Blown by each wind and rejoicing in the merry whirl, Theresa passed her days; they were all adventurous, of mind if not of body, and her nights were wonders. There was no one in the world whom she could envy; she felt sorry for every girl who was not Theresa Webb. Who else could be so certain of a glorious future? Who else turned the corner of every street with a just expectation of joy? There was no one else, and, since she could find her thrilled happiness within herself, she seldom missed it. Sometimes she played at being a princess, with evidence of blood in the lift of her head; sometimes she was a little genius, early bowed; and now and then she was just a schoolgirl, but so beautiful and compelling that people turned to look at her, and were dazzled by her radiant hair. While she lived she must find enjoyment, if it were but in being miserable; for while she lived, so must Theresa, that paragon, that puzzle of which she never tired. But this adoration was a secret, guessed at home, perhaps, but unimagined at school. She was very quiet, very good, and so observant that her work suffered. She seemed attentive, but under the eager solemnity of her face there was a dancing spirit that betrayed itself, to the quick, in the restless movements of her hands. How could she care about arithmetical problems when the woman who proposed them looked as though she had not slept? The reason for that wakefulness must be discovered—a more attractive hunting than seeking for the answer, which might be anything, to a question about apples and potatoes at fluctuating prices. Her reports both delighted and alarmed her father.
"Theresa," he said seriously, "I see some of your subjects are very unsatisfactory."
"Yes, they are, aren't they?" She was interested, and looked with him at the paper he held.
"You are only top in English, Theresa, and you are bottom in a great many things. Scripture, I see among them, and arithmetic."
"Yes, but they don't matter much, do you think?"
"It all matters, my child."
"Does it? You know"—she moved to the window and came back to his knee—"I can't understand why those girls get more marks than I do. They're really very stupid when you talk to them."
"Perhaps they work."
"Oh yes, I think they do. But I'd rather be clever. They just learn things. I can't learn things for seeing them."
"You are eleven years old, Theresa. I don't want you to be an ignorant woman. Imagining things is not knowing them, but when you know them you can embroider them without much harm."