She rubbed her untidy head against his shoulder. "I'll work at home," she whispered. "There'll be lots of time. I won't--I won't be beaten, I promise you." She felt again the smouldering force within, and triumphantly she cried: "If there's any power, it can't be crushed, it can't! You'll see. And oh!" she added more softly, "let me make up if I can. I was wicked. I'll even be an angel to Uncle George!" She could almost hear the slipping of his burden. "Thank you, Theresa. Thank you, my child. You never fail me." His faith thrilled her, gave her wings, yet it was now that she had the first doubt of her ability to fly. CHAPTER XII Theresa left school without regret. She had made no friends there, for a deep shyness overlaid the endearing qualities which she learnt, later, to use for the capture of hearts: she had not cared for the work she did easily, if without brilliance, and her ambitions had ignored and swept far beyond a schoolgirl's triumphs. Moreover, novelty was breath to her: if her heart had been torn at leaving, she would have welcomed the wrench for the sake of the new part she was to play. She was the martyr to domestic affliction and, accordingly, she smoothed the hair which the years were sobering to the colour of mingled autumn leaves, and fastened it austerely into a thick, swinging plait. She was now the mistress of the household. She rose at seven, roused Bessie from her heavy slumbers, waiting outside the door until she heard the creaking of the bed and the subsequent thump of sleepy feet on the floor, before she ran downstairs for a plunge into chilly water. She and Grace, exiled from their old room by the arrival of Uncle George, now shared the one above, opposite their father's little sanctum, and, still higher up, Bessie slept in a long, low room under the roof. The maid complained of the numerous stairs but Theresa liked them. Rushing up them and down, she had a sensation of speed that excited her. She went two steps at a time, and when the flight was composed of an odd number she descended the last three, perilously, at a leap, and she learnt to do it so lightly that even Grace the agile was impressed. "But you'll hurt yourself some day," she said. "Oh, well, one must do something! I pretend there are wolves after me, or assassins. It makes life so much more interesting. I get through everything like that, except dusting. I can't make up anything about dusting, it's the dullest thing." "I wish I had time to do it for you. I like the look of things afterwards." "I can never see any difference. I'm not doing my natural work." "What's that?"