“After all, Norman, she may prove a pleasure and a comfort to us,” Mrs. de Vere said.
She liked to look on the bright side.
“Let us hope so for your sake, dear little mother,” he answered, dryly. Then he looked at her with something like compassion. “After all, life must be lonely for her, poor thing!” he mused. “She has no absorbing work like mine to fill up the measure of her time. I believe that at the bottom of her heart she is glad that Thea West is coming, only she will not confess it for fear of offending me.”
Mrs. de Vere was certainly in a flutter of pleasant anticipation. She spared no pains to have Thea’s rooms bright and attractive. She had dazzling visions of a lovely girl fluttering about the house and grounds; of the long-closed piano being opened; of music trilling through the long-silent rooms. She had almost given up society, because Norman cared so little for it, but now she would accept more invitations for the sake of the bright young girl, who would love music and dancing and everything that was gay and happy, and whose lovers would quite besiege Verelands.
“It will be almost like having a daughter of my own—and I always wanted a daughter so much,” she sighed.
But to her dismay the postman brought one morning a little letter in a pretty, school-girlish hand to Norman de Vere—a letter breathing defiance and independence.
“I refuse to recognize your alleged authority over me, Mr. Norman de Vere. I have been told that you found me in a wreck, and that the only interest you have in me is that of charity for a friendless child. I thank you and your mother for the charity bestowed on me, and, God helping me, I will repay in time the obligations I owe you—at least, as far as they can be repaid in money. I am a woman now, and no longer need eat the bitter bread of charity. I left my home at Mr. Hinton’s because my presence was unwelcome there, and am earning my bread and butter with my own hands. In the full intention of continuing to do so, and firmly declining the home at Verelands, which it must be as irksome for you to offer as it would be for me to accept, I remain,
“Gratefully yours,
“Thea West.”
Mrs. de Vere sat gazing at the letter like a statue. She could not realize it, this proud, defiant spirit of the girl she remembered so kindly. A vision of the child stole over her—the sunny curls, the frank blue eyes, the loving heart. How could this be Little Sweetheart?
“Well, mother?” Norman said at last, impatient of her blank silence.