"She was tall and strong and supple. Ceres, she might be called. I think her hair was chestnut, and there were freckles on her face." "But was she pretty?" "Really I don't know. I don't remember; but she seemed brave and helpful. She took possession of me, and I felt safe. I'll try to remember more next time." "Are you going again?" asked Theresa. "Oh, take me!" "I did not know you were going again," said Nancy. "They asked me." "Yes; but was it the kind of invitation----" "I think so. Indeed, they made me promise----" "Do you think it wise?" "Why not?" "You don't know them." "But I want to, Nancy." "But if the man is what you said----" "He's not an outcast, my dear, and if he were----" She was silent, but the air was filled with her voiceless and somewhat sullen objections. Theresa fidgeted. "You must do as you please, of course," Nancy said at last. "Not if it displeases you." "Why should it?" He gestured dumbly, and something fell between them like a filmy veil. It spoilt Theresa's evening, and when she went to bed she wondered what was happening downstairs in the breakfast-room, where the quiet was broken now and then by the hooting of tugs in the docks and the voices of those people who had not gone to church, and walked instead in New Dock Road. Did her father and mother talk? Were they quarrelling, or, now the children had gone to bed, was she sitting on his knee? There was a lump of anxiety in her throat: the world had so many places of darkness and uncertainty; she felt herself groping among dangers, and she hoped her mother was not crying. She undressed slowly, thoughtfully, but as she brushed her hair before the looking-glass she became interested in the vision of her own pale face, and for a moment she forgot her trouble. "Grace," she said, "what do you think of my head?" The answer came from the midst of bedclothes. "It's red, you silly!" There could be no two opinions about that, but, as Theresa protested, it was not just an ordinary red, not like that of the girl who brought home the washing. "It's not that awful orange kind, now, is it?" "No; but I don't like it very much. It's neither one thing nor the other. It's rather what I call streaky, you know." "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Well, it doesn't matter. I may grow out of it." "I wish you would be quick." "I think," said Theresa, as she buttoned her nightgown over that place where the anxious pain was felt again--"I think I've got to go downstairs." Barefooted, she pattered across the landing and down two flights of stairs. No light was burning, for gas must be saved, and Theresa was afraid; but she went on, past the front-door, down the basement steps, past the dark kitchen which looked vast and cavernous, and so into the brilliance of the breakfast-room. "Theresa! Bare feet!" "I want my book for the morning," she said. "In case I wake, you know."