"You may talk," said her mother, heatedly, "but two years hence _you_ will dance in a bra.s.s kettle."

"I hope that I shall work in it," answered Tessa, coloring painfully, however. Whether her lips were touched with a slight contempt, or tremulous because she was very, very much hurt, Dinah could not decide; she was silent because she could not think of any thing sharp enough to reply; she never liked to be _too_ saucy.

Mr. Wadsworth spoke in his genial voice: "It's a beautiful thing, daughters, to help a good man live a good life."

Dinah thought: "I would love to do such a beautiful thing." Tessa was saying to herself, "Oh, what should I do if my father were to die!"

Mr. Wadsworth pushed back his chair, went around to his wife and kissed her. Tessa loved him for it.

"You have helped a good man, a good old man, haven't you, fairy?" he said, smoothing the hair that was as pretty as Dinah's.

"Yes," answered his wife, and Tessa shivered from head to foot. "People all said that you were a different man after you were married."

"I'm going over to Norah's," cried Dinah. "I told her that I would come to write our French together. And, oh, father! I forgot to tell you, Gus will be in about eight."

"I don't know that I care for chess; I can not concentrate my attention as I could a year ago."

"Why do you run off if he is coming?" asked Mrs. Wadsworth.

"He comes too often to be attended to," Dine answered. "Won't you be around, Tessa?"

"Perhaps."

Tessa had resolved to give the evening to writing letters, and was pa.s.sing through the dining-room with a china candlestick in her hand, when her father, reading Shakespeare at the round table, on which stood a shaded lamp, detained her by catching at her dress.

"Set your light down, daughter, and stay a moment."

With her hand upon his shoulder, she looked down over the page he was reading:

"'Heaven doth with us as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves-'"

she read aloud.

"I made my will to-day," he said quietly; "that is, I changed it. Lewis Gesner and Gus Hammerton, my tried friends, were in the office at the time. If you ever need a friend, daughter, any thing done for you that Gus can not do-I count on him as the friend of my girls for life-go to Lewis Gesner."

"I don't want a friend; I have you."

"If I should tell your mother about the will she would go into hysterics, and Dine would be sure that I am going to die; I have divided my little all equally among my three. That is, all but this house and garden, which I have given to my elder daughter, Theresa Louise. It is to be hers solely, without any gainsaying. Your mother will fume when the fact is made known to her, but I give it to you that my three girls may always have a roof, humble though it be, over their heads. The old man did not know how to make money, but he left them enough to be comfortable all their lives there was never any need that his wife should worry and work, or that his daughter should marry for a home.

Very good record for the old man; eh, daughter?"

She laid her cheek against the bald forehead and put both arms around his neck.

"And, Tessa, child, your mother is half right about you; don't have any notions about marriage; promise me that you will marry-for you will, some day-but for the one best reason."

"What is that?" she asked roguishly. "How am I to know?"

"What do you think?"

"Because somebody needs me and I can do him good."

"A Hottentot might urge that; you will find the reason in time. Don't make an idol; that is your temperament."

"I know it."

"And above all things don't sacrifice yourself; few men appreciate being done good to! I know men, they are terribly human. Gus Hammerton is a fine fellow."

"_He_ is terribly human," she answered with a little laugh.

"Am I harsh towards your mother ever, do you think?" he asked in a changed tone.

"Why, _no_," she exclaimed in surprise.

"I used to be. I tried to mould her. Don't _you_ ever try to mould any body; now run away to your work or to your book! Don't sigh over me, I am 'well and hearty.' How short my life seems when I look back. Such dreams as I had. It's all right, though."

She could not run away, for the door-bell, in answer to a most decided pull, detained her; she opened it, expecting to see Mr. Hammerton, but to her surprise, and but slightly to her pleasure, Felix Harrison stood there in broad-shouldered health.

"Good evening," she said with some bewilderment.

"Do I startle you?" he asked in the old gracious, winning manner. "May I come in?"

"I am very glad to see you. Will you walk into my parlor, Mr. Fly?"

The one tall candle in the china candlestick was the only light in the room. She set it upon the table, saying, "Excuse me, and I will bring a light, that we may the better look at each other. The light of other days is hardly sufficient."

"It is enough for me," he said, pushing the ottoman towards one of the low arm-chairs. "Sit down and I will take the ottoman. The parrot recognizes me."

Her hand moved nervously on the arm of her chair; the hand was larger now than when it had spilled ink on his copy-book, larger even than when it had written her first, shy, proud, indignant refusal.

"You are not the tempest you used to be," he said smiling after a survey of her face.

"_Wasn't_ I a tempest? I have outgrown my little breezes. In time I may become as gentle as a zephyr."

"You always were gentle enough."

"Not to you."

"Not to me when I tormented you."

"Probably I should not be gentle if I were tormented now."

She had never decided to which of the five thousand shades of green Felix Harrison's eyes belonged; they were certainly green; one of the English poets had green eyes, she wondered if they were like Felix Harrison's. To-night they glittered as if they were no color at all.

This face beside her was a spiritualized face; a strong mouth as sweet as a woman's, a round benevolent chin; a low, square forehead; hair as light as her own; his side face as he turned at least five years younger than the full face; she had often laughed at his queer fashion of growing old and growing young. At times, in the years when they were more together than of late, he had changed so greatly that, after not having seen him for several days she had pa.s.sed him in the street without recognition; these times had been in those indignant times after she had refused him; that they were more than indignant times to him she was made painfully aware by these changes in his rugged face.

"I have been thinking over those foolish times," she said, breaking the silence. "I am glad that you came in to-night; I am in a mood for confessing my wrong-doings; I have said many quick words; you know you always had the talent for irritating me."

"Yes, I always worried you."

"You did not intend to," she said hastily, watching the movement of his lips; "we did not understand, that is all. It takes longer than a summer and a winter for heart to answer to heart."