That evening—it was the sixth of March, that date ever afterward was associated with blue myrtle and Nan Gerard—she was sitting at the table writing letters; in the same chair and at the same place at the table where Dinah had written her letter about Gus and her wonderful John; Aunt Theresa was knitting this evening also, and Uncle Knox was asleep in a chintz-covered wooden rocker with the big cat asleep on his knees.
She had written a letter to Mabel and one to Elsie, lively descriptive letters, making a picture of Miss Sarepta’s book-lined, picture-decorated, flower-scented room and a picture of Miss Sarepta, also touching lightly upon her own breezy out-of-door life with its hard work and its beautiful hopes. The third letter was a sheet to Mrs. Towne; the sentence in ending was one that Mrs. Towne had been eagerly and anxiously expecting all through the winter: “My ring reminds me of my promise; a promise that I shall keep some day, perhaps.”
“Tessa, are you unhappy, child?” asked Aunt Theresa with a knitting needle between her lips.
“Unhappy! Why, auntie, what am I doing?”
The tall lamp with its white china shade stood between them. Aunt Theresa took the knitting needle from its place of safety and counted fourteen stitches before she replied.
“Sighing! When young people sigh, something must ail them. What do you have to be miserable about?”
“I am not miserable.”
“Tell me, what are you miserable about?”
“Sometimes—I am not satisfied—that is all.”
“I should think that that was enough. What are you dissatisfied about? Haven’t you enough to eat and to drink and clothes enough to wear? Haven’t you a good father and mother who wouldn’t see you want for any thing? What is it that you haven’t enough of, pray?”