"You had them? You did not mention them. I thought perhaps—foolish of me, no doubt, but all one makes is dear to one—I had hoped for criticism: you want to spare me, but I am not afraid."
Alexander was embarrassed. "I can't criticize you. What do I know about it?"
"You could help me. I have no one else. And I trust your judgment. As a favour——"
"Well, then, I'll ask one of you. Will you come often while I'm away, and let me know how things are going? And just tell me how the hills are looking, will you?"
Autumn found him in Oxford, miserable but acutely alive. At first his country speech and his country clothes made him painfully conspicuous to himself. He seemed to be moving in a strong light which drew unfriendly eyes, but gradually his sober, native confidence returned. There were times when he suffered; but he thought no less of himself because he wore garments which seemed designed to conceal the lithe strength of his frame, and could not speak the jargon of the men about him, for the calibre of his mind was as good as that of other folks, and he knew it. Once sure of that, he settled down to drink steadily of all life could give him of knowledge and experience: he did it with the stubborn persistence natural to him, and though he became absorbed he was never happy. Here there was too much talk, and he never ceased to be heartsick for the hills.
[CHAPTER XI]
Three years later, as Theresa was coming down the stairs one Friday evening, her father opened the front door, and at the sight of his pallid face she stood still on the bottom step.
"Have you just come home?" she asked, for he had not seen her.