“Don’t mind him, Tessa,” consoled Dinah, “he does like your book; he said that he had no idea that you could do so well; that there was great promise in it, that it revealed a thoughtful mind—he said it to father—that the delineation of character was fine, and that it had the real thing in it. What is the real thing?”
“Read it and you will know.”
“If it isn’t asking too much,” began Tessa, timidly, “I wish that you would write me a criticism, Gus. I like the way that you talk about books. Not many know how to read a book, and still fewer know how to talk about it. Will you, please?”
“You overrate my judgment; sentiment is not in my line; I have done my share in reading books; I do not know that I have got much out of them all. My own literary efforts would be like this:
“‘Here lies—and more’s the pity!
All that remains of Thomas New-city.’
“His name was Newtown.”
Dinah gave her little shout.
“Then you will not promise,” said Tessa, disappointedly. “I’m not afraid of sharp criticism; I want to do my poor little best; I do not expect to do as much as the girls in books who write stories. I do not expect any publisher to fall in love with me as he did in St. Elmo, wasn’t it?”
“What do you expect to do?”
“I hope—perhaps that is the better word—to give others all the good that is given me; I believe that if one has the ‘gift of utterance’ even in so small a fashion as I have it, that experiences will be given to utter; the Divine Biographer writes the life for the human heart to read, interpret and put into words! And to them is given a peculiar life, or, it may be, a peculiar appreciation of life; heartaches go hand in hand with headaches.