“‘Heaven doth with us as we with torches do;
Not light them for themselves—’”
she read aloud.
“I made my will to-day,” he said quietly; “that is, I changed it. Lewis Gesner and Gus Hammerton, my tried friends, were in the office at the time. If you ever need a friend, daughter, any thing done for you that Gus can not do—I count on him as the friend of my girls for life—go to Lewis Gesner.”
“I don’t want a friend; I have you.”
“If I should tell your mother about the will she would go into hysterics, and Dine would be sure that I am going to die; I have divided my little all equally among my three. That is, all but this house and garden, which I have given to my elder daughter, Theresa Louise. It is to be hers solely, without any gainsaying. Your mother will fume when the fact is made known to her, but I give it to you that my three girls may always have a roof, humble though it be, over their heads. The old man did not know how to make money, but he left them enough to be comfortable all their lives there was never any need that his wife should worry and work, or that his daughter should marry for a home. Very good record for the old man; eh, daughter?”
She laid her cheek against the bald forehead and put both arms around his neck.
“And, Tessa, child, your mother is half right about you; don’t have any notions about marriage; promise me that you will marry—for you will, some day—but for the one best reason.”
“What is that?” she asked roguishly. “How am I to know?”
“What do you think?”
“Because somebody needs me and I can do him good.”