“H’m,” he said when she had finished. “You’re twelve, didn’t you say? When you’re ten years older I shouldn’t wonder—but let’s not think of it.”
“Father Cassidy told me to keep on,” cried Emily.
“There was no need of it. You would keep on anyhow—you have the itch for writing born in you. It’s quite incurable. What are you going to do with it?”
“I think I shall be either a great poetess or a distinguished novelist,” said Emily reflectively.
“Having only to choose,” remarked Dean dryly. “Better be a novelist—I hear it pays better.”
“What worries me about writing novels,” confided Emily, “is the love talk in them. I’m sure I’ll never be able to write it. I’ve tried,” she concluded candidly, “and I can’t think of anything to say.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll teach you some day,” said Dean.
“Will you—will you really?” Emily was very eager. “I’ll be so obliged if you will. I think I could manage everything else very nicely.”
“It’s a bargain then—don’t forget it. And don’t go looking for another teacher, mind. What do you find to do at the Grange besides writing poetry? Are you never lonesome with only those two old survivals?”
“No. I enjoy my own company,” said Emily gravely.