The wind had lessened; it came no longer with bursts of anger, but, as though craving pardon for its fury, it wailed and moaned about the house. For once Clara forgot her optimism. "I cannot bear the wind like this," she said, when the meal was done, the dishes washed, and they sat by the fire again. She had laid aside her work and sat in a low chair, clasping and unclasping her hands. They were large, firm hands, and Edward Webb guessed that when they were not busy they were generally still. "It's like people who can't find their way." "Janet says it's sins coming back on us." "Janet's full of tales." "She is that," said Alexander with satisfaction. "Alec, let's have the door shut. I feel as if something will get through before we know it." "That's worse than Janet," he said, as he kicked away the large stone which had held back the door. At ten o'clock he was bidden to bed. "I'll go if you do." "No, I shall stay up." "Then I will." "You mustn't, Alec." "But you're frightened of the wind. I'll not leave you." "No, no." She shook her head. "It doesn't do, Alec; you know that." "You'll let me stay with you, please," Edward Webb said timidly. "You cannot let him do it, mother!" There was almost anguish in Alexander's voice. "He must go to bed, too. Why, I've sat here alone on many a winter night." "But I am not sleepy," Edward protested solemnly. "Oh, very well, very well. You shall stay for a little while--only a little while. You promise to go when I tell you? Good-night, Alec." "I shall read in bed," he said sullenly. "Don't set yourself alight, then." "Oh, mother----" She always said that to him. The kitchen was filled with a brooding silence when he had gone; it hung heavily about the man and woman who tried to talk as though they had no thought beyond the words which came so slowly until Edward Webb gave way to his wish to talk about his children. Experience and Nancy's promptings had taught him that no subject brought people to yawns more quickly and, indeed, it was too sacred to be dragged before indifference, but he felt hopeful of Clara for the warmth and breadth of motherliness were plain in her. Moreover, it was necessary that something should be said, and she was silent. He could hear the rubbing of her hands against each other. "May I tell you about my little girls?" he said. "Will you?" Her smile was not the perfunctory one which had disheartened him sometimes. "I should like to have had a daughter," she added. His shyness fell from him as he talked. He told her of Grace's beauty and her skill in dancing, he told her of Theresa's cleverness. "Is she pretty, too?" "No. No, I suppose you wouldn't call her pretty, but it doesn't seem to matter. Why, I hadn't even thought of it before. Theresa is not like other children." This was what Clara had thought, but never said, of her own son. "I have great hopes of her, but she is very young. One cannot tell yet how she will develop. But she shows signs of----"