“My love for him was my perfect gift. It was given by One in whom there is no shadow of turning.”
“I am not strong enough to receive such a gift,” said Tessa looking troubled.
“Oh, dear me, I hope not. Oh, dear me, horrid! What a story to tell the night before my wedding! All I care about is about being loved! I didn’t know that the loving made any difference or did any good! That story is too sorrowful. Gerald would like that.”
The long ivory needle moved in and out; the fair face, half a century old, was full of loveliness.
“That is for you to remember all your life, Sue.”
“I sha’n’t. I shall forget it. I only remember pleasant things.”
“I wonder if Fredrika Bremer were as happy as you, Miss Jewett. She says that a gentleman inspired her with a ‘pure and warm feeling,’ that it was never responded to, and yet it had a powerful influence upon her development.”
“Was she real?” inquired Sue. “I thought that she only wrote books.”
“It takes very real people to write,” answered Tessa. “The more real you are, the more you are called to write.”
Slipping off the low chair, down to the rug, Sue laid her head in Miss Jewett’s lap, the white wool half concealing the braids and curls and frizzes, the thin, excited face was turned toward the fire, the brown eyes, wild and yet timid, were misty with tears.