Mr. Linden had finished his work, and stood balancing his hammer and listening to the catalogue of wants with a smile both grave and bright.
"Are these just the things you wish for?" he said. "Well—'your Father knoweth that ye have need of them,'—and he has sent them by our hands to-day; so you see that you may trust him for the future."
He laid his hand on Faith's shoulder as an invitation to her to follow, and went out to the sleigh. She was at the side of it as soon as he, and in it the next minute, stopping to give him only with the eye one warm speech of sympathy and joy.
"You haven't put up a basket specially for these people, of course," she said,—"so we shall have to take the things from everywhere. There's a beautiful chicken in that basket, Endecott—I know; that's the largest one we have left; and bread—there aren't but two loaves here!—shall we give them both? Or do we want one somewhere else?"
"I think we may give them both. And Faith—don't you think a roasted apple might alternate usefully with the potato?"
Faith dived into the receptacle for apples and brought out a good quantity of the right kind. Potatoes were not in very large supply, but tea and sugar were—blessed things!—unfailing.
"And here is a pumpkin pie!" said Faith—"I am sure they'll like that—and as many cookies and cruller as you like. And what else, Endecott?—O here's a pair of those big socks mother knit—wouldn't they be good here?"
"Very good, dear child!—and this blanket must go—and some tracts,—that will furnish more reading. You run in with those, Faith—these other things are too heavy for you."
"I've strength enough to carry a blanket," said Faith laughing.
"Well, run off with that too, then," said Mr. Linden, "only if your strength gives out by the way, please to fall on the blanket."
Faith managed to reach the house safely and with a bright face deposited the blanket on a chair. "I got leave to bring this in to you, Mrs. Roscom," she said. "I suppose you know what Mr. Linden means you to do with it."
Perhaps they had seen no two people in the course of the day more thoroughly pleased than these two. The sources of pleasure were not many in that house, and the expectation of pleasure not strong; and the need of comforts had not died out with the supply; and old and alone as they were, the looking forward to possible cold and hunger was a trial. It was easy to see how that blanket warmed the room and promised a mild winter, and how the socks be came liniment,—and it seemed doubtful whether the old man would ever be sick enough for roast potatoes, with the potatoes really in the house. So with other things,—they took a childish pleasure even in the cakes and pie, and an order for wood was a real relief. And what a dinner they were already eating in imagination!
Mr. Linden had put Faith in the sleigh, with the last sunset rays playing about her; and he stood wrapping her up in all sorts of ways, and the old man and the old woman stood in the door to see. Then in a voice which he supposed to be a whisper, Mr. Roscom said,—
"Be she his wife?"
"He didn't say—and I don' knowwhathe said," screamed Mrs. Roscom.
"Wal—she's handsome enough for it—and so's he," said the old man contemplatively. "I hope he'll get one as good!"
Very merrily Mr. Linden laughed as they drove away.
"I hope I shall!" he said. "Faith, what do you think of that? And which of us has the compliment?"
But Faith was engaged in pulling her furs and buffalo robes round her, and did not appear to consider compliments even a matter of moonshine; much less of sunshine. Her first words were to remark upon the exceeding beauty of the last touch the sunlight was giving to certain snowy heights and white cumuli floating above them; a touch so fair and calm as if heaven were setting its own seal on this bright day.
"Is your heart in the clouds?" Mr. Linden said, bending down to look at her with his laughing eyes. "How can you abstract your thoughts so suddenly from all sublunary affairs! Do you want any more wrapping up?"
A little flashing glance of most naive appeal, and Faith's eyes went down absolutely.
"You may as well laugh!" he said. "One cannot get through the world without occasionally hearing frightful suggestions."
Faith did laugh, and gave him anothergoodlittle look, about which the only remarkable thing was that it was afraid to stay.
"What were your cloudy remarks just now?" said Mr. Linden.
"I wanted you to look at the beautiful light on them and those far-off ridges of hill—it is not gone yet."
"Yes, they are very beautiful. But I believe I am not in a meditative mood to-day,—or else the rival colours distract me. Faith, I mean to put you in the witness-box again."
"In the witness-box?"—she said with a mental jump to Neanticut, and a look to suit.
"Yes—but we are not on the banks of Kildeer river, and need not be afraid," he said with a smile. "Faith—what ever made you take such an aversion to Phil Davids?"
"I don't dislike him,"—she said softly.
"I did not mean to doubt your forgiving disposition! But what did he do to displease you?"
Did Mr. Linden know? or did henotknow! Faith looked up to see. He was just disentangling one of the lines from Jerry's tail, but met her look with great composure.
"It's an old thing,"—said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up."
"But since I have brought it—won't you indulge me?"
The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,—if I told it to you.—Won't you let me let it alone?"
"I should like to hear you tell it."
"He made one or two rude speeches"—said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;—"that was all."
"ThatI knew before."
"Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?"
There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her mufflers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question.
"You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell menow?—and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?"
Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,—if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,—but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find.
"I want an answer to one of these questions,"—Mr. Linden said, in a playful sort of tone. "Dr. Harrison used to ask me if you lived upon roses—but do you think I can?"
Faith made an effort. "What do you want me to say?"
"What was it in Phil's words that troubled you so much?"
The crimson rush came back overwhelmingly. "Oh Endy—please don't ask me!"
"Not quite fair,"—he said smiling. "I'm sure I am willing to tellyouanything. Though indeed I do not suppose you need much telling. But Faith—isthatthe system of tactics by which you intend always to have your own way? I shall have to be philosophical to any point!"
"That speech is so very zigzag," said Faith, "that I cannot follow it.How are you going to be philosophical, Mr. Linden?"
"Not by forgetting to exact your forfeit, Miss Derrick."
"That isn't fair," said Faith laughing. "I didn't for get!—I shouldn't think you had gone all day without eating anything!—and yet you must be starving."
"For what? little provider."
"For something to eat, I should think."
"Does that mean that you are suffering?—because if that be the case, I will refresh you (cautiously) with sugar-plums! A very superfluous thing, to be sure, but the most suitable I can think of."
Faith's laugh came clear now. "No indeed. Suffering! I never eat so many dinners in one day in my life. But I am hungry though, I believe. How many more places are we going to? I don't care how many," she said earnestly. "I like to be hungry."
"Well, keep up your spirits,—the next turn will bring us out of the woods, and a three-minute stay at one or two doors will end our work for this time. Meanwhile, do you want to hear a little bit of good poetry—on an entirely new subject?"
"Oh yes! if you please."
Demurely enough it was given.—
"'Her true beauty leaves behindApprehensions in my mindOf more sweetness, than all artOr inventions can impart.Thoughts too deep to be expressed,And too strong to be repressed.'"
She gave him a wistful look as he finished the lines; and then sat among her furs, as quiet again as a mouse.
"Do you like them, Mignonette?"
"Yes—very much."
"Would you like to tell me then why the hearing of them makes you sober?"
"Yes—if you wish"; she said gently. "I know—a little—I believe,—what you think of me; but what I seem to your eyes on the outside—and much more!—I want to be really, really—in the sight of the eye that tries the heart—and I am not now, Endy."
"My dear child—" he said,—and was silent a minute, speeding smoothly along through the starlight; then went on.
"Yes, dear Faith,—that is what I wish for you—and for myself. That is where we will most earnestly try to help each other." And presently, as eye and thoughts were caught and held by the wonderful constellation above in the clear sky, yet not drawn away from what they had been talking of, Mr. Linden said,—
"'Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,—that bringeth the shadow of death upon the day, and turneth the night into morning!'" And so, in the thought of that, they went home; Orion looking down upon them, and they leaving bits of brightness by the way at the two or three houses which yet remained. The box sleigh got home at last emptied of all its load but the two travellers.
Mrs. Derrick and supper were ready for them, and had been a good while; and by this time Mr. Linden and Faith were ready for supper. And much as Mrs. Derrick had to hear, she had something to tell. How Judge Harrison had come to make a visit and say good-bye, and how he had put in her hands another twenty-five dollars to be added to those his son had already bestowed on Reuben. Squire Stoutenburgh too had been there; but his errand was to declare that Jerry could never be received again into his service, but must henceforth remain in Mrs. Derrick's stable and possession. Altogether, the day even at home had been an exciting one.
A little time after supper Faith went into the sitting-room. Mr. Linden was there alone. Faith came up to the back of his chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, and bent her head into speaking neighbourhood. It may be remarked, that though Faith no longer said "Mr. Linden," yet that one other word of his name wasneverspoken just like her other words. There was always a little lowering or alteration of tone, a slight pause before—or after it, which set and marked it as bordered round with all the regards which by any phrase could be made known.
"Endecott"—she said very softly,—"do you know what you have been doing to-day?"
"Comprehensively speaking—I have been enjoying myself," he said with a bright smile at her.
"You have been giving me a lesson all the while, that I felt through and through."
"Through and through?" he repeated. "Come round here, little bird—you need not perch on the back of my chair. What are you singing about?"
"Of what you have taught me to-day."
"I must have fallen into a very unconscious habit of lesson-giving.What have I taught you?—suppose you teach me."
"How one should 'hold forth the word of life.'"
"Ah little bird!"—he said, with a look at her which said his day's lesson had been the same, yet on different grounds. "Well—if you can learn anything from so imperfect a teacher, I am glad. But do not rest there,—take up the olive leaf and bear it on!"
Mrs Derrick went to Pequot the next day, and found Miss Danforth as Faith had left her; or rather, somewhat more failing in everything but mind-strength. Mrs. Derrick was greatly welcomed by both ladies; but she had not been there three hours when Miss Dilly spoke out what was on her heart.
"Isn't Faith coming back to me again?"
For Faith's sake her mother hesitated, and yet it was for Faith's sake that she answered,—"Yes, if you want her."
"It won't be for long I shall want her,"—said Miss Dilly with a quietness very unlike her old self:—"but I would like to have her dear face and music about me once more—if she can let me."
Mrs. Derrick came back with Mr. Stoutenburgh to Pattaquasset that same evening; and Faith put up her books and made immediate preparations for going to Pequot in her stead.
"I must let you go, child," said her mother,—"I couldn't refuse."
"And I am so glad to-morrow is Wednesday, for I can take you over," said Mr. Linden.
Wednesday afternoon was very fair, and after dinner Faith and all her needful baggage were bestowed in the little sleigh, and the journey began. Not very much of a journey indeed, unless compared with the length of day-light; but as fair and bright and pleasant as a journey could be. Full of talk of all sorts,—gliding on through the fading day and the falling night, until
——"the floor of heaven Was thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
Very bright the stars were, very dark the sky, when Jerry's bells began to mingle with a crowd of others in the streets of Pequot. Faith had insisted that Mr. Linden should come in and have a cup of tea or coffee before he went back again; and this being a not unreasonable request, besides a pleasant one, she had her way.
Miss Danforth was in her room and could not see Mr. Linden. Faith with a kiss and a word established the little Frenchwoman to talk to him, obtaining leave to do what she pleased; though Madame Danforth managed to have her share in the hospitality; got out cups and saucers for Faith and Mr. Linden both on a little table by the fire,—her rolls and her butter; talking all the while to him; and took a minute to run down into the kitchen and see that Faith and the coffee-pot were getting on properly. And it may be said in passing that the result did credit to both. The coffee served to Mr. Linden was faultless. Madame Danforth however had hardly presented him his cup, when she was called off and her guests were left alone.
"Faith," said Mr. Linden, "you must not forget that you have something to do for me as well as for other people while you are here."
"I don't forget it. But what do you mean, Endecott?"
"To put it in the most effective way—I mean that you must take care of me!" he said smiling.
"I will. As good care as you would take of yourself."
"That is a little ambiguous! But will you send me word very often of your success?"
Faith looked up and looked at him, a little startled.
"Do you mean—"
"I mean that there is a postoffice in Pattaquasset—and another inPequot."
She coloured, and somewhat hastily busied herself with refilling Mr. Linden's cup. Then she folded her hands and sat looking into the fire with a face on which there was a touching expression of humbleness.
"My little Mignonette," he said, "what are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking of that,"—she said with a smile which did not change the expression. "Of what you want me to do—and about it."
"What about it? Are you inditing a letter to me on the spot?"
"No."
"What then?"
Faith would have liked to have her face out of sight, but she couldn't, conveniently.
"I am thinking, how I shall do it—and how you will not like it."
"Youdon't know"—said Mr. Linden. "Let me tell you how I shall like it. I shall read it, and love it, and answer it—will that satisfy you? or do you want me to hang it round my neck by a blue ribband?—because if you do, I will."
The laughing flash of Faith's eye contained nevertheless a protest.
"No, you will not like it, because it will not be fit for you to like; but you will have patience with it,"—she said with a smile which did in its loveliness bid good-bye to shadows.
Mr. Linden left the table, and standing before her as she had risen too, took her face softly in both hands and raised it up for his inspection.
"Do you know what a naughty child you are?"
A most quaint little "yes."
"Then why don't you behave better?" he said, enforcing his question but not releasing her.
"I suppose you will teach me, in time"—she said, blushing and sparkling under his hands. He seemed to like to study her face—or was thinking that he should not see it again for some time,—the expression on his own belonged to more than one thing.
"You must not make me wait for that letter, Faith," he said—"and I must not let you keep me any longer here! But if you want anything, of any sort, you must send to me."
"Yes!—to you or to mother."
"To me—if it is anything I can do," he said as he bade her good-bye. "And take care of yourself, dear child, for me." And releasing her at last, none too willingly, Mr. Linden went out alone into the starlight. He did not see—nor guess—how Faith stood before the fire where he had left her, looking down into it,—motionless and grave until Madame Danforth came back. Then all that part of her life was shut up within her, and Faith was again to other eyes what she had been before at Pequot. Yet not so entirely the same, nor was all that part of her life so entirely shut up to herself, that both her aunt and Madame Danforth did not have a thought and exchange a word on the subject.
"The sun has found the blossom!" said the little Frenchwoman knowingly one day; "they do not open so without that!"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Danforth. "I will ask her." But she never did.
And for a little while again Faith filled her old office. Miss Dilly had no troubles or darkness to clear away now; the Bible was plain sailing to her; but she could never spread her sails too soon or too full for that navigation. Early and late, as before, Faith read to her, with a joy and gladness all brightened from the contrast of that Sunday night's reading, and coming with a fuller spring since that one little word of her mother the same night. Indeed the last few days had seemed to make the Bible even greatly more precious to Faith than ever before. She clung more fast, she searched more eagerly, among its treasures of riches, to its pillars of strength; valuing them all, as it seemed to her, with a new value, with a fresh knowledge of what might be found and won there for others and herself. So with the very eagerness of love Faith read the Bible to Miss Dilly; and so as she had done before, many a time, early and late, in childlike simpleness prayed at her bedside and by her chair. And as before when she was at Pequot she won Madame Danforth's heart, she intrenched herself there now. She was all over the house, carrying a sunbeam with her; but Faith never thought it was her own. She was a most efficient maid of all work, for nursing and too much care had worn poor Madame Danforth not a little. Faith was upper servant and cook by turns; and sometimes went to market; made every meal pleasant with her gentle happy ways; and comforted the two old ladies to the very top of comfort.
Whether she wanted to be at home or not, Faith did not stop to ask herself. But those letters—those letters—they were written, and they were carried to the postoffice—and others were found at the postoffice in reply to them. And what had been such trial in the proposition, became, even in the first instance, the joy of Faith's life. She wrote hers how she could; generally at night, when she could be quite uninterrupted and alone. It was often very late at night, but it was always a time of rare pleasure and liberty of heart; for if the body were tired, the spirit was free. And Faith's was particularly free, for the manacles and fetters of pride which weigh so bitter heavy on many a mind and life, her gentle and true spirit had let fall. She knew—nobody better—that her letters were not like those letters of Mr. Linden's sister, Pet:—those exquisite letters, where every grace and every talent of a finely gifted and fully cultivated mind seemed playing together with all the rich stores of the past and realities of the present. She knew, that in very style and formalities of execution, her own letters were imperfect and unformed. But she was equally sure that in time what was wrong in this kind would be made right; and she was not afraid to be found wrong, at all, for her own sake. It was because of somebody else, that she had flinched from this writing proposal; because she felt that what was wrong inhertouched him now. But there again, Faith wrote, trusting with an absolute trust in the heart and hand to which she sent her letters; willing to be found wrong if need be; sure to be set right truly and gently. And so, Faith wrote her own heart and life out, from day to day, giving Mr. Linden precisely what he wanted, and with a child's fearlessness. It was a great thing to go to the postoffice those days! Faith left it to nobody else to do for her. And how strange—how weird, almost, the signature of those letters and her own name on the outside looked to her, in the same free, graceful handwriting which she had read on that little card so long ago! And the letters themselves?—enough to say, that they made Faith think of the way she had been sheltered from the wind, and carried upstairs when her strength failed, and read to and talked to and instructed,—that they made her long to be home and yet content to be there; giving her all sorts of details, of things in Pattaquasset and things elsewhere—just as the writer would have talked them to her; with sometimes a word of counsel, or of caution, or of suggestion,—or some old German hymn which she might find of use in her ministrations, written out in full. It may be mentioned in passing, that the fair little face he had been looking at, or her evident fear of writing to him, made Mr. Linden write to her that very night; a little sugarplum of a letter, which Faith had for her dinner next day.
And Faith read these letters at all sorts of times, and thought of them at other times; and made them next to her Bible—as she should.
Two weeks passed quietly, without much apparent change in Miss Danforth; and Faith was beginning to think of appointing a time to go home. But the necessity for that was suddenly superseded. The Friday following, Miss Dilly took a change for the worse, and Saturday she died. Faith sent off tidings immediately to Pattaquasset; but her letter could not reach there till Monday; and Monday came a very great fall of snow which made travelling impossible. Faith waited patiently, comforting Madame Danforth as she might, and endeavouring to win her to some notion of that joy in the things of the Bible in which Miss Dilly had lived and died. For no change had come over Miss Dilly's sky; and she had set sail from the shores of earth in the very sunlight.
It fell out, that Faith's letter of Saturday afternoon had been five minutes too late for the mail; and after lying in the office at Pequot over Sunday, had been again subjected to the delays of Monday's storm, which in its wild fury put a stop to everything else; and thus, when Mr. Linden went to the office Tuesday morning before school time, the mail had not yet got in. Not long after, however, Mr. Skip brought home the letters; and Mrs. Derrick reading hers, at once took Mr. Skip and Jerry and set off for Pequot; minding neither snowdrifts nor driving wind, when the road to Faith lay through them, and arriving there quite safe about the hour of midday.
The delayed funeral took place the same afternoon. And the next morning, in a brilliant cold day, snow all over the ground and the sky all blue, the mother and daughter set forth homewards. Madame Danforth was going to take another relation in, and live on still in the little house where she and her sister-in-law had made a happy home for so many years. Miss Danforth had left a few hundreds, three or four, to Faith. It was all she had owned in the world; her principal living having been an annuity settled upon her by her brother, which reverted to Madame Danforth.
It was about mid-afternoon when they reached home, and of course the house held no one but Cindy; except indeed that sort of invisible presence which books and other inanimate things make known; and Cindy had to tell of two or three visiters, but otherwise nothing. Very fair it all looked to Faith,—very sweet to her ear was the sound of the village clock, although as yet it was only striking three. She did not say much about the matter. A gleeful announcement that she was glad to be at home, she made to Mrs. Derrick; but after that she expressed herself in action. One of her first moves was to the kitchen, determined that there should be a double consciousness of her being at home when supper-time came. Then books were got out, and fires put in wonderful order. Mr. Linden might guess, from the state in which he found his room, that it had come under its old rule. No such fire had greeted him there for weeks; no such brushed-up clean hearth; no such delicate arrangement of table and chairs and curtains and couch. But the fire burned quietly and told no tales, otherwise than by its very orderly snapping and sparkling.
And indeed it so happened, that Mr. Linden went first into the sitting-room,—partly to see if any one was there, partly because the day was cold, and under Cindy's management there was small reason to suppose that his room was warm. And once there, the easy-chair reminded him so strongly that he was tired, that he even sat down in it before going upstairs,—which combination a long walk through the snowdrifts since school, made very acceptable. Five minutes after, Faith having got rid of her kitchen apron, opened softly the door of the sitting-room. She stopped an instant, and then came forward, her gladness not at all veiled by a very rosy veil of shy modesty. There was no stay in his step to meet her,—he had sprung up with the first sound of her foot on the threshold; and how much she had been missed and longed for Faith might guess, from the glad silence in which she was held fast and for a minute not allowed to speak herself. So very glad!—she could see it and feel it exceedingly as he brought her forward to the fire, and lifted up her face, and looked at it with eyes that were not easily satisfied.
"My little Sunbeam," he said, "how lovely you are!"
She had been laughing and flushing with a joy almost as frankly shewn as his own; but that brought a change over her face. The eyes fell, and the line of the lips was unbent after a different fashion.
"I don't know what it is like to see you again," Mr. Linden said as his own touched them once more,—"like any amount of balm and rest and refreshment! How long have you been here, dear child? and how do you do?—and have you any idea how glad I am to have you home?"
She answered partly in dumb show, clasping one hand upon his shoulder and laying down her head upon it. Her words were very quiet and low-spoken.
"We came home a while ago—and I am very well." Mr. Linden rested his face lightly upon her shining hair, and was silent—till Faith wondered; little guessing what thoughts the absence and the meeting and above all her mute expression, had stirred; nor what bitterness was wrapped in those sweet minutes. But he put it aside, and then took the sweetness pure and unmixed; giving her about as much sunshine as he said she gave him.
"How do you like writing to me, Faith?" he said. "Am I, on the whole, any more terrific at a distance than near by?"
"I didn't know you could be so good at a distance,"—she said expressively.
"Did you find out what reception your letters met?"
"I didn't want to find out."
"Do you call that an answer?" he said smiling. "Why didn't you want to find out?—anddidyou?"
"Why!"—said Faith,—"I didn't want to find out because it wasn't necessary. Ididfind out that I liked to write. But you wouldn't have liked it if you had known what time of night it was, often."
"What do you think of taking up a new study?" said Mr. Linden. "It strikes me that it would do you good to stand in the witness-box half an hour every day,—just for practice. Faith—did you find out what reception your letters met?"
"I knew before—" she said, meeting his eyes.
"Did you!—then what made you assure me I should not like them?"
"I don't think you did, Endecott—the parts of them that you oughtn't to have liked."
"Truly I think not!" he said laughing. "You are on safe ground there, little Mignonette. But speaking of letters—do you want more tidings from Italy?"
"O yes I if you please. Are they good? And has all been good here with you and the school since I have been away?"
"Yes, they are good,—my sister—and yours—is enjoying herself reasonably. And the boys have been good,—and I—have wanted my Mignonette."
One word in that speech brought a soft play of colour to Faith's face, but her words did not touch that point.
The days went on very quietly after that, and the weeks followed,—quietly, regularly, full of business and pleasure. Quick steps were made in many things during those weeks, little interrupted by the rest of Pattaquasset, some of the most stirring people of that town being away. An occasional tea-drinking did steal an evening now and then, but also furnished the before and after walk or ride, and so on the whole did little mischief; and as Faith was now sometimes taken on Mr. Linden's visits to another range of society, she saw more of him than ever; and daily learned more and more—not only of him, but of his care for her. His voice—never indeed harsh to any one—took its gentlest tones to her; his eye its softest and deepest lustre: no matter how tired he came home—the first sight of her seemed to banish all thought of fatigue. Faith could feel that she was the very delight of his life. Indeed, by degrees, she began to understand that she had long been so—only there had once been a qualification,—now, the sunshine of his happiness had nothing to check its expression, or its endeavour to make her life as bright. That he took "continual comfort" in her, Faith could see.
And—child!—he did not see what this consciousness spurred her to do; how the strength of her heart spent itself—yet was never spent—in efforts to grow and become more worthy of him and more fit for him to take comfort in. The days were short, and Faith's household duties not few, especially in the severe weather, when she could not let her mother be tried with efforts which in summer-time might be easy and pleasant enough. A good piece of every day was of necessity spent by Faith about house and in the kitchen, and faithfully given to its work. But her heart spurred her on to get knowledge. The times when Mr. Linden was out of school could rarely be study times, except of study with him; and to be prepared for him Faith was eager. She took times that were hers all alone. Nobody heard her noiseless footfall in the early morning down the stair. Long before it was light,—hours before the sun thought of shewing his face to the white Mong and the snowy houseroofs of Pattaquasset, Faith lighted her fire in the sitting-room, and her lamp on the table; and after what in the first place was often a good while with her Bible, she bent herself to the deep earnest absorbed pressing into the studies she was pursuing with Mr. Linden—or such of them as the morning had time for. Faith could not lengthen the day at the other end; to prevent the sun was her only chance; and day after day and week after week, through the short days of February, she had done solid work and a deal of it before anybody in the house saw her face in the kitchen or at breakfast. They saw it then as bright as ever. Mr. Linden only knew that his scholar made very swift and smooth progress. He would have known more, for Faith would have shewn the effects of her early hours of work in her looks and life the rest of the day, but happiness is strong; and a mind absolutely at peace with God and the world has a great rest! Friction is said to be one of the notable hindering powers in the world of matter—it is equally true, perhaps, of the world of spirit. Without it, in either sphere, how softly and with how little wear and tear, everything moves! And Faith's life knew none.
It was near the end of February,—rather late in the afternoon of a by no means balmy day, in the course of which Dr. Harrison had arrived to look after his repairs. But the workmen had stopped work and gone home to supper, and the doctor and his late dinner sat together. Luxuriously enough, on the doctor's part, for the dinner was good and well cooked, the bottles of wine irreproachable (as wine) in their silver stands, the little group of different coloured glasses shining in the firelight. The doctor's fingerbowl and napkin stood at hand, (at this stage of the proceeding) his half-pared apple was clearly worth the trouble, and he himself—between the fire and his easy-chair—might be said to be "in the lap of comfort." Comfort rarely did much for him but take him on her lap, however—he seldom stayed there; and on the present occasion the doctor's eyes were very wide open and his thoughts at work. It might be presumed that neither process was cut short, when the old black man opened the door and announced Mr. Linden.
But if Mr. Linden could have seen the doctor's face just before, he might have supposed that his entrance had produced rather a sedative effect. For the brow smoothed itself down, the eye took its light play and the mouth its light smile, and the doctor's advance to meet his friend was marked with all its graceful and easy unconcern. He did not even seem energetic enough to be very glad; for grace and carelessness still blended in his welcome and in his hospitable attentions, nothing of which however was failing. He had presently made Mr. Linden as comfortable as himself, so far as possible outward appliances could be effectual; established him at a good side of the table; Burnished him with fruit and pressed him with wine; and then sitting at ease at his own corner, sipped his claret daintily, eyeing Mr. Linden good humouredly between sips; but apparently too happily on good terms with comfort to be in any wise eager or anxious as to what Mr. Linden's business might be, or whether he had any.
"Has the news of my arrival flown over Pattaquasset already?" said he. "I thought I had seen nothing but frieze jackets, and friezes of broken plaster—and I have certainly felt so much of another kind offreezethat I should hardly think even news could have stirred."
Mr. Linden's reception of the doctor's hospitality had been merely nominal—except so far as face and voice had the receiving, and he answered quietly—
"I don't know. I happened to want you, doctor, and so I found out that you were here."
"Want me? I am very glad to be wanted by you—so that it be notforyou. What is it, my dear Linden?"
"No—you will not be glad," said Mr. Linden,—"though it is both for me and not for me. I want you to go with me to see one of my little scholars who is sick."
"Who is he?"
"One whom you have seen but will not remember,—Johnny Fax."
"Fax—" said the doctor—"I remember the name, but no particular owner of it. What's the matter with him?"
"I want you to come and see."
"Now?"—
"As near that as may be."
"Now it shall be, then; though with such a February night on one side, it takes all your power on the other to draw me out of this chair. You don't look much like Comedy, and I am very little like the great buskin-wearer—but I would as lieve Tragedy had me by the other shoulder as February, when his fingers have been so very long away from the fire. Did you ever read Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence,' Linden?"
"Not to much purpose—the name is all I remember."
"Stupid book,"—said the doctor;—"but a delightful place!"
The luxury of broadcloth and furs in which the doctor was presently involved might have rendered him reasonably independent, one would think, of February or any other of Jack Frost's band. Jerry was at the door, and involving themselves still further in buffalo robes the two gentle men drove to the somewhat distant farm settlement which called Jonathan Fax master. Mr. Fax was a well-to-do member of the Pattaquasset community, as far as means went; there was very little knowledge in his house how to make use of means. Nor many people to make use of the knowledge. The one feminine member of the family had lately married and gone off to take care of her own concerns, and Jonathan and his one other child lived on as best they might; the child being dependant upon the maid of all work for his clothes and breakfast, for his Sunday lessons upon Faith, for the weekday teaching and comfort of his little life upon Mr. Linden. Living along in this somewhat divided way, the child had suddenly taken sick—no one just knew how; nor just what to do with him—except to send Mr. Linden word by one of the other boys, which had been done that afternoon. And thus it was, that Dr. Harrison had been looked for, found, and drawn out into the February night with only the slight protection of furs and broadcloth.
Thus it was that after a short and rather silent drive, the two gentlemen went together into the last-century sort of a house, received the angular welcome of Jonathan Fax, and stood side by side by the bed where the sick child lay. Side by side—with what different faces! A difference which Johnny was quick to recognize. He lay on the bed, wrapped in a little old plaid cloak, and with cheeks which rivalled its one remaining bright colour; and half unclosing his heavy eyes to see the doctor, he stretched out his arms to Mr. Linden, clasping them round his neck as his friend sat down on the bedside and gently lifted him up, and receiving the kiss on his flushed cheek with a little parting of the lips which said how glad he was. But then he lay quite still in Mr. Linden's arms.
Whatever attractions the Castle of Indolence might have for Dr. Harrison upon occasion, he never seemed so much as to look that way when he was at his work. Now, it made no difference thathewas no friend of Johnny's; he gave his attention thoroughly and with all his skill to the condition and wants of his little patient.
"Is there nobody to take care of him?" he asked in French, for Jonathan Fax with his square and by no means delicate and tender physiognomy stood at the other side of the bed heavily looking on.
"I shall, to-night," said Mr. Linden. "You may give me your directions."
The doctor proceeded to do this; but added, "He wants care and good nursing; and he'll suffer if he don't have it. He is a sick child."
"He shall have it," was all the answer; and when the doctor had finished his work for the time, Mr. Linden laid the child on the bed again, giving him a whispered promise to come back and stay with him all night; upon the strength of which promise Johnny fell into a deep sleep.
"Has the creature nobody to take care of him?" said the doctor as they went out.
"Nobody at home."
"I shall be here a day or two, Linden—I'll see him early in the morning again."
Mr. Linden's next move through the biting air was to drive home. At the door of the sitting-room Faith met him.
"Endecott—how is he?"
"Less well than I expected to find him, dear Faith. I found Dr.Harrison and took him there with me."
"And what did Dr. Harrison say of him?"
"That he wanted good care and nursing."
"And who is there to give it to him, Endy?" she said with a very saddened and earnest face.
"Why I shall give it to him to-night, my child, and we'll see about to-morrow. The doctor promised to go there again in the morning."
She stood a moment silent, and then said, "I'll go with you."
"Not to-night, dear—it is not needful. He will not want more than one watcher."
"But he might want something else—something to be done that a woman about the house might be wanted for—let me go too!—"
"No indeed! you must go to sleep. And he will hardly want anything but what I can give him to-night. I know well what your little hands are in a sick room," he said taking them in his own,—"I know well!—but they are not made of iron—nor are you."
Faith looked ill satisfied.
"Well, you'll not hinder my taking your place by him to-morrow, Endy?"
"If I can," Mr. Linden said, "I shall come home to breakfast, and then I may know what you had better do; but if I should be detained there, and so not get here till midday, wait for me—I should not like to have you go without seeing me again; and I can leave Reuben there for the morning if need be."
"Oh Endecott!—" she said with a heart full; but she said no more and ran away. She came back soon to call Mr. Linden to tea, which had waited; and after tea when he was about going she put a basket in his hand.
"I hope Mr. Fax has wood in his house, so that you can keep a fire,—but you are not likely to find anything else there. You'll want everything that is in this, Endy—please remember."
"I will not forget," he said, as he gave her his thanks. "But what did that exclamation mean, before tea?"
"What exclamation?—Oh—" said Faith, smiling somewhat but looking down, "I suppose it meant that I was disappointed."
"My dear little child—you must try not to feel disappointed, because I am quite sure you ought not to go; and that must content both you and me. So good night."—
Faith tried to be contented, but her little scholar lay on her heart. And it lay on her heart too, that Mr. Linden would be watching all night and teaching all day. He did not know how much he had disappointed, for she had laid a fine plan to go by starlight in the morning to take his place and send him home for a little rest before breakfast and school. Faith studied only one book that night, and that was her Bible.
It was a night of steady watching,—broken by many other things, but not by sleep. There was constantly some little thing to do for the sick child,—ranging from giving him a drink of water, to giving him "talk," or rocking and—it might be—singing him to sleep. But the restless little requests never had to wait for their answer, and with the whole house sunk in stillness or sleep, Mr. Linden played the part of a most gentle and efficient nurse—and thought of Faith, and her disappointment. And so the night wore away, and the morning star came up, and then the red flushes of sunrise.
"Who turneth the night into day"—Mr. Linden thought, with a grave look from the window to the little face beside him—and then the words came,—
"In the morning, children, in the morning;We'll all rise together in the morning!"
It was very early indeed, earlier even than usual, when Faith came down and kindled her fire. And then leaving it to burn, she opened the curtains of the window and looked out into the starlight. It was long before the red flush of the morning; it was even before the time when Faith would have gone to relieve the guard in that sick room; her thoughts sped away to the distant watcher there and the sick child. Faith could guess what sort of a watching it had been, and it was a comfort to think that Johnny had it. But then as she looked out into the clear still starlight, something brought up the question, what if Johnny should die?—It was overwhelming to Faith for a minute; her little scholar's loveliness had got fast hold of her heart; and she loved him for deep and far-back associations too. She could not bear to think that it might be. Yet she asked herself if this was a reasonable feeling? Why should she be sorry—if it were so—that this little blossom of Heaven should have an early transplanting thither? Ah, the fragrance of such Heaven-flowers is too sweet to be missed, and Earth wants them. As Faith looked sadly out into the night, watched the eternal procession of bright stars, and heard the low sweep of the wind, the words came to her,—separated from their context and from everything else as it seemed,—"I, the Lord, do all these things." Her mind as instantly gave a glad assent and rested itself in them. Not seen by her or by mortal the place or fitting of any change or turn of earthly things, in the great plan,—every one such turn and change had its place, as sure as the post of each star in the sky—as true to its commission as that wind, which came from no one knew where to go no one knew whither. Faith looked and listened, and took the lesson deep down in her heart.
Mr. Linden's little basket had stood him well in stead that long night,—for Faith had said truth; nothing was for him in Mr. Fax's house. Mr. Fax was well enough satisfied that Johnny's teacher should take the trouble of nursing the child, had no idea that such trouble would necessarily involve much loss of sleep, and still further no notion of the fact that a watcher at night needs food as much as fire. Fire Mr. Linden had, but he would have been worse off without the stores he found in his basket. In truth the supply generally was sufficient to have kept him from starving even if he had been obliged to go without his breakfast; but Dr. Harrison concerned himself about his little patient, and was better than Mr. Linden's hopes. He came, though in the cold short February morning, a good while before eight o'clock. He gave Mr. Linden a pleasant clasp of the hand; and then made his observations in silence.
"Is this one of your favourites?" he said at length.
A grave "yes."
"I am sorry for it."
Mr. Linden was silent at first, looking down at the child with a sort of expression the doctor had not often seen, and when he spoke it was without raising his eyes.
"Tell me more particularly."
"I don't know myself,"—said the doctor with a frankness startling in one of his profession; but Dr. Harrison's characteristic carelessness nowhere made itself more apparent than in his words and about what people might think of them.—"I don't say anythingcertainly—but I do not like appearances."
"What is the matter?"
"It's an indefinite sort of attack—all the worse for that!—the root of which is hid from me. All you can do is to watch and wait. Have you been here through the night?"
"Yes," Mr. Linden answered—and put the further question, "Do you think there is any danger of contagion?"
"O no!—the fever, what there is, comes from some inward cause—a complicated one, I judge. I can guess, and that's all. Are there no women about the house?"
"None that are good for much." And looking at his watch, Mr. Linden laid the child—who had fallen asleep again—out of his arms among the pillows, arranging them softly and dextrously as if he were used to the business.
"Reuben Taylor will stay with him for the present," he said as he turned to Dr. Harrison.
"I'll come again by and by," the doctor said. "Meanwhile all that can be done is to let him have this, as I told you."
The directions were given to Reuben, the doctor drove off, and Mr. Linden set out on his quick walk home; after the confinement of the night, the cold morning air and exercise were rather resting than otherwise. It was a very thoughtful half hour—very sorrowful at first; but before he reached home, thought, and almost feeling, had got beyond "the narrow bounds of time," and were resting peacefully—even joyfully—"where bright celestial ages roll."
He entered the house with a light step, and went first upstairs to change his dress; but when he came down and entered the sitting-room, there was the tone of the whole walk upon his face still. Faith put her question softly, as if she expected no glad answer. And yet it was partly that, though given in very gentle, grave tones.
"There is more to fear than to hope, dear Faith,—and there is everything to hope, and nothing to fear!"
She turned away to the breakfast-table; and said little more till the meal was over. Then she rose when he did.
"I am going now, Endy!"—The tone was of very earnest determination, that yet waited for sanction.
"Yes," he answered—"Dr. Harrison says the fever is not contagious, I waited to know that. If I can I shall get free before midday, so I may meet you there. And can you prepare and take with you two or three things?"—he told her what.
Faith set about them; and when they were done, Mr. Skip had finished his breakfast and got Jerry ready. Some other preparations Faith had made beforehand; and with no delay now she was on her swift way to little Johnny's bedside. She came in like a vision of comfort upon the sick room, with all sorts of freshness about her; grasped Reuben's hand, and throwing back her hood, stooped her lips to Johnny's cheek. And Johnny gave her his usual little fair smile—and then his eyes went off to the doorway, as if he half expected to see some one else behind her. But it was from no want of love toher, as she knew from the way the eyes came back to her face and rested there, and took a sort of pleased survey of her hood and, her fur and her dress.
"Dear Johnny!—Can you speak to me?" said Faith tenderly touching her cheek again to his.
"Oh yes, ma'am," he said, in a quiet voice and with the same bit of a smile. That was what Faith wanted. Then she looked up.
"Are you going to school now, Reuben?"
"I didn't expect to this morning, Miss Faith," Reuben said with a sober glance at his little comrade.
"Then you can wait here a bit for me."
Leaving Reuben once more in charge, Faith went on a rummaging expedition over the house to find some woman inmate. Not too easily or speedily she was found at last, the housekeeper and all-work woman deep inall workas she really seemed, and in an outer kitchen of remote business, whither Faith had traced her by an exercise of determinate patience and skill. Having got so fur, Faith was not balked in the rest; and obtaining from her some of Johnny's clean linen which she persuaded her to go in search of, she returned to the room where she had left Reuben; and set about making the sick child as comfortable as in his sickness he could be.
It was a day or two already since Johnny had lain there and had had little effectual attention from anybody, till Mr. Linden came last night. The child might well look at his new nurse, for her neat dress and gentle face and soft movements were alone a balm for any sick place. And in her quiet way, Faith set about changing the look of this one. There was plenty of wood, and she made a glorious fire. Then tenderly and dextrously she managed to get a fresh nightgown on Johnny without disturbing him more than pleasantly with her soft manipulations; and wrapping him in a nice little old doublegown which she had brought with her and which had been a friend of her own childish days, Faith gave him to Reuben to hold while she made up the bed and changed the clothes, the means for which she had also won from the housekeeper. Then having let down the chintz curtains to shield off the intense glare of the sunny snow, Faith assumed Johnny into her own arms. She had brought vinegar from home, and with it bathed the little boy's face and hands and brushed his hair, till the refreshed little head lay upon her breast in soothed rest and comfort.
"There, Johnny!"—she whispered as her lips touched his brow,—"Mr.Linden may come as soon as he pleases—we are ready for him!"
The child half unclosed his eyes at the words, and then sunk again into one of his fits of feverish sleep, the colour rising in his cheeks a little, the breath coming quick. Reuben knelt down at Faith's side and watched him.
"I used to wonder, Miss Faith," he said softly, "what would become of him if Mr. Linden ever went away"—and the quiet pause told what provision Reuben thought was fast coming for any such contingency.
"You can't think what Mr. Linden's been to Johnny, Miss Faith," he went on in the same low voice,—"and to all of us," he added lower still. "But he's taken such care of him, in school and out. It was only last week Johnny told me he liked coming to school in the winter, because then Mr. Linden always went home with him. And whenever he could get in Mr. Linden's lap he was perfectly happy. And Mr. Linden would let him, sometimes, even in school, because Johnny was so little and not very strong,—and he'd let him sit in his lap and go to sleep for a little while when he got tired, and then Johnny would go back to his lessons as bright as a bee. That was the way he did the very first day school was opened, for Johnny was frightened at first, and a mind to cry—he'd never had anybody to take much care of him. And Mr. Linden just called him and took him up and spoke to him—and Johnny laid his head right down and went to sleep; and he's loved Mr. Linden with all his heart ever since. I know we all laughed—and he smiled himself, but it made all the rest of us love him too."
Reuben had gone on talking, softly, as if he felt sure of sympathy in all he might say on the subject. But that "first day school was opened!"—how Faith's thoughts sprang back there,—with what strange, mixed memories the vision of it came up before her! That day and time when so many new threads were introduced into her life, which were now shewing their colours and working out their various patterns. It was only a spring there and back again, however, that her thoughts took; or rather the vision was a sort of background to Reuben's delineations, and her eye was upon these; with what kind of sympathy she did not care to let him see. Her cheek was bent down to the sick child's head and Faith's face was half hidden. Until a moment later, when the door opened and Johnny's father came in to see what was become of him; and then Mr. Fax had no clue to the lustrous softness of the eyes that looked up at him. He could make nothing of it.
"What!" said he. "Why who's Johnny got to look after him now?"
"I am his teacher, sir."
"His teacher, be you? Seems to me he's a lot of 'em. One teacher stayed with him last night. How many has he got, among you?"
"Only two—" said Faith, rejoicing that she wasone. "I am his Sunday school teacher."
"Well what's your name, now?"
"Faith Derrick."
"That'swho you be!" said Mr. Fax in surprise. "Don't say! Well Johnny's got into good hands, aint he? How's he gettin' along?"
Faith's eye went down to the little boy, and her hand passed slowly and tenderly over his hair; she was at a loss how to answer, and Reuben spoke for her.
"He's been sleeping a good deal this morning."
The father stooped towards the child, but his look went from him toFaith, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness as he spoke.
"Sleepin', is he?—Then I guess he's gettin' along first-rate—aint he?"
Again Faith's look astonished the man, both because of its intent soft beauty and the trembling set of her lip. But how to answer him she did not know. Her head sunk over the child's brow as she exclaimed,
"His dear Master knows what to do with him!"
Jonathan Fax stood up straight and looked at Reuben.
"What does she mean!"
"She means that he is in God's hands, and that we don't know yet whatHe will do," Reuben answered with clear simplicity.
Yet it was a strange view of the subject to Mr. Fax; and he stood stiff and angular and square, looking down at Faith and her charge, feeling startled and strange. Her face was bent so that he could not see that quiver of her lip now; but he did see one or two drops fall from the lowered eyelids on Johnny's hair. Perhaps he would have asked more questions, but he did not; something kept them back. He stood fixed, with gathering soberness growing over his features. Little he guessed that those tears had been half wrung from Faith's eyes by the contrast between his happy little child and him. It was with something like a groan at last that he turned away, merely bidding Reuben Taylor to call for anything that was wanted.
The morning wore on softly, for Johnny still slept. Reuben went quietly about, giving attention where it was needed; to the fire, or to the curtains—drawn back now as the sun got round—or bringing Faith a footstool, or trying some other little thing for her comfort; and when he was not wanted remaining in absolute stillness. As it neared midday, however, he took his stand by the window, and after a short watch there suddenly turned and left the room. And a moment after Mr. Linden came in.
Faith met him with a look of grave, sweet quiet; in which was mingled a certain joy at being where she was. She waited for him to speak. But something in her face, or her office, moved him,—the gravity of his own look deepened as he came forward—his words were not ready. He sat down by her, resting his arm on the back of her chair and giving her and Johnny the same salutation—the last too softly to rouse him.
"Has the doctor been here?" he said first.
"No."
He was silent again for a minute, but then Johnny suddenly started up—waking perhaps out of some fever dream; for he seemed frightened and bewildered, and almost ready to cry; turning his head uneasily away from everything and everybody as it seemed, until his eyes were fairly open, and then giving almost a spring out of Faith's arms into those of Mr. Linden; holding him round the neck and breathing little sobbing breaths on his shoulder, till the resting-place had done its work,—till Mr. Linden's soft whispered words had given him comfort. But it was a little wearily then that he said, "Sing."
Was it wearily that the song was given? Faith could not tell,—she could not name those different notes in the voice, she could only feel that the octave reached from earth to heaven.
"'How kind is Jesus, Lord of all!To hear my little feeble call.How kind is Jesus, thus to bePhysician, Saviour, all to me!
'How much he loves me he doth shew;How much he loves I cannot know.I'm glad my life is his to keep,Then he will watch and I may sleep.
'Jesus on earth, while here I lie;Jesus in heaven, if I die:I'm safe and happy in his care,His love will keep me, here or there.
'An angel he may send for me,And then an angel I shall be.Lord Jesus, through thy love divine,Thy little child is ever thine.'"
Faith had drawn her chair a little back and with her head leaning on the back of Mr. Linden's chair, listened—in a spirit not very different from Johnny's own. She looked up then when it was done, with almost as childlike a brow. It had quieted him, as with a charm, and the little smile he gave Faith was almost wondering why she looked grave.
"You've been here a good while," he said, as if the mere announcement of the fact spoke his thanks.
"Has she?" Mr. Linden said. "What has Miss Faith done with you, Johnny, if she has been here a good while?"
"All sorts of things," Johnny answered, with another comprehensive expression of gratitude.
"I thought so!" said Mr. Linden. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if she had dressed you up in something she used to wear herself."
"She wasn't ever so little," the child said softly.
Faith had been preparing for him a cup of some light nourishment which he was to take from time to time, and now coming to Mr. Linden's side kneeled down there before Johnny to give it to him. The child took the delicate spoonfuls as she gave them, turning his fair eyes from her to Mr. Linden as if he felt in a very sweet atmosphere of love and care; and when she went away with the cup he said in his slow fashion,
"I love her very much."
And Faith heard the answer—
"And so do I."
Coming up behind Mr. Linden she laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Endecott—where are you going to take dinner and rest to-day?"
"O I will take rest by the way," he answered lightly, and with a smile at her. "There is dinner enough in my supper basket—I have not much time for it, neither."
"School again this afternoon?"
"Yes I must be there for awhile."
Faith moved away, remarking in a different tone, "Your supper basket is at home, sir!"—and busied her energies about serving him as she had just served Johnny. With something more substantial however. Faith had brought a lunch basket, and in five minutes had made Mr. Linden a cup of home tea.
"Now how shall we manage?" she said;—"for Johnny must have you every minute while you are here—and there is no such thing as a little table. I shall have to be table and dumb waiter for you—if you won't mind."
And so Faith pulled up her chair again and sat down, with the basket open on her lap and Mr. Linden's cup in her hand.
"I only hope," she said, "that Dr. Harrison will not choose this particular minute to come in! If he does, catch the cup of tea, Endecott!—for I won't answer for anything."
"I don't know whether I should be most sorry or proud, in case of such event," said Mr. Linden,—"however, I do not wish the doctor anything so disagreeable. But I will promise to catch the cup of tea—and everything else, down to his displeasure. Only you must not be adumbwaiter; for that will not suit me at all."
It was one of those pretty bits of sunshine that sometimes shew themselves in the midst of a very unpromising day, the time when they sat there with the lunch basket between them. The refreshment of talk and of lunch (for lunchisrefreshing when it is needed) brightened both faces and voices; and Mr. Linden's little charge, in one of his turns of happy rest and ease, watched them—amused and interested—till he fell asleep. By that time Mr. Linden's spare minutes were about over. As he was laying Johnny gently down on the bed, Faith seized her chance.
"You'll let me stay here to-night—won't you, Endecott?"
"It would not be good for you, dear child,—if you stay until night it will be quite as much as you ought to do. But I will see you again by that time."
"I am strong, Endecott."
"Yes, you are strong, little Sunbeam," he said, turning now to her and taking both her hands,—"and yet it is a sort of strength I must guard. Even sunbeams must not be always on duty. But we'll see about it when I come back."
Mr. Linden went off to his other sphere of action, and soon after Reuben came softly in, just to let Faith know that he was at hand if she wanted anything, and to offer to take her place.
"Reuben!" said Faith suddenly, "have you had any dinner?"
"O yes, ma'am—enough," Reuben said with a smile. "I brought something with me this morning."
Faith put her lunch basket into his hand, but her words were cut short; for she saw Dr. Harrison just coming to the house. She moved away and stood gravely by the fire.
The doctor came in pulling off his glove. He gave his hand to Faith with evident pleasure, but with a frank free pleasure, that had nothing embarrassing about the manner of it; except the indication of its depth. After a few words given with as easy an intonation as if the thermometer were not just a few degrees above zero outside where he had come from, the doctor's eye went over to the other person in the room; and then the doctor himself crossed over and offered his hand.
"I shall never see you, Reuben,"—said he with a very pleasant recollective play of eye and lip,—"without thinking of afriend."
The doctor had a more full view of Reuben's eyes, thereupon, than he had ever before been favoured with,—for one moment their clear, true, earnest expression met his. But whatever the boy read—or tried to read—or did not read, he answered simply, as he looked away again,
"You have been that to me, sir."
"I don't know—" said the doctor lightly. "I am afraid not according to your friend. Mr. Linden's definition. But reckon me such a one as Icanbe, will you?"—He turned away without waiting for the answer and went back to Faith.
"Do you know," he said, "I expected to find you here?"
"Very naturally," said Faith quietly.
"Yes—it is according to my experience. Now how is this child?"—