Theresa went upstairs. She felt a vague irritation against her family, and tasted life's staleness in her mouth. It brought nothing but a round of common tasks for her, dreary labour to her father, a strange darkness of energy to Bessie, and ill-health to her mother; to Uncle George, an emptiness he tried to fill with a harmonium and a hymnal, and to Grace, a breathlessness of dancing, smiling, dressing, flirting. All efforts and all persons seemed so separate, yet so united, and she could find no meaning in them beyond that. The thought wearied her, her body and mind felt old, and, remembering that it was long since she had dreamed of mountains, she realized the cause of her unrest--that romance and excitement were easily forfeited if she might see the hills in sleep. She paused on the landing and drew breath sharply, as though it were the mountain air she gathered. She opened the study door, and saw her father bowed over his desk. He was writing, but he stopped and looked up to welcome her. "Are you busy? Writing letters? Shall I go?" "No, my dear, stay." She went to the window. The blind was up, and she could see the quiet, lamplit street. "Houses and houses, and people in all of them, and they all have relatives, and friends, and troubles. And they all care so much more about themselves than about anything else. I can't get used to that. And when I see people crowding into tramcars, it's the same. Sometimes I like it; it's exciting"--she caught her lip over the word and laughed secretly--"and then sometimes the thought's too big--worrying. I like the other side of the house best. I feel that I can get out--to the sea." He was enchanted by her unusual readiness to talk. "Do you want to get to the sea?" "On windy nights, when the ships call me. Do you hear them in your room?" "Oh, yes!" he said. "Does it make you want to go?" He hesitated. "No, I'm a chilly person, but I admit it stirs me to think of others facing cold and danger. The sea--I'm afraid the sea frightens me a little." Like a child who is too shy to speak of what it loves, she forced him to name it for her. "You don't like the sea best, do you?" "No, Theresa, it's the mountains that have snared me." "Tell me about them." "It's so long since I've been." "Why?" He showed his jaded face. "I can't get there for nothing, my dear, and I don't want to leave your mother. But some day, when she is better, I'll take you there. I think you would be happy." "Should I?" she questioned innocently, hiding her smile. "Let's pretend we're on the way. You tell me what we're coming to. I'll shut my eyes." She chuckled delightedly at her own babyishness, but he seemed unaware of it, for this was the little girl who had always wanted stories and never been denied.