He turned to see, and so did Faith. He looked at the child, while Faith's eye went from Johnny to him. Both faces were grave, but Faith's grew more grave as she looked.
"How is this child?" she repeated.
"He is not worse," said the doctor; "except that not to be better is to be worse. Are you particularly interested in him?"
Faith looked down at the sweet pure little face, and for a minute or two was very still. She did not even think of answering the doctor, nor dare speak words at all. Her first movement was to push away softly a lock of hair from Johnny's forehead.
"What can I do for him, Dr. Harrison?"
"Not much just now—go on as you have been doing. I will be here to-night again, and then perhaps I shall know more."
He gave her a new medicine for him however; and having said all that was needful on that score, came back with her to the fire and stood a little while talking—just so long as it would do for him to stay with any chance of its being acceptable; talking in a tone that did not jar with the place or the time, gravely and pleasantly, of some matters of interest; and then he went. And Faith sat down by the bedside, and forgot Dr. Harrison; and thought of the Sunday school in the woods that evening in October, and the hymn, "I want to be an angel"; and looked at Johnny with a very full heart.
Not a very long time had passed, when Faith heard sleigh bells again, and a person very different from the doctor came softly in; even Mrs. Derrick. She smiled at Reuben and Faith, and going close up to the bed folded her hands quietly together and stood looking at the sick child; the smile vanishing from her face, her lips taking a tender, pitiful set—her eyes in their experience gravely reading the signs. She looked for a few minutes in silence, then with a little sorrowful sigh she turned to Faith.
"Pretty child," she said, "can't you take a little rest? I'll sit by him now."
"O mother I'm not tired—much. I have not been very busy."
Mrs. Derrick however took the matter into her own hands, and did notcontent herself till she had Faith on a low seat at her side, andFaith's head on her lap; which was a rest, to mind and body both.Reuben replenished the fire and went out, and the two sat alone.
"Faith," her mother said softly, "don't you think he'd be content with me to-night? I can't bear to have Mr. Linden sit up."
"I want to stay myself, mother, if he would let me."
"I don't believe he'll do that, Faith—and I guess he's right But you must make him go home to tea, child, and he might rest a little then; and I'll stay till he comes back, at least."
There was not much more to be said then, for Johnny woke up and wanted to be taken on Faith's lap, and talked to, and petted; answering all her efforts with a sort of grateful little smile and way; but moving himself about in her arms as if he felt restless and uneasy. It went to her heart. Presently, in the low tones which were music of themselves, she carried his thoughts off to the time when Jesus was a little child; and began to give him, in the simplicity of very graphic detail, part of the story of Christ's life upon earth. It was a name that Johnny loved to hear; and Faith went from point to point of his words, and wonders, and healing power and comforting love. Not dwelling too long, but telling Johnny very much as if she had seen it, each gentle story of the sick and the weary and the troubled, who came in their various ways to ask pity of Jesus, and found it; and reporting to Johnny as if she had heard them the words of promise and love that a little child could understand. Mrs. Derrick listened; she had never heard just such a talk in her life. The peculiarity of it was in the vivid faith and love which took hold of the things as if Faith had had them by eyesight and hearing, and in the simplicity of representation with which she gave them, as a child to a child. And all the while she let Johnny constantly be changing his position, as restlessness prompted; from sitting to kneeling and lying in her arms; sometimes brushing his hair, which once in a while he had a fancy for, and sometimes combing it off from his forehead with her own fingers dipped in the vinegar and water which he liked to smell. Nothing could be more winning—nothing more skilful, in its way, than Faith's talk to the sick child that half hour or more. And Johnny told its effect, in the way he would bid her "talk," if she paused for a minute. So by degrees the restless fit passed off for the time, and he lay still in her arms, with drooping heavy eyelids now.
Everything was subsiding;—the sun sank down softly behind the wavy horizon line, the clouds floated silently away to some other harbour, and the blasts of wind came fainter and fainter, like the music of a retreating army. Swiftly the daylight ebbed away, and still Faith rocked softly back and forth, and her mother watched her. Once in a while Reuben came silently in to bring wood or fresh water,—otherwise they had no interruption. Then Mr. Linden came, and sitting down by Faith as he had done before, asked about the child and about the doctor.
"He came very soon after you went away," said Faith. "He said that he was no better, and that to be no better was to be worse." It was plain that she thought more than she said. Faith had little experience, but there is an intuitive skill in some eyes to know what they have never known before.
Mr. Linden bent down over the child, laying cheek to cheek softly and silently, until Johnny rousing up a little held up his lips to be kissed,—and he did not raise his head then.
"Have you been asleep, Johnny?" he said.
"I don't know," the child said dreamily.
"Has Miss Faith taken care of you ever since I went?"
"Yes," Johnny said, with a little faint smile—"and we've had talk."
"I wish I had been here to hear it," said Mr. Linden. "What was it about?—all sorts of sweet things?"
"Yes," Johnny said again, his face brightening—"out of the Bible."
"Well they are the sweetest things I know of," said Mr. Linden. "Now if you will come on my lap, I am sure Miss Faith will get you something to eat—she can do it a great deal better than I can."
Faith had soon done that, and brought the cup to Johnny, of something that he liked, and fed him as she had done at noon. It seemed to refresh him, for he fell into a quieter sleep than he had had for some time, and was oftly laid on the bed.
"Now dear Faith," Mr. Linden said coming back to her, "it is time for you to go home and rest."
"Do you mean to send me?" she said wistfully.
"Or take you—" he said, with a soft touch of his fingers on her hair."I don't know but I could be spared long enough for that."
It was arranged so, Mrs. Derrick undertaking to supply all deficiencies so far as she could, until Mr. Linden should get back again. The fast drive home through the still cold air was refreshing to both parties; it was a still drive too. Then leaving Mr. Linden to get a little rest on the sofa, Faith prepared tea. But Mr. Linden would not stay long after that, for rest or anything.
"I am coming very early to-morrow, Endecott," Faith said then.
"You may, dear child—if you will promise to sleep to-night. But you must not rouse yourselftooearly. You know to-morrow is Saturday—so I shall not be called off by other duties."
He went, and Mrs. Derrick came; but Faith, though weary enough certainly, spent the evening in study.
There is no knowing what Mr. Linden would have considered "too early," and Faith had prudently omitted to enquire. She studied nothing but her Bible that morning and spent the rest of the time in getting ready what she was to take with her; for Mr. Linden would not come home to breakfast. And it was but fair day, the sun had not risen, when she was on her way. She wondered, as she went, what they would have done that winter without Jerry; and looked at the colouring clouds in the east with a strange quick appreciation of the rising of that other day told of in the Bible. Little Johnny brought the two near; the type and the antitype. It was a pretty ride; cold, bright, still, shadowless; till the sun got above the horizon, and then the long yellow faint beams threw themselves across the snow that was all a white level before. They reached Faith's heart, as the commissioned earnest of that other Sun that will fill the world with his glory and that will make heaven a place where "there shall be no night."
The room where little Johnny was,—lay like the chamber called Peace, in the Pilgrim's Progress—towards the sunrising; but to reach it Faith had first to pass through another on the darker side of the house. The door between the two stood open, perhaps for fresher air, and as Faith came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;—the windows with chintz shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean, long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window.
The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life thathadmade progress—progress which though but yet begun, was to go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity!
Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of the two,—Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,—not the mother whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head gentler rest. Nay, not so good,—unless she could have given the little heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well that road to the unseen land—who had studied it; and now as the child went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if the river were already in sight,—as if somewhat of
"that strange, unearthly graceWhich crowns but once the children of our race—"
already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now.
Faith stood still one minute—and another; then pulling off her hood, she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr. Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group. She had a smile for Johnny too, but it was a smile that had quite left the things of the world behind it and met the child on his own ground; and her kiss was sweet accordingly. A look and a clasp of the hand to Mr. Linden; then she rose up and went round to the window to take the hand of Mr. Fax, who had found his feet.
"I'm very much beholden to ye!" said he in somewhat astonished wise."You're takin' a sight o' trouble among ye."
"It's no trouble, sir."
Mr. Fax looked bewildered. He advanced to Mr. Linden. "Now this girl's here," said he, "don't you think you hadn't better come into another room and try to drop off? I guess he can get along without you for a spell—can't he?"
"I am not quite ready to leave him," Mr. Linden said,—"and I am not at all sleepy, Mr. Fax. Perhaps I will come by and by."
"We'll have breakfast, I conclude, some time this forenoon. I'll go and see if it's ever comin'. Maybe you'll take that first."
He went away; and Faith, rid of her wrappers, came up again behind Johnny, passing her fingers through his hair and bending down her face to his; she did not speak. Only her eye went to Mr. Linden for intelligence, as the eye will, even when it has seen for itself!
"Dr. Harrison is coming this morning," was all he said. She did not need to ask any more.
"May Johnny have anything now?"
"O yes—and he will like it," Mr. Linden said in a different tone, and half addressing the child. "He asked me some time ago when you were coming—but not for that."
Faith brought something freshly prepared for Johnny and served him tenderly. Meanwhile her own coffee had been on the fire; and after making two or three simple arrangements of things she came back to them.
"Will you sit with me now, Johnny, and let Mr. Linden have some breakfast?"
"In here?" the child said. But being reassured on that point, he came to Faith's arms very willingly, or rather let Mr. Linden place him there, when she had drawn her chair up nearer the table so that he could look on. And with her arms wrapped tenderly round him, but a face of as clear quiet as the morning sky when there are no clouds before the sunrise, she sat there, and she and Johnny matched Mr. Linden's breakfast. There was no need to talk, for Johnny had a simple pleasure in what was going on, and in everything his friend did. And if the little face before him hindered Mr. Linden's enjoyment of breakfast, that was suffered to appear as little as possible. Breakfast was even rather prolonged and played with, because it seemed to amuse him; and the word and the smile were always ready, either to call forth or to answer one from the child. Nor from him alone, for by degrees even Faith was drawn out of her silence.
Mr. Linden had not yet changed his place, when on the walk that led up to the house Faith saw the approach of Dr. Harrison. The doctor as he came in gave a comprehensive glance at the table, Mr. Linden who had risen, and Faith with Johnny in her lap; shook hands with Mr. Linden, and taking the chair he had quitted sat down in front of Faith and Johnny. A question and answer first passed about her own well-being.
"You've not been here all night?" said he.
"No, sir. I came a while ago."
The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him, with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned, judged, and passed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to Mr. Linden.
"There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would stay—but I know that it would be in vain.Sheought not to be here."
For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,—the second fell upon a heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort—as to the probable length of time there would be to do anything.
"He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor—"such as he has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am sorry I cannot stay longer with you—but it does not matter—you can do as well as I now."
He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be taken care of. You were here yesterday—there is no necessity for you to be here to-day."
"I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison."
"I know!" said he shaking his head,—"your will is strong! but it ought not to have full play. You are not wanted here."
Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then suddenly she said,
"Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott—now."
"I do not feel the need of it—" he said. "I had some snatches of sleep last night."
She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural heaviness, Faith said,—and the tone seemed to come from very stillness of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,—
"The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott."
"How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very precious too, is the love of his will!"—and he repeated softly, as if half thinking it out—
"'I worship thee, sweet will of God!And all thy ways adore!And every day I live, I seemTo love thee more and more.'"
An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a child's lip in its humbleness.
"It was very hard for me to give him up at first—" Mr. Linden went on softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions. 'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month.'"—
Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms—and was silent.
"Reuben was telling me yesterday—" she said after a few minutes,—"what you have been to him."
But her words touched sweet and bitter things—Mr. Linden did not immediately answer,—his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention.
The quiet rest of the little sleeper was passing off,—changing into an unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr. Linden, with the words, "Walk—like last night."
And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles—from the words which by degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words was, "Sing."—Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word.
"Jesus loves me—this I know,For the Bible tells me so:Little ones to him belong,—They are weak, but he is strong.
"Jesus loves me,—he who diedHeaven's gate to open wide;He will wash away my sin,Let his little child come in.
"Jesus loves me—loves me still,Though I'm very weak and ill;From his shining throne on highComes to watch me where I lie.
"Jesus loves me,—he will stayClose beside me all the way.Then his little child will takeUp to heaven for his dear sake."
There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright cheerful way—meant for her as well as the child—that Johnny wanted her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then, after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden watched her, with grave eyes.
"Now you must go and lie down," he said.
"Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time—or didn't take time—to eat my breakfast before I came away from home—that is all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"—she added gently.
She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she came and sat down.
"Won't you go?" she said softly.
"I would rather stay here."
Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful.
Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he said, laying his cheek against the child's,—
"Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the minute you want me."
The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might be the wiser,—when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and looked down at his child and her with a curious look—that half recognized what it would not see.
"You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!—" said Jonathan, in a voice not clear.
"So he does—" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words had shaken her.
"How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child.
Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted her face and looked up—looked full into his eyes.
"Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way butwell?"
The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening himself instantly as if he had received a blow.
"Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' todie?"
It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever heard from her voice—as unfearful—
"Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him."
"Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter.
Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too—but clear and cheery.
"Yes, darling—and we'll be with him there by and by."
"Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to nobody and went out. Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired little spirit.
Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat, leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer room,—Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs. Somers, were all there with offers of assistance; but Mr. Linden knew well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various tones of different voices—which made their way once in a while—the two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat. Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now passing on before them.
"We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in death as in life."
Much of the time the child slumbered—or lay in a half stupor, though often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly, asking for singing or reading or talk,—letting Faith smooth his hair, or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the mortal began to give way before the immortal.
In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said,
"Read about heaven—what you used to."
Mr. Linden took his little Bible—remembering but too readily what that "used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation—
"'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.—And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'"
The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were silent—thinking of "the city that hath foundations."
"That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if his mind had gone back to the morning hymn.
"Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled, and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever—and where dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by."
The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet sleep, but with the smile yet left.
It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pass beyond it,—when the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith wiped away tears—and looked—and brushed them away again; but for a long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be quietly,—
"Endecott—it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!"
He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through all its deep human feeling,—
"'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people and nation'!"
"And," said Faith presently, lower still,—"can't you, as Bunyan says, hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!—"
Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succumbed gently, and the restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers. There was little "talk" called for after that time—hardly any, though never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful, pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious have no worse resting-place—would let every faint waking minute find the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."
Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid long—never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own. Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said nothing. He seemed bewildered—or astounded. "I never knowed," he said once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at night—but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors—and their word's about as good one side as 'tother."
At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh.
"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."
"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."
"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"—she said with a determinate quietness.
"How can I let you stay?—you ought not to watch here all night—unless there were something for you to do."
"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.
"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,—"Faith—it is near the dawning!—and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."
"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.
"I know—" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,—"but I think you ought not."
"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,—"that you wish me to go?"
It was hard for him to say yes—but he did.
She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled—but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.
If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness—thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there—of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then—looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.
"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."
Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again.
"I'll wait an hour yet."
"Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?"
"Send?—O no, mother!"
Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home to-night, dear."
"Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she kissed her mother and they went up stairs together.
No, he did not come home,—and well assured that he would not, Faith ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their way. The night was very still—the endless train of stars sweeping on in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up, in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost breathless for more tidings—waiting, as if by the least noise or stir she might lose something.
It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in—even as she sat so listening,—heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again, except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up stairs—and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;—and then gave way—rare for her—to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that was quieting, if it was stirring.
Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn, yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast—for rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day when Christ broke the bars of death and rose.
Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare when it was over.
"You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room.
"O yes! I can go.—Imustgo"—she added softly.
"I have not much to tell you,"—he said in the same tone,—"nothing, but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me by and by?"
"Yes.—After church?"
"After church in the afternoon would give us most time."
The Sunday classes were first met—howwas not likely to be forgotten by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As soon as she was where nobody need know what she did, Faith felt unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come.
After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive—it was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,—the afternoon was well on its way.
The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr. Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he passed through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside. They stood there and looked—as one might look at a ray of eternal sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time.
The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills at neck and wrists,—on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!"
With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady, Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,—then knelt together, and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might themselves be found faithful.
"You shouldn't saywe"—said Faith when they had risen and were standing there again. "It wasyou—to him and me both." And bending forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much as he ever learned from me!"
But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more.
They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know—she could only guess.
There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,—not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,—since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,—some sturdy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field.
The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little classmates—Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners—Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone—
"Through a dark stormy night,To a calm land of light!"—
"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again,Though now we part in pain!His people allTogether Christ shall call,Hallelujah!"
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word againsthimagain. Faith, he's beautiful!"
It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away—or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see.Shewas not the cloud—that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all wintercouldbe increased, then were they now,—every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him—lived even in her presence,—nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,—what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson—she felt if she did not see them,—even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,—what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,—so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,—Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.
He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire—never more wanted—burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired—but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.
"Endecott"—she said in some of her most winning tones,—"may I ask you something?"
He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?"
"I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me—unless you have a mind!"
"Doyou suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!"
"No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?"
"You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!—of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?—to challenge Dr. Harrison?—or to run for President?"
"Would you like to do either of those two things?"
"I was only putting myself at your disposal—as I have done before."
"Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly.
"I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird—why do you keep on the wing?"
"I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith. "Endy"—and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,—"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?"
He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence,
"Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"—But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield.
"Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?"
She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott—tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by."
"My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!—What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?"
Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile.
"I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late—orless,—and I wanted to know which it was."
"Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?—and in what way did I grow less?"
"I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if itwassense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so—so I wanted to know."
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that EnglishmanMadame D'Arblay tells about,—who to the end of his life declared thathis wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you knowI think he will have a successor?"
Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was?
"She was an English woman, an authoress, a maid of honour to the Queen.Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?"
One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said.
"You know enough already?—or too much? Faith—are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?"
"I don't know,—but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it—Monsieur?"
"Eh bien—Mademoiselle," he said gravely but holding her fast,—"suppose you do!"
"Then we should have it."
"Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle! Vous avez raison."
"And what have you?" said Faith laughing.
"I haveyou!—Love and Reason did meet once, you know."
"Did they?" said Faith looking up. "How should I know?"
"You never found it out in your own personal experience?"
"You say it's a fact," said Faith. "I thought you referred to it as a former fact."
"Like tea—" said Mr. Linden.
"Like tea, Endecott!—what are you talking of?"
"Former facts."—
"I wonder what I shall get you to-night, Endecott"—she said merrily twisting round to look at him,—"you must want something! Is a thing properly said to be former, as long as it is still present?"
"What is present?"
"Tea isn't past"—said Faith with another little flash of her eye.
"If you are going to set up for Reason," said Mr. Linden, "there is no more to be done; but as for me, I may as well submit to my fate. Shakspeare says, 'To love, and to be wise, exceeds man's might.'"
"I don't think I set up for reason," said Faith,—"only for tea; and you obliged me to take reason instead. I guess—Shakspeare was right."
"Unquestionably!" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Faith, did you ever hear of 'Love in a Cottage'?"
"I believe I have."
"I hope you don't think that includes tea?"
"I never thought it included much good," said Faith. "I always thought it was something foolish."
"There spoke Reason!" said Mr. Linden,—"and I shall not dare to speak again for ten minutes. Faith, you will have time to meditate." And his eyes went to the fire and staid there. Faith meditated—or waited upon his meditations; for her eyes now and then sought his face somewhat wistfully to see if she could read what he was thinking of—which yet she could not read. But her exploring looks in that direction were too frequent to leave room for the supposition that Reason made much progress.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, suddenly intercepting one of these looks, "now let us compare results—before we meditate any further. What have you to shew?"
"Nothing"—said Faith frankly.
"I on my part have made a great discovery, which will perhaps answer for us both. It is very simple, as most great discoveries are, being merely this: that I prefer other things than reproofs from the lips of Reason. Will you have an illustration?"
"Can't I understand without?" said Faith laughing, but with also a little rising colour. And very smilingly she had her answer—the only answer she could expect.
"I believe you are principled against saying yes!" said Mr. Linden."The most encouraging thing you ever said to me was 'Oh no!'"
What swift recollection, what quick sympathy with that time, spoke in the crimson of Faith's cheeks! It was something to see "the eloquent blood." Eyes were not to be seen. Mr. Linden smiled, touching his hand softly to her cheeks.
"O Mignonette!" he said—"or I should rather say, O Roses! or OCarnation! Is there anything beyond that in your Flora?"
In the emergency Faith took possession of the hand that invaded her carnations and turning the full display upon him asked if he would not like to have something more substantial. Apparently "the display" was approved, though there were no words to that effect.
"I suppose I must let you go," he said, "because if we are to study all the evening after tea, it will not do to talk away the whole evening before. You shall choose your own time for hearing my story, dear child—only let me know when the time comes."
There was no shadow upon the tea hour, on Faith's part, nor on the hours of study that followed. The wind swept round the house, March fashion, but the fire and the open books laughed at him. There seemed even a little more than usual of happy gayety in Faith's way of going through her work; she and the fire played at which should get ahead of the other; and between whiles she was obliged to use a little caution to obviate Mr. Linden's surprise at finding how far she was getting ahead of herself. For Faith's early morning studies were not now by any means confined to the lessons he set for her and expected her to do; her object and endeavour was to prevent his requirements, and so prepare the groundbeforehis teachings that without finding out how it came to be so ready, he should simply occupy more of it and cultivate higher. It was rather a nice matter! not to let him see that she had done too much, and yet to make him know that he might take what harvests he pleased off the ground; with such keen eyes too, that knew so well all the relative forces of soil and cultivation and could estimate so surely the fruits of both. Faith managed by not managing at all and by keeping very quiet, as far as possible shewing him nothing he did not directly or indirectly call for; but sometimes she felt she was grazing the edge of discovery, which the least lifting of the veil of Mr. Linden's unsuspiciousness would secure. She felt it to-night, and the fire and she had one or two odd little consultations. Just what Mr. Linden was consulting with himself about at those times, she did not know; but she half fancied it was something. Once the fire called her off at the end of a lesson, and when she came back to the table he had the next book open; but it was not till this set of questions and answers and explanations was half through, that Faith discovered he had opened the book at a different place from the one where it had been closed the day before,—then it suddenly flashed upon her; but whether it had been by accident, or of intent, she did not know.
One last consultation Faith held with the fire while Mrs. Derrick was gathering her work together to go to bed. Then she brought a low seat to Mr. Linden's feet. "Now, Endy,—I am ready." A little smile—a soft, lingering touch upon her forehead, came with his words.
"My little Mignonette, what do you suppose I came to Pattaquasset for?"
She looked rather wondering at him, and then said, "I supposed—to teach the school."
"Yes, but to what end?—I mean in my intent. I know now what I came for, in one sense," he said, securing one of her hands.
"Why—Endecott, do you want me to tell you?"
"If you know or guess."
"I don't know nor guess anything. I supposed merely that you did that as other people do other things—and for the same reason."
"It was for a very commonplace reason," Mr. Linden said, watching her face with two or three things at work in his own: "it was to get money to finish my studies for your favourite profession."
"My favourite profession!—Which do you mean?"
"Have you forgotten Miss Essie's question? I have not—nor the dear child who was so unwilling to answer it."
Faith's mind went back to Miss Essie, the question and answer,—and took the round of the subject,—and even as she did so her face changed, a sort of grave light coming into it,
"Do you meanthat, Endy?" she said half under her breath.
"I mean that, and no other."
The light brightened and deepened—her colour flushed like a morning sky,—till at last the first sunbeam struck athwart her face, in the shape of a smile. It was not a lip smile—it was on eye and brow and lip and cheek together. Mr. Linden bent down by her, lifting her face to meet his eyes, which through all their intentness smiled too.
"Faith, I want to hear every word of that."
"Of what?"
"Of all that is in your mind and face just now."
Her two little answering sentences evidently only gave the key of very deep tones.
"I think it is good, Endy. I am glad."
"I thought you would be. But that does not satisfy me, dear Faith—I want you to say to me all the different things that your thoughts were saying to you. You are not afraid of me at this time of day?" he said bringing her face closer.
"I have nothing to say I need be afraid to say," Faith answered slowly,—"but it is hard to disentangle so many thoughts. I was thinking it is such great and high work—such happy work—and such honour—and then that you will do it right, Endecott—" she hesitated.—"How could I help but be glad?"
"Do you like your new prospective position, little Sunbeam?"
A deep colour came over her face, and the eyes fell Yet Faith folded her hands and spoke.
"I was glad to think—" She got so far, but the sentence was never finished.
"Glad to think what, dear child?"
Faith glanced up. She did not want to answer. Then she said with the greatest simplicity, "I am glad if I may do something."
"Glad that I should realize my ideal?" Mr. Linden said with a smile, and softly bringing her face round again. "Faith, do you know what a dear little 'minister's wife' you will make?—Mignonette is so suitable for a parsonage!—so well calculated to impress the people with a notion of the extreme grave propriety which reigns there! For is not Mignonette always sweet, demure, and never—by any chance!—high coloured?"
She would not let her face be held up. It went down upon her lap—into her hands, which she pressed close to hide it.
"Oh Endecott!—" she said desperately.—"You'll have to call me something else."
"O Faith!" was his smiling reply,—"I will, just so soon as I can.Don't you want to come over to the sofa and hear the rest of my story?"
"Your story! Oh yes!"—
And first having a sympathizing interview with the fire, Faith went over to the sofa and sat down; but hid her face no more. Much as he had done before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,—with the same sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of purpose,—his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing—her eyes had not been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing of nothing else.
"It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the jewelled hand in his,—"when I used to see them not more busy among things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature describes and taste shrinks from!—But I used to think," he said speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick moving, as when it was at work for me."
Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone.
"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again—almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before.
"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,—living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors—or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together—by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe—and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented—very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes."
She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.
"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.
He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.
"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"
"Yes."
"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."
She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.
"It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?"
"Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there."
"And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared.
"I came for a year, dear Faith—and I ought not to stay much beyond that."
Faith mentally counted the months, in haste, with a pang; but the silence did not last long this time. Her head left its resting place and bending forward she looked up into Mr. Linden's face, with a sunny clear look that met his full. It was not a look that could by any means be mistaken to indicate a want of other feeling, however. One might as soon judge from the sunshine gilding on the slope of a mountain that the mountain is made of tinsel.
"Endecott—is that what has been the matter with you?"
She needed no answer but his look, though that was a clear as her own.
"I could easier bear it ifIcould bear the whole," he said. "But you can understand that Dr. Harrison's proposal tried, though it did not tempt me."
She scarce gave a thought to that.
"There is one thing more I wanted to ask. Will there be—" she paused, and went on,—"no time at all that you can be here?"
"Dear Faith!" he said kissing her, "do you think I could bear that? How often I shall be able to come I cannot quite tell, but come I shall—from time to time, if I live. And in the meanwhile we must make letters do a great deal."
Her face brightened. She sat quietly looking at him.
"Will that shadow come any more,—now that you have told me?"
"I will give you leave to scold me, if you see it," Mr. Linden said, answering her smile,—"I ought not to be in shadow for a minute—with such a sunbeam in my possession. Although, although!—do you know, little bright one, that the connexion between sunbeams and shadows is very intimate? and very hard to get rid of?"
"Shall I talk to you about 'nonsense' again?"—she said half lightly, resting her hand on his arm and looking at him. Yet behind her light tone there was a great tenderness.
"You may—and I will plead guilty. But in which of the old classes of 'uncanny' folk will you put me?—with those who were known by their having no shadow, or with those who went always with two?"
"So I suppose one must have alittleshadow, to keep from being uncanny!"
"You and I will not go upon that understanding, dear Faith."
Faith did not look like one who had felt no shadow; rather perhaps she looked like one who had borne a blow; a look that in the midst of the talk more than once brought to Mr. Linden's mind a shadowy remembrance of her as she was after they got home that terrible evening; but her face had a gentle brightness now that then was wanting.
"I don't know"—she said wistfully in answer to his last words.—"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame for me to remind you of anything—but don't you know, Endecott—'all things are ours'?both'things present and things to come?'" And her eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile.
Bear it alone?—yes, he could have done that—as he had borne other things,—it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that look come back—to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both points. And he knew—almost better than she did—how much she depended on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave submission as Faith had never seen him wear.
"My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear Faith,—and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than that each has sufficient good—if it be only sought out. There cannot much darkness live in the light of those words."
"How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,—"to find the good of these days?"
"You are quick at conclusions"—said Mr. Linden,—"how far do you think it is between us at present?"
"Endecott"—she said gravely—"it will never be further!"
He laughed a little—with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good measurement."