"Must it?" "How else?" She shuddered. "Will he bring the harmonium? What will the children say?" "They will suffer more without him." "But will they?" She had flown past him, beyond their bodily needs, and she saw their eager spirits starving. "He will spoil things. There will be no freedom. Grace will be sensible and she tolerates her uncle, but Theresa hates him. She is so violent, Ned." "And so good." "Yes, somewhere she is good. I dare not tell her." "I trust her. Treat her as a woman, and she behaves as one." Nancy smiled. "Try it, my dear." The flinging open of the door prefaced Theresa's return. Her face looked very thin in its whiteness. "I've just remembered," she said, squeezing her hands together--"I've just remembered you won't go to the mountains any more. It doesn't matter about being poor, but I don't know how we're to do without the mountains. What shall we do? And there's Alexander, and Mrs. Rutherford, and Janet--they feel gone. I don't know what to do. Mother, what are we to do?" In a soft and distinct voice Nancy answered: "I don't know what Father will do without them, dear!" He looked up quickly, and again Theresa was conscious of the old shadow. "I shall miss my friends," he said firmly. "Of course, dear." "But there's me!" cried Theresa. "How can I dream----" She broke off, for the shadow hid her from her parent's sight. Edward Webb was speaking more loudly than his wont. "I shall go and see them when I can." "Take me." Theresa's voice was distant and ignored. She lost her sense of solidity. Could she really be here, since they neither saw nor heard her? She touched the sideboard: it was hard and cold. "Expensive," Nancy said. "I hope I shall not be self-indulgent." "There would be excuse." "Nancy, Nancy, at a time like this!" He dropped his appeal. "If I cannot go to them, perhaps they would be willing to come to me." "Not Alexander," Theresa protested. "How would they enjoy the company of George?" Theresa took a step forward. "Uncle George? Why?" A new danger bridged their difference. "Tell her," said Nancy's eyes. His mood was defiant, for he had been goaded, and he did not hesitate. "We are thinking of asking your Uncle George to live with us," he said smoothly. She sat down, opening and shutting her mouth. "You're not," she said, very low. "Nobody could live with him. He's a beast." "Terry!" "You know he is. What's the good of pretending? You hate him yourself. When he comes you get all screwed up to nothing. We all hate him. If he comes here I'll run away. If I were a boy--oh, if I were a boy!" Her face was like a shell with a light inside it. "I'd go down to the docks, I wouldn't stay here; I'd go to sea. And, anyway, I--I'll earn my own living." She sank more deeply into her seat, and her hands shook in her lap. She looked up. "You're not really going to ask him? It'll make Mother ill for one thing." "Not if you keep your temper, Terry."