“I begin to understand why mediocrity is long-lived. Don’t be a goose, child.”
Mr. Wadsworth was at his desk; he read the letter through twice without comment.
“Well!” she said, playing with a morsel of pink blotting paper.
“It’s beautiful, daughter.”
She wondered why it did not seem so much to her as it did to him and to Miss Jewett.
“I expect that Dine will take to authorship next.”
Tessa’s lips were keeping a secret, for Dine was writing a little story. When had she ever failed to attempt the thing that Tessa had done? She had not taken Tessa’s place in school, and had been graduated much nearer the foot of her class than Tessa had ever stood; still she had Tessa’s knack of writing stories, and telling stories, and had, at her urging, written a story for boys, which Tessa had criticised and copied; Dinah’s penmanship being very pretty, but not at all plain. The letter made no allusion to the fate of Dinah’s story; somewhat anxious about this, she slipped the bulky envelope into her pocket and turned her face homewards. Her winter’s work was laid out for her; there was nothing to do but to do it.
So full was she with plans for the books that she did not hear steps behind her and at her side until Sue Greyson nudged her.
“Say, Tessa, turn down Market Street with me; I have something to tell you.” The serious, startled voice arrested her instantly. What new and dreadful thing had Sue been doing now? Her only dread was for Dr. Lake.
“I’ve been ordering things for dinner; we have dinner at four, so I can afford to run around town in the morning. I’m in a horrid fix and there’s nobody to help me out.”