“And other things, too. He is forgetful, and he’s rather careless. How much he is taken up with that reading class!”
“In a monkish way,” smiled Miss Sarepta. “He was full of enthusiasm about Ralph, too, mother.”
“How is it, Miss Tessa, do you admire Dr. Towne as much as you do St. Philip?” inquired the old lady with good-humored sarcasm.
“He is not a saint,” said Tessa, “he needs looking after in several matters besides stockings and shirt buttons.”
“Philip talks about him! What is it that he says he is, Sarepta?”
“In his profession just what he expected that he would be,—quick, quiet, gentle, sympathetic, patient, persevering; he has thrown himself into it heart and soul. Philip used to wonder if he would ever find his vocation; his life always had a promise of good things—”
“But he was slow about it; not quick like Philip; he should have begun practice ten years ago. What has he been doing all this time?”
“We can see the fruit of his doing, mother; it does not much matter as to the doing itself. Don’t you know that six years are given to the perfecting even of a beetle?”
“I don’t know about beetles and things; I know that I used to think that my boy would outstrip Lydia’s boy.”
“Mother! mother!” laughed Sarepta, “you mind earthly things. I shall never run a race with anybody. Can’t you be a little proud of me?”