“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?” she said. “I cannot work, since the poor youth has made my left hand his sure captive, but I would not be altogether idle, and I can read while I watch him. Pardon my troubling you, who should wait on you, not be waited on.” “And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly, dear child?” returned her father, moving toward a small round table, on which were scattered a few books, and many implements of feminine industry. “Which of these will you have, Theresa?” “All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not heavy, for I can carry it about where I will myself, and if you will lift it to me, I can help myself, and cull the gems of each in turn. I am a poor student, I fear, and love better, like a little bee, to flit from flower to flower, drinking from every chalice its particular honey, than to sit down, like the sloth, and surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.” “There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be little sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are wont to leave small traces on the memory. I doubt me much if you long keep these gems you speak of, which you cull so lightly.” “Oh! but you are mistaken, father dear, for all you are so wise,” she replied, laughing softly. “Every thing grand or noble, of which I read, every thing high or holy, finds a sort of echo in my little heart, and lies there forever. Your grave, heavy, moral teachings speak to my reason, it is true, but when I read of brave deeds done, of noble self-sacrifices made, of great sufferings endured, in high causes, those things teach my heart, those things speak to my soul, father. Then I reason no longer, but feel—feel how much virtue there is, after all, and generosity, and nobleness, and charity, and love, in poor frail human nature. Then I learn, not to judge mildly of myself, nor harshly of my brothers. Then I feel happy, father, yet in my happiness I wish to weep. For I think noble sentiments and generous emotions sooner bring tears to the eye than mere pity, or mere sorrow.” And, even as she spoke, her own bright orbs were suffused with drops, like dew in the violet’s cups, and she shook her head with its profusion of long fair ringlets archly, as if she would have made light of her own sentiment, and gazed up into his face with a tearful smile. “You are a good child, Theresa, and good children are very dear to the Lord,” said the old man. “But of a truth I would I could see you more practically minded; less given to these singular romantic dreamings. I say not that they are hurtful, or unwise, or untrue, but in a mere child, as you are, Theresa, they are strange and out of place, if not unnatural. I would I could see you more merry, my little girl, and more given to the company of your equals in age, even if I were to be loser thereby of something of your gentle company. But you love not, I think, the young girls of the village.”