Edward Webb did not deny himself another pilgrimage to the mountains. Tenderly and silently, without disdain or ruthlessness, he put aside Nancy's prejudices. He knew something which was denied to her; he knew that the mountains gave him strength--the strength he so much needed to supplement his own; perhaps, though he hardly thought it, to counteract her weakness. There were days when he felt the desperation of fear: his children and his wife must be fed and clothed and housed if they were to live, and it was only he who could make that possible. He must work yet harder, he must make himself more valuable, he must be braver. He would gather endurance and courage from that vast storehouse where they were garnered, and if he hurt Nancy she would learn some day that it had been to save her. When he was away he would tell her very simply of his intentions. "To-morrow I go to the farm. I am looking forward to the silence of the hills. They bring me nearer to you and all lovely things." Did she smile happily as she read, or had her lips the bitterer downward twist? He never asked aloud, for on that subject there was silence between them when they met, and it was Theresa's greedy ears that absorbed the tale of his experiences. "Tell me about that boy," and "Tell me about the mountains," were her two demands; but she was a willing listener to all, and Nancy, hearing fragments of their talk, would purse her lips. Yet, in letters, she, too, would be more open. "I'm glad you are going, dear." And then the little thrust, "Be happy there, and forget your worries and your poor useless Nancy." He would sigh over that, grimace over it painfully, and then settle his features with determination. There was Theresa: she must not be wasted. He saw her bright, like a star, and never a day passed but what she seemed more glowing, more necessary to give light to a world which, at times, was very dark. She shone for him, but she must shine for others: she must not be hidden behind the clouds of poverty that threatened. "On, on," he would murmur to himself as he stepped into that shop where, from behind the counters the young women laughed at him; and "On, on," he urged himself again, when his enthusiasm about his wares was failing him. It was hard to be eloquent about hooks and eyes, safety-pins, patent contrivances for the support of skirts, collar-bones and buttons, but there were times when he was served by his very depreciation of the goods, when his nervous "But no, of course, you would have no sale for things like these" persuaded his customer that some deep meaning underlay the words, so that he bought quietly, with covert eagerness. But Edward Webb only heard doubt in the tones of his own voice. "I was not born to be a pedlar!" he cried silently to the heavens. "I have no glibness. It is a gift. I cheapen the things in my very praise of them--but Theresa, Theresa!" That had become his battle-cry.