"Tell me first, Miss Faith," he said turning over the leaves, "what you have been doing here by yourself."

"I have been all through it," she said; 'fluttering' sure enough, yet as much with pleasure as with timidity; not at all with fear.

"Will you work these out for me—" and he gave her half a dozen different tests on a bit of paper.

She coloured, and he could see her hand tremble; but she was not long doing them, and she did them well, and gave them back without a word and without raising her eyes.

"Well," said Mr. Linden, smiling a little as he looked at the paper, "if it takes half an hour to hear Charles twelfth his lesson, and Johnny gives you but one quarter the trouble, and Rob Waters about twice as much as Johnny, how much time will you spend upon them all?"

"It will be about an hour—wanting an eighth," she said without raising her eyes, but with a bit of a smile too.

"I hear you and Johnny have arranged preliminaries, Miss Faith."

"Yes," said Faith looking up brightly, "he came to shew me his ribband and to tell me last night. But I was almost sorry, Mr. Linden,—that you should send him away from you."

"For Johnny's sake, or my own?"

"For his sake—certainly."

"You need not speak so assuredly—there were two parties to the question—besides you. But I have him still, you know, in a way. What has been in hand since this little book was finished?"

"Nothing—except the Philosophe,—and—"

"Well?—isn't that blank to be filled up?"

"And Shakspeare," said Faith casting down her eyes.

"I cannot let you confine yourself to the study of human nature," said Mr. Linden,—"that will never do. Charles twelfth and Shakspeare want ground to stand upon. Did you ever read anything of Physical Geography?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what that is, Mr. Linden."

"Then I will have the pleasure of introducing you. Ordinary geography is but a shell without it. And if we accidentally go deeper down than the stratum of geography, I will try and bring you back safe. But Miss Faith, you have not done with this book yet—the subject-matter of it. I want you to carry that further."

"Well," she said smiling,—"I like it. I am ready. What comes next, Mr. Linden?"

"Did you pay any attention to the algebra part of the examination yesterday?"

"Yes, I believe so. I paid attention to it all—I didn't understand what some of it was about, but I believe I know what you mean."

"How should you like to work with letters and signs instead of figures? By the way, Miss Faith, your sevens are too much like your nines, and if you drew a check for $500 with that five, you might find yourself paying out $800."

She coloured again, but bowed her head in assent, quite ignoring in her interest in the subject the extravagance of the supposition by which he illustrated it.

"You shall not say that again, Mr. Linden."

"Don't pledge yourself for me," he said smiling,—"I am a lawless kind of person, as perhaps you have found out. But if I were to spend one minute well on the first day of the year, and each succeeding day add to my well-spent minutes so many more as the year was days old—how much of December would be well spent?"

But Faith could not tell.

"You see what is before you—" Mr. Linden said; "you must work that out, Miss Faith, in more ways than one. Well tell me this—Which is nearest to us now,—my sister Pet or the Khan of Tartary,—supposing her in Rome and him in his own dominions?"

Faith coloured again, a good deal, and with some sorrow.

"I am glad you asked me," she said;—"I want you should know it,—but I don't know anything about that, Mr. Linden. I know a little, of course," she said correcting herself, "but I couldn't answer you."

"But why can't you understand," he said looking at her, "that I am just some old, torn, dog-eared book of questions that you are looking into for the first time? I don't like to be made to feel like a bran new schoolbook."

Faith looked at him, and probably the words "old, torn, and dog-eared" made a peculiar contrast, for her eye flashed and in spite of everything she laughed, her musical little laugh.

"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Linden. "I like to be laughed at. But Miss Faith—just suppose for a moment that there were tears in your eyes,—what could keep them from falling?"

Faith's eyes opened and she took a little time to consider this proposition.

"If I were very determined, I think I could do it," she said.

"Suppose they got so far as the tip ends of your eye lashes?" he said, with a little play of the lips.

"They must come down, I am afraid," said Faith looking and wondering.

"But why?"

"Because my determination couldn't reach them there, I suppose," she said in unmitigated wonder. "There would be nothing to keep them up."

"Unphilosophic!" he said gravely,—"I shall have to teach you both why your tears fall, and why they don't."

She smiled, as very willing to be taught, but with a face that looked as if it had had few to experiment upon either way.

"I will try and not tire you out," Mr. Linden said, "but different things go on pleasantly together. Some I should like to have you study for me when I am away, some directly with me. And—"

"And what, sir?" she said with the gentle intonation of one to whose ear every word is pleasant.

"How much time have you in the course of the day that can and ought to be spent upon all these matters—without disturbing Shakspeare and his companions?"

"I will make time, Mr. Linden, if I don't find it. I have a good deal. You won't tire me."

"You must not make time out of strength. Will you write me a French exercise every day, among other things? Yes Cindy," he said—"I understand,"—apparently quite aware that Faith did not.

"I will try," said Faith, with a colour again that was not of French growth.

"Well baint you comin'?" said Cindy, who stood still as if she liked the prospect before her.

"Yes, but I can find my own way," said Mr. Linden; at which gentle hint Cindy vanished. And Faith sprang up.

"Teaching all day," she said, "and no tea either!"—And she was about to run off, then paused to say,

"That is all, Mr. Linden?—do you want to say anything more?"

"It was not tea, Miss Faith,—Reuben is at the door. Will you see him? Shall I bring him here or will you go there?"

"I will go there," said Faith hurriedly. But Mr. Linden followed her.

"Reuben," he said, "Miss Faith will hear you—and I am ready to answer for your word with my own;"—then he went back into the sitting room and closed the door.

But those words seemed to touch at least one sore spot in the boy's heart—he had to struggle with himself a moment before he could speak. Then it was low and humbly.

"Miss Faith—I don't know just what Phil has said about me,—I can't find out. But whatever it is there isn't one word of it true. I never said one word about you, Miss Faith, that I wouldn't say to you, just the same!" And Reuben looked as if he would have confronted the whole world on that point.

"I am quite sure of it, Reuben," Faith said very gently. "I didn't need you to come and tell me so."

He looked up at her with both gladness and thanks in his eyes.

"I shouldn't have troubled you with my trouble at all, Miss Faith—only he said you were displeased with me—and I was afraid it might be true."

"Who said I was displeased with you?"

An involuntary glance of Reuben's eye towards the closed door, seemed to say he did not want his words to go far.

"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. At least I thought he said so."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Yes ma'am—and just pushed my word out of the way when I gave it,—said it might be well enough to tell people but he didn't think you liked it. And so I got vexed. I'm so used to Mr. Linden," Reuben said—as if in excuse.

"Are you satisfied now, Reuben?" said Faith, giving him a good look of her eyes.

A little qualified his look was—perhaps because he had been too much troubled to have the traces go off at once; but there was no want of satisfaction in his,

"O yes, Miss Faith—I can't tell you how thankful I am to you! Goodnight, ma'am."

Faith went back to the parlour. And then Mr. Linden, taking from his pocket a piece of broad dark blue ribband, and laying it lightly round Faith's shoulders, told her gravely, "that she was entitled to wear that for the rest of the evening."

Faith matched the blue with red, and stood eying the ribband which she had caught as it was falling from her shoulders, seeming for a minute as if she had as much as she could bear. Rallying, she looked up at Mr. Linden to get a little more light as to what he expected of her, or what he meant. But unless she could read a decided opinion that the two 'favours' looked better together than separate, his face gave her no information. Then smiling he said,

"I don't mean that you must wear it—merely that you have the right."

Faith gave another glance at his face, and then without more ado tied the blue ribband round her waist, where as she still wore the white dress of yesterday, it shewed to very good advantage. She said nothing more; only as she was quitting the room now in earnest to get tea, gave him an odd, pleasant, half grateful, half grave little smile. Too many things however had been at work to admit of her coming down into quietness immediately. The red left her no more than the blue for the rest of that evening.



CHAPTER XVI.



Saturday was but a half holiday to Mrs. Derrick's little family—unless indeed they called their work play, which some of them did. It was spent thus.

By Mrs. Derrick, in the kitchen, in the bed-rooms, all over the house generally—with intervals at the oven door.

By Mr. Linden in the sitting-room, where Faith came from time to time as she got a chance, to begin some things with him and learn how to begin others by herself. The morning glided by very fast on such smooth wheels of action, and dinner came with the first Natural Philosophy lesson yet unfinished. It was finished afterwards however, and then Mr. Linden prepared himself to go forth on some expedition, of which he only said that it was a long one.

"I am going to petition to have tea half an hour later than usual to-night, Miss Faith," he said.

"Just half an hour later, Mr. Linden?" she said smiling. "You shall have it when you like."

"I hope to be home by that time—if not don't wait for me. You will find all the materials for your French exercise on my table."

Which intimation quickened Faith's steps about the little she had beforehand to do, and also quickened a trifle the beating of her heart. It was not quiet—timidity and pleasure were throbbing together, and throbbing fast, when she turned her back upon the rest of the house and went to Mr. Linden's room. She would have a good uninterrupted time this afternoon, at any rate. And the materials were there, as he had said,—all the materials; from books, open and shut, to the delicate white paper, and a pen which might be the very one Johnny Fax thought could write of itself. Faith stood and looked at them, and then sat down to work, if ever such a determination was taken by human mind.

She had been a good while absorbed in her business when a knock came to the front door, which Faith did not hear. Cindy however had ears to spare, and presently informed Mrs. Derrick that a gentleman wished to see her. And in the sitting-room Mrs. Derrick found Dr. Harrison.

"You haven't forgotten to remember me, I hope, Mrs. Derrick," he said as he took her hand. He looked very handsome, and very pleasant, as he stood there before her, and his winning ease of manner was enough to propitiate people of harder temper than the one he was just now dealing with.

"No indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick; "I remember a great many things about you,"—(as in truth she did.) "But I daresay you've changed a good deal since then. You've been gone a great while, Dr. Harrison."

"Do you hope I have changed?—or are you afraid I have?"

"Why I don't think I said I did either," said Mrs. Derrick smiling, for she felt as if Dr. Harrison was an old acquaintance. "And I suppose it makes more difference to you than to me, anyway." Which words were not blunt in their intention, but according to the good lady's habit were a somewhat unconscious rendering of her thoughts. "How's Miss Sophy, after her holiday? I always think play's the hardest work that's done."

"I am very sorry you found it so!" said the doctor.

"You needn't be—" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking complacently and making her knitting needles play in a style that certainly might be called work,—"I've got over it now. To be sure I was tired to death, but I like to be, once in a while."

The doctor laughed, as if, in a way, he had found his match.

"And how is Miss Derrick?" he asked. "If she was tired too, it was my fault."

"I guess that 'll never be one of your faults, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick,—"it would take any amount of folks to tire her out. She's just like a bird always. O she's well, of course, or I shouldn't be sitting here."

"And so like a bird that she lives in a region above mortal view, and only descends now and then?"

"Yes, she does stay upstairs a good deal," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting away. "Whenever she's got nothing to do down here. She's been down all the morning."

"I can't shoot flying at this kind of game," said the doctor;—"I'll endeavour to come when the bird is perched, next time. But in the meanwhile, Miss Derrick seemed pleased the other night with these Chinese illuminations—and Sophy took it into her head to make me the bearer of one, that has never yet illuminated anything, hoping that it will do that office for her heart with Miss Derrick. The heart will bear inspection, I believe, with or without the help of the lantern."

And the doctor laid a little parcel on the table. Mrs. Derrick looked at the parcel, and at the doctor, and knit a round or two.

"I'm sure she'll be very much obliged to Miss Harrison," she said. "But I know I sha'n't remember all the message. I suppose that won't matter."

"Not the least," said the doctor. "The lantern is expected to throw light upon some things. May I venture to give Mrs. Derrick another word to remember, which must depend upon her kindness alone for its presentation and delivery?"

Mrs. Derrick stopped knitting and looked all attention.

"It isn't much to remember," said the doctor laughing gently. "Sophy wishes very much to have Miss Derrick go with her to-morrow afternoon. She is going to drive to Deep River, and wished me to do my best to procure Miss Derrick's goodwill, and yours, for this pleasure of her company. Shall I hope that her wish is granted?"

Now Mrs. Derrick, though not quick like some other people, had yet her own womanly instincts; and that more than one of them was at work now, was plain enough. But either they confused or thwarted each other, for laying down her work she said,

"I know she won't go—but I'll let her come and give her own answer;" and left the room. For another of her woman's wits made her never send Cindy to call Faith from her studies. Therefore she went up, and softly opening the door of the study room, walked in and shut it after her.

"Pretty child," she said, stroking Faith's hair, "are you very busy?"

"Very, mother!"—said Faith looking up with a burning cheek and happy face, and pen pausing in her hand. "What then?"—

"Wasn't it the queerest thing what I said that day at Neanticut!" said Mrs. Derrick, quite forgetting Dr. Harrison in the picture before her.

"What, dear mother?"

"Why when I asked why you didn't get Mr. Linden to help you. How you do write, child!"—which remark was meant admiringly.

"Mother!"—said Faith. "But it can be done"—she added with quiet resolution.

"I'm sure it never could by me, in that style," said Mrs. Derrick,—"my fingers always think they are ironing or making piecrust. But child, here's Dr. Harrison—come for nobody knows what, except that Sophy took it into her head to send her heart by him—as near as I can make out. And he wants you to go to Deep River to-morrow. I said you wouldn't—and then I thought maybe you'd better speak yourself. But if you don't like to, you sha'n't. I can deal with him."

"I don't want to see Dr. Harrison, mother!—To-morrow?" said Faith. "Yes—I will see him."

She rose up, laid her pen delicately out of her fingers, went down stairs and into the sitting-room, where she confronted the doctor.

Faith was dressed as she had been at the party, with the single exception of the blue ribband instead of the red oak leaves; and the excitement of what she had been about was stirring both cheek and eye. Perhaps some other stir was there too, for the flush was a little deeper than it had been upstairs, but she met the doctor very quietly. He thought to himself the lanterns had lent nothing with their illumination the other night.

"No, sir," she said as he offered her a chair,—"I have something to do;—but mother said—"

"Will the bird perch for no longer than this?" said the doctor, turning with humourous appeal to Mrs. Derrick who had followed her.

"My birds do pretty much as they like, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick "They always did, even when I had 'em in cages."

"Then this bird is free now?"

"I guess you'd better talk to her—" said Mrs. Derrick, taking her seat and her knitting again.

"Miss Derrick!" said the doctor obeying this direction with an obeisance,—"you are free to command, and I can but obey. Will you go with Sophy to-morrow to Deep River? I am not altogether uninterested, as I hope to have the honour of driving you; but she sends her most, earnest wish."

"To-morrow is Sunday, Dr. Harrison."

"Well—isn't Sunday a good day?"

"It isn't mine," said Faith gently.

"Not yours?" said the doctor. "You have promised it away, and we are so unfortunate?"

Her colour rose a little, but it was with an eye as steady as it was soft that she answered him.

"The day belongs to God, Dr. Harrison—and I have promised it, and myself, away to him."

The doctor looked astonished for a minute. And he gazed at her.

"But, my dear Miss Derrick, do you think there is anything contrary to the offices of religion in taking a pleasant drive, in a pleasant country, in pleasant weather? that is all."

Faith smiled a little, gravely; it was very sweet and very grave.

"There are all the other days for that," she said. "God has given us his work to be done on his day, Dr. Harrison; and there is so much of it to do that I never find the day long enough."

"You are right!" he said—"You are quite right. You are a great deal better than I am. I am sorry I asked you,—and yet I am glad.—Then Miss Derrick, will you forgive me? and will you some other day shew that you forgive me and be so good as to go with us?"

But Faith's interest in the subject was gone.

"I am very busy, sir," she said. "I have work to do that I do not wish to put off."

"Cannot you go with us at all? We will wait and make it any day?"

"Do not wait," said Faith. "I could go, but I could not go with pleasure, Dr. Harrison. I have not the time to spare, for that, nor for more now. Please excuse me."

And she went.

"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor musingly, "this is a winged creature, I believe—but it is not a bird!"

At which Mrs. Derrick looked at him with a mingled satisfaction that he had got his answer, and curiosity to know what he thought of it. For the further she felt herself from her child's high stand, the more presuming did she think it in any one to try to bring her down from it.

"If I thought, as I came here, that I walked on a higher level than the generality of mankind, as perhaps in the vanity of my heart I did,—I feel well put down on the ground now," pursued the doctor. "But Mrs Derrick, when may I hope to see this winged thing of yours again?"

It must be confessed that Mrs. Derrick did not admire this speech,—'a winged thing,' as she justly thought, was a somewhat indefinite term, and might mean a flying grasshopper as well as a canary bird. Therefore it was with some quickness that she replied,

"What sort of a winged thing are you talking of, doctor?"

"Nothing worse than a heavenly one, madam. But angel or cherub are such worn-out terms that I avoided them."

He was standing yet where Faith left him, looking down gravely, speaking half lightly, to her mother.

"I don't know who'll see her when she's an angel," said Mrs. Derrick, with a little flush coming over her eyes. "But she wouldn't thank you for calling her one now," she added presently, with her usual placid manner. "Won't you sit down again, doctor?"

"May I ask," said he eying her, somewhat intent upon the answer,—"why she wouldn't thank me for calling her one now?—by which I understand that it would incur her displeasure."

"Why—why should she?" said Mrs. Derrick, who having dropped a stitch was picking it up with intentness equal to the doctor's.

"True!" said the doctor in his usual manner. "Angels don't thank mortals for looking at them. But Mrs. Derrick, when may such a poor mortal as I, stand a chance of seeing this particular one again?"

Mrs. Derrick laid down her work.

"Well you have changed!" she said, "there's no doubt of that! I don't recollect that you used to care so much about seeing her when you were here before. If I don't forget, you set your dog on her cat. And as to when you'll see her again, I'm sure I can't tell, doctor. She's a busy child, and folks out of the house have to do without seeing her till she finds time to see them." Whereat Mrs Derrick smiled upon Dr. Harrison with the happy consciousness that she was one of the folks in the house.

The doctor stood smiling at her, with a half humourous, quite pleasant expression of face.

"Set my dog on her cat!" he exclaimed. "That is why she would be angry with me for calling her a cherub!—

'Tantae ne animis celestibus irae!'"

The doctor sat down.

"What shall I do!" he said. "Advise me, Mrs. Derrick."

"I know what I should have done if I'd got hold of you," said Mrs. Derrick. "I thought I never would speak to you again—but you see I've got over it."

"I'm not sure of it," said the doctor meditatively. "'Folks out of the house'—well! It strikes me I've been 'in' to little purpose this afternoon."—He rose again. "Where is Mr. Linden? is he 'out', or 'in', this fine day?"

"He's out this afternoon," said Mrs. Derrick. "I was thinking to ask you if you wanted to see him, and then I knew it was no use."

"Yes, I should like to see him," said the doctor; "but as he is a mortal like myself, I suppose I can find him another time by the use of proper precautions."

And Dr. Harrison took his departure.

Mrs. Derrick on her part went upstairs again, and opening the door merely peeped in this time.

"What is it, mother?"

"Are you busy yet, child?"

"Not quite through."

"I thought," said Mrs. Derrick stepping softly into the room, "that we'd go down to the shore this afternoon, and maybe dig some clams. I don't know but it's too late for that—we might ride down and see. You're tired, pretty child—and other people won't like that a bit more than I do."

"I'd like to go, mother—I'm almost done, and I'm not tired," Faith said with happy eyes. "There is time, I guess, for Mr. Linden don't want tea as early as usual. I'll come soon."

Mrs. Derrick withdrew softly, and again Faith was entirely lost in her business. But she had nearly done now; the work was presently finished, the books put up in order, and the papers, with the exercise on top; and Faith stood a moment looking down at it. Not satisfied, but too humble to have any false shame, too resolute to doubt of being satisfied and of satisfying somebody else, by and by. And the intellectual part of her exercise she thought, and with modest reason, would satisfy him now. Then she went down to her mother, quite ready for the beach or for anything else.

It was one of those very warm October days which unlearned people call Indian summer,—the foreground landscape yellow with stubble fields and sered forest, the distance blue with haze. So soft and still, that the faint murmur of the wheels as they rolled along the sandy road sounded as if at a distance, and the twittering birds alone set off the silence. Now and then came a farm wagon loaded with glowing corn, then the field where the bereaved pumpkins lay among the bundles of cornstalks. Sportsmen passed with their guns, schoolboys with their nut-bags, and many were the greetings Faith received; for since the day at Neanticut every boy thought he had a right to take off his hat to her. From the midst of his cornfield, Mr. Simlins gave them a wave of his hand,—from the midst of its blue waters the Sound sent a fresh welcome.

"I declare, child," said Mrs. Derrick, as they neared the shore, "it's real pleasant!"

"The tide's out, mother," said Faith, who had the spirit of action upon her to-day—"we can get some clams now, if we're quick."

"I don't know but you're learning to be spry, among other things," said her mother looking at her. "I thought you were as spry as you could be, before. What haven't you done to-day, child!"

Faith laughed a little, and then jumping out of the wagon and helping her mother down, was certainly 'spry' in getting ready for the clam-digging. Her white dress had been changed for a common one and that was carefully pinned up, and a great kitchen apron was put on to cover all but the edges of skirts as white as the white dress, and with shoes and stockings off, basket and hoe in hand, she stood ready almost before her mother had accomplished fastening up old Crab to her satisfaction. Mrs. Derrick on her part prepared herself as carefully for work (though not quite so evidently for play) and the two went down to the flats. The tide was far out,—even the usual strips of water were narrow and far apart. Wherever they could, the little shell-fish scrambled about and fought their miniature battles in one-inch water; but at the edge of the tall shore-grass there was no water at all, unless in the mud, and the shell-fish waited, by hundreds, for the tide. Here was the scene of action for the two ladies. Walking daintily over the warm mud with their bare feet, which however white and twinkling at first were soon obliged to yield to circumstances; disturbing the little shell-fish—who in turn disturbed them, by very titillating little attacks upon the aforesaid feet,—Mrs. Derrick and Faith marched up to the edge of the grass and there sought for clam holes. The war went on after this fashion. A clam hole being found, the hoe was struck far down into the mud to unearth the inhabitant; which the clam resenting, spit up into the intruder's face. But the intruder—proof against such small fire—repeated the strokes, and the clam was soon brought to light and tumbled ignominiously into the basket,—to be followed every second or two by another of his companions; for the clam holes were many. The basket was soon full, but not before the cool ripple of the tide had passed the muscle rocks and was fast coming in-shore.

"Well I do think play's hard work!" said Mrs. Derrick, bringing herself once more to an erect position—"I told Dr. Harrison so this morning. How you and Mr. Linden stand it, Faith, I don't know."

"What, mother?" said Faith, making a descent upon another promising clam shell. But Mrs. Derrick always preferred to go on with her remarks.

"It's good he's doing it, for his own sake, I guess," she said,—"he's done nothing but work ever since he came to Pattaquasset."

"Doing what, mother?" said Faith. "What are you talking of?"

"Why I'm talking of you, child!" said her mother,—"you and Mr. Linden. One of you played all the morning and the other's going to play all the afternoon. But I think you've done enough, Faith—it won't do to get sick so long as we've nobody but Dr. Harrison to depend on. I don't believe he's much of a doctor."

"Played all the morning?" said Faith taking up her basket,—"it was better than play to me. I wish I could do something for him, mother!"

Very gravely, and even a little sorrowfully, the last words were said.

"Why yes," said Mrs. Derrick stoutly. "Never tell me it's anything but play to teach you, child—he didn't look as if it was, neither. I thought he got his pay as he went along."

Faith knew he had looked so; but that was not Faith—it was Mr. Linden, in her account.

"Dr. Harrison ought to be a good doctor, mother," she remarked, leaving the subject. "He has had chance enough."

"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, untying her apron, "chance don't prove anything. A man may have just as good a chance to kill as he has to cure. By which I don't mean that he has, for I don't know."

"The tide is coming in, mother. We came just in the very point of the time. How pretty it is!—" said Faith; standing in the blue mud, with her bare feet, and with the basket of clams in her hand, but standing still to look off at the flats and the dark water and the hazy opposite shore, all with the sunny stillness and the soft enveloping haze of October lying lovingly upon them. Faith thought of the 'glory' again, and watched to see how water and shore and flats and sky were all touched with it. One or two sails on the Sound could not get on; they lay still in the haze like everything else; and the 'glory' was on them too. She thought so. It seemed to touch everything. And another glory touched everything,—the glory of truth Faith had only for a little while come to know. She recognized it; there was 'light from heaven' in more senses than one; the glow of joy and hope unknown a while before; the softening veil of mind-peace over whatever might be harsh or sharp in actual reality. She did not run out all the parallel, but she felt it, and stood looking with full eyes. Not full of tears, but of everything pleasant beside.

Then came the drive home, with the air darkening every minute, but notwithstanding this, Mrs. Derrick stopped by the way.

"Faith," she said, "hold the reins, child—I won't be a second, but I've got something to see to in here;" and Faith was once more left to her meditations.

Not for long; for as she sat gazing out over old Crab's ears, she was 'ware' of some one standing by the wagon: it was Squire Deacon.

"I shall commence to think I'm a lucky man, after all!" said the Squire. "I was coming down to see you, Miss Faith,—and couldn't just resolve my mind to it, neither. I wanted to pay a parting visit."

"Were you?—are you going away, Squire Deacon?"

"Why yes," said the Squire, looking down at his gun—for he had been shooting,—"I've had considerable thoughts of taking a turn down to York. Cilly says she don't think it's worth my while—but I guess she don't know much more 'n her own concerns. Pattaquasset's a good deal come round this season," he added, without specifying which way.

"Do you mean that you intend to forsake Pattaquasset entirely?" said Faith, noticing the comfortable supply of ducks in the Squire's bag.

"Well I can't just say—I'm not free to certify," said the Squire. "I said I thought it was worth my while to go, and so I do. I should like to know from your lips, Miss Faith, whether you'll make it worth my while to come back."

Faith was very glad it was so dark.

"I don't see how I can touch the question either way, sir," she said gently and with not a little difficulty.—"Wherever you are, I hope you'll be very happy, and very good, Squire Deacon."

"I should like something a little better grown than that, ma'am," said the Squire, striking his gun on the ground. "I can't just tell whether that's wheat or oats. It's likely my meaning's plain enough."

Faith was dumb for a minute.

"I believe I understood you, sir," she said in a low voice. "I meant to answer you."

"Well what's to hinder your doing it, then?" said Squire Deacon.

"I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,—and can't have,—except to wish you well, which I do heartily."

"That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?"

"No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "Squire Deacon, I want to see you in heaven."

And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of the wagon.

Squire Deacon took it for a moment—then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger prevailed Faith could not tell, he said—

"Well—I don't blame you,—never did and never shall. Cunning's been too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in the wagon again.

"Dear mother!" said Faith,—"why didn't you come sooner!"

"Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the matter?—why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome."

Faith was silent.

"What's the matter?" repeated her mother,—"have you been getting sick after all I said to you?"

"Squire Deacon has been here talking to me," said Faith in a low tone.

"Well then you had company, I'm sure. What did he talk about? Come, Crab!—get on, sir!"

"He says he is going away from Pattaquasset, and he lays it to me, mother," she said after some hesitancy again.

"What does he lay it to you, for?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't believe he's going away, to begin with."

"He wanted me to say something to bring him back again," said Faith lower yet.

"O is that all!" said Mrs. Derrick composedly. "I knew that gun was loaded, long ago. Well what's the harm if he did?—it's not dangerous."

"I'm sorry," said Faith. "But mother, do make Crab get on!—it's time."

"It's not late," said Mrs. Derrick. "And don't you fret about Sam Deacon, child,—he always was a little goose—till he got to be a big one; but you needn't think he'll ever shoot himself for love of you,—he loves himself better than that."

And at this point, Crab—roused by the thought of his own supper—set off at a good round trot which soon brought them home. There was nobody there, however, not even Cindy; so the need of haste did not seem to have been urgent. Faith soon had the kitchen fire in order, and her clams in the pot, and was for the next half hour thoroughly busy with them. Then she made herself ready for tea, and the mother and daughter sat together by the lamp, the one with her knitting the other with her book. But the extra half hour was already past.

"Faith," said Mrs. Derrick at last, "why wouldn't Mr. Linden do the other thing you asked him to?"

Faith looked up suddenly from her book, as if not understanding the question; then her head and her voice drooped together.

"I haven't asked him yet, mother."

"I didn't know but he'd some objection," said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I wish he'd come—I want my supper. I'm as tired as tired can be, paddling round there in the mud. How did you like your lantern, child?" she said as the clock struck half past seven.

Faith raised her head and listened first to the clock and for any sound that might be stirring near the house; then answered,

"I haven't looked at it, mother."

"What do you think of having supper?"

"Before Mr. Linden comes, mother?—well, if you like it, I'll get you yours—the clams are ready."

"I don't care," said her mother,—"I'm more sleepy than hungry. I'll just lie down here on the sofa, Faith, and you can wake me up when you hear him." And disregarding the cooked clams in the kitchen, Mrs. Derrick went to sleep and dug them all over again.

The clock ticked on,—softly, steadily, from the half hour to the hour, and from the hour to the half. Out of doors there was nothing stirring, unless the owl stirred between his unmusical notes, or Mr. Skip's dog did something but howl. Hardly a wagon passed, hardly a breath moved the leaves. Cindy, on her part, was lost in the fascination of some neighbouring kitchen.

And Faith at first had been lost in her study. But the sounding of eight o'clock struck on more than the air, and she found, though she tried, she could not shut herself up in her book any more. Mrs. Derrick slept profoundly; her breathing only made the house seem more still. Faith went to the window to look, and then for freer breath and vision went to the door. It was not moonlight; only the light of the stars was abroad, and that still further softened by the haze or a mistiness of the air which made it thicker still. Faith could see little, and could hear nothing, though eyes and ears tried well to penetrate the still darkness of the road, up and down. It was too chill to stay at the porch, now with this mist in the air; and reluctantly she came back to the sitting-room, her mother sleeping on the sofa, her open study book under the lamp, the Chinese lantern in its packing paper. Faith had no wish to open it now. There was no reason to fear anything, that she knew; neither was she afraid; but neither could she rest. Half past eight struck. She went to the window again, and very gravely sat down by it.

She had sat there but few minutes when there came a rush of steps into the porch, and Cindy burst into the little sitting-room, almost too out of breath to speak.

"Here's a proclamation!" she said—"Mr. Linden's been shot at dreadful, and Jem Waters is down to fetch Dr. Harrison. I'm free to confess they say he aint dead yet."

With which pleasing announcement, Cindy rushed off again, out of the room and out of the house, being seized with a sudden fear that Jem Waters would forestall her in spreading the news. The noise had awaked Mrs. Derrick, and she sat looking at Faith as if she was first in her thoughts. Faith stood before her with a colourless face, but perfectly quiet, though at first she looked at her mother without speaking.

"Come here, pretty child," said her mother, "and sit down by me."

"Mother," said Faith,—but she would not have known her own voice,—"something has happened."

But the way Mrs. Derrick's arms came round her, said that she too had heard.

"Where can he be, mother?" said Faith gently disengaging herself.

"I don't know, child."

Faith was already at the door.

"Faith!" her mother said, following her with a quick step,—"stop, child!"

Faith put back a hand as if to stop her—she was listening.

There was not a sound. Faith went down the steps and stood at the gate. Not a sound still; and her mother said softly, "Faith, you must not go out."

She put one hand on her mother's arm, and clasping it stood without stirring; her other hand on the gate. In mingled sorrow and fear her mother stood, not knowing well what to do or what to say,—in that emergency where woman can only endure—where she is powerless but to suffer. Faith stood without moving head or hand.

And so they remained, they knew not how long, until Cindy once more presented herself and told her story more at length.

"You see I was down to Mis' Somerses, and so was Dr. Harrison; and Jem Waters come there for him. And Jem he makes, up to Mis' Somerses Jenny, and to-night he wouldn't hardly speak to her—wouldn't no how tell what he come for. So then Jenny got mad and she went and listened; and she said Jem wanted to catch up Dr. Harrison and run off with him—and the doctor he wanted his horse. I don' know how they settled it but I'm free to confess I'm sleepy "—and Cindy once more disappeared, and the stillness settled down over all.



CHAPTER XVII.



On that eventful evening, Mr. Simlins had a husking bee; and in his barn were met a fair representation of the Pattaquasset men and boys—especially boys. And with busy hands and tongues the work went on, Mr. Simlins himself among the busiest. But in the midst of work and merriment though the fair stillness of the night was unheeded, the sudden interruption which came brought everyone to his feet; it was a loud shriek from the house, a woman's shriek.

"Hold on!" said Mr. Simlins—"you all go ahead and I'll go quiet the distractions. I suppose Mrs. Hummins has seen another rat in the dairy. No—thank'ee—I like to kill my own rats myself and then I know they air killed."

So letting nobody follow him, Mr. Simlins left the barn and went over to the house. In the kitchen he found the full array of female servants, of his own house and the neighbours', one of whom hiding her face was rocking back and forth with the most incoherent exclamations; while all the rest, standing by in various attitudes, seemed to have got an extra pair of eyes apiece for the express purpose of looking on.

"Well!"—said Mr. Simlins—"where is it? I've got my stick ready. Hain't bit anybody, has he?—Or has somebody got my silver spoons? What's to pay?"

Now silver spoons there were none in Mr. Simlins' economy, and this was a proverbial expression well known in the household.

"O Mr. Simlins! Mr. Simlins!" cried the hysterical one, with a shudder, "there's a murdered man at the front door!—and I did shut it, but he might come round this way!"

"You be hanged! and shut up!"—was Mr. Simlins' remark in answer to this statement; and flinging down his stick on the kitchen floor with a rattle, he strode to the front door and opened it, having had the precaution to take a candle with him.

There was certainly a figure there, not standing, but sitting on the bench in an attitude that spoke of faintness; and of all the men in Pattaquasset, Mr. Simlins was perhaps most surprised to see that it was Mr. Linden. A white handkerchief ineffectually bound round his arm, but served to shew why he had tried to secure it there.

Mr. Simlins surveyed it all with his candle in about three seconds, and then said hoarsely, "What's this? Can you speak to me?"

But the power for that was gone, though a little parting of the lips spoke the intent. Mr. Simlins set down his candle and went back to the kitchen.

"Get some brandy, you fools!" said he. "Here's a friend o' mine got faint for want of his supper—been too long out shootin'. Fetch a glass of water here too! Jenny Lowndes, you go tell Jem Waters that 'ere plaguey black heifer has got out of the yard. You send him to me, and if you spile the frolic with your story I'll have nothing more to do with you, I give you my word!"

Mr. Simlins was obeyed. He himself went back with the water and the brandy, which he tenderly applied to Mr. Linden's forehead and lips, and seeing the handkerchief's ineffectual disposition had taken it off and bound it on tight by the time Jem Waters, one of his farm hands, had reached the porch. The two then taking the sufferer in their arms carried him into the house and into Mr. Simlins' room, which was on the first floor, where they laid him on the bed. Jem Waters was then despatched for Dr. Harrison, with orders to hold his tongue and not say what he was sent for. And Jem Waters, the swiftest runner in Pattaquasset, set off and ran every step of the way, till the doctor was found.

The cold applications, the resting posture, seemed to do their work, and Mr. Simlins was rewarded with a smile from both eyes and lips. He did not speak again however till he had seen a spoonful of brandy enter the lips; then with a grave concern that did not seem like Mr. Simlins, he said, in a subdued tone,

"How do you find yourself? Can you speak now?"

"Not much—" Mr. Linden answered with some effort. "I find myself in very kind hands."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Somewhat—the shot scattered, I think."

There was a smothered execration, and then it was a very kind hand that renewed the touch of cold water to his forehead, though a big, brown and rough one.

"I've sent for the doctor—and now I'll get you a nurse. You keep quiet, till you can do something else."

Mr. Simlins gently went forth; and in a minute after was in the midst of his husking party in the barn.

"Reuben Taylor!" said the farmer—"You don't mind takin' a run, do you? Wouldn't you just as lieves help me catch that black heifer—afore she gets to Pequot?"

Reuben started up, and signified his ability to catch anything whatever. He was not alone; for half a dozen others volunteered to be equally ready.

"You keep where you be!" said the farmer with a wave of his hand to the half dozen. "I don't let everybody chase that 'ere heifer—you've got to catch her by the head and not by the foot, I tell you! Reuben, you come along."

And getting him well outside of the barn and half way towards the house, Mr. Simlins said in a very low growl indeed,

"Mr. Linden's here—he's been hurt, somehow, in his arm—and he's kind 'o faint; I want you to stay by him till the doctor comes, and then let me know. If I don't keep in the barn they'll raise Plute—or they'll come in—and I'd as lieves they'd do one as 'tother."

By this time Mr. Simlins had reached the door of his room, and ushered Reuben in. He heard—and long remembered—the smothered cry which seemed to come no further than Reuben's lips as he stepped within the door; but after that the boy might have been made of iron, for his strength and steadiness. He walked up to the bedside and knelt down by it, with a look which again Mr. Simlins could not soon forget; but his face was quite calm, except in the first moment when Mr. Linden looked at him. The farmer was a man of iron too, yet his voice was low and changed from its usual wont when he spoke.

"It's only loss of blood, I guess," he said. "He'll get along. You give him brandy, and water, Reuben, if he wants it; and call me when Dr. Harrison comes. Can I do anything else?" The last words were gently, even tenderly, addressed to the sufferer.

"No—" Mr. Linden said, with that same pleasant look of the eyes. "I think there is not much the matter—except what you said."

Mr. Simlins stalked off and was rather more grim than usual in the barn. The huskers had returned to their merriment, and the slight sound of wheels in the road from time to time of course attracted no attention. After one of these signals, however, Jem Waters appeared at the front door.

"Mr. Simlins there's a gentleman wants to see yer. I'll take yer place."

"Very few strides did Mr. Simlins make between the barn and the house, and slight was his stay of greeting to Dr. Harrison.

"He's in here—" said he leading the way.

Reuben was just as Mr. Simlins had left him,—it seemed as if he had not once taken his eyes from the calm face before him. For very calm it was—reposeful; with not a line disturbed except where a slight contraction of the brow told of some physical discomfort. But he was not asleep, for he looked at them the moment they entered; and Reuben rose then, and stood leaning against the bedpost.

"I'm sorry to see you so," said the doctor. "What's the matter? and where?"

A little smile, a glance towards the bandaged arm, seemed to say there was nothing very bad, but that what there was it would be easier for him to have the doctor find out for himself.

Nor further did the doctor ask, but proceeded to work. And it appeared soon that Dr. Harrison at play, and Dr. Harrison at work, were two people—yet the same! The doctor did not indeed play at his work; yet the work was done with the same skilful ease that he brought to his play; an ignorant eye could see as much; and Mr. Simlins jealously looking on, felt very soon at ease as to the doctor's part in the scene before him. Dr. Harrison knew his business, and knew it well.

Mr. Linden's coat was removed, in the course of which operation a keen glance of the doctor's eye over at Reuben shewed that he recognized him; but then he attended to nothing but his patient. He found that a number of duck shot had been lodged in Mr. Linden's side and arm, the latter of which was somewhat lacerated, and this was the principal wound. The others were slight, the shot having taken a slanting direction and so rather grazed than penetrated. Dr. Harrison with care and skill went on to extract the shot and dress the wounds, which he did after the happy and simple regimen of modern discoveries; and ordered certain restoratives which he judged his patient needed. He did not speak except on business till he had seen these doing their work and Mr. Linden able to reply to him. And then his first words were to the farmer; who, not asking a question, had stood by as silent and watchful as Reuben himself; nearly as grave.

"There's nothing the matter with him, Mr. Simlins," he said. "He'll be able to shoot you in a day or two—if he has a mind. What have you been doing to him?"

"Me! I've been actin' the part of the good Syrian to him," growled Mr. Simlins;—"only I always thought before, the oil and wine went on the outside instead of the inside."

"I dare say," said the doctor lightly, probably not understanding the allusion. And then he seated himself on the side of the bed, looking down at his patient very much in his usual manner.

"You'll have made yourself the hero of Pattaquasset, Linden," he said. "There won't another fellow stand a chance to be looked at for a month to come—from here to Quilipeak. You ought to be indicted for breach of the public peace."

"Don't try it—" said Mr. Linden. "I should doubtless prevail with the jury too."

"Ha?—" said the doctor with another glance over at Reuben. "Now how did this come about?"

"Quite suddenly—as I was walking home."

"Where were you?"

"About a mile from here, in the open road."

"Who was fool enough to be shooting ducks in the open road and mistake you for a specimen?—You are not at all the sort of man I should ever think of making game of."

"I tried hard to find out who it was," said Mr. Linden,—"but he was a better runner than I, or else my strength gave out."

"Why how did the thing happen?" said the doctor. "Run!—you don't suppose the fellow meant to hit you?"

"He meant to run—" said Mr. Linden.

The doctor looked at Mr. Simlins, with a serio-comical expression.

"Worse and worse!" said he. "It is a full-grown, regular built adventure; and this is a hero from head to foot."

"Which way did the fellow run?" said Mr. Simlins, with a growl that was ominous.

"Straight ahead—till he got into the woods," said Mr. Linden, smiling at his host. "But he probably turned there, Mr. Simlins."

"I'll have him!" said Mr. Simlins—"I'll foller his tracks, if they lead me to the two poles of the axletree! You tell me where you see him, and I'll set runners on, that won't give out neither."

"They'd be as likely to run against each other as any way, in this mist to-night," said the doctor. "You'd better leave all that till the morning. I'll see you again to-morrow," said he holding out his hand to Mr. Linden. "I suppose they don't know what is become of you at Mrs. Derrick's—I will stop there as I go home and make myself as famous as I can. Though 'the first bearer of unwelcome news' does not recommend himself to favour, yet if they have heard anything, on the whole they will thank me. I'll take my risk."

"I am a little inclined to ride down with you," said Mr. Linden.

"Folly!" said the doctor. "Mr. Simlins is acting a good part by you, he says,—which I presume is true, though I did not understand his terms; but I have no doubt he'll prove himself good for a day or two's board and lodging. I wish I had had the pleasure of finding you at my own door, instead of his having it!"

"The question is whether I shall be good for a day or two—I have no doubt of Mr. Simlins."

"Does that mean you are going to disobey me? You grudge me that little bit of famousness?"

"I shall hear the orders before I disobey—"

The doctor looked at him a minute. "Linden,"—said he,—"you're alarmingly well! but you must remain in quarters for another night or two. It would be dangerous to let you go. I can't allow it. Good night!—"

Either the stimulus of the doctor's presence had been strong, or the effort to appear well had been fatiguing; and Dr. Harrison would have pronounced another verdict had he seen his patient ten minutes later. When Mr. Simlins came back into the room, Mr. Linden looked pale and exhausted. He roused himself however, at once.

"Mr. Simlins," he said, "will you drive me into Pattaquasset to-night."

"You aint a goin' to do that?" said the farmer.

"That was my intention. Why not?"

"You aint fit for it, no ways! Can't you stop here one night and be peaceable?"

"Yes, both," said his guest smiling. "But if I do not go, I must send," he added after a minute's silence, during which perhaps some feeling of weakness came in aid of the doctor's orders.—"And I do not think it would hurt me to go."

"Send!" said Mr. Simlins—"there's lots to send. Here's Reuben, and Sam Stoutenburgh—the boys aint gone yet—and here's me. Who do you want to send to?"

"I want to send for two or three things out of my room. Reuben can go—and Sam may sit here with me, if you will sleep any better for it, Mr. Simlins. That is what you must do," he said with a look of warm interest and kindness.

"Sleep!" growled Mr. Simlins. "It's about all I'm good for!" (Which was not at all Mr. Simlins' abstract judgment concerning himself—purely comparative, on the present occasion.) "Well—you tell Reuben what you want him to do, and he can take the brown mare—Jem'll have her ready—and I'll send Sam to you; and after I get rid of all creation, I'll come myself. You'd think all creation was just made, and the chips about!"

After which setting forth of the state of his affairs Mr Simlins went forth.

"I guess, sir," said Jem Waters when he had done his task with the mare, "I guess I'd as good sleep in the front porch to-night. 'Cause if there'll be one here, there'll be forty."

"What'll the forty do?"

"Knock the house down, sir, if there's nobody there to stop 'em. Bless you, sir, all Pattaquasset 'll come to hear how Mr. Linden is, afore day. There won't one on 'em wait two minutes after he hears the tale. It's all about by this time—I made one gal mad by not tellin' her, and I guess likely she's made it up for herself and other folks by now."



CHAPTER XVIII.



Dr. Harrison did not find anybody at Mrs. Derrick's gate. The two, mother and daughter, had stood there, even after Cindy had come in with her report; unconscious, or unregardful, of the chill thick mist which enveloped everything and fell with steady heavy fall upon the bright hair of one and the smooth cap of the other. They had not spoken to each other all that while, unless an unfinished word or two of Mrs. Derrick's reached ears that did not heed them. It was Faith herself who first moved, perhaps reminded by the increasing dullness that her mother was feeling it too. She took her hand from the gate, and passing the other round Mrs. Derrick, led her into the house, and into the sitting-room and to a chair; and then went for wood and kindling and built up a fire. She went to the kitchen next. That fire was out too, and that fire also Faith rebuilt, and coaxed till a blaze was going up round the cold tea kettle. Cindy sat with her head on her arms on the kitchen table, fast asleep. Faith did not wake her. In half an hour she brought into the sitting-room a tray with tea made, and clams warmed, and all things that should accompany the one teacup and saucer, and mutely set it before her mother. She did not then ask her to eat, except by this pantomime; and she herself immediately went again to stand in the porch. But again her mother followed.

"Child," she said, "you mustn't stand here. You'll be sick next. You must come right in and drink some hot tea."

Faith's quick answer was to put her hand upon her mother's lips. Her mother went on, softly and steadily, in spite of that slight obstruction. Yet not in spite of it, for her voice was very low.

"I know who'd say you ought to—" and she paused a little, as if to let her words have their full effect. Then with a carious sort of instinct she herself hardly perceived, Mrs. Derrick added,

"Dr. Harrison'll be sure to come—and you mustn't be standing here then."

For the first time Faith's head drooped, and she turned, but it was to pass her mother and go upstairs; laying her hand for an instant as she went, with a kind of caressing touch, on her mother's arm; then she was gone.

Mrs. Derrick stood where Faith left her, the still mist before her out of doors, the still house behind her. And there she stood until her ear caught the distant smooth roll of wheels. Softly it came, nearing her every minute, till Mrs. Somers' little wagon stopped at the gate, and Dr. Harrison jumped down and came towards her. Another had seen him, for Mrs. Derrick knew that a light step had come swiftly down stairs, but whither it went she knew not. The doctor spoke cheerily.

"Nasty thick evening! My dear Mrs. Derrick, do you stand at the door to shew your hospitality in welcoming your friends, all night?"

"It is late," said Mrs. Derrick. The doctor's words were too slippery for her to get hold of; she waited for him to speak again.

"If it is late, my dear madam, why are you here? I don't want you to see me ever for anything but pleasure. Is it so late I mustn't come in?"

Mrs. Derrick stepped back into the hall—then stopped and turned.

"I was there to watch, Dr. Harrison. What have you got to tell me? One story has come already."

"Has it! Then I can tell you but half a one. I was thinking to make my fortune. Mr. Linden is spending the night at a friend's house, my dear Mrs. Derrick—that is all. He is as well as you are—though perhaps just at this minute not quite so strong as I am. But I am afraid he can boast more than that in another few days."

That Mrs. Derrick felt at once relieved, doubtful, unsatisfied, was clear. But the relief—slight as it was—brought back her hospitality; she led the way into the parlour.

"What has been the matter?" she said. "What is the matter?"

"I don't know," said the doctor. "He fell in with somebody carrying a gun—which was very likely to happen, seeing I have met a great many myself; but I never fell out with any of them yet—perhaps my time will come.—This fellow however, let off his gun in the wrong place and some of the shot hit Mr. Linden in the arm, and before he could get to Mr. Simlins, where I found him, he was a little faint. So I commanded him to stay where he was till morning. That's all. He's perfectly well, I give you my word. I came now on purpose to relieve you from anxiety. He wanted to come down with me, but I wouldn't let him."

"Why didn't you let him?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"Well, I came near letting him," said the doctor,—"for I didn't know at one time that I could help it. It wouldn't have hurt him seriously. But he'll see you with more pleasure to-morrow."

"I can't think how you made out to hinder him at all!" said Mrs. Derrick, looking a little puzzled. "But I'm much obliged to you, doctor, for coming."

"Is he such a difficult person to deal with?" said the doctor, glancing at the different doors of the room.

"I never tried," said Mrs. Derrick with very simple truth.

"I must try, some time," said the doctor abstractedly:—"I like to deal with difficult people.—But I remember you remarked it was late!—" And he started up and was about to take his leave; when his purpose met with an interruption. For the swift trot of a horse upon the road came to as quick a pause at Mrs. Derrick's gate, and Reuben Taylor came up the steps and in at the open front door before Dr. Harrison had finished his compliments.

"I see!" said the doctor,—"you don't keep open doors for nothing, Mrs. Derrick. Here's another. You're not riding after me, my friend, are you? You don't let the grass grow!"

"No sir," said Reuben. "Good evening, Mrs. Derrick—may I go up to Mr. Linden's room?"

"How is he now, Reuben?" said Mrs. Derrick. "O yes, you can go up, of course."

"Thank you, ma'am—he said he was more comfortable when I came away." And with an almost imperceptible glance round the room he was in, Reuben turned and bounded lightly up the staircase. But all was dark there and in Mr. Linden's room. Reuben could not execute his commission so; and was turning to come down stairs again, when he encountered in the dim entry-way a white figure.

"How is Mr. Linden, Reuben?" said a voice which he knew, though it was in a very low key.

"Miss Faith!" Reuben said with a little start—"O I am so glad to find you!"—Then repeated gravely his former answer—"He said he was more comfortable when I came away, ma'am."

"Is he much hurt?"

Reuben hesitated.

"I don't rightly know, Miss Faith," he said, so low that she could scarce catch the words. "He says he's not—and Dr. Harrison says not,—I suppose I'm easy frightened."

"What makes you frightened, then?" she said quickly.

"I was frightened—" Reuben said, drawing a long breath, and with a sort of awe-stricken voice, as if the fright was upon him yet;—"and it takes a while to get over it. Maybe that's all. He wrote that, Miss Faith—" and Reuben laid a tiny folded paper in her hand. "And may I have a light, ma'am, to get some things from his room?" He spoke eagerly now, as if he grudged the moments.

Faith directed him to the kitchen, and when Reuben came up, followed him into the room and stood waiting while he sought what he wanted. Then suddenly remembered that her paper might contain a request for something else, and bent over the candle to read it. It contained more than one.

"Miss Faith," it said, "if any of my scholars are anxious about me, tell them, from me, that there is no cause. Bid them take rest—without 'waiting for it.'—I am sorry that exercise must wait!—but I shall hope to see two on Monday. J. E. L."

Faith's head was bent a long while over the candle.

"Have you got what you wanted, Reuben?" she asked at last.

Reuben had heard her voice often, but he had never heard it like that—nor any one else. What had passed through it, clearing it so? it was like the chiming of silver bells. He came at her word, bag in hand; and—with the freedom a mutual sorrow gives,—held out his other hand to her. Then ran quick and softly down the stairs.

"Hollo, sir!" said the doctor, as Reuben passed the open doorway. "A word with you." Reuben paused, then came back a step.

"So you are Mr. Linden's friend, are you?" said the doctor in a careless manner.

"Did you want anything of me, sir?" Reuben said.

"Why yes—I commonly want an answer to a question."

"I don't just know what you mean by a friend, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben respectfully. "I might answer wrong."

"So rather than do that—You like to be on the safe side. Suppose you ask Mr. Linden to teach you definitions, among other things? And look here—keep him quiet and don't let anybody talk him out of his sleep to night. That's all." And the doctor followed Reuben immediately.

With a feeling of satisfaction certainly, Mrs. Derrick at last locked and bolted the front door, shutting out the driving mist and all that might hide within it; and then went to look after the only treasure the house contained. She wasn't far to seek, for as the locking and bolting sounded through the house, Faith came down and went with her mother into the sitting-room.

"Have you had nothing to eat yet, mother!" she exclaimed as her eye fell on the orderly tea-tray.

"No child—nor sha'n't want it, till I see you have something."

Faith smiled a little, came and put her arms round her and kissed her; and then set about the whole work of getting tea over again. It was with a very pale face yet; only the silver ring of her voice told the change of the mental atmosphere. Her mother looked at her—but was perhaps afraid to ask any questions to disturb the quiet.

"Reuben's a good boy!" she said, feeling that remark to be perfectly safe.

"I'm glad he's there," Faith answered gravely. "I heard all Dr. Harrison said, mother."

"Yes child," said her mother—as if she knew that before,—"I thought you'd see Reuben too."

"Reuben said the same, mother. And Mr. Linden himself sent word there was no cause to be anxious."

Faith did not say he had written that word to her. Perhaps her own consciousness might have made her shy of the subject—or perhaps what she judged to be people's false reports had left a sore spot in her heart and she was afraid of touching that. But she did not speak of the little note which had come to her. She was preparing her mother's tea with all speed, while Mrs. Derrick on her part peeped into the sugar-bowl to see if it wanted filling, and began to cut the bread.

"I'm glad to hear it, child," she said. "Dr. Harrison's too smart for me—I can't get a bit of good out of him. My, Faith! I suppose Mr. Linden can manage him, but if I had that man buzzing round me, I shouldn't know whether I was sick or well. When is he coming back, child?"

"I don't know, mother."—Then with the invincible instinct of truth, she added, "He wants my work to be ready for him Monday."

"Reuben's got a great deal of gumption!" said Mrs. Derrick, her heart quite expanding with the pleasure of hearing Faith talk once more. "Now half the boys in town would have blurted that right out to me and Dr. Harrison together,—and I wouldn't trust him for not asking questions. But I'm sure I'm glad, child—it seems as if he'd been gone a month. Do you think he'll come to morrow? Maybe he meant you should send your work down to him."

"I sha'n't do that," said Faith, as she gave her mother at last a cup of tea that was to be drunk. But she had poured out none for herself. She sat before the tea-tray, still and pale. Her mother looked at her.

"You must take some, child."

"I don't want it, mother."—And she brought everything that was on the table round her mother's plate.

"You must—" Mrs Derrick repeated. "I sha'n't, if you don't,—or else I'll get you a glass of wine. Why child," she said, with a half sober, half smiling look, which Faith for once did not read,—"he's better. You ought to eat and be thankful."

"I am thankful,"—Faith said, her head sinking for a moment.

Mrs Derrick deliberately got up, went to the pantry, and fetching thence a tiny cup and plate set them before Faith.

"Eat, pretty child!" she said. "You know I'm right. If you don't look out, Mr. Linden 'll be worse scared when he comes home than he's been to-day, I guess."

Faith gave her a look, both grateful and appealing, and very innocent of belief in her statement;—and did honour the little cup so far as to fill it with tea which she swallowed. But the plate she left clean.

"I can't to-night, mother," she said in answer to Mrs. Derrick's look. "I'll eat breakfast."



CHAPTER XIX.



It cannot be said that sleep came to Faith's eyes unbidden,—yet once come, sleep rested there sweetly, even beyond her usual time; and the first disturbing sound, in that misty Sunday morning, was the stopping of a wagon at the front door. But if Faith ran to the window with any special expectations, they were disappointed,—there was nothing at the door but Crab, his companion the little wagon, and Mrs. Derrick composedly getting out of the same. Which was at least surprising enough. The good lady's next appearance was a very noiseless one in Faith's room.

"Dear mother! where have you been?"

"Why I've been trying to get ahead of Dr. Harrison," said her mother sitting down; "and I did it too. I should have been home before if I hadn't been afraid of meeting him—so I had to take a cross road." Mrs. Derrick seemed tired.

"You needn't look at me so, child," she said, taking off her bonnet. "It's enough to see one pale face in a morning. I did see him, Faith, though I didn't speak to him."

"How did he look, mother?"

"I don't suppose he really looked bad—considering," said Mrs. Derrick, with the tired look on her own face; "but I am not used to seeing him pulled down. It sort of upset me to see him lie there and those two boys keeping watch of him. I declare, Faith! I wouldn't like to be the one to touch him with them sitting by!"

"But how is he, mother? who did you see?"

"I didn't see anybody but them—Mr. Simlins wasn't up. They said he seemed better, dear—and that if I'd seen him last night I'd think he had quite a colour now: so I suppose he is better. Only I haven't got the heart of a kitten sometimes—" and a little motion of the lips warned Faith that if her mother was sparing of details it was because she could scarce give them.

"But isn't he as well as the doctor said? He would look pale, you know"—

"I shouldn't have known from what the doctor said, that he'd anything more than a scratch on the tip end of his little finger!" said Mrs. Derrick,—"so I believe I didn't expect even to see him look pale. And all the while, the doctor was staring at the pantry doors—I didn't know but he'd get up and open 'em and look in."

"You said two boys were there? who beside Reuben Taylor?"

"O Sam Stoutenburgh was 'tother side," said Mrs. Derrick, "and wanted to know how you were. I'd a great mind to tell him it was none of his business. I suppose he thinks his heart is as large as he is, and can hold everything at once."

A shadow of something seemed to cross Faith at the mention of Sam's name. She turned away and began dressing herself.

"Don't stir again, mother," she said. "I'll come down and see about breakfast."

"It'll rest me to go with you, child,—I told Reuben I'd come again and stay if Mr. Linden would let me, and Reuben will send me word. So I want to see you in the mean time. But I don't think they'll send."

The breakfast was a quiet meal, though Faith but poorly performed her promise of eating. How Faith spent the hour after breakfast her mother could but guess; then she came out with her bonnet on and kissed her before setting off to Sunday school. The thick mist yet filled the air, growing yellow now with the struggling sunbeams. She walked quick and met nobody.

Till she came to her place, and there she found not Charles twelfth alone, but the two other little additions to her charge that had been promised her. For though it was by no means 'cold weather'—the warm sunny days lingering yet and this Sunday promising to be a good specimen,—it happened that Johnny and his companion had received a special injunction to come, as Faith found out, and were there accordingly.

And if Johnny regretted his old place in another class, it was not for the reason his new teacher had feared. Faith's face was very pale,—that of itself touched the children; and her words this day came in a tone that won all the recesses of their hearts. She had forgot about other teachers or children being in her neighbourhood; on those three her stores of love and tenderness poured themselves out. She told them with warm lips, of Christ and his love and his leading,—of the safety and joy of his sheep,—of her wish that her little charge should be lambs in that flock, and what sort of lambs they must be. Faith spoke to her children very much as if she had been a child herself. They knew instinctively, with very sure knowledge, that she belonged to the fold of which she was joyously telling them.

The children, on their part, met her variously. Johnny—with his clear childish eyes, the flower-like unfolding of his little heart to that warm sunshine—gave her more help than trouble,—she understood the liking to teach him for her own sake. If his thoughts sometimes wandered a little from her words, the downcast look, the slight quiver of his childish lips, told Faith where they had gone; and she could forgive him. But though at such times Robbie Waters always remembered to look grave too, yet he displaced Faith's gravity once by whispering to her (in the midst of her earnest admonitions to Charles twelfth) that 'she knew she was pretty'; and was in general in an easy, docile state of mind, and much interested and amazed at the 'deportment' of his little neighbour, Charles twelfth. When Faith came out of the school, she saw that all the seats of Mr. Linden's class were vacant; and with that little reminding touch, went to her own place in the church.

It was between nine and ten o'clock, while Faith was yet lost in her little charge, while Mrs. Derrick at home was thinking of her, and Mr. Simlins was taking his late breakfast, that Dr. Harrison's curricle reached the farmer's gate. All was quiet without the house, but when Jenny Lowndes admitted the doctor into the hall, the array of hats and caps upon the table might have startled a less professional man; might have even suggested the idea that Mr. Simlins was giving a breakfast party.

"Let me see Mr. Linden," said the doctor.

Jenny hesitated—then her fear of Dr. Harrison overcoming her scruples, she walked softly to the door and opened it. But if the doctor wanted to see his patient, he was obliged to wait a little; for the group of boys—some standing, some kneeling—around the bed, hid everything else. The room was very still, very earnest; even Dr. Harrison could feel that; the sound of words, very low-spoken, was all he could hear. The closing door made itself heard, however,—several boys turned round, and at once stepped aside; and the doctor saw his patient, not dressed but lying as he had left him the night before. Mr. Linden smiled—and saying some words to his class held out his hand towards the doctor; but this was fastened upon at once by so many, that the doctor again had to wait his turn; and it was not until everyone else had touched that hand, some even with their lips, that he was left alone with his patient.

"What are you doing?" said he, in a sort of grave tone which did not however mean gravity. "Holding a levee?—and do you receive your courtiers at different hours according to their ages? in that case. I have come at the wrong time."

"No, you shall have the time all to yourself."

"I see I have it! Are the juvenile members of society in Pattaquasset accustomed to pay their respects to you at this hour in the morning?"

"Not always. Once a week we meet to talk over pleasant things."

"Have I interrupted the pleasant things now?"

"No, I could not talk very long this morning. The boys were just going."

"I wish I had come a little sooner," said Dr. Harrison. "I'm not a boy, to be sure, but I don't know that they are privileged to monopolize all pleasant things. If they are, I am against monopolies. However, if you can't talk, you mustn't talk. How do you do?"

"I do well—if a man can be doing well when he's doing nothing. I will talk as long as you please—about pleasant things."

The doctor however diverged to the state of his patient's health, nor would talk of anything else till his investigations on that point were made. The result of them seemed to be satisfactory.

"Now Linden," he said, in atone that indicated they were free to ask and answer,—"who was that fellow last night? have you any idea?"

"It is difficult to identify a man when you are only within gunshot of him—and after sundown," said Mr. Linden smiling.

"Difficult—yes, it may be,—but you gathered something?"

"I gathered a run."

"That is," said the doctor looking at him, "you have an opinion on the subject and are not willing to risk it?"

"No," said Mr. Linden, "I have had risk enough for one night."

"You are mistaken, Linden. A hint might be quite enough to bring out the certainty. My father is very eager about the matter, and is only waiting for you to empower him to act."

"I shall give you no hint," said Mr. Linden. "I might be willing to risk my own opinion, but not another man's character."

The doctor looked at him keenly and curiously.

"What possible motive!"—he said. "For it is evident that the shot was fired of intent, and evident that you yourself think so. It is unheard-of!"

"Were you bred to the bar, that you sum up evidence before it is given?" said Mr. Linden, with a good-humoured raising of his brows at the doctor.

"But the man ran!"

"So did I—he could hardly think I was much hurt."

"I don't want to have such a fellow abroad in Pattaquasset," said the doctor. "But suppose we go back to the pleasant things. You must start the subject, Linden. Rousseau says a man can best describe the sweets of liberty from the inside of a prison—so, I suppose, you being shot at and laid on your back, can have no lack of theme."

Mr. Linden smiled—the smile of a most unfettered spirit.

"Liberty!" he said. "Yes, I have realized since I have lain here, that—

'My soul is free, as ambient air,'—

My sense of liberty comes from the possession—not the want."

"Prospective possession,"—said the doctor. "Unless indeed," he went on with a humorous play of the lips—"you mean that my orders to you to lie still, merely gave zest to your triumphant knowledge that you could get up if you had a mind. A riotous degree of self-will that I believe I do not possess. Was that what good Mrs. Derrick meant when she said she wondered how I had hindered you?"

"No," said Mr. Linden smiling—"she meant that she did not think you had."

"She didn't mean a thing of the kind! She spoke in pure wonder, and made me begin to wonder in my turn."

Which wonder Mr. Linden did not inquire into.

"I am very sorry I wasn't a boy this morning!" said Dr. Harrison, after standing and looking down at him a little.

"Can't you sit down and say why?"

"I should have heard so much!—which now I am not to hear. For if I had been a boy, I should certainly not have been missing at your levee."

"O you deceive yourself,—if you were a boy nothing short of my authority would bring you, in the first place."

"I have not the slightest doubt the power would have been found equal to the resistance," said the doctor bowing.

"Neither have I."

"Well!—" said the doctor laughing a little peculiarly,—"in that case I should have been here. Now I have a fancy to know what you call pleasant things, Linden. You speak with a mouth full—as if there were plenty of them."

"Yes, there are plenty," Mr. Linden said, moving a little and resting his face on his hand as if he felt tired; "but we were talking of only two this morning,—heaven, and the way thither."

Dr. Harrison looked at him steadily.

"You are tired," he said gently. "You shall not talk any more to me now, and I shall forbid your holding any more levees to-day. After which," he added, the humourous expression coming back, "I shall expect to hear a proclamation going through Pattaquasset, that, like the knights of old, you are ready for all comers!—Well—I'll come and see you to-morrow; and as long as you'll let me, as a friend; for the pleasure of talking. You can have it all your own way, with a few more days' strength. Will you have a levee to-morrow at the same hour?"

A little play of the lips came with the answer—

"Will that suit you?—I'll send you word." Then looking up at the doctor with a different expression, he added, "What do you think of my pleasant things?"

"Hardly in my line—" said the doctor with a carelessness which was somewhat dubious in its character. "It is very well for those who find the subject pleasant. I confess I have never studied it much."

"Then you have but half learned your profession." But the words were so spoken that they could not give offence.

Neither did the doctor seem disposed to take offence.

"I'll ask you what you mean by that to-morrow," he said very pleasantly. "I thought I had learned my profession. Have you learned yours?" The last words were with a keen eye to the answer.

"Some people dignify my present business with that name," Mr. Linden said.

"Well, you shall discourse to me more at length to-morrow," said the doctor. "Shall I come later?"

"I don't expect to be in school to-morrow, so you may name your own time," Mr. Linden said with a pleasant look. "But remember,—a physician who has no skill to feel the pulse of the mind, no remedies that can reach its fever or its chills,—is but half a physician. If I had never studied the subject,—one word about heaven and the way thither would be worth more to me than all the science of medicine ever discovered! It is now—" he said in a low tone, as the flush passed away. And then holding out his hand to Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden added, "I fully appreciate your skill and kindness—you need not doubt it."

The hand was taken, and grasped, cordially but in silence.

Whether the doctor went straight from Mr. Simlins' house to church—where he was not a very constant attendant—it does not appear. What is certain about the matter, is, that he was outside of the church door after service just at the time that Faith Derrick found herself there, and that he assumed a place at her side and walked with her towards her mother's house instead of taking the other direction towards his own. Faith was alone, Mrs. Derrick having chosen to stay at home in case she should be sent for. The mist had cleared off completely, and the sunny warm air invited to lingering in it. Faith would not have lingered, but the doctor walked slowly, and she could not leave him.

"I have been wanting to see you, ever since my inopportune proposal yesterday," said he in a low tone,—"to make my peace with you."

"It is made, sir," said Faith, giving him a smile.

"How do you do to-day?"

"Very well!" she told him.

The doctor listened to the sound of her voice, and thought with himself that as regarded the moral part of her nature the words were certainly true.

"Let me have the pleasure of relieving you of that,"—he said, taking Faith's little Bible gently away from her. "I am going your way. Miss Derrick—you spoke yesterday of particular work to be done on Sunday. Have you any objection to tell me what you meant by it? I confess to you, your words are somewhat dark to me. That is my fault, of course. Will you give me light?" It was a gentle, grave, quiet tone of questioning.

"Others might do it far better, sir," said Faith.

"I would far rather hear it from you!"

The colour came a little into Faith's cheeks, but her words were given with great simplicity.

"The other days are taken up very much with the work of this world—Sunday is meant more particularly for the work that belongs to the other world."

"And what is that? if you do not object to tell me. I confess, as I tell you, I am ignorant."

She forgot herself now, and looked steadily at him.

"To learn to know God—with whom we have so much to do, here and there;—to learn to know his will and to do it, and to bring others to do it too, if we can.—And if we know and love him already, to enjoy it and take the good of it,"—she added a little lower, and with a softening of expression.

Dr. Harrison read her look fixedly, till she turned it away from him.

"And are these what you call pleasant things?" said he somewhat curiously.

But Faith's answer rang out from her heart.

"Oh yes!"—

She stopped there, but evidently not for want of what to say.

"You are a happy thing," said the doctor, but not in a way to make his words other than graceful. "I wish you would make me as good as you are."

She looked at him, and answered very much as if she had been speaking to a child.

"God will make you much better, Dr. Harrison, if you ask him."

He was silent a minute after that, without looking at her. When he spoke again, it was with a change of tone.

"You are of a different world from that in which I live; and the flowers that are sweet to you, belong, I am afraid, to a Flora that I have no knowledge of. What, for instance, would you call pleasant things to talk about—if you were choosing a subject of conversation?"

Faith looked a little surprised.

"A great many things are pleasant to me," she said smiling.

"I am sure of that! But indulge me—what would you name as supremely such, to talk about?"

"If they are talked about right," said Faith gently, "I don't know anything so pleasant as those things I was speaking of—what God will have us do in this world, and what he will do for us in the next."

"'Heaven and the way thither'—" said Dr. Harrison to himself.

"What, sir?" said Faith.

"I should like to have you answer me that; but I am sorry, I see Mrs. Derrick's house not far beyond us.—I saw our friend Mr. Linden this morning."

"Is he better?" said Faith simply.

"He's doing very well. I told him he'd be a terribly famous man after this. And it's begun. I found near all the boys in Pattaquasset assembled there this morning."

"His Bible class—" said Faith, with a feeling which did not however come into her face or voice, and Dr. Harrison watched both.

"Here is your Bible," he said as they stopped at the little gate. "Do you always look so pale on Sundays?" he added with a look and tone of half professional half friendly freedom.

"Not always," Faith said; but there came at the same time a little tinge into the cheeks,—that Dr. Harrison wished away.

"May I come and earn your forgiveness for yesterday's stupidity?"

"Certainly!" Faith said,—"but there needs no forgiveness—from me, Dr. Harrison."

He left her with a graceful, reverential obeisance; and Faith went in.



CHAPTER XX.



Dr. Harrison had but little left Mr. Linden that morning, when Mr. Simlins came in. He had hardly seen his guest yet that day, except, like Mrs. Derrick, when he was asleep. For having watched himself the greater part of the night, for the pure pleasure of it, Mr. Simlins' late rest had brought him almost to the hour when the boys came to what the doctor called Mr. Linden's levee.

"Well how do you find yourself?" said the farmer, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at its occupant with a kind of grim satisfaction.

"I find myself tired, sir—and at the same time intending to get up. Mr. Simlins, are you going down to church this afternoon?"

"Well, no," said the farmer. "I think it's as good church as I can do, to look arter you."

"You can have both," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"I should go with you."

"You aint fit," said the farmer regretfully.

"Fit enough—I'll come back and stay with you another day, when I am well, if you'll let me."

"Will you?" said the farmer. "I'll bottle that 'ere promise and cork it up; and if it aint good when I pull the cork—then I'll never play Syrian again, for no one. But s'pose I ain't goin' to church?"

"Then I shall have to take Reuben."

"You sha'n't take no one but me," growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd rather see you out of my house than not—if I can't see you in it."

The bells were ringing out for the early afternoon service when they set forth; not ringing against each other, as which should give the loudest call for its own particular church, but with alternate strokes speaking the same thing—the one stepping in when the other was out of broath. The warm sunshine rested upon all—"the evil and the good," and spoke its own message though not so noisily. Along the road Mr. Simlins' little covered wagon (chosen for various reasons) went at an easy pace; with one to drive, and one to bear the motion as best he might; and a third who would almost have agreed to be a pillow or a cushion for the rest of his life, if he could have been one for that day. What there were of that sort in the wagon, or indeed in the house, were to Reuben's eyes far too thin and ineffectual. A little excitement, a very earnest desire to get home once more, did partially supply the need; and by the time the houses were empty and the churches full, the wagon stopped at Mrs. Derrick's gate.

"I guess nobody's home," said Mr. Simlins as he with great tenderness helped Mr. Linden to alight—"but anyway, here's the house all standin'. Reuben, you go ahead and see if we can get in."

But before Reuben touched the door, Mrs. Derrick had opened it from the inside, and stood there—her usually quiet manner quite subdued into silence. Not into inaction however, for her woman's hands soon made their superior powers known, and Mr. Simlins could only wonder why this and that had not occurred to him before. Quick and still and thoughtful, she had done half a dozen little things to make Mr. Linden comfortable before he had been in the house as many minutes, and assured the two others very confidently that "he shouldn't faint again, if he wanted to ever so much!"

"Well, I was sorry to let him go," said Mr. Simlins, "and now I'm glad of it. It takes a woman! Where's some-somebody else?"

"There's nobody else in the house," said Mrs. Derrick. "Faith's gone to meeting, and Cindy too, for all I know."

"I'll send Dr. Harrison word in the morning where I am," said Mr. Linden,—which Mr. Simlins rightly understood to mean that the fact need not be published to-night. He took gentle leave of this lost guest and went to church; excusing himself for it afterwards by saying he felt lonely.

If Faith had seen him there, she might have jumped at conclusions again; but she did not; and after the service walked home, slowly again, though nobody was with her. A little wearied by this time with the night and the day's work, wearied in body and mind perhaps, she paced homewards along the broad street or road, on which the yellow leaves of the trees were floating lazily down, and which was all filled from sky and wayside with golden light. It brought to mind her walk of last Sunday afternoon—and evening;—the hymn, and those other lines Mr. Linden had repeated and which had run in her head fifty times since. And Faith's step grew rather slower and less lightsome as she neared home, and when she got home she went straight up to her room without turning to the right or the left. Her mother was just then in the kitchen and heard her not, and shielded by her bonnet Faith saw not even that Mr. Linden's door stood open; but when she came out again a while after, the full stream of sunlight that came thence into the passage drew her eyes that way. And Faith did not wonder then that her mother had been startled, and unprepared by the doctor's words for the sight of what she now saw. The chintz-covered couch was drawn before the window, in the full radiance of the sunlight, and Mr. Linden lay there looking out; but the sunlight found no glow in his face, unless one as etherial as itself. The habitual sweet pure look was there—a look that reminded Faith of the one Johnny had worn in the morning; but the face was perfectly colourless. The bandaged arm was supported only by a sling, upon the other hand his cheek rested wearily. Faith looked, hesitated, then stepped lightly into the room and stood before him; with a face not indeed quite so pale as his own, but that only the sunlight hindered his seeing was utterly without its usual colour. She found nothing to say, apparently: for she did not speak, only held out her hand. He had turned at the first sound of her step and watched her—at first smiling, then grave—as she came near; and taking her hand as silently as it was given, Mr. Linden looked up at her face,—perhaps to see whether his instructions had been obeyed.