When Edward Webb had gone back to Radstowe and the promise of Easter seemed to be carried the further from Alexander, he found he could not wait so long in silence, and he began to shape a letter for Theresa. He did not set it down in writing, but, as he came and went between the Grammar School and the farm, or watched the tardy spring coming to the mountains, he made the sentences, rounding them fairly, and choosing words that would express his thought and please her ear. He did not tell her of his love, yet he revealed it, for he let her into the very recesses of his mind, the most intimate details of his work were made known to her, he spoke of the strivings of his spirit, and through all his confidences there flashed the bright feet of spring. He told her how the quiet of the valley would soon be shattered, and yet built up, by the penetrating cries of lambs and the bleating mournfulness of their mothers, how the primroses would shine out like eyes from the banks, and the buds would swell and glisten, with the melting of the snow. There was no sight of bird, or beast, or growing thing that he did not register for her and turn into a glowing sentence; no promise of spring but had another, quicker pulse. But though this letter was written at last, it was not sent, for he was a stiff-tongued man, and this inky eloquence seemed to present him falsely, and too fairly, to Theresa. This was a height of correspondence to which he could not always soar, and she must be content with the humdrum lowlands of his life. He tore up the paper on which he had written this careful prose, and taking another sheet, he plunged into an unstudied letter which he did not deign to read when it was done. "My Dear Theresa,