"I have been a year without seeing you,"—said Faith with excellent seriousness.
"My presence seems to have no counteracting effect. By the same rule, I should be—marvellous! To you perceive it?"
Her eye gave one of its little flashes, but Faith immediately looked away.
"Do you know," said Mr. Linden, "I can hardly believe that this year of exile is over—and that there are none others to follow it. What do you suppose will be the first subject you and I shall consider?"
"Mr. Skip," said Faith gravely.
"Mr. Skip merits no consideration whatever. Is Miss Bezac at work on that dress?"
"Because he don't live with us any longer, Endecott."
"Does he not?—Unfortunate man!"
"And Dromy is in his place."
"My dear, my own place is the only one I can think of with any intense interest. Except yours."
"Because we have had no farm to manage this winter," said Faith; "soDromy could do what we wanted."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,—"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you—my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession.
Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other.
By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room—Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing butdoing upsome of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,—what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again.
"Mother—has Cindy come?"
"She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,—that's all under way."
Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for—the strawberries looked over—the cream made ready—the table set—the lettuce washed—the dishes warming for the vegetables—the pickles and bread on the table—and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,—for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;—when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder.
"My own dear little Mignonette!—Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?"
She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look—"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything."
"See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them."
Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety.
"What has been the matter?"
"You know I told you Mr. Skip had gone away?"
"Yes."
"And that he went because we hadn't any farm to manage?"
"What has the farm to do with your studies?"
"What shall I do if I make you very angry with me?" said Faith, the least touch of seriousness mingling with her words,
"You had better ask what I shall do. Has Mr. Deacon come back and taken possession?"
"Yes—And you know, Endy, we used to live by the farm. When that was gone we had to live by something else. I wouldn't tell you if I could help your knowing it."
"Mignonette, what have you been doing?"
"You know what Pet found me at?"
"Yes."—She could not tell whether he saw the whole,—he was clearly in the mind to hear it, taking both her hands in his.
"I did that," said Faith.
"Did what?"
"I got work from Miss Bezac.—She gave me lessons."
"For how long?"
"Since—about a fortnight after you went away. It was then Squire Deacon took away the farm. From that time until Pet came—" she added with a little rise of colour in her cheeks.
"And that all the daylight and candlelight hours of each day?"
"O no, not that. I had long walks to Miss Bezac's, you know—or rides—every day or two; for we kept Jerry; and I never sewed before breakfast. And in the evening I used to write letters—part of the evening."
"Child! child!"—He dropped her hands, and began to pace up and down the moderate limits of Mrs. Derrick's best carpet. Until after a few turns Faith put herself straight in his way and intercepted him, with a very innocent face.
"Faith, did no one protest against this—for me?"
"Yes, sir."—
"And you knew that I had guarded—that I hadtriedto guard you against any such possibility?"
Faith paused. "Yes, I knew,—but Endy, that couldn't make any difference."
"It did not—How, could not?"
"It ought not," she said softly and colouring.
"Can you tell why?"
"You know, Endy, it was better,—it was right,—it was better that I should work for myself."
"Never, Mignonette—while I could work for you. How do you expect to manage when you are my wife?—And do you think I had no right even toknowabout it?"
"I thought—now was the best time—" Faith said.
"Am I to learn from this and similar instances what my wife will expect of me if I chance to be sick or in trouble?"
It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair.
"Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion.
"I cannot say you did right."
"But when you could do me no good,"—said Faith very gently,—"and I should only have given you pain—for nothing?"
"It would not have given me pain to have you tell it—and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature—as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),—it can only give you pain to hear of it—so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time—what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!—till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us."
Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely.
"I will not do so again, Endy.—About important things, I mean,"
"You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?"
"I might like it,"—said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott."
"Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet."
Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him.
"There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"—she said.
"What is that?—the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?"
"Strawberries!"—
"Only another style of nomenclature,"—said Mr. Linden.
"You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them."
And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses—there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better.
And then—what came then? Truly, the same over again—looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As shewouldwash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German.
"Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read."
"Letters, Endecott!—Who has written to me?"
"Through me—three regions of country."
"What do you mean?"
Just as she spoke the words, Faith paused and set down the tumbler she was wiping. Her ears had caught the sound of a modest knock at the front door. She looked at Mr. Linden.
"Stay here, Endy—please!" she said as she threw down her towel and ran off. But Faith's hope of a chance was disappointed. She ushered somebody into the sitting-room and came back gravely and flushed to Mr. Linden.
"It's Mr. Somers—and he wants to see you, Endecott!"
Faith went at her tumblers, and simultaneously, greatly to the dismay of one party as to the surprise of the other, in walked Mr. Somers after her.
"Miss Derrick told me you were in this room, sir," said the clergyman shaking Mr. Linden's hand,—"so I came in. Ha! I am glad to be one of the first to welcome you back. How do you do, Mr. Linden? You've been a great while from Pattaquasset!—and you've been missed, I don't doubt."
Apparently not by Mr. Somers! But Mr. Linden met all the advances as he should, merely stating his belief in the general proposition that "there is always somebody to miss everybody."
"Will you take a seat here, sir?" he said—"or may I go with you to the next room?"
"I—have no choice," said Mr. Somers looking benignantly around;—"it is very pleasant here, very!—cool;—perhaps Miss Derrick will have no objection to our taking our seats here?"
Faith did not say, but as Mr. Somers had taken her leave for granted, and his seat consequently, she was saved that trouble. How she reddened at the thought of the roses with which she was dressed! And there she stood in full view, washing her spoons! But Mr. Somers looked the other way.
"I—I am very happy to see you again, Mr. Linden—very happy indeed, sir! I heard from Squire Stoutenburgh that you were expected, and I lost no time. How have you enjoyed your health, sir, this year? A year's a long time! isn't it?"
Mr. Linden, taking his seat as in duty bound, looked abstractedly at Faith and the spoons and the roses, and answered according to the evidence.
"Yes, Mr. Somers,—and yet it depends very much upon how far the two ends of the year are apart in other respects. The 'Voyage autour de ma chambre' could neverseemvery long, whatever time it took."
"Ha!"—said Mr. Somers blandly,—he hadn't the remotest idea what this speech might mean,—"no. Did you have a good passage coming over? We had every sign of it."
"Very good,"—said Mr. Linden smiling,—"and very stormy."
"Ah?"—said Mr. Somers,—"very good and very stormy? Well I shouldn't have thought that. But I suppose you have got to be such a traveller that you don't mind which way the wind blows, if it blows you on, ha?—like Dr. Harrison.Henever minds the weather. Dr. Harrison's a great loss to Pattaquasset too," said Mr. Somers looking at Faith and smiling a little more openly;—"all our—ha!—our pleasantest members of society seem to be running away from us! That's what Mrs. Somers says."
"One more spoon—and put them up,"—thought Faith,—"and then I'll be away!"—
"But I've come to see if I can't get you to do me a favour, Mr.Linden," said Mr. Somers withdrawing his eyes and mind from her."I—should be very much obliged to you indeed! I'm almost afraid toask, for fear I sha'n't get it."
Faith wiped her spoon slowly.
"I like to do favours," said Mr. Linden,—"at least I think I should.But I cannot imagine how you can give me a chance, Mr. Somers."
"Don't you think it would be a great gratification to all your old friends in Pattaquasset, if you would consent to fill my pulpit next Sunday? They—I believe they'd come from all over the country!—and it would be—a—it would be a very great gratification indeed to me. Can't I prevail with you?"
Faith had ceased her work and was standing quite still, with bended head, and cheeks which had gathered their colour into two vivid spots. On those carnations Mr. Linden's eyes rested for a moment, with a strange feeling of pleasure, of emotion. The sort of touched smile upon his lips when he spoke, did not, it may be said, belong to Mr. Somers. His answer was very simple and straightforward.
"I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you—and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!—it is you who confer the favour."
"Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy—very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure—a very great pleasure—a—I assure you, sir. It's profitable for—a—people to have a change—they listen—ha!—they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,—and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news. How long are you going—a—to remain in Pattaquasset?—But I don't know," added he laughing,—"as I ought to ask!"
Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out.
"And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir."
"No—certainly. I was—a—premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,—as you have so kindly—a—consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?"
The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,—talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went. Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,—then a clear—not loud-spoken—"Mignonette—where are you?"
Faith sprang back through the passage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers.
"What are you about, little Sunbeam?—are you busy?"
"No."
"Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,—do you want the same with me?—or are you tired?"
"No—yes;—I'm not tired a bit."
"Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room.
"No!" she said laughing a little,—"did you ever think I was,Endecott?"—But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely.
"I am going to try you—" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes."
There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed assuredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined.
Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour—which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour.
Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments—then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her.
"Mignonette, when may I put it on again?"
There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers.
"Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"—she said in a very low voice.
"No, darling—not certainly."
"Then—do you want to know this yet?"
"Very much."
Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key.
"What do you wish?"
"What I have been waiting for all these years."
"But as to time?"
"As little as possible."
"I know,—but what is that, Endy?"—she said with very timid intonation.
"'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,—"the words hardly need explanation—I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette—but I do not know what is possible for you."
What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides.
"I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother."
"No, with you," said Mr. Linden,—"what do you please? Am I to repeat the passage of Quapaw creek?"
She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not.
"You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,—is that done?"
"Yes nearly."
"'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,—"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'—Shall we say a week from to-day?"
She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.
"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,—"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific—and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"
There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.
"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."
"Yes, Endy,"—she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying—much as he had done at Quapaw creek—"Are you afraid, dear child?"
"No—" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.
"Then it only needs my seal.—In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,—so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty—are you ready for your walk?"
It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.
Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.
Subjects started of themselves—in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,—about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.
"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"
"No, Endecott."—
"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."
"What's that story!"—said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.
"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."
"How did he?"
"Got her consent first—(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)—ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."
"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?—" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.
"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."
"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."
"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune—but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."
"That's the story—but what do you mean, Endy?"
"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."
Faith jumped up. "Do you!"—
"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."
Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.
"But Endecott—"
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"
"You haven't a wooden horse!"—she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.
"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"
The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure—" she said. "I thought so."
"What is the point of the remark?"
She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy—if that were so,—I don't want to go!"
"How did your royal pride get turned about?—that you will look at nonebuta wooden horse?"
She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.
"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,—not yet. Besides, the horse—of whatever sort—will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,
Being in the air,Will not careHow they fare!"—
Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.
"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months—though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."
"But where are you going, Endy?"
"That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,—the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some shore where you can see real surf—and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way."
Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island shore, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!—with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!—She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too.
"I thought I should go right to work," she said,—"to study—to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?"
"As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?"
"It is made up,"—she said gently, after a minute's hesitation.
"How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,—"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child—I want to consult you about various things."
Faith sat down and looked—like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy.
"I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves."
A flush rose, but she looked steadily.
"You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed—where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town—it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely.
"How large is the town, Endy?"
"Ten or fifteen thousand—I do not know precisely."
"And no other churches?"
"Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority."
Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely.
"An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring—Mrs. Linden!—to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once."
Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks.
"Do you think she will?" said Mr. Linden demurely.
"What is the other, Endy?—You said three."
"The other, love, is from those very White Mountains you are going to see. Another friend writes the letter,—one who has built himself a nest there for summer migrations. It is a strange place, Faith, by all accounts—I have never been to that part of the mountains. A scattered population, sprinkled about on the hills like their own dewberries, and to be found in much the same manner. Neither church nor chapel, but only an unused schoolhouse—of which Mr. Olyphant prays I will come and take possession. Snow and frost, the valleys and the everlasting hills—that would be your society."
Faith's eyes were raised now and met Mr. Linden's. Grave, as one who felt the weight of the question to be settled; but with a brow unshadowed, and eyes unfearing. A child's look still!
"Mr. Olyphant says there could not be better air for my bird to sing in," he went on with a smile,—"there was one great objection to the place in Pennsylvania. How does this seem to you, dear Faith?—it is rather on a spur of the mountains—not absolutely shut in. Then I am not sure how much society you would have but mine,—what do you think of it, in comparison with Newport?"
She answered at first with a rare little smile, so happy in its grave trust, and which withal a little significantly deferred the question.
"I know you will go where you think you ought to go. Endy—I don't know about places."
"I doubt whether I shall grant more than half of Mr. Alcott's request," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose if George has not got home I may venture to grant that. Faith, it is a very singular fact that everybody falls in love with you."
To judge by Faith's blush, it was a somewhat painful "fact." "Whom are you talking of?" she said doubtfully.
"The present occasion of my remark is George Alcott—said to be absent on a crusade of search after a pair of eyes he saw in Pattaquasset."
"I don't know him," said Faith laughing a little; but instantly recurring to business she asked very earnestly, "Then, Endy, you think you will go to that place in the mountains?—or haven't you made up your mind?"
"I am inclined to that one, of the three—I cannot say my mind is absolutely made up. It has had so much else to do since I came home! Faith, do you mean to have any bridesmaids?"
Faith jumped up off her rock. "Endy, I want to run down and look at these little fish. And it's growing late, besides!"—
"Yes, but, you must answer me first," said Mr. Linden laughing and holding her fast. "It is needful I should know beforehand, because they will want supporters, if I do not."
"I don't want any, Endy," said Faith with cheeks like two pink roses, but standing very still now.
"Then come and shew me the fish. Don't you think it would be gladsome work to seek out those untaught and uncared for people up in the mountains?"
They had come down to the rocks between and among which at low tide the shell fish played in an inch or two of water; and sitting on one of the mossy stones Faith was watching the mimic play of evil passions which was going on among that tribe of Mollusca below her; but her mind was on something else.
"I read the other day," she said, "those words of Paul, where he says to the Thessalonians 'we were allowed of Godto be put in trust with the gospel'.—They made me very happy—they make me happy now. What I thought of in connexion with them, I mean."
"And what was that?"
"That they are your words too,"—she said after looking up as if she thought her meaning must be known.—"And that even I—have something to do," she added lower.
Mr. Linden stood by her, looking off at the rippling waves, then down at his fair little helper. "Yes, Faith—it is a glorious thing to have any part of that work in trust,—and the part which makes least show may be no less in reality. 'In trust'!" he repeated, looking off again. "Such beautiful words!—such terrible."
"No!"—she said with a smile,—"I don't think so."
"Nor I, dear, from your point of view. But in the world, Faith, where you have been so little, I have seen the words of the trust to be boundless—the faithfulness of the trustees within very narrow limits. And to be always ready to 'sow beside all waters'—who is? 'Freely ye have received, freely give,' is the command—but what Christian sees with half perception what he has received!"
Faith paused and looked thoughtful, and then smiled again. "I always think of the words you read to me one day,—'Only be thou strong and very courageous,—for the Lord, thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.'"—
The answering look told that if Mr. Linden's words had not been said for the purpose of drawing her out, they had at least served that purpose.
"You are a dear little Sunbeam!" he said. "Acting out your name, as I told you long ago. There is nothing needful to getyouready for the White Mountains but a fur cloak. Now come—it is growing late, as you say."
It was a late tea-time when they got home. They sat down to tea and Faith had not told her mother yet! which she remembered with a somewhat uneasy mind. There was nothing uneasy about the third member of the family!—the poise and balance of the white strawberries upon each other was not more complete than the resting adjustment of all his thoughts.
"Mrs. Derrick," he said as she handed him his cup of tea, "what do you consider the prettiest time of day?"
"The prettiest time of day?" Mrs. Derrick repeated,—"do you mean when the day looks best—or the people? I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Linden,—I never watch anybody from morning to night but Faith."
"I am talking of Faith—or what concerns her."
"O well all times of day are alike to her," said her mother fondly,—"she's just as pretty one time as another,—and one day as another. Only the days when she used to get letters."
"Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "when should I have heard such a piece of news from you?"
"I never knew it before," said Faith.
"How many hours does she need for a morning toilette?" said he, pursuing his researches.
"Hours!" said Mrs. Derrick—"you'd better say minutes. It's less than an hour, commonly."
"But I mean uncommonly."
Mrs. Derrick looked thoroughly puzzled. But Faith had got the key, and hopeless of stopping Mr. Linden she thought the next best thing was to expedite matters.
"When I take longest, mother,"—she suggested in a low voice.
"How long would she need to arrange orange flowers to her satisfaction—" said Mr. Linden,—"or white muslin?"
"O!—" said Mrs. Derrick setting down the teapot with her cup half filled. "I didn't know what youweretalking about."
"I am talking about next Thursday," said Mr. Linden, with a gay gentleness of manner. "Because we have decided—or I have—that Thursday is to be the prettiest day of the week, and now we want to choose the prettiest time of day."
A little flush came into Mrs. Derrick's quiet face,—she said not a word.
"You are willing it should be then?" Mr. Linden said.
The mother's "yes" was very firm and clear, and yet not in just her usual tone. That came back a minute after with the relief which a thought of business always brings.
"That dress isn't made!" she said. Mr. Linden's "Faith!—" was expressive.
"I knew that it could be done in a day at any time, Endecott,"—saidFaith, very grave and flushed. "It is up stairs in my drawer, mother."
"Kept there by what piece of superstition?" he said smiling. "Did you think if you made it up that I would never come back?"
Friday passed all too swiftly. Not in muchwork, so far as Faith was concerned—unless so far as Mr. Linden gave her work. Apparently she had been out of his sight long enough—he was not in the mood to let her be so any more. Saturday followed close in Friday's steps until after dinner, then came a move. For Pet and Reuben were to come in the afternoon train; and Mr. Linden going with Jerry to the station to meet them, summoned Faith to give "her sweet company."
So far as the station, Faith gave it; but there she drew back into the furthest corner of the wagon, and waited, while Mr. Linden walked up and down between the wagon and the front platform. Waited, and watched, furtively, everything; him and the people that spoke to him; with those strange eyes that saw everything new. Then came the whistle! the rush and roar of the train—the moment's lull; and then Faith saw the three she looked for coming towards her. Reuben a little in advance with Miss Linden's travelling bag, she with one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes on his face, coming rather slowly after,—talking, asking questions, some of which Faith could almost guess from the look and smile with which they were answered. It was a pretty picture; she felt as if she knew them both better for seeing it. Before they had quite reached the wagon, Pet received an answer which made her quit Mr. Linden with a little spring and leave him to follow with Reuben. And Faith had opened the wagon door.
"Faith! you dear child!" said Miss Linden, "what have you been doing with yourself—or what has anybody done with you, to stow you away here like a forgotten parcel?" She had entered the wagon no further than to rest one knee there holding both Faith's hands and looking at her with full, bright, loving eyes. "How came Endecott to leave you here, alone?"
"Two people must be alone—if they are not together," said Mr. Linden."Pet, shall I put you in or out?"
She laughed, jumping into the wagon then and twining one arm aboutFaith's waist, much like a spray of woodbine.
"What do you think I have asked him?" she whispered,—"and what do you think he has told me?"
"I don't know," said Faith;—"but I guess."
A significant clasp of the woodbine answered that—then the hand rested in a quiet embrace.
"How well he looks!" she said, her eyes taking glad note of one figure on the seat before them. "Faith, how are you?"
"I am well."—Nothing could be quieter in its kind. "Did he tell you what he is going to do to-morrow, Pet?"
"No—" she said looking her quick inquiry. Faith's face might have told her before she spoke; such a joy sat gravely on her brow and in the depth of her eyes.
"If you go to church to-morrow, you will know."
A sudden flush, both of cheeks and eyes, bore witness to the interest of this news. The look met Faith's for a moment—then rested on Mr. Linden, and then with that little tide of feeling deepening its sweet flow, the eyes fell, the unbent lips wavered and trembled. Faith ventured only a silent act of free-masonry; a fast clasp of her fingers round Miss Linden's hand that rested on her waist; but maybe never yet in their short friendship had they felt their hearts beat so close together. With one, there was perhaps some old recollection or association—some memory of the time when such a day had been first talked of, that made self-command a hard matter; for though the lips presently grew still, and the eyes quiet, the gravity that remained was easily stirred, and the voice spoke doubtfully.
There was more discussion of various things that evening than Faith cared for, but it could not be helped. Sunday brought a lull of discussions. But the gravity which sat on Faith's face that morning was not the less but the more. If a guardian angel had shewn himself bodily, his face might have worn such a pure distance from low and trifling things and like kindred with the blue sky and the truth it emblematizes. That day was the first of her new life to Faith. Not such to Mr. Linden; but it was the first of her seeing him publicly take the office to which his life was to be given, and in which hers was to be by his side. She was a very grave "sunbeam" when she set out to walk to church—and as clear!
There were sunbeams in plenty of the literal kind abroad; it was a perfect day; and everybody was glad of that, though some people remarked it would have made no difference if it had rained cannon-balls. Never did Pattaquasset see such a coming to church! never in the remembrance of Mr. Somers. They came from all over; the country was gleaned; and many a fire was raked up on the hearthstone that day which most Sundays got leave to burn and somebody to watch it. The fishermen came from Quapaw, and the labourers from the farms all over the country; those who did not directly know Mr. Linden, knew of him; and knew such things of him that they would not have missed this opportunity of hearing him speak, for a week's wages. The fathers and mothers of the boys he had taught,theyknew him; and they came in mass, with all their uncles, aunts and cousins to the remotest degree, provided they were not geographically too remote. The upper society of Pattaquasset lost not a man nor a woman; they were all there, some with great love, others with great curiosity. The Stoutenburghs had plumed themselves. Mr. Simlins was as upright as his new beaver. Miss Essie De Staff with magnified black eyes; Judge Harrison with benevolent anticipation. Mr. Stephens the fisherman had driven his little lame child down to the Pattaquasset church, "for once;" Jonathan Ling was there with his wife, having left the eldest child to keep house, and both being in great smartness and expectation. Jonathan Fax was there and his new wife; the one with a very grave head, the other with a very light one, and faces accordingly. Mrs. Derrick and Pet had long ago been quietly seated; when through that full house, after her Sunday school duties were over, Faith came in. Her colour was very bright, and she trembled; but it was not because many saw in her an object of curiosity; though Faith remembered it, at that minute she did not care. She felt the stillness of expectation that filled the house, with which the little murmur of sound now and then chimed so well; the patter of childish feet that followed her up the aisle spoke so keenly to her wrought up feeling of the other one of her class, who used to follow him with such delight, that Faith felt as if the happy little spirit long since received in at the golden gates, was even there in the church, to hear once more his beloved teacher. Who else?—what other angel wings stirred in the soft breeze that floated through from door to door?—what other unseen, immortal senses waited on those dear mortal lips?—Faith's step grew lighter, her breath more hushed; eyes might look at her—she looked not at them.
And eyes did look, from all sorts of motives; perhaps in the whole church there was not a person who did not try to see her, except the one who next to herself was the most interested—Pet never moved. Her head was bent, her hand half supporting half concealing in its position, like any statue she sat there, nor even stirred when the stir of every one else told who had come in. If she held her breath to bear every one of her brother's steps as he passed by, she did not look at him; did not raise her head till his first prayer was ended; then her rapt gaze was as unwavering.
The service which followed could not be measured by the ordinary line and rule of pulpit eloquence and power,—could not be described by most of the words which buzz down the aisles after a popular sermon. There was not the "newness of hand" of a young preacher—for almost from boyhood Mr. Linden had been about his Master's work. To him it was as simple a thing to deliver his message to many as to one,—many, many of those before him had known his private ministrations, and not a few had through them first known the truth; and now to all these assembled faces he was just what each had seen him alone; as humble, as earnest, as affectionate, as simply speaking not his own words,—for "Who hath made man's mouth—have not I, the Lord?" No one who heard the ambassador that day, doubted from what court he had received his credentials. "In trust with the gospel!" Yes, it was that; but that with a warm love for the truth and the people that almost outran the trust. As the traveller in the fountain shade of the desert calls to the caravan that passes by through the sand,—as one of the twelve of old, when Christ "blessed and brake and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude"; so did he speak from the words—
"Eat, O friends!—drink, yea drink abundantly, O beloved!"
There were some there who would never forget that day. There were many to whom it seemed, that not the warm summer breeze that floated in was gentler or sweeter than the feeling that filled the place. The little lame girl, and her older and rougher father and mother, listened alike to their dear friend with moveless eyes; and drank such a draught of those sweet waters as it was long, long since either of them had tasted in a church. It was a white day for all the fishing population; and nothing would have kept them from coming in the afternoon. Miss Essie's black eyes lost all their fire. Farmer Simlins, unknown to himself, sat and smiled. And the one who listened most tenderly and joyfully, listened indeed quietly to the last word, or till her face had leave to bow itself from sight; quietly then no longer, only that such tears come from no broken-up fountains of unrest. They came freely, as Faith recalled and applied the whole of her quoted sentence of Paul to the Thessalonians—
"For as we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel, SO WE SPEAK."
She was very quiet when the benediction was spoken, but she drew her veil closely as they left the church.
It was a lingering getting out, even for them, because others would linger. Some turned to look, some stopped to speak; and if Mr. Linden had had twenty hands they would all have found employment. Part of this the two veiled figures saw as they made their way to the door, and there Miss Linden paused and looked back. The broad stream of sunlight that lay across the church, the shadowy background figures,—in that very spot of light, Mr. Linden,—made a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Reuben Taylor stood close behind him, a step back, looking down; little Ency Stephens perched up on the pew cushions had one hand; Robbie Waters—far down below the other. Phil Davids and his father, Squire Stoutenburgh, and some of the Quapaw fishermen made up the group. Pet gave one look, and then she went swiftly down the steps and on.
Slowly the people scattered away, up and down the road; not with the brisk steps and busy voices that give token the church service has but interrupted—not suspended—the current of everyday thought and behaviour. It was a fair picture of a Sunday in a New England village; the absolute repose of nature copied and followed by hands that other days let nothing stand still. Before Faith and Pet got home the road was almost empty. Mr. Linden had overtaken them, but all his greeting was to put Faith's hand on his arm—then he walked as silent as they. It was a little thing, and yet it touched the very feeling she had had all day—the beginning of her new way of life, with him.
The afternoon was like the morning. Not a creature was missing of all who from far and near had filled the house in the former part of the day! and doubtless it was well that Mr. Somers could not hear the spoken and unspoken wishes that would have unseated him and caused him to relinquish for ever his charge in Pattaquasset.
The afternoon air was enticing, the afternoon walk home very lingering; then standing in the hall to look and taste it still, the sweet peace of everything seemed to enter every heart. Even Pet, who all day had been unheard and almost unseen, stood with clasped hands looking out; and only the heavy eyes spoke of the oppression that had been. But as she looked the tears came back again, and then she turned to Mr. Linden—wrapping her arms round his neck.
"Endy, Endy!—do you remember the first time we talked of this day?"
Mr. Linden gave back her caresses without a word, but with a look of pain that Faith had rarely seen on his face. It was some minutes before he spoke. "Dear Pet—she knows it now!"
Miss Linden looked up then, mastering her tears, and with a broken "Forgive me, Endy—" she kissed him and went away up stairs. But Mr. Linden did not look out any more. He went into the sitting-room, and resting his face on his hand sat there alone and still, until Faith came to call him to tea.
"Now my two pets," said Mr. Linden as they left the table Monday morning, "what are you going to do?"
"Iam going to work," said his sister. "Mrs. Derrick and I have business on hand. You can have Faith."
"There is an impression of that sort on my own mind."
"But I mean to-day. Except for about five minutes every half hour."
"It would be needless for me to say what I am going to do," observedFaith quietly.
"If that is a little piece of self assertion," said Mr. Linden, "allow me respectfully to remark that my 'impression' had no reference to the present time. Do you feel mollified?"
"No," said Faith laughing. "You are wide of the mark."
"Then will you please to state your intentions?—So far from being needless, it will be what Mr. Somers would call 'gratifying.'"
"I don't know," said Faith merrily. "I understand that if I tell you, you will say I have no time for them!"—
"For them!—enigmatical. Who told you what I would say?—Ask me." ButFaith laughed.
"I am going to make Pet and you some waffles for tea."
"Do they require more time than shortcakes?"
Faith stood before him quietly as if she had a great deal to say. "I am going to make bread, for mother and all of us."
"What else?"
"Sponge cake, I think."
"And after that?"
"Crust for pot-pie."
"De plus?"
"Curds,"—said Faith, looking down now.
"Pourquoi, Mademoiselle?"
"To eat," said Faith demurely. "You like them."
"Mademoiselle, I prefer you."
"Each in its way,"—replied Faith admirably well, but with a glance, nevertheless.
"There is only one in my way," said Mr. Linden. "Well does that complete the circuit?—I suppose nothing need go between cheese and breadbutwaffles?"
"I shall wish—and I suppose you would wish that I should, look over strawberries."
"Where do you commonly do all these things?"
"The sponge cake and the strawberries in the other room—other things in the kitchen."
"We may as well begin as we are to go on!" said Mr. Linden. "If you will not come and keep me company I must do that for you. Faith, I think Miss Essie's statement of facts was much like the artistic representation of lions and men, in the fable!"
Faith did not at all dislike this compounding of matters; and so the strawberries were looked over, and the sponge cake beaten in the dining-room; with various social enlivenings. For besides Mr. Linden's calls upon her attention, and the subjects by him presented to be looked over along with the strawberries, Faith made now and then a run into the kitchen to see Mrs. Derrick or Cindy there; and if the runs up stairs were less frequent, they took more time. For Miss Bezac had arrived, and she and Miss Linden were deep in the white folds of Faith's muslin dress. There too was Mrs. Derrick, for the touch and the making of that dress stirred her very heart. Faith was often in demand,—not to use her needle, but her taste—or to be fitted, or 'tried on,' as Miss Bezac said.
Coming back from one of these "trying" visits to the three workers, Faith found Mr. Linden by the sitting-room table; before him a package, in his hands a letter.
"Faith," he said, "come and look at this." Faith ran in from the strawberries.
"Rosy fingers are not needed," said Mr. Linden, "but as eyes are first called for they may pass. Sit down here by me, Mignonette, and take off this wrapping paper."
Which very curiously and amusedly, and now with a little suspicious tinge in her cheeks, Faith did; remarking that she could not help her fingers being rosy.
"Keep the roses to their chosen location," said Mr. Linden gravely, as the first paper parted right and left and shewed a second, which bore this inscription.—"For Mrs. Endecott Linden—with the warmest regards and respects of W. and L. Olyphant." Faith suddenly jumped up, pushed back her chair and whisked back to the strawberries, where she was found diligently putting the hulls into a dish by themselves.
"Mignonette, your fingers will be more rosy than ever." Mr. Linden spoke from the doorway where he stood watching her. Then coming forward he laid a key on the table. "That belongs to you."
"Wouldn't you be so good as to take care of it? You see I am busy."
"No my dear, I will not be so good. You shall have that pleasure—as a reward for running away. Would you like to hear this letter?"
"If you please—" Faith said with a little hesitation.
"You shall read it to yourself if you like better—" but he read it to her, after all. It was a pretty letter, shewing so well Mr. Linden's place in the writer's affection that Faith could not but enjoy it. Neither could she dislike the messages to herself though they did cost her a few roses. As to the contents of the package the letter gave no hint.
"What is that the key of, Endy?" she said, glancing up after the letter was finished.
"I don't know!"—Faith went on with her strawberries.
Through the open hall door came little uneven steps, tracking on through other open doors even to the dining-room,—there the steps and Charles twelfth came to a pause.
"Ma said," he began,—then fixed his eyes and mind on Mr. Linden with a concentration that was marvellous. The general attire and appearance of the little potentate were as usual, but both hands were in use to support a heavy mass of red coral, hugged up to his blue apron in the most affectionate manner. With a sigh of relief Charles twelfth withdrew his attention from Mr. Linden long enough to set the coral on the floor, then gazed anew, with his hands behind him.
"Charley!" said Faith laughing,—"what are you doing!—and what have you done?"
"Ma said—" began the child, stopping short as before.
"Charles twelfth," said Mr. Linden holding out his hand "do you never use anything but your eyes? Come here and speak to me. Who is prime minister now?"
"You,"—was the very prompt reply. "Ma said so yesterday."
The laugh in Mr. Linden's eyes as he looked at Faith, was a thing to see. "Faith," he said, "the conversation is in your hands!"
Faith was in doubtful readiness to speak. "Charley!"—she said as soon as she could,—"come here. Was that all your ma said?"
"No," said the boy, "she said a heap more."
"Well what did you come here for to-day?"
"I came to fetch that—" said Charles twelfth with another sigh.
"Poor child!—What did you bring it for, Charley?"
"Why for you," said Charley. "Ma said she didn't know when it oughter come—and she guessed you'd like it, 'cause it used to live off in the place where you said they eat up babies and people!" and Charles twelfth's eyes grew large and round with the announcement. "And ma said she's sorry 'twarnt more. I ain't."
Faith's eyes went to Mr. Linden with a flash and a burst of the uncontrollable little laugh; but after that they were suspiciously downcast, and Faith busied herself in providing little Charles twelfth with the refreshment of a good saucer of sugared strawberries, with which he sat down in a corner much consoled. And when he was setting off again, Faith gave him a whispered message to ask his mother to come and see her Thursday. Just what Mr. Linden saw in the piece of red coral he did not declare, but when Faith came back to the table he was looking at it very fixedly.
"Faith," he said, "that is not the worst token, nor the worst envoy—that might be. What a shy child you were that first time I took you down there! And you have not changed any too much," he added, carrying her off to the other room. "I am not sure that you ought to be indulged—suppose you open this box."
"You do it, please, Endecott!"—she said with a crimson rush to her cheeks.
"I do not believe there is any explosive material under such an address,—however, if there is I prefer that my hands should fire the train. Stand back, Faith!"—and with cautious and laughing deliberation the key was turned and the lid raised. It was a very plain lid, by the way—mere white pine.
"There is nothing here (that appears) but silk paper and cotton,—not gun cotton, probably," said Mr. Linden. "Faith, do you wish me to risk my safety any further?"
"Yes."—
"My dear, you must have more courage. If I am to open all your boxes I shall have my hands full, and—ne vous en déplaise—I would rather see the work in yours." And she was seated before the portentous pine box, Mr. Linden keeping his stand at her side. Faith blushed and didn't like it; but applied her fingers with a sort of fearful delicacy to the silk paper and cotton, removing one after the other.
The box had interior divisions, by way of help to the silk paper, its different contents being thus more securely separated. Faith's fingers exploring among the papers brought out first a silver chocolate pot, then the dainty china cups for the same, then the spoons, in size and shape just suiting the cups. Spoons and chocolatière were marked with the right initials; the cups—chocolate colour themselves, that no drop of the dark beverage might hurt their beauty—had each a delicate gilt F. L. twining about the handle.
If the givers could have seen the gift uncovered and inspected!—the rosy delight in Faith's cheeks, the pleasure in her eye! They would have considered themselves rewarded. She looked and bent over the pretty things, her attitude and blush half veiling her admiration and satisfaction, but there was no veiling them when she looked up at Mr. Linden. "I am so glad you like chocolate!"—she said naively. But it was worth a hundred remarks of aesthetic criticism.
"I am so glad I do!" he said, stooping to kiss her. "Faith, one would almost imagine some bird of the air had told them our chocolate associations."
"Now won't you put these back for me?" said Faith,—"because, if that sponge cake is to get done to-day I haven't two minutes to lose!"
The pretty chocolatière was but the beginning, as Faith soon found. Found to her most utter and unbounded astonishment—though to that of no one else.
Tuesday arrived a packet from Madame Danforth, accompanied by a note of affection and congratulation. The present was peculiar. A satin sachet, embroidered after the little Frenchwoman's desire, and to do it justice very exquisitely scented, was the first thing. A set of window curtains and toilet cover, of a curious and elaborate pattern of netting, made of very fine thread,—a manufacture in which Madame Danforth delighted and on which she prided herself,—was the second thing. The third was a pretty breakfast service of French china.
Faith enjoyed them all, with some amusement and some pleasure of possession, and not a little affectionate remembrance. Even the sachet, in this view, was particularly precious; that was the only use Faith saw in it. But the next arrival gave her a great start.
It was again this time a deal box, but immensely heavy; and it was a strong box that Faith did not attempt to open; marked only 'Grover & Baker', which told her nothing. There was no occasion indeed. A note was delivered with the box, and a small covered basket. The note conveyed the assurance of Sophy Harrison's love and a request that Faith would let her shew it on the present occasion. It went on.—
"Papa has sent you, dear Faith, an odd thing for a present—forsucha present—but I haven't been able to put it out of his head. He insists it is what you ought to have, and that he shall have the pleasure of giving it to you To save you the trouble of opening the box before you want it, I will state that it contains asewing machine. Papa has taken great pains to satisfy himself—and it is certainly the best or one of the best. My offering, dear Faith, is in the basket, and may be looked at with less difficulty."
Miss Sophy's offering was a kindly one. She had sent a little invoice of silver spoons and forks. Faith was pleased; and yet she looked grave, and very grave, over these things. She made no remark whatever to say why.
If no one else knew there was to be a wedding, at least the express man did!—and probably in his mind joined these new packages with those he had so often brought before, very comfortably. The next arrival was a delicate pair of silver salt-cellars and spoons from Mr. Alcott,—then a little framed sketch from the Captain of the Vulcan, portraying the meeting of two steamers at sea, with these words underneath—'The despatch post'. At which Mr. Linden looked with much amusement. Faith was delighted.