“I am commonplace,” she soliloquized, running down the long flight of stairs; “ten years ago when my heroines were Rosalie and Viola, and their lovers bandits or princes in disguise, who would have believed that I could have settled down into writing good books for good little children?”
That evening Mr. Hammerton took from his memorandum book three square inches of printed matter, neatly and exactly folded, and dropped it into her hand.
“There’s a feather in your cap, Lady Blue; it is plucked from the Evening Mail.”
She read it, by the light of the shaded lamp, standing at the sitting-room table. Mrs. Wadsworth looked up from her work, regarding her curiously; Tessa did not observe the expression of pride and love that flitted across her face. Mrs. Wadsworth loved Tessa more than she loved any other human being; indeed, with all her capacity for loving; but Tessa would never discover it. Mrs. Wadsworth was not aware of it, herself; Mr. Wadsworth saw it and was glad. Tessa read eagerly:
“‘Under the Wings’ is the title of an excellent book by Theresa Louise Wadsworth issued in neat form by——. The characters of the boyish hero—wilful, merry, irreverent, honest, and bold, and the heroine—happy, serious, inquiring, and lovable, are drawn with no mean skill, while the other personages, the kind and pious grandmother, the snappish, but well-meaning mother, the deacon, and others, are sketched with scarcely less truth and vividness. The development of the Christian faith in the soul of wild Rob is traced easily and naturally, the incidents are numerous and interesting; the whole movement of the story is in helpful sympathy with human hearts.”
“What is it, daughter?” inquired her father arranging the chess-men.
“She is modest as well as famous. I will read it,” said Mr. Hammerton, “and here’s your letter from Dine; I knew that that would insure my welcome. Do you know, I forgot to inquire for myself? I never did such a thing before. Father will go to the mail, however.”
Moving apart from the group, she ran through the long letter; coloring and biting her lips as she read. Mrs. Wadsworth’s little rocker was drawn to the table; the light from the tall lamp fell over her face and hair, touching her hands and her work; the low, white forehead, the wavy hair, the pretty lips and chin were pleasant to look upon; when she was in a happy state of mind, this little lady was altogether kissable.
“What does Dine say?” she asked.
“Not much. No news,” stammered Tessa.