XV.—SEPTEMBER.

If Miss Jewett had not been once upon a laughing time a girl herself, she would have wondered where the girls in Dunellen found so much to laugh about. Nan Gerard laughed. Sue Greyson laughed, and Tessa Wadsworth laughed; they laughed separately, and they laughed together; they cried separately, too, but they did not cry together. Nan knew that it was September, because she had planned to come to Dunellen in September; Sue knew, because so few days remained before her wedding-day; and Tessa knew, because she found the September golden rod and pale, fall daisies in her long walks towards Mayfield; she knew it, also, because her book was copied and at the publishers’, awaiting the decision over which she trembled in anticipation night and day. One morning, late in the month, she found at the post-office a long, thick, yellow envelope, containing two dozens of pictures; several of them she had seen long ago in Sunday-school books, those that were new to her, appeared cut or torn from some book; the letter enclosed with the pictures requested her to write a couple of books and to use those pictures.

“I’ve heard of illustrating books,” she laughed to herself, “but it seems that I must illustrate pictures.”

Coaxing Miss Jewett into her little parlor, she showed her the pictures, and read aloud the letter.

“I think it is a great compliment to you,” said the little woman, admiringly. “You do not seem to think of that.”

“Father will think so. You and he are such humble people, that you think me exalted! Women have become famous before they were as old as I.”

“You may become famous yet.”

“It isn’t in me. Genius is bold; if it were in me, I should find some way of knowing it. My work is such a little bit, such a poor little bit. But I do like the letter.”

“You will be glad of it when you are old.”

“I am glad of it now.”

She read it again: the penmanship was straggling and ugly.

“I do not know how to talk to you; you remind me of Tryphena and Tryphosa; St. Paul would know what to say to you. You seem to have no worldliness in your aims. Your style is impressive. I think that we can keep your pen busy. Your last manuscript is still in the balance.”

“If it be found wanting, what shall I do! The suspense wears upon me.”

“I begin to understand why mediocrity is long-lived. Don’t be a goose, child.”

Mr. Wadsworth was at his desk; he read the letter through twice without comment.

“Well!” she said, playing with a morsel of pink blotting paper.

“It’s beautiful, daughter.”

She wondered why it did not seem so much to her as it did to him and to Miss Jewett.

“I expect that Dine will take to authorship next.”

Tessa’s lips were keeping a secret, for Dine was writing a little story. When had she ever failed to attempt the thing that Tessa had done? She had not taken Tessa’s place in school, and had been graduated much nearer the foot of her class than Tessa had ever stood; still she had Tessa’s knack of writing stories, and telling stories, and had, at her urging, written a story for boys, which Tessa had criticised and copied; Dinah’s penmanship being very pretty, but not at all plain. The letter made no allusion to the fate of Dinah’s story; somewhat anxious about this, she slipped the bulky envelope into her pocket and turned her face homewards. Her winter’s work was laid out for her; there was nothing to do but to do it.

So full was she with plans for the books that she did not hear steps behind her and at her side until Sue Greyson nudged her.

“Say, Tessa, turn down Market Street with me; I have something to tell you.” The serious, startled voice arrested her instantly. What new and dreadful thing had Sue been doing now? Her only dread was for Dr. Lake.

“I’ve been ordering things for dinner; we have dinner at four, so I can afford to run around town in the morning. I’m in a horrid fix and there’s nobody to help me out.”

“What about?”

“I haven’t been doing any thing; it’s other people; it’s always other people,” she said plaintively, “somebody is always doing something to upset my plans. You do not sympathize with me, you never do.”

“I do not know how to sympathize with any thing that is not straightforward and true, and your course is rather zigzag.”

“Dr. Towne said—”

“You haven’t been talking to him,” interrupted Tessa, flushing.

“No, only he called to see father and I was home alone and he asked me what ailed me and I had to tell him that I didn’t want to be married.”

“Well, what could he say?”

“He said, ‘Stay with your father and be a good girl,’” laughed Sue, “the last thing I would think of doing. Father looks so glum and says, ‘Oh, my little girl, what shall I do without you! I wish that fellow was at the bottom of the sea!’ So do I, too. I don’t see why I ever promised to marry him! I think that I must have been bereft of my senses.”

“Why not ask him to wait a year—you will know your own mind—if you have any—by that time.”

“Oh, deary me! I’d be married to John Gesner or some other old fool with money by that time! You don’t mind being an old maid, but I do!”

“How do you know that I don’t mind?” Tessa could not forbear asking.

“Oh, you wouldn’t be so happy and like to do things. I believe that I like Gerald a great deal better any way.”

She grew frightened at Tessa’s stillness; there was not one sympathetic line in the stern curving of her lips.

“Have you told Dr. Lake that?”

“You needn’t cut me in two,” laughed Sue uneasily, “men can’t sue women for breach of promise can they?”

“Answer me, please.”

Sue hesitated, colored, stammered, finally confessed in a weak voice that tried hard to be brave, “Yes, I have! There now! You can’t hurt me! Father said last night that if I had taken Lake he would have given me the house and every thing in it ‘for the old woman to keep house with,’ you know! And then he said that it was hard for me to leave him now that he is growing old, that he would have to marry somebody that wouldn’t care for him, that he never had had much pleasure in his life, that Gerald was a good physician and they could work together and how happy we might all have been! He was mad enough though when he first discovered that Gerald was in love with me; he threatened to send him off. But that’s his way! He is one thing one day and another thing the next! And I couldn’t help it, Tessa, I really, really couldn’t, but I was so homesick and just then Gerald came in—he looked so tired, his cough has come back, too—and when he said ‘How many days yet, Susan?’ I said quick, before I thought, ‘I like you a hundred times better! I would rather marry you than Stacey.’ And then he turned so white that I thought he was dead, and he said something, I don’t know whether it was swearing or praying—and caught me in his arms, and said after that he would never let me go! And then I said—I said—I couldn’t help it—that I would write to Stacey and send back the ring and he took it off and tossed it out the window! I And then I made him go and find it! Stacey can give it to some other girl. I didn’t hurt it. I always took it off when I swept or wet my hands. Life is so uncertain, I thought that he might want it again.”

“Life is uncertain. I never realized it until this minute.”

“Now your voice isn’t angry,” said poor Sue eagerly. “I want you to think that I have done right.”

“When my moral perceptions are blunted, I will.”

“Go away, saying ‘moral perceptions.’ I don’t know what Dr. Towne will think either. Well, what’s did can’t be undid! Now Gerald says that I sha’n’t put it off, but that I’ve got to marry him on that day. I know that you think it is horrid, but you never have lovers, so you don’t know! I don’t see why, either. You are a great deal prettier than I am. When I am tired, I am the lookingest thing, but you always look sweet and peaceful. Don’t you think that I ought to please father and stay home? Why don’t you say something? Are you struck dumb?”

“I can not understand it—yet.”

“I think that I have made it plain enough,” cried Sue, angrily. “You must be very stupid. You like Gerald so much—I used to be jealous—that you ought to be glad for him!”

“I do like him. I like him so well, Sue, that I want him to have a faithful and true wife. O, Sue! Sue Greyson! What are you to take that man’s life into your hands?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I love him, of course! If you think so much of him, why don’t you marry him?”

“The question is not worth a reply.”

“You ought to comfort me; I haven’t any mother,” returned Sue, miserably.

“It is well for her that you haven’t.”

“I don’t see why you can’t let me be comfortable,” whined Sue; “every thing would be lovely if you didn’t spoil it all. Gerald is as wild as a lunatic. He shall write to Stacey or father shall, or I’ll be married beforehand and send him the paper. I could do it in ten days. Do come home with me, I want you to see my wedding dress! It’s too lovely for any thing. My travelling dress is an elegant brown; I got brown to please Stacey, but Gerald likes it.”

“It’s a good idea to choose a color that gentlemen like generally; life is so uncertain.”

“So it is,” replied Sue, unconsciously. “I think that you might congratulate me,” she added, with her hysterical laugh. “You didn’t think that your gold thimble would make pretty things for Dr. Lake’s wife, did you?”

“I congratulate you! I hope that I may congratulate him, in time. Dr. Lake is trying to pour a gallon into a half pint. I hope that one of you will die before you make each other very miserable.”

“You mean thing,” said Sue, almost crying.

“I do not mean to hurt you, Sue, but you are doing something that is wretched beyond words. Don’t you care at all for that poor fellow who loves you?”

“Gerald loves me, too,” she answered proudly. “You are ugly to me, and I haven’t any body that I dare talk to but you. Mary Sherwood says that telling you things is like throwing things into the sea; nobody ever finds them.”

“I must be very full of rubbish.”

“We are going to Washington on our bridal trip; we can’t stay long, for father will not spare Gerald. I shall ask nobody but Dr. Towne and his mother, and Miss Jewett, and you, and Dine. Will you come?” she asked hesitatingly.

“I will come for Dr. Lake’s sake.”

“I got a letter from Stacey this morning. I haven’t opened it yet; it will make me very sad. I wish that I wasn’t so sensitive about things. It’s a dreadful trouble to me. I looked in the glass the first thing this morning expecting that my hair would be all white. I’m dying to show you my things; do come home with me.”

“Sue, do you ever say your prayers?”

“To be sure I do,” she replied, with a startled emphasis.

“Then be sure to say them before you write to that poor fellow.”

“I wish that you would write for me. Will you come the night before and stay all night with me? I shall be so afraid that the roof will tumble in, or somebody come down the chimney to catch me, that I sha’n’t sleep a wink.”

The curves of Tessa’s lips relented. “Yes, I will come. If somebody come they shall catch me, too.”

“You are a darling, after all. We are to be married about noon; Day is to send in the breakfast and the waiters—that was the plan, and if father isn’t too mad, I suppose he’ll do the same now.”

She stood still at the corner. “Well, if I do not see you—good-by till the last night of your girlhood.”

“Last night of my girlhood,” repeated Sue. “What are the other hoods?”

“Womanhood.”

“Oh, yes, and widowhood,” she said lightly.

Tessa turned the corner and walked rapidly along the pavement. “Motherhood,” she was thinking, “the sweetest hood of all! But I can sooner think of that in connection with a monkey or a butterfly than with Sue.”

At the next corner another interruption faced her in the forms of Mary Sherwood and laughing Naughty Nan.

The lively chat was ended with an expostulation from Nan. “Now, Mary Sherwood, hurry. You know that I must do several things this afternoon. I’m going to Mayfield and Green Valley with the handsome black bear, Miss Wadsworth.”

It was the day for her afternoon with Mrs. Towne; it had chanced that she had given to her every Tuesday afternoon. It touched her to find the white-haired, feeble, old lady watching for her at the window. Tessa loved her because she was cultured and beautiful; she loved her voice, her shapely, soft hands, her pretty motions, her elegant and becoming dress, and because—O, foolish Tessa, for a reason that she had tossed away, scorning herself—she was Ralph Towne’s mother. Not once in all these times had she met Dr. Towne in his own home; not until this afternoon in which he was to take Miss Gerard driving.

“My mother is engaged with callers, Miss Tessa; she asked me to take you to her sitting-room, and to take care of you for half an hour.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said she confusedly. “I want to see Miss Jewett; I will return in half an hour.”

“And not give me the pleasure of the half hour? When have you and I had half an hour together?”

She remembered.

“On the last night of the old year, was it not? Come with me and ‘take off your things.’ Isn’t that the thing to say?”

Unwillingly she followed him; he wheeled a chair into one of the wide windows overlooking the Park, laid away hat, sacque, and gloves, then seated himself lazily in the chair that he had wheeled to face her own. It was almost like the afternoons in the shabby parlor at home; so like them that she could not at first lift her eyes; in a mirror into which she had glanced, she had noticed how very pale lips and cheeks were and how dark her eyes were glowing.

He bent forward in a professional manner and laid two fingers on her throbbing wrist. “Miss Tessa, what are you doing to lose flesh so?”

With that, she lifted her eyes, the color coming with a rush. “Wouldn’t you like to see my tongue, too?”

“I know your tongue; it has a sharp point.”

“I am sorry.”

“No you are not,” he answered settling himself back in an easy position, and taking a penknife from his pocket to play with. The small knife, with the pearl handle; how often she had seen that in his fingers. “You are a student, of human nature; tell me what you think of me.”

How could she give to that amused assurance the bare, ugly truth!

“How many times have you changed your mind about me?”

“Once, only once.”

“Then your first impression of me was not correct.”

With her usual directness, she answered, “No.”

The blade snapped. If she had seen but his face she would have supposed that he had cut himself. She hastened to speak: “Some one says that we must change our minds three times before we can be sure.”

“But I do not want to wait until you are sure.”

“I am sure now.”

“No doubt. Tell me now.”

How many times his irresistibly boyish manner had forced from her words that she had afterward sorely regretted!

“You will not be pleased. You will dislike me forever after.”

“Much you will care for that.”

“Shall I not?” smiling at the humor in his eyes. “I think that I do not care as I once did for what people think of me; the question nowadays is what I think of them.”

“I will remember,” he said urgently, “that I brought it all upon my own head.”

How could he guess that in her heart was lodged one unpleasant thought of him? Had she not a little while—such a little while since—cared so much for him that he was grieved for her?

“You must promise not to be cross.”

“I promise,” taking out his watch. “You may hammer at me for twenty minutes. I have an engagement at half past three.”

Did Nan Gerard care as she had cared once? Would the sound of his wheels be to Naughty Nan what they were to her a year ago? A blue and gold edition of Longfellow was laid open on its face on the broad window-sill; she ran her forefinger the length of both covers before she could temper her voice; she did not wish to speak coldly, and yet her heart was very cold towards him.

“I think that you took me by surprise at first; I thought you were the handsomest man in the world—”

“You have changed that opinion?” he said, laughing.

“Yes; I should not think of describing you as handsome now; I should simply say that you were tall, dark, with deep-set, not remarkable, brown eyes, a quiet manner, given to few words—not at all remarkable, you are aware.”

“Go on, I am not demolished yet.”

“Your spirit I created out of my own fancies; I gave you in those enthusiastic days a heart like a woman’s heart, and a perfect intellect. You were my Sir Galahad, until I knew that some things you said were not—quite true?”

“Not quite true!” he repeated huskily.

Her eyes as well as her fingers were on the blue covers.

“Not true as I meant truth. Your words did not mean to you what they meant to me—I beg your pardon; do not let me savor of strong-mindedness, but I speak from my heart to your heart. You asked me a question frankly, I have answered it frankly. You said some things to Sue that you ought not to have said and that hurt me; I began to feel that you are not sincere through and through and through. At first I believed wholly in you and then I believed not at all. I was very bitter. And it hurt me so that I would rather have died.”

Her tone was as cold and even as if she were reciting a theorem in Legendre.

“So you died because you were not true, but you did not go to heaven because you had never lived, and therefore I can not expect to find you again. I did not know before how sad such a burial is.”

“Why can not you expect to find me again?”

“To find what? That fancy? If there is any one in the world as good, as true, as strong, gentle and sympathetic as my ideal, I surely hope to find that he is in the world.”

“You thought that his name was Ralph Towne, and now you know that his name is not Ralph Towne.”

“I do not know what his name may be.”

“You think the real Ralph Towne is a stranger not worth knowing?”

“He is a stranger, certainly; whether or not he is worth knowing you know best.”

She laughed, but not the suspicion of a smile gleamed in his eyes; she had forgotten that they could be as dark and stern as this.

“Time will show you, Miss Tessa,” he said humbly.

“I am sharp. I did not mean to be. But it cuts me so when I think that you can flirt with girls like Sue and Miss Gerard. Do you know of what it reminds me? Once the enemy fell upon the rear of an army and smote all that were feeble, when they were faint and weary; it was an army of women and little children, as well as men, and they did not go forth to war; all they asked was a peaceable passage through the land.”

The door was pushed softly open; Tessa lifted her eyes to behold the rare vision of shining gray silk, and real lace, a fine face crowned with white braids and lighted by the softest and brownest of brown eyes.

“My dear.” All her motherhood was concentrated in the two worn-out words.

“Now you may run away, Ralph.”

“I am very glad to,” he said. “Good afternoon, Miss Tessa.”

Tessa could not trust her voice to speak; raising her eyes she met his fully as he turned at the door to speak to his mother; a long searching look on both sides; neither smiled.

“Tessa, have you been quarrelling with my boy?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Has he been quarrelling with you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Towne seated herself in the chair that Dr. Towne had vacated, arranged her dress and folded her hands in her lap.

“It is Nan Gerard again! What a flirt that girl is! She called yesterday and Ralph chanced to come in while she was here; she gave him such an invitation to invite her to drive with him that he could not—that is, he did not—refuse. I wish that he wouldn’t, sometimes; but he says that he is amused and no one is harmed. I am not so sure of that. I do not understand Miss Gerard. I think that I do not understand girls of this generation. But I understand you.”

“I wish that you would teach me to be as wise.”

“You will be by and by. Do you know what I would like to ask you to promise?”

“I can not imagine.”

“I have studied you. If you will give yourself five years to think, to grow, you will marry at thirty the man that you would refuse to-day. You are impetuous to-day, you form your judgments rashly, you despise what you can not understand, and you are not yet capable of the love that hopeth all things, endureth all things, that suffereth long and is kind.”

“That is true; I am not capable of it. I have no patience with myself, nor with others.”

“If you will wait these five years, your life and another life might be more blessed.”

“Mrs. Towne! No one loves me. There is no occasion for me not to wait. I could promise without the least difficulty for the happiness or unhappiness of marriage is as unattainable to me to-day as the happiness or unhappiness of old age.”

“I will not ask you to promise, my daughter, but I will ask you to promise this; before you say to any man, ‘Yes,’ will you come to me and talk it all out to me? As if I were really your mother!”

Tessa promised with misty eyes.

“I promised to show you an old jewel-case this afternoon,” said Mrs. Towne in a lighter tone. “I wish that I might tell you the history of each piece.” She brought the box from a small table and pushed her chair nearer Tessa that she might open it in her lap. “This emerald is for you,” she said, slipping a ring containing an emerald in old-fashioned setting upon the first finger of Tessa’s left hand; “and it means what you have promised. All that your mother will permit me, I give to you this hour.”

“You are very kind to me.”

“I am very kind to myself. All my life I have wanted a daughter like you: a girl with blue eyes and a pure heart; one who would not care to flirt and dress, but who would love me and talk to me as you talk to me. I am proud of my boy, but I want a daughter.”

“I am not very good; you may be disappointed in me.”

“I do not fear that. This, my mother gave me,” lifting pin and ear-rings from the box. A diamond set in silver formed the centre of the pin; the diamond was surrounded by pearls of different sizes. “I was very proud of this pin. I did not know then that I could not have every thing in the world and out of it. This pin my father gave me.”

Tessa laid it in her hand and counted the diamonds; it was a diamond with nine opals radiating from it, between each opal a small diamond. “It looks like a dahlia,” she said. “I love pretty things. This ring is the first ring that I ever had.”

“People say that the emerald means success in love,” replied Mrs. Towne. “I did not remember it when I chose that for you. Perhaps you would prefer a diamond.”

“I like best what you chose,” said Tessa, taking from among the jewels, bracelet, pin, ear-rings and chatelaine of turquoises and pearls, and examining each piece with interested eyes. “These are old, too.”

“Every thing in this box is old. Some day you shall see my later jewels. You will like this,” she added, placing in her hands a bracelet formed of a network of iron wire, clasped with a medallion of Berlin iron on a steel plate; the necklace that matched it was also of medallions; the one in the centre held a bust of Psyche; upon the others were busts of men and women whom Tessa did not recognize; to this set belonged comb, pin, and ear-rings.

“These belonged to my mother. How old they are I do not know. See this ring, a portrait of Washington, painted on copper, and covered with glass. It is said to be one of the finest portraits in the country. I used to wear it a great deal. My father gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday. Have I told you that Lafayette kissed me when I was an infant in my mother’s arms?”

While Tessa replaced the treasures with fingers that lingered over them, with the new weight of the emerald upon her finger, and the new weight of a promise upon her heart, Mrs. Towne related the story of the kiss from Lafayette.

Tessa was a perfect listener, Mrs. Towne thought; the lighting or darkening of her eyes, a flush rising to her cheeks now and then, the curving of the mobile lips, an exclamation of surprise or appreciation, were most grateful to the old heart that had found after long and intense waiting the daughter that she could love and honor.

In the late twilight Dr. Towne returned; Tessa was still listening, with the jewel-case in her lap.

“I have missed my husband with all the old loneliness since we came into Dunellen,” she was saying when her tall son entered and stood at her side.

“Mother,” he said, in the shy way that Tessa knew, “you forget that you have me.”

“No, son, I do not forget; but your life is full of new interests. Yesterday I did not have ten minutes alone with you.”

“It shall not happen again.”

“I have persuaded Tessa to stay and hear Philip to-night; she says that he is like a west wind to her.”

“He would not fall upon the hindmost in your army, Miss Tessa.”

“I am sure that he would not.”

“Not if they coaxed him to?”

“He should have manliness enough to resist all their pretty arts, and enticing ways.”

“Mother, can’t you convince her? She has been rating me soundly for flirting, when it is the girls that are flirting with me.”

“It takes two to flirt,” replied his mother.

Dr. Towne was sent for as they were rising from the dinner table; Mrs. Towne and Tessa crossed the Park alone; at the entrance of the Lecture Room Sue Greyson met them.

“I had to come,” Sue whispered, seizing Tessa’s arm. “Father is so horrid and hateful, and said awful things to me just because I asked him to write to Stacey. The letter is written anyhow, and I’m thankful it’s over. Father says that he won’t give me the house, and that I sha’n’t be married under his roof. He is mad with Gerald, too, and told him to leave his house. So Gerald left and went to see a patient. He is so happy that he don’t care what father says.”

As they passed down the aisle, Tessa’s dress brushed against Felix Harrison; he was sitting alone with his father.

“Why! Felix Harrison! Did you ever?” whispered irrepressible Sue.

The Lecture Room was well-lighted, and well-filled. Professor Towne was the fashion in Dunellen. During the opening prayer there was a stir in one of the pews behind Tessa; she did not lift her head, her heart beat so rapidly that she felt as if she were suffocating.

“Poor fellow,” came in Sue’s loud whisper close to her ear. “They have taken him out! I should think that he would know better than to go among folks.”

Tessa could not follow the speaker for some minutes; the lights went out, she could not catch her breath; Mrs. Towne took her hand and held it firmly, then the lights came dim, through a misty and waving distance, her breath was drawn more easily, she could discern the outline of the preacher, and then his dark face was brought fully into view, his voice sounded loud in her ears; for some time longer she could not catch and connect his words; then, clear and strong, the words fell from his lips, and she could listen and understand—

“Good is the will of the Lord concerning me.”

If Felix could have listened and understood, would he have been comforted, too?

His voice held her when her attention wavered; afterward, that one sentence was all that had fastened itself; and was not that enough for one life time?

At the door, Dr. Towne stood waiting for his mother, and Mr. Hammerton and Dinah were moving towards the group.

“I knew that you would be here,” said Dinah, “so I coaxed Gus away from father. I couldn’t wait to tell you that your books have come. Two splendid dozens in all colors; I had to open them. You don’t mind? Gus and I each read a brown one; we think the crimson and blue ones must be splendid.”

Sue drew Tessa aside to coax in her plaintively miserable voice, “Come home with me; father will say things, and I shall be afraid.”

“I can’t help you, Sue.”

“You mean you won’t. I’ll elope with Dr. Lake, and then Dunellen will be on fire, and you don’t care.”

“I’m not afraid. He has good sense, if you haven’t.”

“I’ll come and see you to-morrow, then.”

“Well, that will do.”

“Nobody ever had so much trouble before,” sighed Sue as she went off.

Mr. Hammerton was in high glee and teased Tessa all the way home about her book.

“The milk pails were on the fence twice, Lady Blue, that is tautology.”

“Oh, they kept them there.”

“And the grandmother was always knitting.”

“She always did knit.”

“Lady Blue, you are on the road to Poverty; he who walks the streets of Literature will stop at the house of Starvation. Homer was a beggar; Terence was a slave; Tasso was a poor man; Bacon was as poor as a church mouse; Cervantes died of nothing to eat. Are you not beginning to feel the pangs of hunger? Breath and memory fail me, or I would convince you. Collins died of neglect; Milton was an impecunious genius; every body knows how wretchedly poor Goldsmith was; and wasn’t poor old prodigious Sam Johnson hungry half his life? Chatterton destroyed himself. I tremble for you, child of Genius! Author of ‘Under the Wings,’ what hast thou to say in defence of thy mad career?”

“Don’t mind him, Tessa,” consoled Dinah, “he does like your book; he said that he had no idea that you could do so well; that there was great promise in it, that it revealed a thoughtful mind—he said it to father—that the delineation of character was fine, and that it had the real thing in it. What is the real thing?”

“Read it and you will know.”

“If it isn’t asking too much,” began Tessa, timidly, “I wish that you would write me a criticism, Gus. I like the way that you talk about books. Not many know how to read a book, and still fewer know how to talk about it. Will you, please?”

“You overrate my judgment; sentiment is not in my line; I have done my share in reading books; I do not know that I have got much out of them all. My own literary efforts would be like this:

“‘Here lies—and more’s the pity! All that remains of Thomas New-city.’

“His name was Newtown.”

Dinah gave her little shout.

“Then you will not promise,” said Tessa, disappointedly. “I’m not afraid of sharp criticism; I want to do my poor little best; I do not expect to do as much as the girls in books who write stories. I do not expect any publisher to fall in love with me as he did in St. Elmo, wasn’t it?”

“What do you expect to do?”

“I hope—perhaps that is the better word—to give others all the good that is given me; I believe that if one has the ‘gift of utterance’ even in so small a fashion as I have it, that experiences will be given to utter; the Divine Biographer writes the life for the human heart to read, interpret and put into words! And to them is given a peculiar life, or, it may be, a peculiar appreciation of life; heartaches go hand in hand with headaches.

“I was born into my home that I may write my books; my poor little books, my little, weak, crooked-backed children! Would Fredrika Bremer have written her books without her exceptional home-training, or Sara Coleridge, or any other of the lesser lights shine as they do shine, if the spark had not been blown upon by the breath of their home-fires? When I am sorry sometimes that I can not do what I would and go where I would, I think that I have not gathered together all the fragments that are around loose between the plank walk and the soldiers’ monument! Said mother, ‘How do you make a book? Do you take a little from this book and a little from that?’”

“What did you say?” asked Dine.

“Oh, I said that I took a tone from her voice, an expression from father’s eyes, a curl from your head, a word from Gus’s lips, a laugh from Sue Greyson, a sigh from Dr. Lake, an apple blossom from Mr. Bird’s orchard, a spray of golden rod from the wayside, a chat from loungers in the Park, a wise saying from Miss Jewett—”

“That’s rather a conglomeration,” said Dinah.

“That is life, as I see it and live it.”

“What do you take from yourself?” asked Mr. Hammerton.

“I have all my life from the time that I cried over my first lie and prayed that I might have curly hair, to the present moment, when I am glad and sorry about a thousand things.”

“What did mother say?”

“She said that any one could write a book, then.”

“Let her try, then! It’s awful hard about the grammar and spelling and the beginning a chapter and ending it and introducing people!”

“Yes, it’s awful hard or awful easy,” replied Mr. Hammerton. “Which is it, Lady Blue?”

“Ask me when I have written my novel! Did you hear from the afternoon mail, Dine?”

“Yes,” said Dine, grimly, “I should think I did hear. Mother and I have had a fight! Father took care of the wounded and we are all convalescing. Aunt Theresa has written for one of us to come next week; kindly says that she will take me if mother can not spare you; I said right up and down that I wouldn’t go, and mother said right down and up that I should go, that she couldn’t and wouldn’t spare you! Aunt Theresa has the rheumatism, and it’s horrid dull on a farm! I was there when I was a little girl, and she sent me to bed before dark; I’m afraid that she will do it again; if she does I’ll frighten her out of her rheumatics. Mother will not let you have a voice in the matter, Tessa; who knows but you might meet your fate? The school-teacher boards with them; he is just out of college. Mother sha’n’t make me go!”

“I do not choose to go; but I could have all my time to myself. A low, cosy chamber and a fire on the hearth, no one to intrude or hinder.”

“But the school-master!” added Mr. Hammerton.

“He’s only a boy; I could put him into my book.”

“We’ll draw lots; shall we?”

“If mother is determined, the lot is drawn.”

“And father wants you, I know; he had an attack of pain before tea. I wish that I was useful and couldn’t be spared.”

“May I not have a vote; I am a naturalized member of the family?”

“You would want Tessa, too,” said Dinah.

“Would I?” he returned, squeezing the gloved fingers on his arm, whereupon Dinah became confused and silent.

Tessa found her books upon the hall table; her father, Mr. Hammerton, and Dinah followed her into the hall to watch her face and laugh over her exclamations.

“Your secret is out,” cried her father; “at Christmas there will be a placard in Runyon’s with the name of the book and author in flaming red letters! You can not remain the Great Unknown.”

“I feel so ashamed of trying,” said Tessa, with a brown cover, a red cover, and a green cover in her hands, “but I had to. I’ll be too humble to be ashamed. ‘Humility’s so good when pride’s impossible.’”

Several copies were taken up-stairs; Miss Jewett’s name was written in one, Mrs. Towne’s in another, Mr. Hammerton’s in one that he had selected, and in one, bound in a sober gray, she wrote,

“Felix Harrison. In memory of the old school days when he helped me with my compositions.

“T. L. W.”

She never knew of his sudden, sharp cry over it: “Oh, my life! my lost life! my wasted life!”