"I thought I would spend my Saturday and Sunday among the hills, and here I am, but at this time last night I thought I should never see home again." "There are people who would miss you, I expect." "Yes; my wife, two little girls." His face brightened. "It was Theresa, the younger, who really sent me on this expedition. She wanted an adventure, she told me, and so I had to get it for her." "How old is she?" This was from Alexander. "Ten. Ten." "Oh!" That was a stupid age, he thought. "Grace is twelve. Dear me! I ought to send a letter. Is it too late for the post?" "There's not another till Monday morning." "Ah, then it will be best to send one to-morrow from the station. Thank you. We live at Radstowe--a long way, you see." "Radstowe? That's a port, isn't it?" Alexander asked. "Yes, rather an unsatisfactory port, but it makes a beautiful city. I live there for two weeks in each month, and travel for the other two, and every other month I come this way." "Then," said Alexander, "you can come and stay with us again." "Yes; we shall expect you." "You are very kind. You--you could not have treated me better if you had known me all your lives. I find it--a little strange." He thought of Monday, and dreaded meeting cold faces and hard, staring eyes. There was a certain shop he never entered without a tremor, because there was a girl there whom he had once seen winking at another as he passed between the counters. She was a tall girl, with a high colour and a great deal of hair. She made a joke of him--they all did, no doubt--and as he approached the portals of that shop he had to take a deep, sustaining breath before he could brave the merciless glances and tolerantly twisted lips of the young women there. He knew how he looked, how nervousness showed up all his disadvantages, and added to them. He had seen himself in the great mirrors of the place--a small man, bowed before his time, with thin hair growing grey, and anxious eyebrows. They would naturally think him a funny little man, yet Nancy, who had a sense of humour, did not laugh at him. He felt a new richness of gratitude towards her. Ah! she was loyal, and it was a wonderful thing to love, to be loved. Clara was speaking. "We have to help each other, up here; there are so few of us. There's no doctor to run to, no chemist, no nurse to be had, not even a general shop--that's three miles off. We nurse each other, use each other's medicines, send each other's children scurrying on errands, and we go to each other's doors and say, 'Can I have two ounces of tea, please? and mother will let you have it back when the cart comes round.' They're shy folks, close-tongued, but they're willing. It's just a habit." "I wish it were a common one. We are afraid to help; afraid of intruding. There are barriers everywhere. It makes our friends more precious to us, perhaps." "It's all for the best, anyway," said Clara. "Let's have supper."