Aunt Theresa’s attention was given to her knitting; she did not see the shining of Tessa’s eyes.
“Be satisfied with God, child, and take all the happiness you can get.”
Tessa’s pen was making tremulous capitals.
“Be satisfied with, if you can, but not in, some good man who stumbles to-day and stands straight to-morrow; I fought it out on that line once, and so I know all about it.”
This then was the experience that Dr. Towne had said that she must ask for; had he guessed that it would be altogether on his side?
This was it, and this was all. Uncle Knox’s old eyes had a look for his old wife that they never held for any other living thing, and as for Aunt Theresa, how often had Tessa thought, “I want to grow old and love somebody the way you do.”
Might she be satisfied with God and love Ralph Towne all she wanted to?
“Why, Theresa,” exclaimed Uncle Knox, opening his eyes and staring at his wife, “I haven’t heard you talk so much sentiment for thirty years.”
“And you will not in another thirty years. But Tessa was in a tangle—I know eggs when I see the shells—and I had to help her out.”
A tap at the window brought Tessa to her feet. A neighbor had brought the mail; she took the papers and letters with a most cordial “thank you” and came to the table with both hands full. The papers she opened and glanced through; the letters she took up-stairs to read. The business-looking envelope she opened first; she read it once, twice, then gave an exclamation of delight. Oh, how pleased her father would be! Her manuscript had given such perfect satisfaction that, although written for pictures, the pictures would be discarded and new ones made to illustrate her story. Gus would congratulate her, and Miss Jewett; this appreciation by the publisher was the crown that the winter’s work would always wear for her. With a long breath, she sighed, “Oh, what a blessed winter this has been to me!”