While Alexander battled against the physical with hopes divided between a conquest which might show Theresa to him in spiritual beauty, and a defeat which would keep her clothed in flesh, and so preserve him from complete capitulation, Theresa, as yet untrammelled by these cares, went home rejoicing in a friend. There was no other to whom she could give that name with the same fulness of meaning, and the glow of her splendid possession did something to remove the chilliness from a home with no Grace in it. She had, too, a new belief in herself based, not on fancy, but on Alexander's confidences and her own understanding of them, and with that to help her, she set about finding work. Her view of men had been almost imperceptibly readjusted by half a day's communion with one of them, and she would have returned to Mr. Partiloe but for the certainty of planting hope in him. She could not do that, and she spent much time and weariness of body in looking for someone whom she considered fit to be her employer. Weariness of mind, she had none; she was conscious of a strong effect of wind and sunshine there, clearing the dust and dirt from its corners and making room for fresh and urgent powers, and she saw life as a thing too short for the use of her vitality.
"Your holiday has done you good," Grace told her.
"How do you know?" The bride's statements were now delivered with such authority that Theresa was forced to question them.
"You're so good-tempered."
"You think that because you're not living with me. Ask Uncle George! We quarrelled this morning. He wants me to be secretary to one of his old societies. I think it was in aid of the children of devoured missionaries."
"Oh, Terry!"
"It was something quite as bad. And for a mere pittance! He told me the work would be reward enough. I nearly threw the coffee-pot at him. Am I not worthy of my hire? Why can't they employ one of the undevoured children? And he turned the other cheek. He said he would try to find something else for me. He likes me, you know."
"People seem to. Phil thinks you're charming."
"Does he? By the way, do ask that enthusiastic young man not to play the fiddle quite so late at night. I can hear so plainly through the wall just when I want to go to sleep. First there's a squealing—oh, it really is squealing; you must face facts—and then there's a wailing, and then one note that you know is meant to be a musical one, and you think at last the tune is coming—but he stops there. And there's a long pause, and I know you are saying, 'Oh, Phil, how wonderful! Play it again.' And he does. It makes me hot all over, and I hate you both and call you names. I don't think I like having only a wall between us. I'm always wondering what you are talking about, and I feel as I used to when I was little, and heard Father and Mother talking in another room. It always sounded so mysterious and so important, and I wanted to listen, but I should have found it very dull, just as I should find your conversations."
"They're not dull. There are no end of wonderful things to talk about when you really like a person."