"She's going to write." There was a gentle rustling among the trees, but Alexander, showing no more than his wet face and hair, opened his mouth and said nothing for a space. Then, "Was that what you wanted to do?" he asked, and paddled to shore. "Yes, yes, it was my ambition. But I had no time. It was a struggle to live, and I married. Only lately----" "You've been doing it?" He bowed his head. "I have told no one else," he said, and seemed to wonder at himself. "Not Theresa?" "No, no. You see, Theresa is very young. But she shows signs. I have seen little poems." "Is it prose you write?" "No. I'm--I'm afraid not. I cannot think that I ought to do it. It's self-indulgence, I believe, but if I have given the palest spark to Theresa, if she----" "It was you who gave me Keats," Alexander said. "Have you had anything printed?" "I haven't tried. What does it matter? It's the doing of it, you see. I've never found Theresa care for anything that was not good--strange in a child, I think. Significant. She has unerring taste, if I am any judge." "I wonder, would you let me see your things? I've never seen anything but printed stuff. I'd like to see it fresh from a man." Edward Webb flushed deeply. "I should be very grateful for your criticism." "I couldn't give that." "To oblige me, please. I--I haven't had the benefit of your education. I had to leave school early, and I know but little of the classics. I thought once of pursuing them, but there is so little energy when one's work is done--exhausting, uncongenial work. I know no scholars; in fact, I know few men, and those I meet are--are like myself. I want to give Theresa more than I had." "Yes. Shall we be going on? Across the stream. There's a little bridge farther down." They crossed and, emerging from the birch-wood, were on the flank of the Blue Hill. A narrow path led them upwards and soon they looked down on the level valley, its few houses, the church among its yews and the winding river, fringed by trees, flowing into the wide lake. And far off there shone a thin line which was the sea. But the path wound round the hill, so that they must turn their backs on these things and face a steep ascent, with another stream rushing down the hollow at their right. Without speaking, they toiled on, Alexander walking as one born to the hills, Edward Webb panting with an attempt at noiselessness. He turned once with a forced smile, for the going was hard. "My wind," he said, "not so good as yours." "Let's sit down," said Alexander. Fifty feet below them the torrent dashed itself into foam in its narrow trough, splashed the rowan trees that overhung it and threatened their brave roots with the reckless water which, white with froth, showed in its smoother places, a brilliance of blue that shamed the sky. "To live here always!" Edward Webb exclaimed. But Alexander said nothing more than, "We'll follow the stream when you're rested." "I'm ready."