Her mother was in the rocking-chair, and her father, shading his eyes under his hand, was sitting at the table, writing. The shadow was still in the room. "You should have put on your slippers, dear, and your dressing-gown. Sit on my lap and warm your feet." Theresa ran her finger down her mother's pretty nose. "Aren't you coming to bed soon?" "Not for a long time. It isn't half-past eight." "Then will you leave this door open, and I'll leave mine. Then you won't seem so far away." "You won't expect it every night?" "No; just to-night." "Very well. You must go now." "I'll carry her up." Edward Webb took off his coat and wrapped it round her. The three faces were very close together, and Theresa felt the hastiness of her mother's kiss and the half-unwilling urging of her hands. "Go, go; you ought to be asleep." "Are you sure you can carry me?" Theresa asked as he went carefully up the stairs. "You're not very big." "But you are very little." "I'm going to be tall." "Are you?" He held her close to him, pressing his cheek against hers. "Yes, tall and willowy. I'm looking forward to it." "That's right." He tucked her into bed. "You won't forget about the door, will you?" She liked to feel that if anything dreadful happened she would be at once aware of it, for there was no delay and no evasion in her nature. Better be in the thick of the fight, see swords drawn and blows given, than find cold bodies in the morning, and something almost as bad as this, she dreaded. She had been dowered with a bright and fierce imagination, and had she not read the literature favoured by Bill and Bessie?