"Look, Miss Faith!"—

And there came the great wagon, at not the slowest possible rate, over the long marsh road.

The first sight of the ferryboat and her freight was the signal for a simultaneous shout from the whole wagon load—which long Tim took for a summons to himself.

"'Taint no sort o' use hollerin' like that," he said, with a little turn of his steering oar; "'cause I aint a goin' back till I get somewheres to go back from—nor then neither mabbe. I kin count dollars whar they kint count cents, neow."

And 'neow' the little wagon was beyond pursuit,—up the hill from the ferry, on over the farm road, drove Mrs. Derrick—somewhat at the quickest; until the old untenanted house rose just before them, and Reuben sprang down to take the reins and help the ladies out.

It was a pleasant old farmhouse that, in spite of its deserted condition. They went to the kitchen, bright with windows looking out to grass fields and trees. Mrs. Derrick stood at open door and window, recalling scenes and people she remembered there, or watching for the big wagon to make its appearance; while Reuben and Faith went to the outhouses, and finally by dint of perseverance found a supply of wood in an old rotten tumbled-down fence. Mrs. Derrick proclaimed that the wagon was coming, as the foragers returned; but there was a splendid blaze going up chimney before the aforesaid conveyance drew up at the door, and the whole first party turned out to see it unload.

The wagon was unloaded in the twinkling of an eye; then came rummaging for baskets; then so many boys and so many baskets hopped and hummed round, like a little bevy of wasps—with nothing at least of the bee business-character about them.

"Mr. Linden, be we going to stop here?"—

"Is here where the trees be, Mr. Linden?"—

"Mr. Linden, Joe Deacon aint behaving nohow!"

"Mr. Linden, will we leave our baskets and come back to the house? or will they be to go along?"—inquired a more sober tongue.

While others were giving their opinion in little asides that it was 'prime'—and 'fust-rate'—and arguing the comparative promise of chestnut and hickory trees. And one of the bigger boys of the party, not distinguished for his general good qualities, sidling up to Reuben, accosted him under breath with a sly,

"So you druv Mr. Linden's sweetheart. Aint you spry!"

If Reuben had been in that line, he would probably have sent the offender head first down the bank,—as it was, he said quietly,

"I wouldn't let Mr. Linden hear me say that, Phil, if I was you."

"Don't mean ter. Aint you great! But I say,—Joe Deacon says you did."

"Joe Deacon's made a mistake for once in his life," said Reuben rather contemptuously—"and it isn't the first, by several."

"Reuben," said Mr. Linden approaching the group, "you may all go and find where the best trees are, and then come back and report to me. I put you in charge. Understand"—he added, raising his voice a little, "Reuben Taylor is leader of the search—whoever does not obey his orders, does not obey mine."—And in a minute the courtyard was clear. Then Mr. Linden turned and walked up to the house.

"Now what are you ladies going to do with yourselves?" he said. "Will you come out and sit under the trees and look on—taking the chance of being hit by a stray nut now and then?"

"We can't go wrong to-day," said Faith, with whom the spirit of enjoyment was well at play. "When mother feels in the mood of it we'll come. We can find you—we know where to look. Weren't you obliged to us for doing the waiting at the ferry?"

"And for looking so picturesque in the distance,—it was quite a thing to be grateful for. I think you will have no difficulty in finding where we are—there will be noise enough to guide you. I hope you have not brought a book along, Miss Faith."

"Why, Mr. Linden?"

"The 'running' brooks are good letter-press," he said—"and the grey stones, and that white oak in the meadow. And is not that woodpecker a pretty illustration?"

"I have looked at them often," said Faith. "I don't know how to read them as you do. There isn't any brook here, though, that I know of, but Kildeer river. You'll like Neanticut, Mr. Linden. I'm so glad you let us come. I'll read everything—that I can."

"I don't know how long everything'll last you, child—at the rate you've gone on lately," said Mrs. Derrick who stood in the doorway.

Faith smiled again, and shook her head a little at the same time as her eye went from the woodpecker to the green leaves above his head, then to the bright red of some pepperidge trees further off, to the lush grass of the meadow, and on to the soft brownish, reddish, golden hues of distant woodland. Her eye came back as from a book it would take long to read thoroughly.

"I am so glad it is such a day!" she repeated.

"I see my boys are coming back," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which hardly belonged to them,—"I must go and get their report. Au revoir, Miss Faith." And he went forward into the midst of the little swarm—so manageable in his hands, so sure to sting anybody else.

"Child," said Mrs. Derrick, looking over Faith's head from her more elevated position of the door-sill (looking at it too); "Child, why don't you get—" and there, for the first and last time in her life, Mrs. Derrick stopped short in the middle of a sentence.

"What, mother?"

But Mrs. Derrick replied not.

"What do you want me to get, mother?"

"I don't know as I want you to get anything,—child you've got enough now for me. Not that he wouldn't like it, either," said Mrs. Derrick musingly—"because if he wouldn't, I wouldn't give much for him. But I guess it's just as well not." And Mrs Derrick stroked her hand fondly over Faith's head, and told her that if she stood out there without a bonnet she would get sunburnt.

"But mother!" said Faith at this enigmatical speech, "what do you mean? Who wouldn't like what?"

"What does it signify, child?—since I didn't say it?"

"But mother," persisted Faith gently, "what had I better get that I haven't?"

"I don't know as you had better get it, child—and I never said he wouldn't like it, I'm sure," said Mrs. Derrick with a little self-vindication.

"Who, mother?"

"Why—nobody," said Mrs. Derrick,—"who's talking of anybody?"

"Dear mother," said Faith, "don't you mean to tell me what you mean?"

"I guess it's just as well not," her mother repeated. "The fact that he'd like it don't prove anything."

Faith looked at her, coloured a little, laughed a little, and gave up the point.

The morning passed on its pleasant way in quietness; at least with the old farmhouse and its two occupants. Mrs. Derrick was not without her knitting, and having come from the door sat comfortably click-clacking her needles together—and her thoughts too perhaps—before the cheerful blaze of the fence sticks. Faith had a book with her—a little one—with which she sat in the kitchen doorway, which looked towards the direction the nut party had taken; and apparently divided her attention between that volume and the one Mr. Linden had recommended. For she looked down at the one and looked off at the other by turns, in a sort of peaceful musing and note-taking, altogether suited to the October stillness and beauty. Now and then she got up to replenish the fire. And then the beauty and her musing got the better of the reading, and Faith sat with her book in her hand, looking out into the dream-provoking atmosphere. No sound came from the far-off nut trees; the crickets and grasshoppers and katydids alone broke the stillness of the unused farm. Only they moved, and the wind-stirred leaves, and the slow-creeping shadows.

When these last were but an hour's length from the tree stems, Faith proposed an adjournment to the nut trees before the party should come back to lunch. The fire was mended, the pot of coffee put on to warm; and they locked the door and set out.

It was not hot that day, even under the meridian sun. They crossed an orchard, and one or two farm fields, on the skirts of which grew single trees of great beauty. White oaks that had seen hundreds of years, yet stood in as fresh and hale green youth as the upstart of twenty; sometimes a hemlock or a white pine stretching its lithe branches far and wide and generously allowed to do so in despite of pasture and crops. Then came broken ground, and beyond this a strip of fallow at the further border of which stood a continuous wall of woodland, being in fact the crest of the bank of the little river Faith had referred to.

And now, and truly for one or two fields before, the shouts and cries of the nut-hunters rang through the air. For just edging, and edging into, the border of trees last spoken of, were the great chestnuts and hickories; and underneath and among them many little dark spots were flying about; which spots, as Mrs. Derrick and Faith came up, enlarged into the familiar outlines of boys' caps, jackets, and trowsers, and ran about on two legs apiece.



CHAPTER X.



The two ladies paused at a safe distance,—there seemed to be nothing but boys astir—boys and nuts; and these last not dropping from the tree, but thrown from hand to hand (hand to head would be more correct) of the busy throng. Some picking up, some throwing stones to bring down, others at some flat stone 'shucking,' others still filling their baskets. And four boys out of five, cracking and eating—whatever else they were about. The grass, trodden down by the many feet, lay in prostrate shadow at the foot of the great tree; and the shadows of other trees fell and met in soft wavy outline. From the side of one old tree a family of grey squirrels looked out, to see the besiegers lay waste the surrounding country; in the top of another—a tall hickory, full clad with golden leaves, Mr. Linden sat—to view the same country himself; well knowing that he had given the boys full occupation for at least fifteen minutes. He was not very visible from below, so thickly did the gold leaves close him in; but Faith heard one of the boys call out,

"You Johnny Fax! if you throw stones in that tree, you'll hit Mr. Linden."

"Trust Johnny Fax for not never throwin' so high as he is," said Joe Deacon.

"I don't want to—" said Johnny Fax—"I don't want to fetch him down."

Whereupon there was a general shout, and "Guess you'd better not, Johnny!"—"He might come, if you didn't just hit him," vociferated from various quarters.

"My!" Mrs. Derrick said, surveying the golden hickory, "how on earth did he ever get up?—And how do you s'pose, Faith, he'll ever get down!"

Faith's low laugh was her only answer; but it would have told, to anybody who could thoroughly have translated it, Faith's mind on both points.

Apparently he was in no haste to come down—certainly meant to send the nuts first; for a sudden shower of hickory nuts and leaves swept away every boy from the tree near which Faith and her mother stood, and threw them all into its vortex. Drop, drop, the nuts came down, with their sweet patter upon the grass; while the golden leaves fell singly or in sprays, or floated off upon the calm air.

"Child," said Mrs. Derrick, "how pretty it is! I haven't seen such a sight since—since a long while ago," she added with a sobering face.

"I want to be there under the tree," said Faith looking on enviously. "No mother—and I haven't seen it before in a long time, either. It's as pretty as it can be!"

"Run along then, child," said her mother,—"only take care of your eyes. Why shouldn't you? I don't want to pick up nuts myself, but I'll go down and pick you up."

Faith however kept away from the crowd under the hickory tree; and went peering about under some others where the ground was beaten and the branches had been, and soon found enough spoil to be hammering away with a stone on a rock like the rest. But she couldn't escape the boys so, for little runners came to her constantly. One brought a handful of nuts, another a better stone—while a third told her of 'lots' under the other tree; and Reuben Taylor was ready to crack or climb as she chose to direct.

"If you'll come down the other side, Miss. Faith," said Reuben, "down by the bank, you could see it all a great deal better."

Faith seized two or three nuts and jumped up, and Reuben led the way through the leaf-strewn grass to the other side of the mob. But mobs are uncertain things! No sooner was Faith seen approaching the hickory, though yet full three feet from the utmost bound of its shadow, than a sudden pause in the great business of the day was followed by such a tumultuous shout of "Three cheers for Miss Faith Derrick!—the prettiest girl in Pattaquasset!"—that she was well nigh deafened. And promptly upon that, Joe Deacon stepped up to Reuben and whispered,

"That'll fetch him down!"

Faith did not hear the words—she only heard Reuben's indignant,

"Joe Deacon! behave yourself. What makes you always leave your manners home? that big basket of yours would have held 'em all, easy."

"I didn't know but Sam might want 'em," replied the unabashed Joe, dashing back into the midst of his compardons, while Reuben at last reached the pretty look-out at the edge of the woods where Faith could see the whole meadow and its scattered trees. And having placed her there ran off again. Standing half hidden by the oaks and chestnuts, she could see the whole group clustering about the climber now, for he had come down from his high post.

"Boys," he said, "I am going back to the house to dinner. Any boy who prefers nuts to dinner may stay and pick them up."

A sudden recollection came over Faith that her fire was probably well down and coffee not in a state presentable. Taking a survey of the ground, and calculating that so large a company would want a little time to get under weigh, she slipped round to where her mother sat, and giving her a word, set off fleetly and skilfully under cover of some outstanding chestnuts across the fallow. If she had known it, Faith need not have shunned to shew her running, for prettier running could not be. She was soon hidden in the further woodland.

The rest of the party took it more leisurely, so their outrunner easily gained her point; and having put the fire in order stood at the door to watch the progress of the coming invasion. It looked enough like that. For though excellent order of march had been kept for most of the way, the main body of the troops maintaining a proper position in the rear of their captain who was quietly escorting Mrs. Derrick over the meadows, no sooner did the whole band come in sight of the distant place of lunch baskets, than it became manifest for the hundred thousandth lime that liberty too long enjoyed leads to license. Scattering a little from the direct line of march, the better to cover their purpose or evade any check thereto, as if by concert, first one and then another set off on a run,—sprang the orchard fence,—and by the time the mid-orchard was reached all of Mr. Linden's force with the exception of one or two of the very steadiest, were ahead of him and straining in full run, if not in full cry, for the now near-at-hand farmhouse quarry. Beyond all call or hindrance. Standing at the kitchen door, Faith watched their coming; but discerning beyond the runners the one or two figures that did not indeed 'bring up the rear' but that covered it, and supposing that the invaders' object was to storm the wagon in which the lunch baskets were hid, she stood her ground; till she perceived that the foremost of the band were making straight for the kitchen door, and all the rest in their order. Faith gave back a little and the whole horde poured in. The fire was in a brisk blaze; the table had nice white cups and naperies on it; the nose of the coffee-pot was steaming. It looked altogether an inviting place. Down went hats and caps on the floor, from some of the party, and the whole of them with flushed faces and open mouths took the survey.

"Ain't it jolly here!"

"I wonder if he'll let us take our dinner in here. There's lots o' room."

"It's good shady."

"It's a long sight better under the trees."

"Coffee!—I'm blessed!"—said a fifth speaker bending over the fireplace; while a sixth began slyly to inspect what lay under Faith's napkins on the table.

"Charley," said Mr. Linden's quiet voice from the doorway, "did Miss Derrick desire you to uncover her dishes?"

The hand slipped from what it touched, as stealthily the boy's eye went to the face of the speaker, in the one place if not in the other 'to see what there might be.'

"I will bear witness that you have 'carried' the house," Mr. Linden went on,—"now I should like to see you carry the wagon. It will be a more useful enterprise than this. Only remember that one of the first duties of a surprise party is to go forth softly."

"Where will we carry the wagon to, sir?" inquired one of the party.

"As far from the house as you can," said Mr. Linden, with a little glance at Faith. "Come! be off!—great enterprises are never finished till they are begun."

"I'd like to begin dinner, anyhow," said one, catching up his cap and leading off.

As quick and more quick than it had been filled, the room was cleared; and laughing Faith watched the busy swarm as they poured towards their magazine. Then remembered her own and came back to offer it.

"You may as well rest, Mr. Linden," said Faith as she offered him a cup of coffee. "I'm sure they are all comfortable. Besides, you particularly desired a fire and somebody in the house, you know."

"Miss Faith," he said, (taking the cup however) "I'm afraid your notions of duty are very slack! What sort of a captain would you make to a beleaguered city? I shall make you read the story of Catherine Douglass."

"Will you?" said Faith looking very pleased. "And what is 'beleaguered,' Mr. Linden? in the meantime."

"'Beleaguered' means, to be beset with a swarm of invaders who want to come in and ought to be kept out."

"I didn't know I ought to keep them out," said Faith laughing, "or I'd have done it."

Mr. Linden shook his head doubtfully. "I saw you give way!" he said,—"I doubt whether there was even a show of resistance. Now Catherine Douglass—But I must go. No, don't tempt me with apple pie—you have no idea of the pies in that wagon. Perhaps if I get successfully through them, I'll come back and dispose of yours. What are you reading to-day?—'Le Philosophe'?"

A little soberness came over Faith's smile as she shook her head and said no.

"I can't stay to ask a question upon that—but I'll ask you two by and by to pay for it."

And he went out to that little cluster of life that hung about the great wagon, making himself at once the centre of pleasure and interest and even fun, as Faith's eye and ear now and then informed her. It was pretty, the way they closed in about him—wild and untutored as they were,—pretty to see him meet them so easily on their own ground, yet always enticing them towards something better. Mrs Derrick thought so too, for she stood in the doorway and smiled very pleasantly.

"He's a real nice man, Faith," she said. "I don't wonder the boys like him."

Faith did not wonder at it, but she did not answer, though she too stood looking.

The ladies had finished their lunch, and Mr. Linden had perhaps not finished his, for he came in again to take another cup of coffee while the boys were disposing of that very ragged piece of time which the end of a boys' feast invariably is. So much peace and quietness he gave himself, if he did not give himself a sandwich—of which I am not certain.

"Mr. Linden," said Faith, "I want to ask something—will you tell me if you don't like it?"

"Don't like to have you ask me, do you mean? I do like it."

"Then," said Faith half laughing, "will you tell me it you don't quite like what I mean?"

"I'll see—" Mr. Linden replied with a smile. "It's not safe for teachers to commit themselves."

"But I must commit myself," said Faith. "I want to go and pick up nuts with the boys under the trees—may I?"

She looked for her answer with an eye that thought he might possibly find an objection where she saw none.

He paused a little before he replied,

"I think you may—if I could be among them and answer for their good behaviour I should not need to think about it; but you know a man loses power when he is too far above the heads of his audience. Yet I think I may trust them—and you," he added with a little smile. "Especially as the first tree touched this afternoon is yours."

"What does that mean?" said Faith, her doubt all gone.

"Do you think I shall so far forget my office as to let them pick up nuts for nobody but themselves? Therefore the first tree this afternoon is for you—or if you please for your mother; the second for Mr. Simlins. If that will take away your desire for the 'fun,' why I cannot help it."

"I have no objection to pick up nuts for mother, not even for Mr. Simlins," said Faith smiling. "And I am not afraid of the boys—I know half of them, you know. Thank you, Mr. Linden!"

"You might, if I could take you up into the tree-top. There is fine reading on those upper shelves."

Her eye shewed instantly that she liked that 'higher' fun best—not the tree-top, verily, but the reading, that she could not get at. Yet for Faith there were charms plenty below the tree-tops, in both kinds; and she looked very happy.

"Well"—Mr. Linden said, "as the successful meeting of one emergency always helps us in the next, and as it is quite impossible to tell what you may meet under those nut trees,—let me give you a little abstract of Catherine Douglass, before you read it and before I go. The said lady wishing to keep the door against sundry lords and gentle men who came with murderous intent against her sovereign; and finding no bar to aid her loyal endeavours,—did boldly thrust her own arm through the stanchions of the door. To be sure—'the brave lady's arm was soon broken,'—but after all, what did that signify?"

And with a laughing gesture of farewell, he once more left the house. With which cessation of murmuring voices, Mrs. Derrick awoke from her after dinner nap in the rocking chair. Faith was standing in the middle of the floor, smiling and looking in a puzzle.

"Mother, will you go over to the nutting again?"

"I'm a great deal more likely to go to sleep again," said Mrs. Derrick rubbing her eyes. "It's the sleepiest place I ever saw in my life—or else it's having nothing to do. I don't doubt you're half asleep too, Faith, only you won't own it."

The decision was, that Mrs. Derrick preferred to sit quiet in the house; she said she would maybe run down by and by and see what they were at. So Faith took her sunbonnet, kissed her mother; and went forth with light step over the meadow and through the orchard.

The nutting party she found a little further on in the same edge of woodland. It seemed that they had pitched upon a great chestnut for her tree; and Faith was half concerned to see what a quantity of work they had given themselves on her account. However, the proverb of 'many hands' was verified here; the ground under the chestnut tree was like a colony of ants, while in the capacious head of the tree their captain, established quite at his ease, was whipping off the burrs with a long pole.

Faith took a general view as she came up, and then fell upon the chestnut burrs like the rest of them; and no boy there worked more readily or joyously. There seemed little justification of Mr. Linden's doubts of the boys or fears for her. Faith was everywhere among them, and making Reuben's prophecy true, that 'they would all enjoy themselves a great deal better' for her being there; throwing nuts into the baskets of the little boys and pleasant words at the heads of the big ones, that hit softly and did gentle execution; giving sly handfuls to Reuben, and then hammering out for some little fellow the burrs that her hands were yet more unfit to deal with than his; and doing it all with a will that the very spirit of enjoyment seemed to have moved. She in any danger of rude treatment from those boys! Nothing further from the truth. And so her happy face informed Mr. Linden, when he at last descended to terra firma out of the stripped chestnut tree.

He did not say anything, but leaning up against the great brown trunk of the chestnut took a pleased survey of the whole—then went to work with the rest.

"Boys!" he said—"aren't there enough of you to open these burrs as fast as Miss Derrick can pick out the nuts? You should never let a lady prick her fingers when you can prick yours in her place."

There was a general shout and rush at this, which made Faith give way before it. The burrs disappeared fast; the brown nuts gathered into an immense heap. That tree was done.

"Hurrah! for Mr. Simlins!" shouted all the boys, throwing up their caps into the air,—then turning somersets, and wrestling, and rolling over by way of further relief to their feelings.

"The chestnut beyond that red maple for him," said Mr. Linden, flinging a little stone in the right direction; at which with another shout the little tornado swept away.

"Will you follow, Miss Faith? or are you tired?"

"No, I'm not tired yet. I must do something for Mr. Simlins."

"Well don't handle those burrs—" he said. "They're worse than darning needles."

"Have you seen Kildeer river yet, Mr. Linden?"

"I have had a bird's eye view."

Faith looked a little wistfully, but only said,

"We must look at it after the nutting is done. That's a bit of reading hereabout you ought not to pass over."

"I mean to read 'everything I can,' too," he said with a smile as they reached the tree.

"Now Mr. Linden," said Joe Deacon, "this tree's a whapper! How long you suppose it'll take you to go up?"

"About as long as it would you to come down—every-one knows how long that would be. Stand out of my way, boys—catch all the burrs on your own heads and don't let one fall on Miss Derrick." And amidst the general laugh Mr. Linden swung himself up into the branches in a way that made his words good; while Joe Deacon whistled and danced 'Yankee Doodle' round the great trunk.

Half at least of Mr. Linden's directions the boys obeyed;—they caught all the burrs they well could, on their own heads. Faith was too busy among them to avoid catching some on her own bright hair whenever her sunbonnet declined to stay on, which happened frequently. The new object lent this tree a new interest of its own, and boys being an untiring species of animals the sport went on with no perceptible flagging. But when this tree too was about half cleared, Faith withdrew a little from the busy rush and bustle, left the chestnuts and chestnut burrs, and sat down on the bank to rest and look. Her eye wandered to the further woodland, softest of all in hazy veils; to the nearer brilliant vegetation; the open fallow; the wood behind her, where the trees closed in upon each other; oftenest of all, at the 'whapper' of a tree in which Mr. Linden still kept his place, and at the happy busy sight and sound of all under that tree.

And so it happened, that when in time Mr. Linden came down out of Mr. Simlins' chestnut, besides the boys he found nobody there but Mr. Simlins himself.

"Well!"—said that gentleman after a cordial grasp of the hand,—"I reckon, in the matter of nuts you're going to reduce me to penur'ousness! How you like Neanticut?"

"It's a fine place," said Mr. Linden.—"And for the matter of nuts, you need not take the benefit of the bankrupt act yet, Mr. Simlins."

"Over here to see a man on business," Mr. Simlins went on in explanation,—"and thought I'd look at you by the way. Don't you want to take this farm of me?"

"I might want to do it—and yet not be able," was the smiling reply; while one of the smallest boys, pulling the tail of the grey coat which Mr. Simlins wore 'on business,' and pointing to the heap of nuts, said succinctly,

"Them's yourn!"

"Mine!" said Mr. Simlins. "Well where's yourn? What have you done with Miss Faith Derrick?"

"Why we hain't done nothin' to her," said the boy—"she's done a heap to us."

"What has she done to you, you green hickory?"

"Why—she's run round, firstrate," said little Rob,—"and she's helped me shuck."

"So some o' you's thanked her. 'Twan't you. Here, you sir," said Mr. Simlins, addressing this time Joe Deacon,—"what have you been doing with Miss Faith Derrick?"

"I bain't Sam," was Joe's rather cool rejoinder, with a slight relapsing into Yankee Doodle.

"Hollo!" said Mr. Simlins—"I thought you'd learned all school could teach you, and give up to come?"

"Only the last part is true, Mr. Simlins," said Mr. Linden, who while Joe spoke had been himself speaking to one of the other boys.

Mr. Simlins grunted. "School ain't all 'nuts to him,'" he said with a grim smile. "Well which of you was it?—'twas a fellow about as big as you here, you sir!"—addressing in a more assured tone another boy who was swaggering near,—"you! what have you been doing to Miss Faith? It was you."

"'Twan't me, nother!" said the boy surlily; "nor I hain't done nothin'! but minded my own business."

In a tone which implied that Mr. Simlins was not acting on the same laudable principle.

"What has been done?" said Mr. Linden. And certainly his tone implied that he was minding his own business.

"Well," said Mr. Simlins, "I don't know as they've done much of anything; but I guessed they'd been givin' her some sass or vexin' her somehow; and as she's a kind o' favourite o' mine it riled me. I was too fur to hear what 'twas."

"Where was she?

"She was round yonder—not fur—There had been some sort of a scrimmage, I guess, between two of 'em, a little one and this fellow; and she parted 'em. She had hold o' this one when I see 'em first—you couldn't have done it better," said Mr. Simlins with a sly cast of his eye;—"you can set her to be your 'vice' when you want one. I was comin' up from the river, you see, and came up behind 'em, and I couldn't hear what they said; but when she let him go, I see her give a kind o' sheer look round this way, and then she put up her hand to her cheek and cleared for home like—a gazetteer!"—said Mr. Simlins, who had given this information in an undertone. "Made straight tracks for the house, I tell ye!"

"A little one and which one?" was the next inquiry.

Mr. Simlins went peering about among the crowd and finally laid hold on the identical shoulder of little Johnny Fax.

"Ain't it you?" said Mr. Simlins. "Ain't that red basket yourn?"

Johnny nodded.

"I knowed the basket," said Mr. Simlins returning. "That's about all that makes the difference between one boy and another! what sort of a basket he carries. The other fellow is the one I was speakin' to first—I can swear to him—the big one."

Mr. Linden took out his watch.

"Thank you, Mr. Simlins," he said. "Boys—it is half past four,—get your nuts and baskets and bring them up to the house. Reuben Taylor—do you see that it is done." With which words Mr. Linden also 'made tracks' for the house—and 'straight' ones, but with not too much notice-taking of the golden leaves under his feet.

The truth about Faith was this. While sitting on the grass, taking the pleasure of the place and time, the peace was at length broken by discordant sounds in her neighbourhood; sounds of harsh voices, and scuffling. Looking round for the cause and meaning of all this, she found that the voices came from behind a thicket of sumach and laurel at her back, and belonged to some of the boys. Faith went round the thicket. There were a big boy and a little boy tugging at a casket, both tugging; the little fellow holding to it with all his might, while the big boy, almost getting it from him with one hand, was laying the other very freely about his ears and shoulders. Faith heard the little one say, "I'll tell—"

And the other, a boy whose name Faith had learned only that morning, shouted in answer,

"You tell! You tell if you dare! You tell and I'll kill you!—Leave hold!"—

A round blow was given with the words, which told, but the little boy still held on to his basket.

"For shame, Phil Davids! you a big boy!"—said Faith.

There was a stay of proceedings while they looked at her, both parties keeping fast hold however, and both tongues at once combating for hearing and belief. The little boy, Johnny Fax himself, said the nuts were his; which the elder denied.

"Let him have his nuts, Phil," said Faith gently. "He must have them—they belong to him."

"He aint a goin' ter, though," said Davids,—"and you can't do nothin', if you air Mr. Linden's sweetheart. You air—Joe Deacon says you be. Leave hold, you!"—

Thinking Faith quelled perhaps, Phil began the struggle again fiercely, with grappling and blows. But Faith laid hold suddenly on the arm that was rising the second time, and bade the boy sternly behave himself and let the basket go. It was not immediately done. He had strength much more than hers, but something withheld him from exerting it. Nothing withheld his tongue.

"Aint you Mr. Linden's sweetheart?" he said insolently. "Joe Deacon says you be."

"No sir!" said Faith; "and you are a bad boy."

"Joe Deacon says you be!"

But Faith did not relax her hold, and spoke with a steady voice and for that time at least with a steady eye of command which was obeyed.

"Let him go!—Johnny, run off with your basket and be quiet; that's a good boy. Davids, you'll be quiet the rest of the day for your own sake."

The boys parted sullenly, Johnny to run off as she had bidden him; and Faith turned from the green bank, the nut trees, and the frolic, and laying one hand upon the cheek that faced that way, as if to hide its burning from eyes too far off to see it, she went into the house.

She put the brands together which had burnt out, and built the fire up on the strictest principles, though no fire was wanted at present; the day had mellowed into warmth. Perhaps Faith recollected that after she had got through, for she left the fire to take care of itself and sat down again on the doorstep looking towards the nut-tree field. For a good while her cheek wore its troubled flush, her hand went up to it once or twice as if to cool it off, and her brow bespoke her using other and more effectual measures. It cooled at last, into complete quietness and sweetness; and Faith's face was just like itself when the first of the party came back from the nut field.

That first one, as we have seen, was Mr. Linden. He found both the ladies in the farmhouse kitchen; Mrs. Derrick very comfortably at her knitting. Faith was doing nothing; but she looked up, when she looked up, with just her own face; not certainly in the happy glow he had seen under the nut tree, nor with the sparkle of busy pleasure it had worn in the morning; but as it was every day at home.

Mr. Linden arranged the fire and then stood considering it—or something—for a minute in silence; until Mrs. Derrick inquired "if he had found as much as he expected?"—but upon his replying somewhat dryly, "Rather more"—the conversation dropped again.

"You ought to be tired now, Mr. Linden," Faith said gently.

"I am afraid you are."

"No," she said,—"I am not at all."

"Well then—why shouldn't we have our look at Kildeer river? You said we must."

"O, if you like it!" said Faith, a bright little tinge of pleasure coming into her cheek, and her sunbonnet was in hand immediately. "But aren't you tired?" she added doubtfully as they were passing out of the door. "You've been hard at work."

"You will have to pay for saying you are not, Miss Faith,—I mean to make you run all the way down to the bank."

And holding out his hand to her, Mr. Linden half made his threat good; for though his own pace was not much more than a quick walk, by means of skilful short cuts and long steps, Faith had a gentle little run a good part of the way. Not down through the crowd of boys and baskets, but skirting the meadow—passing from the shelter of one great tree to another, till they reached the bank and saw the blue waters of Kildeer river at their feet. There she was permitted to sit down and rest. A little laughing and a little flushed, her happy look was almost brought back again. But she sat and gazed down at the pretty stream and its picturesque banks without saying anything; letting Mr. Linden take his own view of them. His own view was a peculiar one—to judge by his words.

"Miss Faith, I suppose you are not much acquainted with law forms,—yet you perhaps know that an important witness in an important case, is sometimes put in prison until his evidence is obtained."

Faith looked up at him in pure astonishment, the corners of her mouth indicating that she expected another puzzle, or rather was already engaged in one. The look made his gravity give way a little.

"I thought you might like to know your position at present," he said.

"I don't know it yet, Mr. Linden."

"It is that of the unfortunate prisoner to whom I referred."

"A prisoner!—" said Faith looking up at him very much amused. "Well, Mr. Linden?"

He looked amused too, yet with a difference.

"Well, Miss Faith—You are a prisoner, for political purposes. There is no practicable way for you to get back to the house save through the witness-box."

"Where is the witness-box?" said Faith.

"Are you in a hurry to be in it?"

"No," said Faith with a very unshadowed smile, "I am not in a hurry for anything."

"Then tell me what you have been reading to-day," he said, throwing himself down on the grass beside her.

She looked at him, hesitated, then said with a lowered tone,

"I have been reading what you told me to read—and my testament."

Mr. Linden lifted his hat a little, replaced it—rather more down over his brows than before, looking steadily down at Kildeer river the while.

"Why did you look grave when I asked you if you had brought 'Le Philosophe'?"

"I didn't know I did!" said Faith simply. "I had brought only my testament."

"Only—" Mr. Linden repeated. "Well, from 'only' a testament and only such a scene—a skilful reader may get much." Then turning and looking her full in the face, he said, "Miss Faith—what have those boys done to vex you?"

A sudden, painful, startled flush answered him. She did not look now; she said earnestly,

"Please Mr. Linden, don't speak of it!"

"I must know—" was his only answer.

"No," she said gently but troubled,—"you mustn't know, and there is no need you should. There is no need," she repeated eagerly.

"There is another true little witness I can call upon—but I would rather have your account."

"How did you know?—how did you know anything about it?" said Faith, facing round upon him in her turn.

"Gentlemen of what Miss Danforth is pleased to call 'my profession' must know things occasionally," said Mr. Linden.

"What do you think you know, Mr. Linden?" she said a little timidly.

His answer was gentle though resolute.

"I don't think I know anything. What I know, I know——what I do not, I will."

Faith's head half drooped for an instant, and the flush which had faded came back painfully. Then she looked at him again, and though the flush was there she spoke as usual.

"You won't try, Mr. Linden—because I am going to ask you not. It is nothing you need take up—it was nothing but—what perhaps I was foolish to mind. I don't mind it now—much—"

But there was a grave falling off in the tone of that much. She felt it herself, for she rallied and said with her own quiet frank smile,

"I shall not mind it at all to-morrow."

Mr. Linden looked at her while she spoke, gravely and intently enough; but then he looked away at the river again, and probably read problems in its soft rippling waters, for he spoke not. Overhead a hawk sailed noiselessly to and fro, on spread wings,—in the trees close at hand a squirrel chattered and barked with his mouth full. The afternoon light left Kildeer river step by step, and the shadows crept after.

Now the one white speck of cloud reflected in that peaceful stream was no break in its beauty,—it marred nothing, nay, even brought a little glow of its own to replace the sunbeams. Yet at that speck did Mr. Linden take aim—sending his pebble so surely, so powerfully, that the mirror itself was shattered to the remotest shore! Then he stood up and announced that it was time to go.

Faith stood up, but stood still, and waited somewhat anxiously upon the answer to her question.

"Then, Mr. Linden, you will not speak of it any more?"

"The witness is discharged," he answered lightly, and walking on.

She sprang after and placed herself directly in his way.

"Mr. Linden—please give me your promise!"

He looked down at her with eyes that were a little moved.

"Miss Faith," he said, "please give me yours!"

"For what?" said Faith.

"That you will trust me—and not ask what I do."

"Yes,"—said Faith,—"but—You must trust me, Mr. Linden," she said smiling at him,—"and believe me that this is nothing for you to take up—mere nonsense;—nothing at all to-morrow,—it is nothing to me now. I want your word."

She wanted it very much, it was easy to see; but beyond that, her face did not belie her words.

"I don't suppose Mrs. Derrick ever called you 'naughty child'"—said Mr. Linden,—"but if ever she did she might to-night. Look where the sun is—and where I am,—and guess where those boys are! Come—" and it was not easy to resist the hand that again took hold of hers, nor the quick pace at which he went forward.

And for some fields' length Faith yielded and went as fast as he pleased. Then as he stopped to put up a bar-place she said again, very gently but firmly too, standing before him,

"Mr. Linden, I think I have a right to ask this. I know what I ask, but you do not."

"I never questioned your right, Miss Faith."

"Then you'll not deny it to me?"

"What is your idea of trust?" said Mr. Linden, replacing the last bar.

"That it is something I ought to have just now," said Faith, smiling a little.

He stood leaning on the bars and looking at her—a kind look, that she might well trust.

"Child," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about—and I do. And if you will not trust me any further than you can see me, you don't deserve to be called Miss Faith any longer! Now don't you think I have a right to get home and attend to my duties?"

She yielded utterly at that, but with a set of her lip which he had never seen before; it was trembling. She was turning to go on, when as if to make amends for that—or to ask forgiveness generally—or to give assurance of the trust he had claimed,—she stretched out her hand to him and went by his help again until the orchard was reached and other eyes might be expected to be on the look-out for them.

"Do you like to read letters written from other countries by people you have never seen?" Mr. Linden said when they reached that point.

Faith's eyes opened slightly as was their way when suddenly astonished, and a little colour started too, of surprise or pleasure.

"I never did read any," she said,—"I should like it."

"Well, Miss Faith, I think Mrs. Derrick and Reuben can manage that brown horse—especially as he has had no oats to-day—and I want you to take possession of the whole of the back seat, put yourself in a comfortable position, and spend the rest of the daylight in Italy with my sister. When it gets dark you may go to sleep. And here is the talismanic paper by whose help you must make the journey."

What a colour thanked him! what a rosy flush of pleasure and gratitude! To say 'thank you' Faith nearly forgot. But it was said.

There was no more delay of any kind after that. Wagons were ready, and baskets, and boys; also Mrs. Derrick; and Faith was ready first of all. So the two parties, now getting under weigh, went fairly homewards, by an evening sky and a night full of stars. Only one incident need be recorded.

The ferry was passed, and four of the six miles between that and the central town of Pattaquasset, when Mr. Linden suddenly checked his horses. Turning half round, and laying a pretty imperative hand on the collar of Phil Davids, he dropped him outside the wagon—like a walnut from its husk—remarking that he had seen enough of him for one day, and did not wish to hear of him again till next morning.



CHAPTER XI.



Little Charles twelfth did not come to meet his Sunday school teacher, as had been arranged, the Sunday preceding the Neanticut expedition. Faith waited for him in the morning—waited and hoped,—but was not greatly surprised to find that she had waited in vain. Charles the twelfth, whether or not he was to follow during life the erratic and wilful course of his namesake, was that day at least not to be led by her. So Faith went to church, meditating a sometime descent upon Mrs. Seacomb's shady domain, there to meet and recapture the heart of her little charge. For so he seemed to her now. But on her return from the morning service, she found Charles the twelfth, crest-fallen and repentant, in his turn waiting for her. The matter was, his brother Americus Vespucius had shut him up, so that he couldn't come; and as soon as he was set free Charles the twelfth had used his freedom and his legs in 'making tracks,' to use Mr. Simlins' expression, for Mrs. Derrick's abode; and on this occasion he had made many fewer 'tracks' than the afternoon of his previously recorded invasion; as being somewhat burdened in spirit he had stopped for no somersets, and had been lured aside by no tempting invitations of a dusty place or a mudpuddle.

Faith heard his story gravely and sympathizingly; comforted him up; encouraged him to hope that the discoverer of America would not prove so adverse to his making discoveries another Sunday; gave him a little talk and a good dinner, and sent him home cheerful and determined. The very mood for success; accordingly the next morning after the return from Neanticut, being Sunday, Charles the twelfth presented himself at the house in brave good time; and Faith and her little charge, for the first time in their lives both of them, went to Sunday school. The child very important and expectant; the teacher very gentle and very grave indeed.

Faith had made her arrangements the Sunday before; so she and Charles twelfth proceeded at once to the place assigned her. At the opening services the king of Sweden stared mightily. Faith looked at nothing. She had a feeling that other children and other teachers were nearer to her than she wished they were; and she was a little uncertain how best to take hold of the odd little piece of humanity intrusted to her care. However, when the reading and the singing were over Faith began a long low talk to him about some Bible story, diverging as she went on to an account of the other world, and the two ways that lead to it, and the two sorts of people that travel them. And becoming exceedingly interested herself, she fastened the eyes of Charles the twelfth in a way that shewed his thoughts were cleaving to hers. Faith's own thoughts were cleaving elsewhere. The things she said were simply said; her words were the plainest; her illustrations just at his hand; but the voice in which they were given would alone have won the ear of a child; and whatever other impression her words made upon his mind, the fixed conclusion in which he was left at the ending was, that whatever way she was travelling was the right one!

It was a beautiful fair first of October; still and sunny; but if it had not, it would probably have been a fair day to Faith after that beginning of it. She looked as if it was, in the church, and on the way home, and at the quiet dinner table; her face was a transcript of the day; still and sunny. It seemed to be true, her promise that the annoyance of yesterday would be nothing to her to-day. There was no shadow of it in sight. If there was a shadow anywhere at the table, it was upon Mrs. Derrick,—a half jealous fear that her child would be less hers by becoming a Christian—a half uneasy feeling of the new state of things, did cloud her heart a little, though almost unknown to her self She would not have confessed to any such cloud—and practically it was not there: no straw of hindrance did she put in Faith's way; indeed she seemed rather fearful of touching the matter in any wise. It was rather from curiosity than anything else, that she said—as they were both getting ready for afternoon church,

"Well child, how did you like going to Sunday school?"

Faith's answer was subdued, but earnest. "I liked it very much, mother."

"How many's in your class?" said Mrs. Derrick, tying her bonnet.

"Only one yet—but that was enough for me to begin with.—I hope I shall get some more soon."

"Only one!" said Mrs. Derrick—"besides you, do you mean, child?"

"Mother!"—said Faith. Then smiling she added, "Yes, mother—only one besides me. That one is little Charley Seacomb—and I am trying to teach him."

"Why I thought you were in Mr. Linden's class!" said Mrs. Derrick, facing round.

But Faith's face flushed, and what was very uncommon with her, the tears came too.

"So I am, mother," she said;—"but I am one that he teaches at home. I have learned all I know from him," she said, covering her eyes with both hands.

"Why child, hush!" said her mother softly—"I didn't mean to say anything,—how should I know? So you're teaching Charley Seacomb, hey?—well I'm sure he wants it bad enough. I guess I'd better go too, next Sabbath,—it was real lonesome with you all gone. And that makes me think, child—I wonder if you could go a little way for me after meeting?"

"Go to Sunday school, mother!" said Faith shewing her bright wet eyes. "Will you teach some children, mother?"

Written letters don't give the intonation of these words.

"I guess they could teach me, some of 'em," said her mother. "But I thought maybe, Faith, you'd take Sally Loundes some medicine—she sent word for it, and I don't know as I can get so far to-day. Mr. Linden does have a class, don't he?"

"I can go just as well as not, and like it very much, mother. O yes—he has a class of course—a class of some of the biggest boys—a large class."

"I wonder what he does with himself after meeting," said Mrs. Derrick. "Folks do say he goes strolling round, but I don't believe it."

"Mother! Folks say everything, I believe. He knows what he does."

"Maybe you wouldn't like to be seen out on Sabbath?" said Mrs. Derrick, with sudden thought. "Because if you wouldn't, Faith, I'll go myself to Sally's—can or no can."

"No, mother—" she said brightly,—"I would like to go. If I know I am doing right, I don't mind about being seen. I wish people had as good reason for telling tales about me, as they have for some others."

"I guess your class 'll fill up,—" said her mother, with her fond, wistful look at the only thing she had in the world.

It was the fairest, still, sweet afternoon, when after church Faith got the medicine for Sally Loundes and set out to take it to her. So fair and lovely, that Faith hardly considered much the features of the road she travelled; in that light any piece of ground was beautiful. The road was very lonely after a little part of the village had been gone through. It left the main street, then bid farewell to a few scattering distant houses and approached what was called Barley Point;—a barren piece of ground from which a beautiful view of the Sound and the ocean line, and perhaps porpoises, could be had. But at the foot of this field the road turned, round the end of that belt of woods spoken of; and getting on the other side of it ran back eastward towards the Lighthouse point. Between the woods and the sea, on this side, was a narrow down that the farmers could make little of; and here the road, if desolate, had a beauty of its own. On Faith's right was this strip of tolling downs, grown with nothing but short grass and low blackberry vines; and close at hand, just beyond its undulating line, the waves of the sea beating in. Very little waves to-day, everything was so quiet.

At the Lighthouse point, a mile or more on, was a little settlement of fishermen and others; but only one house stood on the way, and that hardly disturbed the monotony or the solitude; it was so little, so brown, and looked so of a piece with the barren country. That was Sally Loundes' house. Faith met nobody till she got there.

When Faith came out of the house, the sun's place warned her she would have no time to spare to get home. She set off with quicker pace, though nowise concerned about it. There was no danger of anything in Pattaquasset. But she had gone only a little part of her wild homeward way when she met Mr. Simlins. Now Mr. Simlins was accustomed to take an afternoon Sunday stroll and sometimes a long one; so it was no matter of surprise to meet him, nor even to meet him there, for Mr. Simlins was as independent in his choice of a walk as in everything else. But he was surprised.

"Hullo! my passenger pigeon," he exclaimed. "Why are you here all alone, in this unfrequent place?"

"It's a very nice place," said Faith. "And it's not disagreeable to be alone—though I am willing to meet you, Mr. Simlins."

"Haven't been quarrelling with anybody, have you?"

"No," said Faith, giving an amused look to this view of the subject. "Do I look quarrelsome, Mr. Simlins?"

"I don't know how you look!" said the farmer. "I aint anything of an exposition. You'll have to ask somebody else. There's some words too hard for me to spell and pro-nounce. Where have you been?"

"Just to carry Sally Loundes some medicine mother had for her."

"Where are you goin' now?"

"Home."

"Goin' alone?"

"Why, yes. Why not?"

"Don' know," said Mr. Simlins,—"only I'm going part way, and I'll see nothin' happens to you as long as I'm in your consort."

It was a wild place enough to make company pleasant. Dark clumps of forest-trees on one hand grew near together, and the spaces between, though cleared, looked hardly less wild; for vines and sumach and ferns had taken possession. The sun's rays yet lay warm on the rolling downs, the sere grass and the purplish blackberry vines, and sparkled on the waves beyond; but when Mr. Simlins and Faith struck into the woods for a 'short cut,' the shadowy solitude closed them in on all sides. Softly their steps moved over the fallen pine leaves, or rustled through the shreds of autumn finery that lay beneath oak and maple, and nothing else but birds and squirrels broke the stillness till they were near the further edge of the wood. There they heard a soft murmur of voices.

"Who lives here?" said Mr. Simlins.

But Faith held her breath.

"There's mortality here, where I thought there was nothing but animals and vegetation," said Mr. Simlins stepping softly and cautiously forward. "Let's see—don't make no noise more'n the leaves 'll let you. I shouldn't think anything would come to a meetin' here but a wood-chuck—and they're skeered if they see a shadow."

On that side the trees ceased abruptly, and the open sunshine of a little clearing replaced them; and there were the speakers.

Tallest among the group sat Mr. Linden, and around him—in various attitudes of rest or attention—a dozen boys basked in the sunshine. Most of them were a size or two smaller than his morning class at the Sunday school, though several of those were stretched on the grass at the outskirts of the circle, as honorary members. Little Johnny Fax, established in Mr. Linden's lap, divided his attention pretty evenly between the lesson and the teacher; though indeed to his mind the separate interests did not clash.

The little glade was very green still, but sprinkled with the autumn leaves which came floating down at every breath; and the bordering trees stood some in deep green hemlock and some in paler pine, and thrust out here and there a glowing arm into the sunlight. The boys—listening and looking,—some playing the part of young Nebuchadnezzars, some picking and breaking up the asters and golden rod within their reach,—giving little side nods of assent to each other, or bending a more earnest gaze on Mr. Linden; pushing back their caps—or pulling them down with a quick brush across the eyes;—the hand with which Johnny Fax stroked back from Mr. Linden's forehead any stray lock of hair which the wind displaced, or laid on his shoulder when there was nothing else to do;—made altogether a picture the like of which Mr. Simlins had not seen before—nor even Faith. The sun might leave the clearing and betake itself to the tree-tops, and thence to the clouds,—there was light there which came from a higher source.

Not Faith's silent attention was more silent and motionless than that of her companion; he did not move or stir. But her deep, deep, rapt gravity formed part of the subject of his contemplations, for one or two keen sidelong glances fell upon it. Else, his eyes were busy uninterruptedly with the scene and took in the whole effect of it; hers hardly wavered from one point.

A little stir among the boys roused both the lookers-on from their muse; but they stood still again at the first notes of a hymn—as Mr. Linden's deep voice began, and the young choir with its varied treble chimed in.

"I want to be an angel, And with the angels stand, A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand; There, right before my Saviour, So glorious and so bright, I'd wake the sweetest music, And praise him day and night.

"I never should be weary, Nor ever shed a tear, Nor ever know a sorrow, Nor ever feel a fear; But blessed, pure, and holy, I'd dwell in Jesus' sight, And with ten thousand thousand Praise him both day and night.

"I know I'm weak and sinful, But Jesus will forgive, For many little children, Have gone to heaven to live. Dear Saviour, when I languish, And lay me down to die, Oh send a shining angel To bear me to the sky!

"Oh there I'll be an angel, And with the angels stand! A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand. And there before my Saviour, So glorious and so bright, I'll wake the sweetest music, And praise him day and night!"

The two listeners stood still while the hymn was singing, still as the air; but Mr. Simlins got no more sight of Faith's face. They stood still when the hymn was finished, as if they lingered where the last vibrations had been. But as a general stir among the hymn party proclaimed that they would soon be on the move, the two who had watched them, as if by consent, turned short about and silently picked their way back through the darkening wood to the nearest point of road they could reach. It was far from home, and even out of the wood the light was failing; they walked with quick steps. Mr. Simlins could get glances now at Faith's face, but though it was quiet enough, he seemed for some reason or other in a disagreeable state of mind. It made itself manifest at length in a grunt of considerable power.

"Ugh!—this is a complexious sort of a world to live in!"—was his not very clear remark. The contrast of the tone of the next words was striking.

"Dear Mr. Simlins, there is something better."

"What do you call me 'dear' for?" growled he. "You never did before."

"I don't know," said Faith. "Because I want you to be as happy as I am."

"Be you so happy?" said the farmer inquisitively.

Faith said yes. It was a calm and clear yes; a confident yes; one that felt its foundations strong and deep; yet Faith's mother or dearest friend, if gifted with quick apprehensions, would hardly have been satisfied with it. Was Mr. Simlins so gifted?

"Not so happy you couldn't be happier?" he said in a tone that assumed it.

"No," said Faith, looking at him with a sunshiny smile;—"I want to be better, Mr. Simlins."

"Better!"—growled Mr. Simlins. "You go hang yourself!—I wish you was better. If you aint happy—I wish the Simlins' may be—an extant race!"

The extraordinary combination of wishes in this speech took away Faith's breath for an answer. She waited for something more.

"What was that fellow doing there?" growled the farmer after a while.

"I suppose he was teaching Sunday school," Faith said after a little hesitation.

"Why, is one to be forever teaching Sunday school?" said the farmer in a discontented tone.

"Why not?" said Faith,—"as long as there are people to be taught?"

"Don't you want to take hold and teach me now?" said Mr. Simlins.

Faith did not know at all what to make of this question; and before she had found an answer that would do, she was saved making any. For Mr. Linden, with even brisker steps than theirs, came up behind them; and after a bright "Good evening, Mr. Simlins," uttered a somewhat surprised "Miss Faith!"

"Yes," said Mr. Simlins, "here she is; and I'm goin' along to see that nothing happens to her. She goes to take care o' somebody else,—and I come after to take care o' her; so we go. We all give each other a deal o' trouble in this world!"

"Am I expected to take care of you, Mr. Simlins, by the same rule?—I came after."

"Well!—I don't know," said the farmer "I guess there'll be nobody to take care of me. I'm past taking care of."

"What does that mean?" said Mr. Linden.

"How would you like the job?" said Mr. Simlins. "Think it 'ud be easy?"

"Why I should like to know a little more about the job before I express any opinion."

"I have an opinion," said Mr. Simlins, "that you don't know much o' farming. Guess it's correct, aint it?"

"What kind of farming?" inquired Mr. Linden again.

"I don't know more'n one kind. Tillin' the earth, to bring out the produce of it."

"I have seen something of another kind," said Mr. Linden; "it is this:—'Sow to yourselves in righteousness, reap in mercy; break up your fallow ground: for it is time to seek the Lord, till he return and rain righteousness upon you.'"

Mr. Simlins wasn't quick to answer that, and there was silence for a minute or two, only broken by their footsteps.

"Well—" he said slowly at length,—"suppos 'n a piece o' ground bears as good a crop as it has soil for, hadn't you ought to be contented with it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Linden; "but I never saw such a piece of ground, yet."

Mr. Simlins paused.

"Do you believe some folks can be better than they air already?" he asked.

"I believe all folks can."

"You believe in cameras, then. How're you goin' to work?"

"To make people better?—set them to work for them selves, if I can."

"What sort o' ploughs and harrows would you want 'em to take hold of?"

"They'll find out, when they set to work in earnest to make the ground yield the right sort of fruit," said Mr. Linden.

"What do you call the right sort?" said the farmer, now thoroughly engaged. "Aint as good as a man can do, the right sort?"

"Why yes," said Mr. Linden again, "but I tell you I never saw that sort of fruit ripe—and I'm not sure that I ever shall in this world. For the best fruit that the ground can yield, includes not only the best seed and cultivation, but the perfect keeping down of every weed, and the unchecked receiving of all sweet heavenly influences."

"That's a camera!" said Mr. Simlins something shortly. "You can't have all that in this world."

"The fact that people cannot be perfect in this world, does not hinder their being better than they are."

"Well, I say, how're you goin' to work to make it, when they're doin' the best they can do, already?"

"Who is?"

"I am inclined to be of the opinion you air," said Mr Simlins slowly. "I won't say I be—but I don't know how to do no better."

"Thank you, Mr. Simlins—" was the somewhat sorrowful reply,—"you may see what I do, but you do not see what I know. And for you, my friend—pray to know!—there can be no mistakes in the advice that comes from heaven."

There was a minute's silence, till they came to a turning.

"I'd be glad to see you," said Mr. Simlins in a somewhat lowered tone,—"ary one of you—down to my house, any time. You can take care of her the rest of the way. Good night!"—

He turned off abruptly down a road that led his way.

They had been walking with slackened steps during this conversation, and the lingering memory of it still checked the pace of the two now left together:

"Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,"

had all retreated. And when Mr. Linden spoke, it was not in his own words.

"'I thank thee, uncreated Sun, That thy bright beams on me have shined! I thank thee, who hast overthrown My foes, and healed my wounded mind! I thank thee, whose enlivening voice Bids my freed heart in thee rejoice!

"'Thee will I love, my joy, my crown! Thee will I love, my Lord, my God! Thee will I love—beneath thy frown Or smile, thy sceptre or thy rod! What though my flesh and heart decay, Thee shall I love in endless day!'"

The silence of the evening fell again unbroken. Unless a breath caught somewhat interruptedly—so gentle a break—might be said to break it. Faith said nothing, except by that caught breath. Mr. Linden's step was the only one heard. Silently then he gave her his arm, and they went on at a quicker pace.

After a while Faith broke the silence. She spoke in a very quiet voice; as if choosing her words; and hesitated a little sometimes as if timidity checked her.

"Mr. Linden, I want to ask you about something that troubles me—I don't know what is right. I know I know very little—I know I cannot say much or can't say it well—but I feel sometimes as if I must speak to everybody I can reach, and tell them what I do know, and beg them to be safe and happy. And then something tells me that if I do so, people will think me crazy, or be offended,—that it is not my business and I can't do it well and that I had better not try to do it at all.—Is that 'something' right or wrong?"

"'Let him that heareth, say Come,'" Mr. Linden replied. "It is part of the sailing orders of every Christian to speak every other vessel that he can,—which does not mean that he should go out of his own proper course to meet them, nor that he should run them down when met."

"Nor, I suppose," said Faith, "that he should trouble himself about his voice being very low or very hoarse. I thought so. Thank you, Mr. Linden."

"The voice of true loving interest is generally sweet—and rarely gives offence," he said. "If people never spoke of religious things but from the love of them, there would be an end to cant and bad taste in such matters."

She said no more.

"How does Charles twelfth behave?" said Mr. Linden as they neared home. "Has he 'reacted' again—or does he give you both hands full?"

"He behaved nicely!" said Faith. "As to filling my hands, I suppose they wouldn't hold a great deal to-day; but I hope to have them fuller before long."

"Then I may send you another scholar?"

"O yes!" said Faith. "Have you one for me?"

"Perhaps two, if circumstances make my hands too full."

"Do I know them?"

"I am not sure how well, nor whether you know them at all by name; but you will like to teach them for different reasons. At least I have."

"I don't know"—said Faith. "If you have taught them, Mr. Linden, they will be very sorry to come to me!"

"Then you may have the pleasure of making them glad."

She laughed a little, but soberly; and they reached their own gate.

It was past the usual Sunday tea time; and soon the little party were gathered at that pleasantest, quietest of tea-tables—that which is spread at the close of a happy Sunday. It had been such to two at least of the family sitting there, albeit Faith's brow was unusually grave; and it had not been unhappy to Mrs. Derrick. She entered, by hope and sympathy, too earnestly and thoroughly into everything that concerned Faith—rested too much of her everyday life upon her, to be unhappy when she smiled.

After tea, as he often did, Mr. Linden went out again; and the two were left alone. Mrs. Derrick occupied herself with reading in the old family Bible, where she turned over leaf after leaf; but Faith, on a low seat, sat looking into the remains of the little fire which had been kindled in the supper room. Looking at the glowing coals and grey flickering ashes, with a very grave, meditative, thoughtful gaze.

"Mother—" she said at length, turning her face towards Mrs. Derrick's Bible.

"Well child?" said her mother a little abstractedly.

"I wish, mother, you would ask Mr. Linden to read and pray at night—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"

"Why Faith!" said Mrs. Derrick, now fully roused,—"how you talk, child! Wish I'd do this, and wish I'd let 'tother—don't I let you and Mr. Linden do pretty much what you've a mind to?"

It was incomprehensible to Faith that her mother's permission should have to do with any of Mr. Linden's actions; but she merely repeated,

"I wish you'd ask him, mother."

"I guess I will!" said Mrs. Derrick—"when I do you'll know it, and he too. Ask him yourself, pretty child," she added, looking at Faith with a very unbent brow.

"But mother," said Faith with a little tinge in her cheeks,—"it would be much better that you should ask him. You are the person to do it."

"I should like to see you make that out," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't think I'm such a person at all."

"Only because you are the head of the family, mother," Faith said with a little fainter voice.

"Well, if I'm the head of the family I'll do as I like, for once," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'd like to hear him, I'm sure,—child it would seem like old times,—but I wouldn't ask him, for a kingdom!"

Faith looked at her, half laughing and grave too—but gave up the point, seeing she must.

"And while you're about it, Faith, you can just ask him to make his boys behave. Sam Stoutenburgh did nothing all meeting time but look at you. So I guess the sermon didn't do him much good."

Faith went back to the contemplation of the fire. However, she apparently had not made up her mind that she was 'the person,' or else was not ready to act upon it; for when Mr. Linden was heard opening the front door Faith ran away, and came down no more that night.



CHAPTER XII.



"It occurs to me, Parson Somers," said that gentleman's lady wife, as she salted and sugared his morning bowl of porridge; "it occurs to me, that Pattaquasset is getting stirred up with a long pole."

"Ah, my dear?" said Mr. Somers—"'Stirred up! Well—what makes you think so?"

"Why—" said Mrs. Somers tasting the porridge—"Jenny! fetch some more milk. How do you suppose Mr. Somers is going to eat such thick stuff as that?—and when do you suppose he is going to get his breakfast, at this rate? If you let your head run upon Jem Waters in this style, Jenny, I shall forbid him the house. I always notice that the day after he's been here Mr. Somers' porridge is too thick."

"Well, my dear," said the parson,—"ha—the porridge will do very well. I thought you were speaking of Pattaquasset when you spoke of something being 'stirred up.'"

"So I was," said the lady, while Jenny blushing beyond her ordinary peonic hue, ran about in the greatest confusion, catching up first the water pitcher and then the molasses cup. "'Do very well?'—no, indeed it won't!—but men never know anything about housekeeping."

"Well, my dear, but about Pattaquasset?—I know something about Pattaquasset. Is there any trouble in the village? It's a very peaceable place," continued Mr. Somers, looking at his distant breakfast dish,—"always was—ha—I wish you'd let me have my porridge. Is there any trouble, my dear?"

"I can't tell,—" said Mrs. Somers, adding critical drops of milk,—"see for yourself, Mr. Somers. If there isn't, there may be.—One set of things is at sixes, and another at sevens. There—that's better, though it's about as far from perfection as I am."

"We're none of us perfect, and so—ha—my dear, we can't blame the porridge," said Mr. Somers with slight jocularity which pleased at least himself. "But Pattaquasset is about as near the impossible state as most places, that I know. What have you heard of, Mrs. Somers? You deal in rather—a—enigmatical construction, this morning."

"Who said I had heard anything?" said the lady,—"I only said, use your eyes, Mr. Somers,—open your study window and let the light in. Just see what a rumpus we've had about the school, to begin."

"Ha! my dear," said Mr. Somers, "if opening the window of my study is going to let trouble come in, I'd rather—ha—keep it shut! Judge Harrison thinks the teacher is a very fine man—and I've no doubt he is!—and the Judge is going to give him a great celebration. I have no doubt we shall all enjoy it. I think the disturbance that has been made will not give Mr. Linden any more trouble."

"Why who cares about his trouble?" said Mrs. Somers rather briskly,—"I dare say he's very good, Mr. Somers, but I sha'n't fret over him. I'm not sure but he's a little too good for my liking—I'm not sure that it's quite natural. Jenny! fetch some more biscuit!—how long do you suppose Mr. Somers and I can live upon one?"

Parson Somers eat porridge and studied the philosophy of Mrs Somers' statements.

"My dear," said he at length,—"I am not sure that you are correct in your view—indeed it seems to me—a—rather contradictory. I don't know what the stir is about; and I don't think there is any occasion, my dear, for you—a—to fret, about anything. Not about Mr. Linden, certainly. The disaffection to the new school was—a—confined to very few! I don't think it has taken root in the public mind generally. You will be better able to form a judgment on Thursday."

"Bless your heart! Mr. Somers," said his wife, "what's Thursday to do? If you think I've said all I could say—why there's no help for it. Now there's Sam Deacon—don't come to meeting half the time lately,—and to match that, Faith Derrick walks into Sunday school with one of those Seacomb children tagging after her."

"Well," said Mr. Somers looking exceedingly mystified,—"what's the harm in that? If Miss Faith chooses to do it, it shews, I am sure, a—a charitable disposition,—praiseworthy!"

"Mr. Somers!"—said the lady. "Is it possible you can think for one moment that I mean what you mean? If she came to Society too, I should know what to make of it, but when people work alongside of some folks, and not alongside of others, why it's as long as it's broad. Then Maria Davids says she drove those boys over to Neanticut 'tother day—or helped drive 'em. What do you think of that, Mr. Somers?"

Mr. Somers looked as if his wife was too fast for him.

"My dear," said he however, plucking up,—"I think I would trust Faith Derrick as soon as Maria Davids, or—any other young lady in Pattaquasset! If she did go to Neanticut I presume it was all as it should be. Squire Deacon never was—a—very remarkable for being a religious man or anything like that; and you can't help folks working alongside of each other—they will do it," said Mr. Somers relapsing into his jocular mood. "I am a man of peace, my dear, and you should be a woman of peace."

"Why you don't suppose I believed what Maria Davids said?" replied Mrs. Somers. "Her words are not worth their weight in gold—and she isn't a bit too good to be jealous. But the thing is, if Faith didn't do that, what did she do? Jenny! fetch in the tub of hot water, and be spry!"

With Jenny and the hot water walked in a somewhat rough-looking boy, who declared without much ceremony, beyond doffing his cap, that "'ma sent him to find out where the sewin' meetin' was to be this week."

"Who are you?" said Mrs. Somers, dipping a cup in the hot water and wiping it with a 'spryness' that was quite imposing. "Is your name Bill Wright?"

"No 'taint," said the boy. "Guess again."

"You'll never pay anybody for much trouble that way," said Mrs. Somers dipping in the corresponding saucer. "Jenny—did you ever hear of anybody's getting along in a dish-tub without a mop?"

"Who is it wants to know, sir?" said Mr. Somers politely. "Who is your father?"

"He's farmer Davids."

"Oh! and are you Phil?"

"Yes! What be I goin' to tell her?"—This interrogatory being sent in the direction of the dish-tub.

"Why you can tell her two things," said Mrs. Somers, eying Phil from head to foot. "In the first place, the Society'll meet down at Miss Bezac's; and in the second, as soon as your mother'll teach her children how to behave themselves I shall be very glad to see them."

"The Society'll meet down to Miss Purcell's?"

"Miss Bezac's"—said Mrs. Somers, preserving a cheerful and brisk equanimity in the midst of her sharp words that was quite delightful. "Pay more attention to your lessons, Phil Davids, and you'll be a better boy, if you look sharp."

"What lessons?" said the boy blackly.

"All you get—at home and abroad. You go to school I fancy," replied Mrs. Somers.

The boy glanced towards the clock and began to move off, answering by actions rather than words.

"You were over at Neanticut, I suppose, Saturday," said Mr. Somers affably. To which the answer was a choked and unwilling 'yes.'

"Well who drove you over?"

"He druv," said Phil. "I'm going—"

"And the ladies—weren't there ladies along?"

"Yes—They druv too."

"Did you have a fine time?" said Mrs. Somers.

"Yes! I did," said Phil very gloomily.

"Why what did you do more than the rest?"

"I didn't do nothing!" said Phil, blurting out,—"and he went and took all my nuts away. He's the devil!"

The boy looked at the minute as if he was a young one.

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Somers. "You—you oughtn't to speak that way—don't you know? it's not proper."

"I hope he boxed your ears first," said Mrs. Somers—"I'm certain you deserved it. What made him take your nuts away?"

"He wanted 'em to make a present to you"—said the boy; and with another glance at the hands of the clock, he darted out of the house and down the road towards the schoolhouse, as if truly he had expected to meet there the character he had mentioned.

"My dear—" said Mr. Somers—"do you think it is quite—a—politic, to tell Mrs. Davids she don't bring up her children right? Mrs. Davids is a very respectable woman—and so is Farmer Davids—none more so."

"I don't know what you call respectable women—" said Mrs. Somers—"I should be sorry to think he was. But I just wish, Mr. Somers, that you would preach a sermon to the people about cutting off their children's tongues if they can't keep them in order. I declare! I could hardly keep hands off that boy."

And with this suggested and suggestive text, Mr. Somers retired to his study.

It had been a busy day with more than Mr. Somers, when towards the close of the afternoon Faith came out upon the porch of her mother's house. She had not read more than one delicious bit of her letter on the ride home from Neanticut; the light failed too soon. After getting home there was no more chance. Saturday night, that Saturday, had a crowd of affairs. And Monday had been a day full of business. Faith had got through with it all at last; and now, as fresh as if the kitchen had been a bygone institution—though that was as true of Faith in the kitchen as out of it—she sat down in the afternoon glow to read the letter. The porch was nice to match; she took a low seat on the step, and laying the letter in her lap rested her elbow on the yellow floor of the porch to take it at full ease.

It was not just such a letter as is most often found in biographies,—yet such as may be found—'out of print.' A bright medley of description and fancy—mountains and legends and scraps of song forming a mosaic of no set pattern. And well-read as the writer was in other respects, it was plain that she was also learned in both the books Faith had had at Neanticut. The quick flow of the letter was only checked now and then by a little word-gesture of affection,—if that could be called a check, which gave to the written pictures a better glow than lit up the originals.

It was something to see Faith read that letter—or would have been, if anybody had been there to look. She leaned over it in a sort of breathless abstraction, catching her breath a little sometimes in a way that told of the interest at work. The interest was not merely what would have belonged to the letter for any reader,—it was not merely the interest that attached to the writer of it, nor to the person for whom it was written; it was not only the interest deep and great which Faith felt in the subjects and objects spoken of in the letter. All these wrought with their full power; but all these were not enough to account for the intent and intense feeling with which Faith bent over that letter, with eyes that never wavered, and a cheek in which the blood mounted to a bright flush. And when it was done, even then she sat still leaning over the paper, looking not at it but through it.

A little shower of fringed gentian and white Ladies' tresses came patting down upon the letter, hiding its delicate black marks with their own dainty faces.

"These are your means of transport back to Pattaquasset," said Mr. Linden. Faith looked up, and rose up.

"I had come back," she said, drawing one of those half long breaths as she folded up and gave him the letter. "I can't thank you, Mr. Linden."

"I thought you were not reading, or I should not have ventured such an interruption. But I am in no hurry for the letter, Miss Faith. How do you like Italy?"

"I like it—" said Faith doubtfully,—"I don't know it. Mr. Linden," she went on with some difficulty and flushing yet more,—"some time, will you tell me in what books I can find out about those things?—those things the letter speaks of."

"Those which concern Italy, do you mean! I can arrange an Italy shelf for you up stairs—but I am afraid I have not very much here to put on it."

"No indeed!" said Faith looking half startled,—"I didn't mean to give you trouble—only some time, if you would tell me what books—perhaps—"

"Perhaps what?" he said smiling,—"perhaps I wouldn't?"

"No," she said, "I mean, perhaps you would; and perhaps I could get them and read them. I feel I don't know anything."

That Faith felt it was very plain. She had that rare beauty—a soft eye. I do not mean the grace of insipidity, nor the quality of mere form and colour; but the full lustrous softness that speaks a character strong in the foundations of peace and sweetness. Many an eye can be soft by turns and upon occasion; it is rarely that you see one where sweetness and strength have met together to make that the abiding characteristic. The gentleness of such an eye has always strength to back it. Weakness could never be so steadfast; poverty could not be so rich. And Faith's eye shewed both its qualities now.

Mr. Linden merely repeated, "I will arrange it for you—and you can take the books in what order you like. Perhaps I can send you another journey when they are exhausted," he added, turning the letter softly about, as if the touch were pleasant to him. She stood looking at it.

"I don't know how to thank you for letting me read that," she said. "It would be foolish in me to tell you how beautiful I thought it."

"She is—" her brother said, with a tender, half smiling half grave expression. And for a minute or two he was silent—then spoke abruptly.

"Miss Faith, what have you done with your 'Philosophe'? You know, though the rooms in the great Temple of Knowledge be so many that no one can possibly explore them all, yet the more keys we have in hand the better. For some locks yield best to an English key, some to a French; and it is often pleasant to take a look where one cannot go in and dwell."

She flushed a good deal, with eyes downcast as she stood before him; then answered, with that odd little change of her voice which told of some mental check.

"I haven't done anything with it, Mr. Linden."

"That requires explanation."

"It isn't so hard as one of your puzzles," she said smiling. "I mean to do something with it, Mr. Linden, if I can; and I thought I would try the other day; but I found I didn't know enough to begin—to learn that yet."

"What other key are you forging?"

"What other key?" said Faith.

"I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?"

"I don't know," said Faith humbly.—"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first."

"Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar—do you think you could understand what I was about?"

The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come.

"When you have been teaching all day already"—she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right."

"Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?—just for variety's sake!"

"You may—and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part."

"I am glad you don't say you have no doubt I do," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has."

Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said.

"You will have to furnish me with a dictionary next," he said smiling. "Look at my watch—Miss Faith, how can you have tea so late, when I have been teaching all day?—it isn't right,—and cuts off one's time for philosophizing besides."

Faith ran into the house, to tell the truth, with a very pleased face; and tea was on the table in less time than Cindy could ever understand. But during tea-time Faith looked, furtively, to see if any signs were to be found that little Johnny Fax had been made to yield up his testimony. Whether he had or no, she could see none; which however, as she justly concluded with herself, proved nothing.

The new grammar was far easier understood than the old. Although Mr. Linden unfolded his newspaper, and informed Faith that he intended to read 'uninterruptedly'—so that she 'need feel no scruple about interrupting him'—yet he probably had the power of reading two things at once; for his assistance was generally given before it was asked. His explanations too, whether Faith knew it or not, covered more ground than the French exigency absolutely required,—he was not picking this lock for her, but giving her the grammar key.

But Faith knew it and felt it; and tasted the help thus given, with an appreciation which only it needed to do all its work; the keen delight of one seeking knowledge, who has never been helped and who has for the first time the right kind of help. Indeed, with the selfishness incident to human nature, she forgot all about Mr. Linden's intention to read uninterruptedly, and took without scruple or question, all the time he bestowed upon her. And it was not till some minutes after she had closed her books, that her low, grateful "You are very good, Mr. Linden!" reached his ear.

Now the fact was, that Faith had been much observed that afternoon,—her reading-dream on the steps had been so pretty a thing to see, that when Squire Deacon had seen it once he came back to see it again; and what number of views he would have taken cannot be told, had he not been surprised by Mr. Linden. Naturally the Squire withdrew,—naturally his enlarged mind became contracted as he thought of the cause thereof; and not unnaturally he walked down that way after tea, still further to use his eyes. The house was in a tantalizing state. For though the light curtain was down, it revealed not only the bright glow of the lamp, but one or two shadowy heads; and the window being open (for the evening was warm) low voices, that he loved and that he did not love, came to his ear. Once a puff of wind floated the curtain in—more tantalizing than ever! Squire Deacon could see Mr. Linden bending aside to look at something, but what the Squire could not see; for there came the edge of the curtain. In a warm state of mind he turned his face homewards, proclaiming to himself that he didn't care what they did!—the result of which was, that in ten minutes more he was knocking at Mrs. Derrick's door, and being promptly admitted by Cindy entered the parlour just as Faith had shut up her book and uttered her soft word of thanks.

It was something of a transition! But after a moment's shadow of surprise on her face, Faith came forward and gave the Squire her hand. She would have let him then explain his own errand; but as he did not seem very ready to do that, or to say anything, Faith stepped into the breach.

"How is Cecilia, Mr. Deacon? I have not seen her in a long time."

"She's firstrate," said the Squire, colouring up; for Mr. Linden's "how do you do again, Squire Deacon?" not only implied that they had lately met, but that the occasion was not forgotten.

"It's a sort of suffocating evening," added the Squire, wiping his forehead. "I don't recollect so warm an October for a year or two. Cilly's been out of town, Miss Faith, and since she come back she's been complainin' of you."

Faith was near saying that she hoped the warm weather would last till Thursday; but she remembered that would not do, and changed her ground.

"I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?"

"I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if you had come when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays."

"I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon."

"I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?"

"Very like," said the Squire—who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,—when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour."

"Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith.

"I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,—"the outside's like a picture—or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?"

Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand.

The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink.

"So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!"

"Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,—"almost any man may have so much of a library as that."

The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter.

"Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?"

"What things, Mr. Deacon?"

"Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder."

"How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?"

"Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,—"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!"

The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated,

"The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen."

"No," said Faith, "they cannot—especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do."

"It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?"

"What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, for we do."