Coaxing Miss Jewett into her little parlor, she showed her the pictures, and read aloud the letter.
“I think it is a great compliment to you,” said the little woman, admiringly. “You do not seem to think of that.”
“Father will think so. You and he are such humble people, that you think me exalted! Women have become famous before they were as old as I.”
“You may become famous yet.”
“It isn’t in me. Genius is bold; if it were in me, I should find some way of knowing it. My work is such a little bit, such a poor little bit. But I do like the letter.”
“You will be glad of it when you are old.”
“I am glad of it now.”
She read it again: the penmanship was straggling and ugly.
“I do not know how to talk to you; you remind me of Tryphena and Tryphosa; St. Paul would know what to say to you. You seem to have no worldliness in your aims. Your style is impressive. I think that we can keep your pen busy. Your last manuscript is still in the balance.”
“If it be found wanting, what shall I do! The suspense wears upon me.”