“She can be quiet enough when she chooses. I am glad—oh, I am so glad—”
“Is the doctor gone?” cried Dinah rushing out, “father wants him. He has the pain dreadfully.”
The paroxysm was severe, but it passed away; Dr. Greyson decided to remain through the night; he fell asleep in the sitting-room and was awakened by Tessa’s hand an hour before dawn.
“Thank you, dear,” said Mr. Wadsworth to his wife as she laid an extra quilt across his feet.
They were his last words. Tessa always liked to think of them.
July, August, and September dragged themselves through sunny days and rainy days into October. Tessa had learned that she could live without her father. There was little outward change in their home, the three were busy about their usual work and usual recreations; friends came and went; Tessa wrote and walked; gave two afternoons each week to Mrs. Towne, sometimes in Dunellen and sometimes at Old Place; ran in, as of old, for a helpful talk with Miss Jewett, not forgetting that she must be, what Dr. Lake had said,—a good friend to his wife. These were the busy hours; in the still hours,—but who can know for another the still hours?
Mr. Hammerton and Mr. Lewis Gesner proved themselves to be invaluable friends; Tessa’s warm regard for Mr. Gesner, even with the shock that came to her afterward, never became less; he ever remained her ideal of the rock in the weary land.
Two weeks after her father’s funeral, she had stood alone one evening towards dusk among her flowers: she had been gathering pansies and thinking that her father had always liked them and talked about them.
There was a sound of wheels on the grass and a carriage stood at the opening in the shrubbery; the face into which she looked this time was not worn, or thin, or excited; a dark face, with grave, sympathetic eyes, was bending towards her.
“I wish that I could help you,” he said.