"May I know what?"
"You may, yet not just now. You may guess what it is."
But Faith gave up guessing in despair at one of Mr. Linden's puzzles.
The basket was repacked when the lunch was done; and they set out on their walk. The way, following Bob's direction, led along the bank under the trees, turning a little before the Mong was reached. The house was soon found; standing alone, in an enclosed garden ground where no spade had been struck that season; and at the end of a farm road that shewed no marks of travel.
Bob had not only swept the room, but his tidings had roused apparently his sister to prepare herself also; for Mintie met them as they came in. She was a handsome girl, with a feverish colour in her cheeks that made her appearance only more striking. There was pride and poverty here, clearly. Faith's simple words neither assumed the one nor attacked the other. The girl looked curiously at her and at the other visiter.
"Who be you?"
"We do not live in this neighbourhood," said Faith. "We came up toKildeer river to-day, and met your little brother down by the shore."
"What did he say to you?"
"He told us you were sick and in want of help."
Another look laid the girl's jealousy asleep. She told her story—her father had died six months ago; she and her mother and brother lived there alone. It was an "unlikely place to get to," and no neighbours very near. Her mother had been sick abed for a number of weeks; and she had had all to do, and now for a week past had been unable to do anything, go to Pettibaug or anywhere else, to get what they wanted. And so they "had got out of 'most everything." Dromy Tuck, Mr. Linden's scholar, lived at Farmer Davids' in the capacity of farm-boy; Mrs. Davids being a far-off connexion.
So much was all pride permitted to be told. Without much questioning, her visiters contrived to find out what they could do for her. Faith put the coffee-pot on the fire, declaring that it would do Mintie good like medicine; and served it to her when it was hot, with some bread and chicken, as if it had been indeed medicine and Faith a doctor. Then while Bob and she were dining, Faith went in to see the sick woman.Shewas much more communicative, and half avowed that she believed what she wanted now was "nourishing things"—"but with me lyin' here on my back," she said, "'taint so easy to find 'em." Faith gave her a cup of coffee too and some bread; she had hardly drunk any herself at lunch; and leaving her patient much inspirited, came back to Mr. Linden in the other room. Apparently his words and deeds had been acceptable too,—Bob's face was shining, not only with dinner but with the previous cold water applications which Mr. Linden had insisted on, and Mintie's mind was evidently at work upon various things. The basket was soon emptied of all but its dishes, and the prince and princess went on their way down the hill.
"Faith," said Mr. Linden, "shall we go and sit in the boat for half an hour, considering various things, and then have our wild flower hunt? Or would you prefer that first?"
"O no! I would rather have the half hour in the boat."
It was good time yet in the afternoon, and though the little boat now lay partly shadowed by the hill, it was none the worse resting place for that. Again Faith was seated there in all the style that shawls and cushions furnished, and just tired enough to feel luxurious in the soft atmosphere. Mr. Linden arranged and established her to his liking; then he took out of his pocket a letter.
It was one which had been opened and read; but as he unfolded it, there appeared another—unopened, unread; its dainty seal unbroken, and on the back in fair tracery, the words, "Miss Faith Derrick." As Faith read them and saw the hand, her eye glanced first up at Mr. Linden with its mute burden of surprise, and then the roses bloomed out over her cheeks and even threw their flush upon her brow. Her eye was cast down now and fixed on the unopened letter, with the softest fall of its eyelid.
"Shall I read you a part of mine first?"
"If you please. I wish you would."
"Only a little bit," he said smiling—thinking perhaps that she did not know to what she gave her assent so readily,—"you shall read the whole of it another time." The "little bit" began rather abruptly.
"'I have written to your darling, Endy—Not much, tell her; because what I have in my heart for her cannot be told. I know how precious any one must be whom you love so much. But make her love me a little before she reads my letter—and don't let her call me anything but Pet—and then I shall feel as if I had a sister already. And so I have, as you say. What a glad word!—I could cry again with the very writing of it.
'Endy—I did cry a little over your letter, but only for joy: if it had been for sorrow I should have cried long ago; for I knew well enough what was coming. Only I want more than ever to be at home,—and to see you, and to see Faith—don't let her think I am like you!
'My letter wouldn't hold much, as I told you. But I give you any number of (unspeakable!) messages for her, John Endy. I suppose you will take charge of them? I may feel sure they have all reached their destination?'"
Long before the reading was finished, Faith's head had sunk—almost to the cushions beside her. The reader's voice and intonation had given every word a sort of ring in her heart, though the tone was low. One hand came round her when she put her head down, taking possession of her hand which lay so still, with the unopened letter in its clasp. But now she was gently raised up.
"Precious child," Mr. Linden said, "what are you drooping your head for?"
"For the same reason she had, I suppose,—" said Faith half laughing, though witnesses of another kind were in her eyes.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Your sister."
"Why don't you begin to practise your lesson?"
Perhaps Faith thought that shewas. She looked at nothing but her letter.
"Will you wait for your messages till we get home?—this place not being absolute seclusion."
"Shall I read this now?" said Faith rather hastily.
"I should think there would be no danger in that."
With somewhat unsteady fingers, that yet tried to be quiet, Faith broke the seal; and masking her glowing face with one hand, she bent over the letter to read it.
"My very dear, and most unknown, and most well-known little sister! I have had a picture sent me of you—as you appeared one night, when you sat for your portrait, hearing Portia; and with it a notice of several events which occurred just before that time. And both picture and events have gone down into my heart, and abide there. Endecott says you are a Sunbeam—and I feel as if a little of the light had come over the water to me,—ever since his letter came I have been in a state of absolute reflection!
"I thought my love would not be the first to 'find out the way'—even then when I wrote it! Faith—do you know that there is nobody in the world just like him? because if you do not—you will find it out!—I mean! like Endecott—notlike Love. My dear, I beg pardon for my pronoun! But just howIhave loved you all these months, for making him so happy, I cannot tell you.
"And I cannot write to-day—about anything,—my thoughts are in too uneven a flow to find their way to the end of my pen, and take all possible flights instead. Dear Faith, you must wait for alettertill the next steamer. And you cannot miss it—nor anything else, with Endecott there,—it seems to me that to be even in the same country with him is happiness.
"You must love me too, Faith, and not think me a stranger,—and let me be your (because I am Endy's)
Faith took a great deal more time than was necessary for the reading of this letter. Very much indeed she would have liked to do as her correspondent confessed she had done, and cry—but there was no sign of such an inclination. She only sat perfectly moveless, bending over her letter. At last suddenly looked up and gave it to Mr. Linden.
"Well?" he said with a smile at her as he took it.
"You'll see—" she said, a little breathlessly. And still holding her hand fast, Mr. Linden read the letter, quicker than she had done, and without comment—unless when his look shewed that it touched him.
"You will love her, Faith!" he said as he folded the letter up again,—"in spite of all your inclinations to the contrary!"
"Do you think that is in the future tense? But I am afraid," addedFaith,—"she thinks too much of me now."
"She does not think as much of you as I do," Mr. Linden said, with a look and smile that covered all the ground of present or future fear. "And after all it is a danger which you will share with me. It is one of Pet's loveable feelings to think too much of some people whom she loves just enough."
Humility is not a fearful thing. Whatever had been in Faith's speech, her look, bright, wistful, and happy, had no fear, truly bumble though it was. "There is no danger of my loving this letter too much"—she said as she carefully restored it to its envelope; said with a secret utterance of great gratification.
The promised half hour was much more than up, and the broadening shadow on Kildeer river said that the time which could be given to wild flowers was fast running away. Perhaps, too, Mr. Linden thought Faith had mused and been excited enough, for he made a move. Everything in the boat was put up in close order, and then the two went ashore again, flower basket in hand.
The long shadows heightened the beauty of the woods now, falling soft and brown upon the yet browner carpet of dry leaves, and the young leaves and buds overhead shewed every tint, from yellow to green. Under the trees were various low shrubs in flower,—shad-blossom, with its fleecy stems, and azalia in rosy pink; and the real wild flowers—the dainty things as wild in growth as in name, were sprinkled everywhere. Wind flowers and columbine; orchis sweet as any hyacinth; tall Solomon's seal; spotless bloodroot; and violets—white, yellow, and purple. The dogwood stretched its white arms athwart hemlock and service; the creeping partridge berry carried its perfumed white stars over rocks and moss in the deep shade below. Yellow bellwort hung its fair flowers on every ridge; where the ground grew wet were dog's-tooth violet and chick wintergreen. There the red maples stood, with bunches of crimson keys,—at the edge of the higher ground their humbler growing sister the striped bark, waved her green tresses. There seemed to be no end to the flowers—nor to the variety—nor to the pleasure of picking.
"Faith—" said Mr. Linden.
Faith looked up from a bunch of Sanguinaria beside which she was crouching.
"I find so much Mignonette!—do you?"
Faith's eye flashed, and taking one of those little white stars she threw it towards Mr. Linden. It went in a graceful parabolic curve and fell harmlessly, like her courage, at his feet.
"What has become of the princess?"
"You ought rather to ask after the prince!" said Mr. Linden, picking up the Sanguinaria with great devotion. "Is this the Star of the Order of Merit?"
"I am not Queen Flora. I don't know."
"As what then was it bestowed?"
"It might be Mignonette's shield, which she used as a weapon because she hadn't any other! Endy, look at those green Maple flowers! You can reach them."
He gathered some of the hanging clusters, and then came and sat down where she was at work and began to put them into her basket, arranging and dressing the other flowers the while dextrously.
"Do you know, my little Sunbeam," he said, "that your namesakes are retreating?"
"I know it, Endy," she said hastening her last gatherings—"and I am ready."
They began their homeward way to the boat, wandering a little still, for flowers, and stopping to pick them, so that the sun was quite low before Kildeer river was reached. There Mr. Linden stood a moment looking about.
"Do you see the place where we sat, Faith?" he said,—"over on the other bank?"
She looked, and looked at him and smiled—very different from her look then! A glance comprehensive and satisfactory enough without words, so without any more words they went on their way along the shore of the river. As they neared their boat, the rays of the setting sun were darted into Kildeer river and gilded the embayed little vessel and all the surrounding shores. Rocks and trees and bits of land glowed or glistened in splendour wherever a point or a spray could catch the sun; the water in both rivers shone with a long strip of gold. They had had nothing so brilliant all day.
In the full glow and brightness Faith sat down in the boat with her flowers near her, and Mr. Linden loosened the sail. How pretty the bank looked as they were leaving it! the ashes of their fire on the rock, and the places where they had sat or wandered, and talked—such happy words!
"I shall always love Kildeer river," said Faith with little long breath, "because I read my letter here."
"And so shall I," said Mr. Linden,—"but my love for it dates back to the first piece of reading I ever did in its company." He looked back for a minute or two—at the one shore and the other—the sunlight, the trees, the flowery hillside, and it was well then that his face was not seen by Faith—there fell on it such a shadow of pain. But he presently turned to her again with just the former look.
"Now," he said, "do you think you can steer home in the twilight?"
"I don't know. Can I? I can follow directions."
"And I can give them."
And with that arrangement they ran out from the clean woody shores of Kildeer river, and set their sail for Pattaquasset. How fair, at that point of weather and day! a little quieter than the morning spring-tide of everything, but what was less gay was more peaceful; and against a soft south wind the little boat began to beat her way down, favoured however by the tide. These tacks made Mr. Linden's counsels more especially needed, but the short swift runs back and forth across the river were even more inspiriting than a steady run before the wind, and the constant attention which helm and sail required made talk and action lively enough.
"This is good, Endecott!" said Faith as the little boat came about for the fifth or sixth time.
"Faith," he said, smiling at her, "you look just as fresh as a rose!—the day does not seem to have tired you one bit."
"Tired!" she said,—"yes, I am a little bit tired—or hungry—but was there ever such a day as we have had?—since the first of January!"
"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said—but if it was a "message" Faith had then, it came from somewhere nearer than across the water. "If you are tired, dear child, give up the rudder to me, and lay down your head and rest. Do you see after what a sleep-inviting fashion the lights are twinkling all down the shore?"
"I'm not sleepy a bit;" said Faith,—"nor tired, except just enough; and I like this small portion of power you have put in my hands. How beautiful those lights look!—and the lights overhead, Endy. How beautiful every thing is!"—
"Yes," said Mr. Linden, "when there is light within.—
'He that hath light within his own clear breast,May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day.'"
"That's beautiful!" said Faith after a pause.
And now the brush and stir of "coming about" again claimed their attention, and in a minute more they were stretching away on a new tack, with another set of constellations opposite to them in the sky. The breeze was fresh, though as mild as May; the boat made good speed; and in spite of beating down the river the mouth of the Mong was neared fast. Pattaquasset lights, a little cluster of them, appeared unmistakably; for down by the point there was a little knot of houses, variously concerned in trade or fisheries. Mr. Linden had to put his hand upon the tiller sometimes then, till they got in. Mr. Skip and Jerry were in waiting; had been, "a sight o' half hours," the former stated. Baskets and shad and passengers were transferred to the wagon, and within a moderate time thereafter welcomed (the latter) by Mrs. Derrick and supper—wherein, after a little delay therefor, the shad played a conspicuous and most satisfactory part.
Now there are no shad like the shad that come out of the Mong.
So passed the days. Not indeed all at Kildeer river, but all in sweet, peaceful, bright occupations, whether of work or play. The trustees had received their notice, with much dismay; a little alleviated by the fact that Mr. Linden was willing to stay at his post for a few weeks after the end of the year.
It was almost a wonder, as the weeks went on, that Mr. Linden kept down the shadows as well as he did,—to leave Faith in the morning, and go to his devoted set of scholars—every one of whom had some particular as well as general hold on him and love for him; and then to get away by the hardest from their words and looks of sorrow and regret, and come back to the presence of her brave little face—Mr. Linden was between two fires. And they wrought a sort of deepening of everything about him which was lovely or loveable—which did not make it easier for Pattaquasset to let him go.
As far as anybody could be a help to him, Faith was one. In a gentleness of spirit that was of no kin to weakness, she took to her heart the good that she had, and was quite as much of a sunbeam as ever. How it would be when Mr. Linden was gone, Faith did not know; but she did know that that was one of to-morrow's cares, with which she had no business to-day. If the thought ever came up in its strength, strong enough to bring down her heart and head,—if there were times when Faith shewed herself to herself—the revelation was made to no other person. And therefore it is probable that it was a view she did not often indulge in.
Dr. Harrison was not much at Pattaquasset these days He found it convenient to be away.
Dr. Harrison was a man who did not like to throw away his ammunition. He by no means absented himself because of any failing in his fancy for somebody in Pattaquasset; the working of cause and effect was on a precisely opposite principle. The truth was, the fancy had grown to a strength that would not well bear the doubtful kind of intercourse which had been kept up between the parties; yet doubtful it remained, and must remain for the present. With Mr. Linden there in the family; with the familiar habits that naturally grow up between hostess and guest, friend and friend, fellow inmates of the same house—it was very difficult for the doctor to judge whether those habits had any other and deeper groundwork. It was impossible, with his scanty and limited chances of observation. At the same time there was too great a possibility—his jealousy called it more,—for him to be willing to take any forward and undoubtful steps himself. He did not find sea-room to put in his oar. In this state of things, all that his pride and his prudence would suffer him to do, was to wait—wait till either by Mr. Linden's stay or departure the truth might be made known. But to abide in Pattaquasset and watch patiently the signs of things, was more than Dr. Harrison's feeling,—for it was far more than fancy,—could bear. Just now, in despair or disgust, he had taken a longer enterprise than usual; and was very far indeed from Pattaquasset when the news of Mr. Linden's going set all the country in a flame. So, greatly to Faith's satisfaction, he could not for some time be there to add any flame of his own.
The morning readings with Mr. Linden were great and chief treasures to her all these days. She was always ready for him before six o'clock. Not now in a firelit room, with curtains drawn against the cold; but in the early freshness of the spring and summer mornings, with windows open and sweet air coming in. Duly Faith noted every "ladder of verses"—till her Bible grew to be well dotted with marks of red ink. They looked lovely to her eyes. So they might; for they were records of many very deep and sweet draughts from that well of water which the word is to them that love it; draughts deeper and sweeter than Faith could have drawn by herself—or she thought so. No quarter of an hour in the day Faith loved so well. It was often more.
One morning the "ladder" began with the silver trumpets made for the service of God in the hands of the priests of Israel. Faith, looking quietly out of the window, went roving in thought over the times and occasions Mr. Linden read of, when their triumphal blast had proclaimed the name and the glory of God in the ears of the thousands of Israel; times of rejoicing, of hope, of promise and of victory. Scenes of glory in the old Jewish history floated before her—with the sublime faith of the actors in them, and the magnificent emblematic language in which they read the truth. Faith only came fairly back to New England and Pattaquasset at David's declaration—
"Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, OLord, in the light of thy countenance."
The words thrilled her. She thought of the many who had never heard the sound at all; and entered into Isaiah's foresight of a day when "the great trumpet shall be blown, and they shall come that were ready to perish in the land of Assyria, and the outcasts in the land of Egypt."—
"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good; that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!"
Then came Isaiah's own blast of the trumpet, and then the sweet enlargements and proclamations of the gospel, and the Lord's own invitation to all who are "weary and heavy laden." But also—
"How shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!"—
"And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."
Faith sat by the open window, no sound abroad but the stir in the leaves and the low music of birds. The very still peace without, rather seemed to heighten and swell the moving of thoughts within, which surged like the sea. Mr. Linden stopped reading and was silent; and so was she, with nothing of all this appearing otherwise than in the fixed, abstracted look which went out into Pattaquasset but also went far beyond. And when she spoke, it was earnestly and with the same clear quiet.
"Endy—I amgladto have you go, for the reason you are going for. I wouldn't have you be anything else than what you mean to be,—not for the pleasure of having you here."
Her voice did not tremble, though indeed it told of feelings that were less assured.
"Dear Faith!" Mr. Linden said, with a bright flash of pleasure at her words, which changed even while he spoke, "you do not know what a comfort it is to me to feel that! And do you realize, little Sunbeam, what joy it is, that however far apart we can still work together—in the same cause, for the same master? The work which I take upon me by name, belongs as really to you,—for the call should be given by every one that heareth to every one that is athirst."
"I know—" she said quietly. "How grand those words are you have been reading!"
"Faith," Mr. Linden said presently, "have you any special attachment to this particular little Bible?"
"I have my red notes in it," she said with a bright smile.
"I am not quite satisfied with the paper and type, for your eyes—by firelight and twilight. Shall I break up any train of old association if I send you another?"
She gave him a look of what Dr. Harrison might have called "compound interest"; but assured him at the same time with sedate earnestness that the one she had would do very well.
This was but a day or two before Mr. Linden's leaving Pattaquasset. He had paid his many farewell visits before the last week came, and before that, too, had given up his weekday scholars,—those last days were all given to Faith. Given to her in every possible way—out of doors and within; in that fair summer weather the open air was the best of all places for talking, and the least liable to intrusion. It was a great relief to get away from village sights and sounds to the still woods, or the fresh shore,—it was a great help towards cheerfulness. And the help was needed. Wherever Mr. Linden went, among people, he met nothing but sorrow for his going away,—wherever he went, to house or woods, he carried the deep-hidden double sorrow in his heart, which no one guessed of all who so loudly bewailed his departure. Faith herself perhaps hardly realized what his part of that sorrow was; but he knew hers, and bore it—as one bears the trials of the dearest friend one has on earth.
He was to go very early in the morning, but when the late evening talk had impinged upon the night as much as it could be allowed to do, he gave Faith the unexpected promise of coming down to read with her just as usual next day.
It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her—she did not know how,—she only knew how he talked.
But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words. And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.
When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room.
It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in—the dancing flames in the chimney—her lessons by the side of that couch—her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;—all that and everything beside seemed to make its passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.
Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed. There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one—and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it.
I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,—how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I knowyouwill find it, Faith—I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,—but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me—and all the days that followed,—and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,—it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time.
I must go back to our Bible verses!—Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'—In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,—I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!
Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then—from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.
My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!—I shall be drawn on too far and too long,—it is not far from daybreak now. Take the best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,' and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'!
Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am
Always your own—
The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However, in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs. Derrick looking much like her wonted self.
She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness; only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that came to the house. One would have thought her—perhaps Mrs. Derrick even did—quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr. Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth.
The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the Bible in its place for prayer—when she stopped short. For a moment she stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr. Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation.
Her mother watched her,—sat and looked at her as she wrote, with eyes very glistening and tremulous in their fond admiration. Indeed that had been their character all day, though Mrs. Derrick had followed Faith in her busy work, with no attempt to check her, with no allusion to what they both thought of uninterruptedly. Now, however, that Faith's tears had made their own way, her mother's heart was easier; and she watched the pretty writer by the lamp with all sorts of sweet and tender thoughts.
A day or two passed, in great quiet and tender ministering to each other of the mother and daughter. Faith had taken deep hold of her studies again and every minute of the day was filled up as busily as ever. So the sitting-room wore in all things minus one its wonted aspect, when, the third evening, it received Dr. Harrison.
He came in looking remarkably well, in his light dainty summer dress, and with that gentle carelessness of movement and manner that suited the relaxing persuasions of a hot summer day. He came in, too, a little like a person who through long absences has forgotten how wonted he used to be in a certain place or how fond he was of what he found there. Nothing further from the truth!
He accosted both ladies after his usual gay fashion, and talked for a while about nothings and as if he cared about nothing. He could make nothing of Faith, except perhaps that she was a trifle shy of him. That did not mean evil necessarily; it was natural enough. He wouldn't disturb her shyness!
"I have a sympathetic feeling for you, Mrs. Derrick," he remarked. "I miss Mr. Linden so much in Pattaquasset, I can't think how you must do in the house."
"No, doctor, you can't," was Mrs. Derrick's quiet rejoinder.
"How do you?"
"Why I can't tell you, either," said Mrs. Derrick.
"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I shouldn't like to be a lawyer and have to examine you as a witness. Unless it wasn't August!"
"Well I suppose we should agree upon that, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick."I don't know what August has to do with it."
"My dear madam, it would be too much trouble!—Apparently it isn't August everywhere!"—A very peremptory rap at the front door came in the train of footsteps that were loud and brisk as by authority, and that had quite survived the enervating effects referred to by the doctor.
"Miss Faith," said Cindy appearing at the parlour door, "here's a man's got something—and he won't give it to me without I'll take oath I'm you—which of course I dursn't. I'm free to confess, I can't even get sight of it. Shall I fetch him in—thing and all?"
Faith went to the door. It was nobody more terrific than an express-man, who seemed to recognize "Miss Faith Derrick" by instinct, for he asked no questions—only put a package into her hands, and then gave her his book to sign. Faith signed her name, eagerly, and then ran up stairs with her treasure and a beating heart, and struck a light.
There was no need to ask where it came from—the address was plain enough; nor much need to ask what it was—she knew that it must be her Bible. Yet that only heightened the pleasure and interest, as she took off one wrapping paper after another, till its own beautiful morocco covers appeared. Within was the perfection of type and paper, with here and there a fine coloured map; in size and shape just that medium which seems to combine the excellencies of all the rest. There was no letter in the package, but a slip of paper with a new "ladder of verses" marked the place where they began; and on the fly leaf, below the inscription, was written the first verse of the ninety-first psalm. This was the leading reference on the slip of paper.
Has any one—with any heart—ever received such a package? To such a one there is no need to tell the glow of pleasure, the rush of affection and joy, which filled Faith's heart and her face; to anybody else it's no use. She had to exercise some care to prevent certain witnesses of the eyes from staining the morocco or spotting the leaves. The paper of references she left, to be enjoyed more leisurely another time; and went on turning over the pages, catching glimpses of the loved words that she had never seen so fairly presented to the eye before; when after a good deal of this sort of delectation, through half of which she was writing a letter to Mr. Linden, Faith suddenly recollected Dr. Harrison! Softly the paper wrappers enfolded her treasure, and then Faith went down stairs with the high colour of pleasure in her cheeks. The doctor took several observations.
He had not been profiting by any opportunity to "examine" Mrs. Derrick. On the contrary, he had talked about everything else, somewhat August fashion, in manner, but yet so cleverly that even Mrs. Derrick confessed afterwards she had been entertained. Now, on Faith's reappearance, he went on with his subject until he came to a natural pause in the conversation; which he changed by remarking, in a simple tone of interest,
"I haven't learned yet satisfactorily what took Mr. Linden away?"
"His own business," said Mrs. Derrick. "You must have heard what he is about now, doctor?"
"I have heard—but one hears everything. It is true then?"
"O yes, it's true," said Mrs. Derrick with an even play of her knitting-needles.
"But then follows another very natural question," said the doctor.—"Why did he come here at all?"
"I dare say he'd tell you if he was here—as I wish he was," said Mrs. Derrick,—"Mr. Linden always seemed to have good reasons for what he did."
"I think that too," said the doctor. "I am not quite so sure of his telling them to me. But Pattaquasset has reason to be very sorry he is gone away! What sort of a preacher will he make, Mrs. Derrick?"
"He's a good one now—" said Mrs. Derrick with a smile that was even a little moved. "Don't you think so, doctor?"
"How dare you ask me that, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor with slow funny utterance. "But I will confess this,—I would rather havehimpreach to me than you."
"What sort of a bad reason have you got for that?" she said, looking at him.
"Miss Faith," said the doctor with the mock air of being in a dilemma,—"you are good at definitions, if I remember—what is the proper character of abad reason!"
Faith looked up—he had never seen her look prettier, with a little hidden laughter both on and under her face and that colour she had brought down stairs with her. But her answer was demure enough.
"I suppose, sir, one that ought not to be a reason at all,—or one that is not reason enough."
"Do you consider it a bad reason for my not liking Mrs. Derrick's preaching, that I am afraid of her?"
"I shouldn't think it was reason enough," said Faith.
"Do you like preaching from people that you are afraid of?"
"Yes. At least I think I should. I don't know that I ever really was afraid of anybody."
These words, or the manner which went with them, quite obliterated the idea of Mrs. Derrick from the doctor's head. But his manner did not change. He only addressed his talk to Faith and altered the character of it. Nothing could be more cool and disembarrassed. He had chosen his tactics.
They were made to regulate likewise the length of his visit, though the short summer evening had near run its course before he (in parliamentary phrase) "was on his legs" not to speak but to go. Then strolling on to the front door, he there met Reuben Taylor; flush in the doorway. The boy stept back into the hall to let him cone out; whence, as the doctor saw through the open window,—he went at once to Faith's side. But either accidentally or of design, Reuben stood so directly before her, that Dr. Harrison could see neither face—indeed could scarce see her at all. The little business transaction that went on then—the letter which Reuben took from his pocket and then again from its outer enveloppe,—the simple respect and pleasure with which he gave it to Faith—though colouring a little too,—all this was invisible, except to Mrs. Derrick. Faith's face would have told the doctor the whole. The pretty colour—the dropped eyes—and the undertone of her grateful, "I am very much obliged to you, Reuben!"
Reuben made no verbal answer, and staid not a minute longer, but the pleasure of his new trust was wonderful!
Faith did not have as uninterrupted a time for studies as she had counted upon for the next few months. In the first place, letters took a great many hours. In the second place, her studies were pretty frequently broken up of an evening by Dr. Harrison.
He certainly came often; whether it was because of the strength of attraction in that particular house, or the failure of any attraction beside in all the coasts of Pattaquasset, was a problem which remained unsolved by anything in the doctor's manner. His manner was like what it had been the evening just recounted. He amused himself, after his nonchalant fashion, and amused his hearers; he did not in the mean time call upon them for any help at all. He discerned easily that Faith had a little shyness about her; that might mean one thing or it might mean another; and Dr. Harrison was far too wise to risk the one thing by endeavouring to find out whether it was the other. The doctor was no fisher had no favour for the sport; but if he had been, he might have thought that now he was going to give his fish a very long line indeed, and let it play to any extent of shyness or wilfulness; his hand on the reel all the time.
The talk that would do for Miss Essie would not please Faith. The doctor knew that long ago. He drew upon his better stores. His knowledge of the earth we live on; his familiarity with nature's and art's wonders; history and philosophy; literature and science; and a knowledge of the world which he used as a little piquant spice to flavour all the rest of his knowledge. Thrown in justly, with a nice hand, so as not to offend, it did rather serve to provoke a delicate palate; while it unmistakably gratified his own. It was the salt to the doctor's dish.
But everything wants breaking up with variety, and variety itself may come to be monotonous. He asked Faith one evening if she knew anything of chymistry; and proceeded upon her reply to give her sundry bits of detail and some further insight into the meaning and bearing of the science. It was not August then, but it might have been, for the leisurely manner in which the doctor "unwound his skein" of talk, as if he were talking to himself orforhimself; and yet he was, and he knew it, filling Faith's ears with delight. He took up the same subject afterwards from time to time; beginning from any trifle of suggestion, he would go off into an exquisite chymical discussion, illustrated and pointed and ornamented, as no lecturer but one loving both his subject and hisobjectcould ever make it. After a while the doctor began to come with bits of metal and phials of acids, and delight Faith and astonish Mrs. Derrick by turning her sitting-room into an impromptu laboratory. Such fumes! such gaseous odours! such ominous "reports", were never known in and about Mrs. Derrick's quiet household; nor were her basins and tumblers ever put to such strange, and in her view hideous, uses. But Dr. Harrison rather seemed to enjoy what appeared at first sight inconveniences; triumphed over the imperfections of tools and instruments, and wrought wonders over which Faith bent with greater raptures than if the marvels of Aladdin's lamp had been shewn before her. The doctor began by slow degrees; he let all this grow up of itself; he asked only for a tumbler the first time. And insensibly they went on, from one thing to another; till instead of a tumbler, the doctor would sometimes be surrounded with a most extraordinary retinue and train of diversified crockery and china. An empty butter-tub came to do duty for a water-bath; bottles and jars and cups and glasses, of various shapes and dimensions, attended or waited upon the doctor's operations; and with a slight apology and assurance to Mrs. Derrick he on more than one or two occasions appropriated the clock-shade for his use and behoof as a receiver. Then siphons began to come in the doctor's pocket; and glass tubes, bent and straight, open and sealed, in the doctor's hand; and one of his evenings came to be "better than a play." A most beautiful and exquisite play to Faith. Yet Dr. Harrison never forgot his tactics; never let his fish feel the line; and to Faith's joyous "How shall I ever thank you, Dr. Harrison!"—would reply by a dry request that she would induce Mrs. Derrick to have muffins for tea some evening and let him come.
And what did Dr. Harrison gain by all this? He did gain some hours of pleasure—that would have been very exquisite pleasure, but for the doubt that haunted him, and respecting which he could get no data of decision. The shyness and reserve did pass away from Faith; she met him and talked with him as a pleasant intimate friend whose company she enjoyed and who had a sort of right to hers; the right of friendship and kindliness. But then he never did anything to try her shyness or to call up her reserve. He never asked anything of her that shecouldrefuse. He never advanced a step where it could with decency be repressed. He knew it. But he bided his time. He did not know what thorough and full accounts of all his evenings went—through the post-office.
He knew, and it rather annoyed him, that Reuben Taylor was very freely admitted and very intimately regarded in the house. There was perhaps no very good reason why this should have annoyed the doctor. Yet somehow he always rather identified Reuben Taylor with another of his friends. He found out, too, that Reuben much preferred the times when he, the doctor, was not there; for after once or twice coming in upon sulphuric acid and clock shades (from which he retreated faster than if it had all been gun-powder) Reuben changed his hour; and the doctor had the satisfaction of wishing him good evening in the porch—or of passing him on the sidewalk—or of hearing the swing of the little gate and Reuben's quick bound up the steps when his own feet were well out in the common ground of the road.
Mrs. Derrick expressed unequivocally (to Faith, not the doctor) her dislike of all chymical "smells" whatever, and her abhorrence of all "reports" but those which went off after the doctor's departure; the preparation of which Mrs. Derrick beheld with a sort of vindictive satisfaction. Mr. Linden enjoyed his letters unqualifiedly, sometimes wrote chymical answers—now and then forestalling the doctor, but rarely saying much about him. Faith was in little danger of annoyance from anything with her mother sitting by, and for the rest Dr. Harrison was at his own risk. Letters were too precious—every inch of them—to be much taken up with discussinghim. Other things were of more interest,—sometimes discussion, sometimes information, oftenest of all, talk; and now and then came with the letter some book to give Faith a new bit of reading. Above all, the letters told her—in a sort of indefinable, unconscious way, how much, how much her presence was missed and longed for; it seemed to her as if where one letter laid it down the next took it up—not in word but in atmosphere, and carried it further. In that one respect (though Faith never found it out) the chymical accounts gave pain.
Faith in her letters never spoke directly of this element of his; but she made many a gentle effort to meet it and soothe what could be soothed. To this end partly were her very full accounts of all the course of her quiet life. As fearlessly and simply as possible Faith talked, to him; quite willing to be found wrong and to be told so, wherever wrong was. It was rather by the fulness of what she gave him, than by any declaration of want on her own part, that Mr. Linden could tell from her letters how much she felt or missed in his absence. She rarely put any of that into words, and if it got in atmospherically it was by the subtlest of entrances. When she spoke it at all, it was generally a very frank and simple expression of strong truth.
Of out-door work, during all this time, she had a variety. For some time after Mr. Linden's going away, neither Mrs. Stoutenburgh nor the Squire had been near the house; but then they began to amuse themselves with taking her to drive, and whenever Faith could and would go she was sure of a pleasant hour or two out in the brisk autumn air, and with no danger of even hearing Mr. Linden's name mentioned. The silence indeed proved rather too much, but it was better than speech. Then she and Reuben had many excursions, short and long. Sometimes the flowers or eggs or tracts were sent by him alone, but often Faith chose to go too; and he was her ever ready, respectful, and efficient escort,—respect it was truly, of the deepest and most affectionate kind. And thus—on foot or with Jerry—the two went their rounds; but at such houses Faith must both hear and speak of Mr. Linden—there was always some question to answer, some story to hear.
It happened, among Dr. Harrison's other pleasures, that he several times met them on these expeditions; generally when he was driving, sometimes when they were too; but one late November afternoon—not late in the month but late in the day, fortune favoured him. Strolling along for an unwonted walk, the doctor beheld from a little hill Faith and Reuben in the valley below,—saw them go up to the door of a cottage, saw Faith go in, and Reuben sit down in the porch and take out his book. It was a fair picture,—the brown woodland, the soft sunlight, the little dark cottage, the pretty youthful figures with their quick steps and natural gestures, and the evening hue and tone of everything. But the doctor did not admire it—and went down the hill without even taking off his hat to the chickadees that bobbed their black caps at him from both sides of the road. By the porch the doctor suddenly slackened his pace, looked within, nodded to Reuben, and came to a halt.
"Have I accidentally found out where you live, Reuben?"
"I live down by the shore, sir," said Reuben standing up.
"I thought—" said the doctor, "I had got an impression that you were not a thorough-going Pattaquasseter—but you looked so much at home there.—Wheredoyou live? whereabouts, I mean; for the shore stretches a long way."
Reuben gave the vernacular name of the little rocky coast point which was his home, but the point itself was too much out of the doctor's 'beat' to have the name familiar.
"How far off is that?"
"About four miles from here, sir."
"May I ask what you are studying so diligently four miles from home at this hour?"
Reuben coloured a good deal, but with not more than a moment's reluctance held out his book for the doctor's inspection. It was a Bible. The doctor's face changed, ever so little; but with what feeling, or combination of feelings, it would have taken a much wiser reader of men and faces than Reuben to tell. It was only a moment, and then he stood with the book in his hand gravely turning it over, but with his usual face.
"I once had the pleasure of asking you questions on some other matters," he remarked,—"and I remember you answered well. Can you pass as good an examination in this?"
"As to the words, sir? or the thoughts?—I don't quite know," saidReuben modestly.
"Words are the signs of thoughts, you know."
"Yes, sir—but nobody can know all the Bible thoughts—though some people have learned all the Bible words."
The doctor gave a little sort of commenting nod, rather approving than otherwise. "You are safe here," he paid as he handed the book back to Reuben; "for in this study I couldn't examine you. What are you pursuing the study for?—may I ask?"
"If you don't know!" was in the boy's full gaze for a moment. But he looked down again, answering steadily—"'Thy word have I hid in my heart, that I might not sin against thee!'—I love it, Dr. Harrison—and it shews me the way to serve God."
"Well," said the doctor rather kindly—"if I hadn't interrupted you, how much more study would you have accomplished before you thought it time to set oft for that four miles' walk home—to that unpronounceable place?"
"I don't know, sir—I am not obliged to be there by any particular time of night."
"No, I know you are not. But—excuse my curiosity!—are you so fond of the Bible that you stop on the way home to read it as you go along? or are you waiting for somebody?"
The words brought the colour back with a different tinge, but Reuben simply answered, "No, sir—I did not stop here to read. I am waiting."
"For Miss Derrick, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I dare say Miss Derrick will release you for this time, and allow me to attend her home, whither I am going myself."
"I must wait till she comes out, sir," Reuben said, with the respectful intractability which the doctor remembered.
"Of course!" he said. "Did you ever take lessons of anybody but Mr.Linden?—" But at this point the house door opened and Faith came out.
"Miss Faith," said the doctor, after his greeting which was thoroughly in character, "if you will tell your escort here—who I am sure is a staunch one—that you need him no longer, he will feel free to begin his long walk to the shore,—and I shall have the rare pleasure and honour of going home with you."
Faith turned frankly. "Do you want to go home, Reuben?"
"No, Miss Faith"—was the equally frank, low-spoken answer,—"not unless you want me to go." Reuben could but speak the truth—and he did try to speak it with as little offence as possible; though with an instinctive feeling that the time "when truth will be truth and not treason," had not yet arrived. "I mean, that I want to do just what you wish," he added looking up at her.
"I don't want you to go, then," said Faith laughing, "for I mean that you shall come home to tea with me. Dr. Harrison, I will invite you too," she said turning her bright face towards him. "Ibelieve—there are muffins to-night."
"Miss Faith,"—said the doctor,—"you are an angel!"
"What is the connexion between that and muffins?" said Faith merrily, for Reuben was at her side and she felt free.
"You mistake the connexion," said the doctor gravely. "Angels are supposed to be impartial in their attentions to the human race, and not swayed by such curious—and of course arrogant—considerations as move the lower herd of mortals. To an immaterial creature, how can the height of a door be material!"
"But I think you are mistaken," said Faith gently. "I don't believe any creatures mind more what they find inside the door."
"What did you find inside that door?" said the doctor.
Faith hesitated. "Do you know to-morrow is Thanksgiving day, Dr.Harrison?"
"I am not quite sure that I ought to say I know it—though my father did read the proclamation. I suppose I know it now."
"I found inside of that door some people who could not make pumpkin pies—and Reuben and I have been carrying them one of mother's."
"What a day they will have of it!" said the doctor,—"if Mrs. Derrick's pies are made in the same place as her muffins. But canyoufind nothing better to do than running round the country to supply the people that haven't pies?"
"Not many things pleasanter,"—said Faith looking at him.
"I see I was right," said he smiling. "I have no doubt angels do that sort of thing. But it is a sort of pleasure of which I have no knowledge. All my life I have pleased only myself. Yet one would wish to have some share in it, too. I can't make pies! And if I could, I shouldn't know in the least where to bestow them. Do you think you could take this now," said he producing a gold eagle, "and turn it into pumpkins or anything else that you think will make people happy—and see that they get to the right places?—for me?"
"Do you mean it seriously, Dr. Harrison?"
"If you will have the condescension!"
"Oh thank you!" said Faith flushing with joy,—"oh thank you! I am very glad of this, and so will many others be. Dr. Harrison, I wish you could know the pleasure this will give!—the good it will do."
"I don't think a ten-dollar piece ever gavemeso much pleasure," said he looking a little moved. "About the good I don't know; that's not so easy."
Faith left that point for him to consider, though with many a wish in her own heart. But the walk home brightened into a very pleasant one after that.
The soft grey clouds which had hung about the setting sun only waited his departure to double their folds and spread them all over the sky. Then the wind rose, sweeping gustily through the bare branches, and heavy drops of rain fell scatteringly on the dead leaves. But when wind and rain had taken a little more counsel together, they joined forces in a wild stormy concert which swept on with increasing tumult. It did not disturb Faith and her mother, at their quiet work and reading,—it did not deter Cindy from going over night to spend Thanksgiving day with her friends,—but it was a wild storm nevertheless; and while the hours of the night rolled on over the sleepers in Mrs. Derrick's house, still wind and rain kept up their carousal, nor thought of being quiet even when the morning broke.
"But rather, giving of thanks."—That was the motto of the day—the one answer to the many vexed questions of life and care. Care was pressing, and life distracting, and everywhere was something that seemed to call for tears or complaints. To all of these the day answered—"But rather, giving of thanks."
It was dark enough when Faith awoke; and she sat up in bed a minute or two, listening to the wild blasts of wind and the heavy pattering of the rain,—hearing the screech of the locomotive as the train swept by in the distance, with a pang at the thought of its freight of homeward-bound and expected dear ones,—then taking the day's motto, and gently and quietly going about the day's work. But the first of its work for her, was to cancel the bit of work it had already done by itself; and for that Faith went to her Bible,—went first to the list of texts that had come with it; endeavouring to realize and make sure her ground on that verse of the 91st Psalm—then on from that to its following—
"For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion."
It was not a "time of trouble." Faith would not call it so. Never so bright a Thanksgiving day had risen upon her, spite of its clouds. But trouble might come; in the course of life-experience she knew it was pretty sure to come; and she sought to refuge herself beforehand in the promise of that pavilion of hiding. The driving wind and storm that emblematized another kind, gave emphasis also to the emblem of shelter. How Faith blessed her Bible!
The next verse enlarged a little.—
"Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues."
Then followed the joyful acceptance of that promise—
"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."
Then its result—
"I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever."
"From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever; I will trust in the covert of thy wings."
What strong refuge! what riches of trust!—How very bright Faith's fire-lit room looked, with the wind whistling all about, and the red light on her open Bible. She turned on. And like the full burst of a chorus after that solo, she seemed to hear the whole Church Militant say,—
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."
Her mind swept back to the martyr ages,—to times when the church's road has been in darkness and in light, and the long train of pilgrims have gone over it in light and in darkness, each with that staff in his hand. Faith looked long at those words, seeming to see the great "cloud of witnesses" pass in procession before her. How true the words were to Abraham, when he left his home. How true to Daniel when he was thrown to the lions. How true they were to Stephen when he uttered his dying cry!—how true to the little child whom she had seen go to be with Christ for ever!—"In all generations."
The prophets, true to their office, threw the light for ward.—
"He shall be for a sanctuary."
"Although I have cast them far off among the heathen, and although I have scattered them among the countries, yet will I be to them as a little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come."
"I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon."
The next words gave the whole description, the whole key of entrance.
"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in God. And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."
Here was the "Sanctuary" on earth,—the foreshewing image of the one on high.
"I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it."
How far Faith had got from the earthly Thanksgiving day—even to that finished and everlasting one on high! She had of course read and studied these passages all before—once; and then she had shut them up as a particular casket of treasures that she would not grow too familiar with suddenly, but would keep to enjoy their brightness another time. Something this Thanksgiving morning had made Faith want them. She now sat looking at the last words, feeling as if she wanted nothing.
The wind and the rain still raged without, drowning and merging any sounds there might be in the road, though truly few animate things were abroad at that hour in that weather. Mr. Skip had roused himself, indeed, for his day's pleasure, and after lighting the kitchen fire had gone forth—leaving it to take care of itself; but when the door closed after him, Faith and her fire looked at each other in the same stillness as before. Until she heard the front door open and shut,—that was the first sound, and the last,—no unwonted one, either; that door opened and shut twenty times a day. What intangible, well-recognized modification in its motions now, made Faith's heart bound and sink with sudden belief—with swift denial? Who was it? at that hour! Faith sprang to the parlour door, she did not know how, and was in the dark hall. A little gleam of firelight followed her—a little faint dawn came through the fanlight of the door: just enough to reveal to Faith those very outlines which at first sight she had pronounced "pleasant." One more spring Faith made; with no scream of delight, but with a low exclamation, very low, that for its many-folded sweetness was like the involutions of a rosebud.
"Faith!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch me till I get out of the rain!"—which prohibition Faith might consider useless, or might think that—shuttlecock fashion—it had got turned round in the air.
"The best place to get out of the rain is in here," she said trying to draw him along with her. "Oh Endy! how came you in it?"
"If you say three words to me, I shall give you the benefit of all the remaining raindrops," said Mr. Linden, disengaging himself to throw off his overcoat,—"how can one do anything, with you standing there? How came I in it?—I came in it! Precious child! how do you do?" And she was taken possession of, and carried off into the next room, like a rosebud as she was, to have the same question put a great many times in a different way. More words for her, just then, Mr. Linden did not seem to have. Nor Faith for him. She stood very still, her face in a glow of shy joy, but her eyes and even her lips grave and quiet; except when sometimes a very tiny indicatory smile broke half way upon them.
"When did you come?"
"I came in the night train. Mignonette—are you glad to see me?"
The smile shewed her teeth a little. They would bear shewing, but this was only a glimmer of the white enamel.
"Then you have been travelling all night?"
"Yes. How are you going to prove your position?"
"What position, Endy?"
"That you are glad to see me."
"I don't know,"—she said looking up at him.
"You cannot think of any proof to give me?"
"I can think of a great many."
"I am ready to take them!" said Mr. Linden demurely.
"Then if you will sit down and let me leave you for a few minutes, I will see what I can do."
"Thank you—the proofs that I mean would by no means take you further off. Suppose you see what you can do without going away."
She laid her head down for a minute, colouring too, even the cheek that was high-coloured before; but she looked up again.
"Stoop your high head, then, Endy!"—she said;—and she gave him two kisses, as full and earnest as they were soft. There was no doubt Faith had proved her position!
"Faith, darling," he said, "have you been growing thin?—or is it only that I have had to do with such substantial humanity of late. Look up here and let me see—are you anything but the essence of Mignonette?"
The face she shewed was aptly named; about as pure as that. With grave, loving intentness—not the less grave for its little companion smile—Mr. Linden studied her face for a minute,—pushing back her hair.
"Do you think,"—she said then in a light soft tone—a departure from the last words,—"do you think you won't want the essence of something else by and by, Endecott?"
"No,"—decidedly,—"I want nothing but you—so you may as well make up your mind to want nothing but me."
"Do you know what that would end in?"
"Not necessarily in such a simple duet," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"people do not always realize their ideal. Mignonette, you are just as lovely as you can be!—and you need not bring Miss Reason to keep me in order. I suppose ifshewere in the house it would end in her wanting her breakfast."