She moved rapidly to and fro between the dressing-table and the bed's foot. She had loved her father, and now she saw him a deceiver. The thought hung on her as she walked. Surely truth had looked out of his kind eyes, love had shone there, and could deceit give a hand to each? She found it hard to distrust him utterly, for did he not believe in her? But she crushed this relenting in her clenched hands, and continued her restless pacing. That little grey man a lover! Had he been tall, and strong, and masterful, he had been easier to forgive, but that a small, meek man should be unfaithful made the insult to her mother doubly bitter. And that woman Alexander's mother! She came to a stand, holding her throat. Did Alexander know? He was her father's friend, but she hated him, and immediately she imagined him the abettor. Oh, how they sullied her glorious mountains, and, oh! was it possible that she was dull and prudish? Was she missing the grandeur of a hopeless love because she was too near to see it well? The question stilled her. In books--to these her judgments always turned--she was able to sympathize as much with the guilty as the innocent, but here----. Ah, well, she was not in a book, and she had loved her father, and downstairs her mother sat ill and miserable. She might die at any moment, and Theresa felt the pang of her father's remorse. Had he thought of that? Once more her heart seemed to stop its beating. A knock came at her door. "Yes?" she said. "It's me, Theresa. I want to show you something. May I come in?" She opened the door to Edward Webb, and stood rigid, glaring fiercely at him out of her white face. Yet he was unchanged. The odour of sin was not upon him, and he blinked and smiled as he held a paper towards her. "All in darkness? Look, my dear, this--this is something Alexander sent to-day. I should like you to look at it." "Alexander!" Her low voice had turned shrill. "I don't want to see anything he has sent! I don't want to know anything about those people!" She pushed past him and ran down the stairs. An hour afterwards, having tenderly seen her mother into bed, Theresa went to her own room, too heart-weary to be anxious about Grace. Everything seemed ruinous and wrecked, what matter if Grace fell, too? This was her mood as she slipped off her clothes and bravely stretched herself between the cold sheets, yet she kept her ears alert, and when she heard an unmistakable step she made a hurried movement of relief. Grace flung herself into the wicker chair, which creaked dolefully. "Oh, Terry!" The gas was turned low, but Theresa could see the beauty of her pose. "You're very late." "Don't be cross. I can't bear it. Terry! Theresa! I'm so happy that I want to cry!" "Why don't you, then? I shan't mind. And for Heaven's sake be quick and come to bed." "I did hope you would be in a nice temper, and you're horrid." She sat on the bed and laid her cheek against Theresa's. "You really must be good to me to-night."