"I shall not stir until you are ten yards in front of me!—unless I leave you as far behind."

She planted herself for an instant before him and looked in his face, with eyes of quiet but most eloquent beseeching.

"No"—he repeated,—"you must go on and fear nothing. Child—'there is no restraint to the Lord, to save by many or by few.'"

She did not answer, even by the little shake of the head which sometimes with her stood in place of words. She turned, went swiftly forward, with a straight, even, unslackening pace, which did not falter nor stop for a long, long piece of the way; how long it was by the mind's measurement it would be hard to tell. It was one breathless sense of pain and fear; of which moonlight and shadows and the points of the way all made part and were woven in together. Her ears were tingling for that sound; her eyes only measured unconsciously the distances and told off the waymarks. Down the little pitch of the road where that to Barley point forked off; then by a space of clear fences where hedgerows were not, and a barn or two rose up in the moonlight; through gates where the post shadows were black and deep, by the skirting bushes that now and then gathered about the rails. She walked as fast as she could and keep her strength. That was unconsciously measured too. It had seemed to her, in her agony of pleading before the commencing of this strange walk, that it was impossible she should do it. She was doing it now, under a force of will that she had not been able to withstand; and her mind was subdued and strained beyond the power of thinking. Her very walking seemed to her mechanical; intensely alive as her senses were all the time. There was a transient relief at coming into the neighbourhood of a house, and a drear feeling of desolation and increased danger as she left it behind her; but her pace neither faltered nor flagged. She looked round sometimes, but never paused for that. Before the more thickly settled part of the village was reached her step grew a little slower, probably from the sheer necessity of failing strength; but steady it was, at whatever rate of travel. When at last they turned the sandy corner into the broad street or main way of the village, where houses and gardens often broke the range of hedgeway or fence, and lights spoke to lights in the neighbouring windows, Faith stopped and stood leaning against the fence. In another moment she was drawn away from that to a better support.

"Are you faint?" Mr. Linden said.

Her "no" was faint, but the answer was true for all the rest of her.

He drew her hand within his arm, and went on silently; but how glad he was to see her home, Faith might guess from the way she was half carried up the steps and into the hall, and the door shut and locked behind her. After the same fashion she was taken into the sitting-room and placed in the easy chair, and her wrappers unfastened and taken off with very gentle and quick hands. She offered almost as little help as hindrance, and her head sank immediately.

He stood by her, and repeated his question about faintness.

"O no, sir—I'm not faint. It's nothing," Faith said, but as if her very voice was exhausted. And crossing her arms upon the table, close to which the easy chair stood, she laid her head down upon them. Her mother might well say she had a baby face. It looked so them.

Mr. Linden's next move was to get a glass of wine, and with gentle force and persuasion to make her swallow it; that done, he stood leaning upon the back of her chair, silently, but with a very, very grave face.

She kept her position, scarcely stirring, for some length of time, except that after a while she hid her face in her hands. And sitting so, at last she spoke, in a troubled tone.

"What can be done, Mr. Linden?—to put a stop to this."

"I will try what can be done," he answered, though not as if that point were uppermost in his mind. "I think I can find a way. I wish nothing gave me more uneasiness than that!"

"Do you think there is any way that you can do it, thoroughly?"

"Yes, I think so," he repeated. "There are ways of doing most things. I shall try. Do not you think about it, Miss Faith,—I have something now to make me glad you are going to Pequot. Before, I could only remember how much I should miss my scholar."

"Why are you glad now, Mr. Linden?" Faith's voice was in as subdued a state of mind as her face.

"Change of air will be good for you—till this air is in a better state."

She made no answer. In a few minutes she rose up, gathered her wrappers into one hand, and turning to Mr. Linden held out the other to him; with a very child's look, which however was rather doubtful about meeting his. His look had lost none of its grave concern.

"Are you better?" he said. "Will you promise to go right to sleep, and leave all troublesome matters where alone they can be taken care of?"

The faintest kind of a smile flitted across her face. "I don't know"—she said doubtfully,—"I don't know what I can do, Mr. Linden."

"I have told you."

"I'll try—the last part," she said with a somewhat more defined smile as she glanced up at him. It was as grave and gentle a smile as is often known.

"You must try it all," he said, giving her hand the same touch it had had once before. "Miss Faith, I may use your words—I think you will never give me harder work to do than I have had to-night!"

She could not bear that. She stood with eyes cast down, and a fluttering quiver upon her lip; still, because the effort to control herself was at the moment as much as she could do. It was successful, though barely; and then, without venturing another look, she said her low "Good night, sir"; and moved away. She was accompanied as far as the door, but then Mr. Linden paused, with his hand on the latch.

"Shall you take any work—I mean book work—with you to Pequot?—or will your hands find too much else to do?"

"I meant to take some I meant to do a good deal—I hope so."

"Then can you come back to the great chair for ten minutes, and let me give you a word or two of direction?"

She came immediately and sat down. And Mr. Linden went back to where they had been interrupted early in the evening, and told her what and where and how to go on in the various books, till she should see him again; putting marks here and there to save her trouble, or pencilling some explanation which might be needed. It took but a few minutes to do this; and then Mr. Linden laid the books together, and drawing the old Bible towards him once more, he turned to the ninety-first Psalm and read it aloud. Read it with full heart-felt effect; which made the words fall like the dew they are, upon the weary little flower Faith was. Then he bade her once more goodnight.

She went refreshed; yet to become a prey to struggling thoughts which for a while prevented refreshment from having its lawful action. How much of the night and of the early morning Faith spent in these thoughts, and in the fruit of them, is uncertain; for the evening's work would sufficiently have accounted for her worn look the next day.



CHAPTER XXXV.



"Must I go to Pequot?" was the first thought that entered Faith's mind the next morning. And the advancing daylight, with its clear steadfast way of looking at things, said, "Yes, you must." "Is there anything I—who know most about this business—can do to put an end to it?" That was a second thrilling question. The same daylight gave its frank answer,—"No, you cannot—you cannot." Faith took both answers, and then sought, in the very spirit of a child, to "leave all troublesome things where alone they could be taken care of."

"There is a faculty in this," saith Leighton, "that all persons have not." But the spirit of a child can do it; and the spirit of a Christian, so far as it is right, is none other. Faith went down stairs, in spite of inward sorrow and trembling, with a quiet brow. It was very much the face of last night, for its subdued look, and in spite of the night's rest, in its paleness too; though the colour played there somewhat fitfully. Sorrowful note of that Mr. Linden took, or the pained look of last night had not passed off from his face,—or both might be true. So far as the most gentle, quick-sighted, and careful attention could be of avail, the breakfast was pleasant;—otherwise it was but a grave affair. Even Mrs. Derrick looked from one to the other, with thoughtfulness that was not merely of Faith's going away.

There was little time however for observations. Directly after breakfast the wagon was got ready; and when they were bestowed in it and Mr. Linden's farewell had bade Faith remember all his injunctions the night before, he turned and walked on to his own place of work and the mother and daughter set forth on their journey.

In a small insignificant house, in a by street of Pequot, was the little, very odd household of the two, Miss and Madame Danforth. They kept no servant; they lived quite to themselves; the various work of the household they shared between them and made it as good as play; and no worse than play seemed all the rest of their quiet lives. But Miss Dilly was ill now and unable to do her part; and what was worse, and more, she had lost her wonted cheerful and gay way of looking at things. That the little Frenchwoman never lost; but it takes two to keep up a shuttlecock, and Faith was welcome in that house.

What work she did there for the next two or three weeks was best known—not to herself—but to the two old ladies whose hearts she cheered. And they knew not all; they did not know the leap of Faith's heart at the thought of home, whenever, morning or noon or night, it came into her head. She kept it out of her head as much as she could.

And she went about from the top to the bottom of the house, even after the first day she came, the same sort of sunbeam she was at home. She took in hand Miss Danforth's broom and duster, and did Cindy's part of setting cups and saucers; but that was a small matter. The helpful hand which made itself so busy and the voice which ran music all up and down the house, were never forgotten, even by the Frenchwoman. To Miss Danforth, feeble and ailing, Faith ministered differently, and did truly the work of an angel. More than once before the second day was done, Miss Dilly repeated, "Faith, child, how glad I am I sent for you!"—And Madame Danforth took to her mightily; opened heart and arms without reservation; and delighting to have her company, carried her down into the kitchen and initiated Faith into deep mysteries of the science and art the head quarters of which are there. Now did Faith learn new secrets about coffee, about eggs, about salads and about vegetables, that she never knew before; and for some unknown reason she was keen to learn, and liked the half hours over the kitchen fire with Madame Danforth so well, that the little Frenchwoman grew proud of her pupil.

It was the third day of Faith's being at Pequot. Faith was engaged in some gentle offices about the room, folding up clothes and putting drawers in order. Miss Danforth's eye watched her, following every movement, till Madame Danforth left the room to go out on business. Faith was summoned then to her aunt's side. It was the darkening part of the afternoon. Faith sat down at the foot of Miss Danforth's great easy chair, looked into the fire, and wondered what they were doing at Pattaquasset.

"And so, Faith, child, you're taken to new ways, I hear."

To Faith's quick ear, Miss Danforth's voice shewed a purpose. It was less brisk than its old wont. Her answer was as simple as possible. "Yes, aunt Dilly. It's true."

"You don't think you're any better than you used to be—do you?"

"No, ma'am. Yet my life is better, I hope."

"I don't believe it! How could it be?"

"In this at least, that I am the servant of God now. Before, I never thought of serving him."

"I never did," said Miss Dilly. "But"—

There was a silence. Faith's heart leapt to hear this confession, but she said nothing and sat still as a mouse.

"How's Mr. Linden getting on in Pattaquasset?"

"Well"

"You like him as well as ever?"

"Yes."

Alert questions. Rather faint answers.

"Do you remember what he said one night, about everybody being precious? Do you remember it, Faith?"

"Yes, ma'am—very well."

"I suppose I have thought of it five hundred and fifty times," Miss Dilly went on. "What were the words, Faith? do you know 'em?"

Faith did not move, only repeated, and if they had been literal diamonds every word would not have seemed so precious to her,—

"'They shall be mine, saith the Lord, in the day when I make up my jewels.'"

"That's it!" said Miss Dilly. "Now go on, can you, Faith, and tell me what it means."

"It is spoken of the people that fear the Lord, aunt Dilly—it goes on—

"'And I will spare them, as a man spareth his own on that serveth him. Then shall ye return and discern between the righteous and the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth him not.'"

"Tell me more. Faith," said Miss Danforth presently in a subdued voice. "I don't understand one thing about it from beginning to end."

In answer to which Faith turned, took a Bible, and as one did of old, preached unto her Jesus. It was very simple preaching. Faith told her aunt the story even very much as she had told it to Johnny Fax; and with the same sweet grave face and winning tongue which had drawn the children. As earnest as they, Miss Dilly listened and looked, and brought her strong sense to bear upon the words. Not with the same ease of understanding. She said little, excepting to bid Faith 'go on,'—in a tone that told the quest she was upon—unsatisfied yet.

Faith went on, but preferred to let the Bible words speak instead of her own. It brought Mrs. Custers to mind again, though this time Faith's joy of heart made her words ring as from a sweet silver trumpet. So they fell on the sick woman's ear; nor was there stay or interruption till Faith heard the hall door close below. She shut the book then; then her arm came round Miss Danforth's neck, and her kisses spoke well enough the glad sympathy and encouragement Faith spoke in no other way. One earnest return answered her.

From that time, to read the Bible to her aunt was Faith's work; morning, noon, and night, literally; sometimes far into the night. For Miss Danforth, embracing what she had never known before, as the light gradually broke upon her; and feeling that her time for study might be made short, was in eager haste and longing to acquaint herself with the broad field of duties and privileges, all new, now laid open before her. Faith could not read too much; Miss Dilly could not listen too long.

"Faith, child," she said one night, late, when they were alone,—"can't you pray for me?"

"I do, aunt Dilly."

"No, no! but I mean, can't you pray with me?—now, here. Can't you, Faith?"

Faith kissed her; hid her face in her hands and trembled; and then knelt and prayed. And many a time after that.



CHAPTER XXXVI.



The Saturday before Christmas, which was moreover the day but one before, Squire Stoutenburgh went over to Pequot; and having checked off his business items, drove straight to Madame Danforth's. The door was opened to him by the Frenchwoman, who took him into a little room very like herself, and left him; and in another minute or two Faith came in. Her exclamation was with the unmistakeable tone and look of pleasure.

"My dear, I am very glad to see you!" was part of the warm reply. "How do you do?"

"I do very well, sir."

"Ah!"—said the Squire,—"I suppose so. Well I'll give you a chance to do better. My dear, I'm going to carry you off,—you're wanted."

"Am I?" said Faith with a quick change. "There's nothing the matter?"

"Nothing bad," said the Squire. "At least I hope not! Will you go home with me this afternoon?"

"O yes, sir—and very glad! But did mother send for me?"

"Sent for you if I could get you, Miss Faith. I don't suppose she'll ever really interfere with your doings—if you choose to go and live in the Moon, but she's half sick for the sight of you. That's prevalent just now," said the Squire, "and she's not the worst case. The doctor went off for fear he should take it;—but some people have duties, you know, and can't stir."

There was a tiny peachblossom tinge on Faith's cheek, which the Squire was pleased to take note of. She stood with a thoughtful face the while.

"I'll be ready, Mr. Stoutenburgh. When will you come for me?"

The time was fixed, and Faith made her explanations to her friends; promising that if need were she would some back again, or her mother, after Christmas. Miss Dilly let her go very willingly, yet most unwillingly; and Madame Danforth's reluctance had nothing to balance it. So it was that Faith's joy had its wonted mixture of gravity when she met the Squire again.

"If you're not going to be glad to get home, I'm a rich man if I'll go in with you!" he said as he put her in the sleigh and tucked her up with shawls and buffalo robes. "That's the way!—first get power and then abuse it."

"Power! Mr. Stoutenburgh. What do you mean? I am very glad to go home. Don't I look so?" She certainly did.

"I mean that I haven't seen anybody smile since you went away," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, proceeding to tuck himself up in like manner. "Except Dr. Harrison. He kept himself in practice while he staid."

Faith was silent; eying the snowy road and the jingling horse heads, with a bounding feeling of heart that she was going home. She dared allow it to herself now.

"What do you guess made the doctor leave that fly-away horse of his for Mr. Linden to tame?" said the Squire. "Has he any particular reason for wishing to break his neck?"

"Did he do that?"

"Break his neck?—why no, not yet,—I suppose the doctor lives in hopes. You take it coolly, Miss Faith! upon my word."

"Mr. Stoutenburgh!—I meant, did he leave the horse for him. Dr. Harrison knew there wasn't much danger, Mr. Stoutenburgh."

Mr. Stoutenburgh touched up his own team.

"I guess!"—he said slowly, "the doctor don't just know how much danger there is. So Pattaquasset 'll have a chance to come down on both feet—which that horse don't do often. We've had all sorts of goings on, Miss Faith."

"Have you, sir?" The question was put quietly enough, but there was a little tinge of curiosity, too.

"Yes," said the Squire, shaking his whip. "Sam Deacon's gone away and Mr. Linden's grown unpopular. Aint that news?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Why Sam Deacon's gone away—" the Squire repeated coolly. "He was getting rather too much of a sportin' character for our town, so a friend of mine that was going to Egypt—or somewhere—took him along. You needn't be uneasy about him—Miss Faith, he'll be taken care of. I should have sent him a worse journey, only I was overruled."

"And is he gone to Egypt?" said Faith.

"Hardly got so far yet," said the Squire. "But I thought it would be good for Sam's health—he's been a little weaker than usual about the head lately."

"That was only half of your news, Mr. Stoutenburgh," Faith said after another interval of musing.

"'Tother half's nothing wonderful. Mr. Linden's getting unpopular with everybody in town that he don't make up to on the right side; and as there's a good many of them, I'm afraid it'll spread. I've done my best to tell him how to quiet the matter, but you might just as well tell a pepperidge which way to grow! Did you ever try to make him do anything?" said the Squire, facing round upon Faith.

The startling of Faith's eyes was like a flash; and something so her colour went and came. The answer was a very orderly, "Yes, sir."

"Hum—I s'pose he did it,—guess I'll come to you next time I want anything done. Are you cold, my dear?" said the Squire renewing his efforts at wrapping up.

Faith's desire for Pattaquasset news was satisfied. She manifested no more curiosity about anything; and so far as appeared in words, was contented with her own thoughts. That however would have been a rash conclusion. For thoughts do occupy that do not content; and Faith could willingly have spared the hints in Mr. Stoutenburgh's last speech—and indeed in several others. She by no means understood them thoroughly; yet something of the drift and air of them she did feel, and felt as unnecessary. There had been already in Faith's mind a doubtful look towards the last evening she had spent in Pattaquasset; a certain undefined consciousness that her action that night might have said or seemed to say—she knew not what. She could find no fault with it, to herself; there had been nothing that she could help; but yet this consciousness made her more tender upon anything that touched the subject. She had thought of it, and put it out of her head, several times in these last weeks; and now Mr. Stoutenburgh's words had just the effect to make her shy. Faith's mind however had been full of grave and sweet things of late, and was in such a state now. The principal feeling, which the Squire's words could not change, was of very deep and joyous happiness; she was exceeding glad to go home; but at the same time in a mood too quiet and sober for the wine of joy to get into her head.

Squire Stoutenburgh too seemed satisfied,—perhaps with the uncold hue of Faith's cheeks; and now drove on at a rapid rate, talking only of indifferent matters. The horses trotted quick over the smooth snow, and the gathering lead colour overhead was touched with gleams of light here and there, as the sun went down behind the Pattaquasset outlines. Swiftly they jingled along, crossing the ferry and mounting the hill; past trees and barns and village houses—then into the main street: down which the horses flew with a will, thinking of oats and their good stable, and unwillingly reined in at Mrs. Derrick's door.

It was dark by that time—Faith could see little but the lights glimmering in the windows, and indeed had no time to see much; so suddenly and softly was she lifted out of the sleigh the moment it stopped. Then Mr. Linden's voice said,

"Thank you, Mr. Stoutenburgh!"

"That's one way of thanking me!" said the Squire. "However—I suppose it's all right,"—and gave his impatient horses their way.

"Why Mr. Linden," said Faith half laughing, but with a little of the old timidity in her voice,—"how could you see me before I saw you?"

"For various reasons, Miss Faith. How do you do?" He led her on, into the house and into the tea-room, there to delight her mother's heart and make her mother's eyes overflow.

"Pretty child!" Mrs. Derrick said,—"I never will let you go away again for anybody!"

Faith laughed, and kissed her and kissed her; but did not take that moment to say what she thought—that Mrs. Derrick would have to let her go again in a few days perhaps, and for Miss Danforth herself. Then her eye glanced at the tea-table, as it might at an ungoverned kingdom—or a vacated sphere; and the fulness of her heart broke out.

"Mother!—I'm glad to be home again!" The tone said it yet more than the words. And then with a sudden movement, she went off a step to Mr. Linden and held out her hand to him, albeit ever so little shyly. The hand was taken and kept, his eyes taking a quiet survey of her the while.

"Miss Faith, you want to be set to work! Some people will neglect themselves if they have a chance."

"I haven't done much work since I have been away, Mr. Linden."

He smiled—what was he reading in her face? "You don't know what you have done, child," he said. "But she looks glad, Mrs. Derrick,—and we are very glad to have her." Whereupon Faith was conducted to the tea-table without more delay; Mrs. Derrick feeling sure that she was starving both with cold and hunger.

Faith had no appearance of being cold; and though she certainly did eat her supper as if she was glad to be at home, it was not with the air of a person with whom his bread and butter is the first thought. Gladness shone in every look and movement; but at the same time over all the gladness there was a slight veil; it might be gravity, but it might not be all gravity, for part of it was very like constraint; the eyes were more ready to fall than to rise; and the words, though free to come, had a great facility for running in short sentences. But Mrs. Derrick was too happy to notice such light streaks of mist in the sunshine, and talked away at a most unusual rate,—telling Faith how Mr. Linden had ridden that 'wild horse,' and had found time to teach her little class, and in general had done everything else—for everything seemed to hinge upon him. Mr. Linden himself—with now and then a word to qualify, or to make Faith laugh, took a somewhat special and quiet care of her and her wants at the table; all which seemed to Faith (in her mood) very like little gentle suggestions at that vail;—otherwise, he was rather silent.

Then followed prayers, with all the sweet warm influences of the time; and then Faith might sit and talk or be silent, as she liked; rest being considered the best work for that evening. It would seem that she liked to be silent,—if that were a fair conclusion from her silence. Her eye took happy note of the familiar things in and about the room; then she sat and looked into the fireplace, as glad to see it again maybe,—or doubtful about looking elsewhere. As silently, for a few minutes, Mr. Linden took note of her: then he spoke.

"Miss Faith, will you let me give you lessons all through the holidays?"

She gave him a swift blushing glance and smile. "If you like to do it, Mr. Linden—and if I am here."

"Where do you find those two 'ifs'?"

"I thought, perhaps, when I came away from Pequot to-day, that I might go back again after Monday. I am afraid aunt Dilly will want me."

"How much must people want you, to gain a hearing?"

"There are different kinds of wanting," Faith said gravely. "Aunt Dilly may miss me too much."

"And the abstract 'too much,' is different from the comparative. What about that other 'if'?"

"The other 'if'?—I don't know that there is anything about it, Mr. Linden," Faith said laughing.

"Whence did it come?—before it 'trickeled,' as Bunyan says, to your tongue?"

"I don't know, sir!"—

"Miss Faith!—I did not think you would so forget me in three weeks. Do you want to hear the story of a very cold, icy little brook?" he said, with a sort of amused demureness that gave her the benefit of all his adjectives. She looked up at him with earnest eyes not at all amused, but that verged on being hurt; and it was with a sort of fear of what the real answer might be, that she asked what he meant.

"Miss Faith, I mean nothing very bad," he said with a full smile at her then. "When I really think you are building yourself an ice palace, I shall spend my efforts upon thawing, not talking. What have you been doing all these weeks?"

With a little bit of answering smile she said, in a deliberate kind of way,—"I have been running about house—and learning how to cook French cookery, Mr. Linden—and most of all, I've been reading the Bible. I haven't had time to do much else."

"Do you know," Mr. Linden said as he watched her, "that is just what I thought?—And so you have been going step by step 'up the mountain'! Do you see how the road improves?—do you find the 'richer pastures' and the purer air?"

"O sir," said Faith looking up at him,—"I was reading to aunt Dilly."

"I know,—I understood that. Are not my words true still?"

Gravity and shyness, all except the gravity that belonged to her and to the subject, broke away from Faith. She rose up and stood beside Mr. Linden, moved, happy, and glad with the gladness of full sympathy.

"It has been a pleasant two weeks, Mr. Linden!—though I would have liked to be at home. Aunt Dilly has wanted the Bible, morning, noon, and night;—and it was wonderful to read it to her! It has been my business, all these days."

"My dear child! I am very glad!" he said, taking her hand. "Wonderful?—yes, it is wonderful to read, to one who wants it."

"She wanted it so much,"—Faith said, catching her breath a little. "And understood it, Mr. Linden. Very soon it was all—or mostly—clear to her. I read to her sometimes till twelve o'clock at night—and sometimes began at four in the morning."

Mr. Linden looked at her with a mingling of expressions.

"I am afraid that was not good for you,—if one dare say it of any work done in that service. Do you know how much the Bible is like that pillar of fire which guided the Israelites, but to those who were not of Israel became a pillar of cloud,—from which 'the Lord looked out' but 'to trouble them'?"

Faith's eye watched him as he spoke, and caught the power and beauty of the illustration; but she did not speak. Until after thinking and musing a while she said softly, "It don't trouble aunt Dilly."

Mr. Linden drew up a chair for her near his own, but made no other comment upon her or her musings at first,—then abruptly—"And you think she will want you again?"

"There is nobody else to do this for her," said Faith; and again was silent. "How do you suppose it all began with aunt Dilly, Mr. Linden?"

"As to means?—I cannot tell."

"It began from a few words, which I dare say you have forgotten, but which she and I remember,—words that you said one evening when she was here last summer, about everybody's being precious in one sense.—You repeated that passage—'They shall be mine, saith the Lord,'—you know."

Faith did not know what a soft illumination was in her eyes, or she would probably not have turned the light of it so full upon Mr. Linden as at one or two points of her speech she did. It was a grave, sweet look that answered her; but then his eyes went off to the fire without further reply.

Faith did not again interrupt the silence; a silence that to judge by the faces of both was pleasant to both. Till Mrs. Derrick came in, who indeed could not be very long absent. Then Faith left her place, sat down on a low seat by her mother and caressingly took possession of her hands and arms. She made no more startling propositions that night of going back to Pequot again; and the minutes of the evening flowed on—as such minutes do.

The Sunday which followed was one as quietly happy as is often known in this world. And the next day was Christmas.



END OF VOL. I.



PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.



Typographical errors silently corrected:

chapter 5: There is no fear replaced by "There is no fear

chapter 6: tete a-tete replaced by tete-a-tete

chapter 6: Simlin's questions replaced by Simlins' questions

chapter 6: ask the boys nothin replaced by ask the boys nothin'

chapter 6: bargain," he said, replaced by bargain," he said.

chapter 7: cause she wants you replaced by 'cause she wants you

chapter 7: kep' your ma to supper replaced by kep' your 'ma to supper

chapter 8: real sponsible replaced by real 'sponsible

chapter 9: nutsdid replaced by nuts did

chapter 10: this tone implied replaced by his tone implied

chapter 11: endless day! replaced by endless day!'"

chapter 12: Wether he had or no replaced by Whether he had or no

chapter 13: well-dressed replaced by well-dressed

chapter 15: What you have been doing replaced by what have you been doing

chapter 22: Mr. David has sent replaced by Mr. Davids has sent

chapter 22: "Won't you rest replaced by Won't you rest

chapter 23: should'nt be right replaced by shouldn't be right

chapter 26: you're growing replaced by "you're growing

chapter 28: Mr. Somers said good replaced by Mrs. Somers said good

chapter 32: s'il vous plait replaced by s'il vous plait

chapter 34: starvation creatur replaced by starvation creatur'

chapter 34: to his arm, replaced by to his arm.

chapter 36: slowly, the doctor replaced by slowly, "the doctor

THE END