"Well, that will do."

"n.o.body 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; Ta.s.so 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!"