And more emphatically: "'Appy? Oh, I don't know, Miss Terry. What's 'appy, anyway?" Theresa laughed, and put a hand on Bessie's knee. "I like you, Bessie," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You see things. That's because you live in this cave and don't get dazzled by what doesn't matter." "It's not such a bad kitchen," said Bessie practically. "At least, I'm used to it." December came, and one evening, when she returned from work, Theresa found a letter waiting for her father. It was from Clara, and Theresa put it on her father's plate, and walked with dignity from the room; nor did she enter it again until she was called to supper. After that meal she waited for the word which, sooner or later, she would have to hear. "James is better." "Oh!" "Clara wishes me to go there for the New Year." "That would be nice for you." "If I can get leave. I hope it is not an extravagance." "Your only one." "There may be an excursion." "Very likely." "Would you like to read the letter, my dear?" Her brows were doubtful. "Oh yes, thank you." She read it. Clara had included her in the invitation. She handed back the sheet. It was a little while before he said: "You notice that she asks for you?" "Yes, it's very kind of her. Please thank her, nicely and regretfully." She added lightly, finally: "And do be careful not to take cold up there. I suppose you won't stay longer than a week?" Blinking, he put the letter in his pocket. "Not so long as that. Three days perhaps." She nodded. The subject was dismissed. On New Year's Eve, Theresa was kept late at work, for the affairs of twelve months had to be finally set in order, and long after the usual hour Neville and she had tea together. Simon Smith was out, and these two sat by the hearth with the tea-table between them and a shaded lamp to light the luxurious room they called the office. "This is comfortable," said he. "Yes. How many hours of work have we?" "Bless you, I'll do it all." "No, you won't. You always muddle up my things. And I want to stay." "I don't call that sufficient reason. Have some muffin. I shall begin to think you yearn overmuch for my society." She leaned forward as she laughed, and touched his sleeve. "Jack, do you know what a dear you are?" "Certainly. This is my favourite coat, Theresa. Are your fingers buttery by any chance?" He took them in his and gave them a friendly squeeze. "Well, I think we've always dealt honestly by each other. And now I'm going to catechize you. What time do you go to bed?" "Oh, I don't know." "Do you sleep?" "Why else should I go to bed?" "Theresa Webb, how often do you lie awake?" "Not often." "And do you dream?" She raised her brows. "That's part of sleep." "Not with me, thank God," he said heartily. "But you come here in the mornings, looking as if you'd had nightmares."