He held her in farewell as though he could not let her go; he said good-bye, and kissed her on each cheek, and hurried into the street, but only to come back again and look dumbly in her face, while she looked into his.
"You'll see the hills to-night," she said, "and hear all those sounds of water, and the sheep crying, and the little lambs. Will you think of me? I shall be thinking of you."
"Will you, my child? Will you, Theresa? Ah! I'm glad of that."
"I don't think you understand," she said, "how much I like you. And I like the hills. When you see them, will you wave your hand to each one and tell them you are doing it for me? And will you look at all the other things and give them messages?"
He nodded. His lips were twitching, and there was a long ridge of pain across his brow.
She brought back her thoughts to him. "Dear, do you think you ought to go? You don't look well. Do you want to go?"
"I always want to go, my child. It's only leaving you I do not like."
"But you'll soon come back to me, and if you can wait just a minute longer I'll get my hat and come to the station to take care of you."
"No, Theresa--no, my darling," he said firmly. "I want to say good-bye to you here, not in that dark station, where I cannot see you."
She stood on the pavement with the spring wind ruffling her hair and the spring sunshine delighting in its ruddy gold and, standing very straight and proud, she waved her hand to him as his small bent figure turned the corner. He was the message she sent to Alexander, and he carried no lesser treasure than her heart.
That night, when she and Bessie had supped together in the kitchen, Theresa went upstairs to her father's room, and, sitting before his desk, unlocked the drawers. She wanted Alexander's letters and finding them, neatly arranged in order of their dates, she read them one by one. The correspondence had not been heavy, but it had lasted for nearly fifteen years, and time was swallowed as she sat there.
Her hand was on the last letter when Bessie knocked at the door.
"Miss Terry, it's half-past eleven. You ought to be in bed. I've locked up and put out all the lights, so just drink this milk and go."
"Yes, yes, Bessie, in a minute. How you do fuss!"