"I have had men's hands about me so long," he said, "that yours feels like—" he did not specify what, but held it a minute as if he were trying to find out. "Miss Faith, you want to be rocked to sleep."

Could he see that her lips trembled? He could feel how her hand did; but her look was as frank as ever.

"Are you less well to-day?"—she said at last, in a voice that was little above a whisper, and stopped short of his name.

"Less well than yesterday at this time—not less well than this morning. A little more tired, perhaps." He spoke very quietly, answering her words and letting his hand and eye do the rest. "Has Mrs. Derrick a cradle in the house that would hold you?"

Perhaps Faith hardly heard the question, for she did not acknowledge it by so much as a smile. She wished to ask the further question, whether the assurance of last night was still true; but his appearance had driven such fear to her heart that she dared not ask it. She stood quite still a minute, but when she spoke her words were in the utmost clear sweetness of a woman's voice.

"Can I do something for you, Mr. Linden?"

"You are doing something for me now—it is so pleasant to see you. But Miss Faith, I shall have to reclaim some of your scholars; you have been teaching too much to-day."

"No—" she said,—"I have had no chance."

"No chance to teach too much? And why?"

"Why," she said—"I had only the usual hour this morning. I could do no more."

"You look as if you had been teaching all day—or taught, which is but another branch. What did my boys say to you?"

"I think they thought they were saying to you, Mr. Linden,—they behaved so well."

He smiled.

"I don't believe even your conjuring powers could bring about such a hallucination, Miss Faith.—What a day it has been! Look at that sunlight and think of the city that hath 'no need of the sun'!"

She looked where he bade her, but the contrast was a little too strong just then with the earth that had so much 'need' of it! Only the extreme gravity of her face however indicated anything of the struggle going on. Her eye did not move,—nor eyelid.

"That is the only rest we must wait 'for,'" Mr. Linden said. "That 'remaineth.'"

Faith answered nothing. But after a little while the shadow of that sunlight passed away from her face, and she turned to the couch again and asked with her former gentle expression,

"Will you have tea up here, Mr. Linden?"

"I'm afraid I must," he said, looking up at her with eyes that rather questioned than answered.

"Does mother know what you would like to have?"

"Miss Faith—I wish you would tell me just what is troubling you."

The question flushed her a little, and for a moment her face was a quick play of light and shade; then she said,

"It troubled me not to see you looking better."

He took the force of her words, though he answered lightly.

"I suppose I do look rather frightful! But Miss Faith, I hope to get over that in a few days—you must try and brace up your nerves, because if you cannot bear the sight of me I shall have to deny myself the sight of you."

"Don't do that," she said, the light coming into her eye and voice as if by an actual sunbeam. "Then it is true, what you wrote me last night, Mr. Linden?"

"Well!" he said—"I am not much in the habit of maintaining my own words,—however, in this case I am willing to admit them true. If it will be any relief to your mind, Miss Faith, I will promise to remain in seclusion until you say I am fit to be seen down stairs."

The answer to that was only a rosy little smile, like the sunlight promise of fair weather on the last clouds that float over the horizon. But perhaps his words had brought her mind back to the question of supper for she asked again,

"What are you to have for tea to-night, Mr. Linden?"

"May I take a great liberty?" he said with a look as grave as before.

"I don't know how you can,"—she said and with eyes somewhat surprised, that said in their own way it was impossible.

A little smile—which she scarce saw—came first, and then her hand was brought to his lips. But it was done too gravely and gently to startle even her.

"Now you must go and rest," Mr. Linden said. "I want nothing for tea that shall cost one extra step."

Faith went about as silently and demurely as a cat that has had her ears boxed and been sent out of the dairy. Only in this case she went to her dairy; from whence in due time she emerged with cream and butter and made her appearance in the kitchen.

"Well child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "When did you get home? and what did you do with yourself? I've looked and looked for you till I was tired, and if you'd staid five minutes more I should have run all over town after you."

"Why mother!" said Faith, "I was in my own room for a good while. I got home in usual time."

"Well!"—said her mother, "I hope next time you'll say as much—that's all. Do you know we've got company, Faith?"

"Who, mother?—O I've seen Mr. Linden."

"I meant him," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm sure the house seems as if it had twice as many in it since he came."

"He ought to have tea, now, mother. Isn't Cindy home yet?"

"No, but that's no matter—I'll take it up in two minutes. Where's the teapot—"

"I think, mother," said Faith as she was adding the last touches to the tray which was to go up stairs,—"I must have put Mr. Linden in mind of his sister, or somebody, this afternoon. I am afraid he misses them now."

"What do you mean by somebody?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"Some of his own family, I mean. I thought so."

"I don't believe you ever put anybody in mind of anybody else," said Mrs. Derrick confidently. "What made you think so, child?"

"Something made me think so,"—said Faith rather abstractly. "Now mother—it is ready, and I'll take it up stairs if you'll take it then."

"I guess I'm up to as much as taking it all the way," said her mother, lifting the tray. "I'll be down presently, dear,—you must want your tea." And up stairs she went.

Reuben came to stay all night, so the ladies had only to take their own much needed sleep, in peace; and a note of information was left at Dr. Harrison's door next morning, some time before that gentleman was awake.



CHAPTER XXI.



"I know what I have to do to-day," said Faith the next morning. "Mr. Skip has got the box made, mother, and now I want the stuff to cover it."

"Well that's ready—in my pantry, child."

Whereupon Reuben offered his services; but all that was given him to do was to carry up Mr. Linden's breakfast. This was hardly well over when Dr. Harrison came. He was shewn into the sitting-room, just as Faith with her arms full of brown moreen came into it also from the pantry. The doctor was not going to lose a shake of the hand, and waited for the brown moreen to be deposited on the floor accordingly.

"You are looking more like yourself to-day," he said.

"I will call mother," said Faith. Which she did, leaving the doctor in company with the brown moreen.

"Mrs. Derrick," said he, speaking by no means without a purpose, "I have cause of complaint against you! What have you done to allure my patient down here against orders?"

"He's better here," said Mrs. Derrick with a cool disposing of the subject. "What did you want to keep him up there for, doctor?"

"Only acted upon a vigorous principle of Mr. Linden's nature, madam.—If I had ordered him to come, he would have stayed. May I see him?"

And Mrs. Derrick preceded the doctor up stairs, opened the door of the room and shut it after him. Mr. Linden was on the couch, but it was wheeled round by the side of the fire now, for the morning was cool. A little heap of unopened letters and post despatches lay before him, but the white paper in his hand seemed not to have come from the heap. As the doctor entered, this was folded up and transferred to the disabled hand for safe keeping.

Mr. Linden had that quality (much more common among women than among men) of looking well in undress; but let no one suppose that I mean the combination of carelessness and disorder which generally goes by that name, and which shews (most of all) undress of the mind. I mean simply that style of dress which Sam Weller might call 'Ease afore Ceremony;'—in its delicate particularity, Mr. Linden's undress might have graced a ball-room; and, as I have said, the dark brown wrapper with its wide sleeves was becoming. Dr. Harrison might easily see that his patient was not only different from most of the neighbourhood, but also from most people that he had seen anywhere; and that peculiar reposeful look was strongly indicative of power.

"Good morning!" said the doctor. "Do you expect me to behave well this morning?"

"Why no—" said Mr. Linden. "My experience hitherto has not led me to expect anything of the sort."

The doctor stood before the fire, looking down at him, smiling almost, yet with a keen eye, as at a man whose measure he had not yet succeeded in taking.

"What did you come down here for, without my leave? And how do you do? For you see, I mean to behave well."

"I came down because I wanted to be at home," said Mr. Linden. "And I did not ask leave, because I meant to come whether or no. You see what a respect I have for your orders."

"Yes," said the doctor,—"that is a very ancient sort of respect. How do you do, Linden?"

"I suppose, well,—as to feeling, I should not care to go through the Olympic games, even in imagination; and the various sensations in my left arm make me occasionally wish they were in my right."

The doctor proceeded to an examination of the arm. It was found not to be taking the road to healing so readily as had been hoped.

"I am afraid it may be a somewhat tedious affair," said Dr. Harrison, as he renewed the bandages in the way they ought to be. "I wish I had hold of that fellow! This may take a little time to come to a harmonious disposition, Linden, and give you a little annoyance. And at the same time, it's what you deserve!" said he, retaking his disengaged manner as he finished what he had to do. "I almost wish I could threaten you with a fever, or something serious; but I see you are as sound as that 'axletree' our friend spoke of the other day. There it is! You have learned to do evil with impunity. For I confess this has nothing to do with the exercise of your lawless disposition yesterday. Why didn't you let me bring you, if you wanted to come? That old fellow can't have anything drawn by horses, that goes easier than a harrow!"

"Let you bring me!" said Mr. Linden. "Would you have done it against your own orders?"

"Under your authority! which is equal to anything, you know."

"Well," said Mr. Linden, "will you take a seat under my authority, and then take the benefit of my fire? What is going on in the outer world?"

"I haven't any idea!" said the doctor. "Pattaquasset seems to me to be, socially, at one extreme pole of the axletree before-mentioned, and while I am here I feel no revolution of the great mass heaving beyond. It takes away one's breath, does Pattaquasset."

"You are making it akin to 'the music of the spheres,'" said Mr. Linden.

"Is that what you find in Pattaquasset?" said the doctor. "Your ears must be pleasantly constituted—or more agreeably saluted than those of other mortals. The only music I know of here is Miss Derrick's voice. Does she feed upon roses, like the Persian bulbul?"

"I should suppose not—unless roses impart their colour in that way," said Mr. Linden, softly turning the folded paper from side to side.

"This is a nice place," said the doctor surveying the room—"and you look very comfortable. I should like to take your invitation and sit down—but I mustn't. Won't you try and put a good opinion of me into the head of Mrs Derrick?"

"What an extraordinary request!" said Mr. Linden, laughing a little. "Pray what am I to understand by it? And why mustn't you sit down?—here is something to rejoice your heart with a few of the aforesaid upheavings of Society;" and he handed the doctor an unopened foreign newspaper.

"Absolutely irresistible!" said the doctor, and he broke the cover, took a chair and sat down before the fire; where for awhile to all appearance he also made himself 'comfortable'; and certainly turned and returned and ran over the paper in an artistic manner.

"After all," said he, "it's a bore! this alternation of knocking each other down which the nations of the earth practise,—and the societies,—and the men! It's a pugilistic world we live in, Linden. It's a bore to keep up with them,—for one must know who's atop—both in Europe and in Pattaquasset—where you are just now the king of men's mouths—And all the while it don't a pin signify, except to the one who is atop;—I beg your pardon!"

"How long must I, being 'atop,' lie here? All this week?"

"What will you do if I say more than that?"

"Why I'll listen respectfully. Do you know I like to see you sitting there?—Here is another paper for you."

The doctor looked at him with an odd, frankly inquisitive smile; but he only took the paper to play with it.

"I wonder if I may ask a roundabout favour from you?"

"You may ask anything—" said Mr. Linden. "I would rather have it in a straight-forward form."

"Can't," said the doctor, "because it is crooked. I suppose at this hour every lady in Pattaquasset expects that her friends will not call her away from her affairs; and I stupidly forgot to deliver my message when I had a moment's chance this morning. Now as it is possible you may see this—if she cannot be called the silver-footed Thetis, she is certainly the silver-tongued—you would know how to address her?"

"Thetis!—probably, when I see her."

"I may presume you will know her when you see her,—and that brings me to my point. I have got some good microscopic preparations which I am to have the pleasure of exhibiting to-night to some friends of my sister. Now it would greatly add to her pleasure and mine, if this mortal Polyhymnia will consent to be of the number—and this is what I was going to ask you, if you please, to communicate to her or to her mother, in whose good graces, as I told you," said the doctor with a funny smile, "I don't think I have the honour to stand high. Sophy would have written this morning, but I gave her no chance. I will call for Miss Derrick this evening if she will allow me."

Mr. Linden took out his pencil and made a note of the facts.

"First," he said, "I am to communicate, then you are to call, after that to exhibit. Do you call that crooked?—why it's as straight as the road from here to your house."

Dr. Harrison looked—and for a minute did not anything else.

"For your arm, Linden," he said then getting up from his chair, and a smile of doubtful comicality moving his lip a little—"we shall know better about it in two or three weeks; but certainly I think you must be content to stay at home for double those—that's undoubted."

Mr. Linden gave the doctor a quick glance, but the smile which followed was 'undoubted' in another way.

"When two opposing forces meet at right angles, doctor," he said, "you know what happens to the object. Not contented inertia."

"Contented! no, very likely,—not when it is this object. But you will find a third force will establish the inertia."

"What is your third force?"

"The necessity of the case," said the doctor seriously.

But to that Mr. Linden made no reply. The conversation had been kept up not only against weakness but against pain, and he lay very still and colourless for a long time after the doctor closed the door.

Meanwhile Faith, busy at her brown moreen, made her mother's job of mending seem like embroidery; but by degrees Mrs. Derrick's face became thoughtful, and she said, rather emphatically,

"Child, have you been up to see Mr. Linden to-day?"

Faith's hammer dropped, and her hands too.

"No, mother," she said, looking at her.

"Why child!"—Mrs. Derrick began,—then she stopped and began again. "I guess he'd rather see you than that box, child,—if the doctor hasn't talked him to death."

"Mother, do you think he would like to have me come up and see him?"

"Like it?" said Mrs. Derrick, her mind almost refusing to consider such an absurd question. "I'm sure he likes to see you when he's well, Faith. Didn't he like it last night?"

Faith looked a little bit grave, then she hastily pushed her brown moreen and box into a somewhat more orderly state of disorganization, and went up stairs, with a quick light step that was not heard before her tap at Mr. Linden's door. And then receiving permission she went in, a little rosy this time at venturing into the charmed region when its occupant was there; and came with her step a little lighter, a little slower, up to the side of the couch and held out her hand; saying her soft "How do you do, Mr. Linden?"

He was lying just as the doctor had left him, with the unopened letters, and the white paper which Faith felt instinctively was her own exercise. But eye and hand were ready for her.

"Courageous Miss Faith!" he said with a smile. "And so, 'She's gentle and not fearful'?"

She smiled, with an eye that took wistful note of him.

"How do you feel to-day, Mr. Linden?"

"Not very well—and not worse. Miss Faith, do you know that we have a great deal to do this week? You may lock up your stocking basket."

"Please let me do something for you, Mr. Linden?" she said earnestly.

"That's just what I'm talking about. Do you think, Miss Faith, that if you brought that low chair here, and set the door wide open so that you could run out if you got frightened at my grim appearance, you would be willing to philosophize a little?"

"Not to-day, Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Don't speak so! I haven't any stocking basket in the way. Can't I do something that would do you some good?"

"It would do me a great deal of good to get up and set that chair for you, but that is something I must ask you to do for me. I see you want coaxing"—he added, looking at her. "Well—if you will do half a dozen things for me this morning, you shall have the reward of a letter and two messages."

Faith looked down doubtful,—doubtful, whether to do what would please herself, and him, would be just right to-day; but the pleading of the affirmative side of the question was too strong. She gave up considering the prudential side of the measure, thinking that perhaps Mr. Linden knew his own feelings best; and once decided, let pleasure have its full flow. With hardly a shade upon the glad readiness of her movements, she placed the chair and brought the book, and sat docile down, though keeping a jealous watch for any sign of pain or weariness that should warn her to stop. And from one thing to another he led her on, talking less than usual, perhaps, himself, but giving her none the less good a lesson. And the signs she sought for could not be found. Weary he was not, mentally, and physical nature knew its place. Last of all, the little exercise was opened and commented upon and praised—and she praised through it, though very delicately.

"Have I tired you?" he said, as the town clock struck an hour past the mid-day.

"Oh no!—And you, Mr. Linden?"

In what a different tone the two parts of her speech were spoken.

"I have not hurt myself," he said smiling. "Perhaps by and by, this afternoon, you will let me see you again. Dr. Harrison threatens to keep me at home for two or three weeks, and I want to make the most of them,—I may not have such a time of leisure again." And then Mr. Linden gave the doctor's message—a message, very strictly, and as near as possible in the doctor's own words, receiving as little tinge as it well could from the medium through which it passed.

"The other message," he said, giving her a letter, "you will find there."

"A message?"—said Faith doubtfully and flushing with pleasure—"isn't this one of your sister's letters?"

"Yes. Mayn't she send you a message?"

A very modest and very happy smile and deepening blush answered that; and she ran away with a sudden compunctious remembrance of Mr. Linden's dinner.

After dinner Faith had something to do in the kitchen, and something to do in other parts of the house, and then she would have read the letter before all things else; but then came in a string of company—one after the other, everybody wanting the news and much more than could be given. So it was a succession of flourishing expectations cut down and blasted; and both Faith and her mother grew tired of the exercise of cutting down and blasting, and Faith remembered with dismay that the afternoon was wearing and Mr. Linden had wished to see her again. She seized her chance and escaped at last, between the adieu of one lady and the accost of another who was even then coming up from the gate, and knocked at Mr. Linden's door again just as Mrs. Derrick was taking her minister's wife into the parlour. Her first move this time on coming in, was to brush up the hearth and put the fire in proper order for burning well; then she faced round before the couch and stood in a sort of pleasant expectation, as waiting for orders.

"You are a bright little visiter!" Mr. Linden said, holding out his hand to her. "You float in as softly and alight as gently as one of these crimson leaves through my window. Did anybody ever tell you the real reason why women are like angels?"

"I didn't know they were," said Faith laughing, and with something more of approximation to a crimson leaf.

"'They are all ministering spirits,'" he said looking at her. "But you must be content with that, Miss Faith, and not make your visits angelic in any other sense. What do you suppose I have been considering this afternoon?—while you have been spoiling the last Pattaquasset story by confessing that I am alive?"

"Did you hear them coming in?" said Faith. "I didn't know when they were going to let me get away.—What have you been considering, Mr. Linden?"

"The wide-spread presence and work of beauty. You see what a shock you gave my nervous system yesterday. Will you please to sit down, Miss Faith?"

Faith sat down, clearly in a puzzle; from which she expected to be somehow fetched out.

"What do you suppose is beauty's work in the world?—I don't mean any particular Beauty."

Faith looked at the crimson leaves on the floor—for the window was open though the fire was burning; then at the fair sky outside, seen beyond and through some other crimson leaves yet hanging on the large maple there,—then coming back to the face before her, she smiled and said,

"I don't know—except to make people happy, Mr. Linden."

"That is one part of its use, certainly. But take the thousands of wilderness flowers, and the thousands of deep sea shells; look at the carvings on the scale of a fish, which no human eye can see without a glass, or those other exquisite patterns traced upon the roots and stems of some of the fossil pines, which were hid in the solid rock before there was a human eye to see. What is their use?"

To the wilderness and to the deep sea, Faith's thought and almost her eye went, and she took some time to consider the subject.

"I suppose—" she said thoughtfully—"I don't know, Mr. Linden."

"Did you ever consider those words which close the account of the Creation—'God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good'."

"That is what I was going to say!" she said modestly but with brightening colour,—"that perhaps he made all those things, those you spoke of, for himself?"

"For himself—to satisfy the perfectness of his own character. And think how different the divine and the human standards of perfection! Not the outward fair colour and proportion merely, not the perfect fitness and adaptation, not the most utilitarian employment of every grain of dust, so that nothing is lost,—not even the grandest scale of working, is enough; but the dust on the moth's wing must be plumage, and the white chalk cliffs must be made of minute shells, each one of which shines like spun silver or is figured like cut glass. Not more steadily do astronomers discover new worlds, than the microscope reveals some new perfection of detail and finish in our own."

Faith listened, during this speech, like one literally seeing 'into space,' as far as an embodied spirit can, for the first time. Then with a smile, a little sorrowful, she brought up with,

"I don't know anything of all that, Mr. Linden! Do you mean that chalk is really made of little shells?"

"Yes, really—and blue mould is like a miniature forest. You will know about it"—he said with a smile. "But do you see how this touches the standard of moral perfection?—how it explains that other word, 'Be ye also perfect'."

Faith had not seen before, but she did now; for in her face the answer flashed most eloquently. She was silent.

"That is the sort of perfection we are promised," Mr. Linden went on presently,—"that is the sort of perfection we shall see. Now, both glass and eye are imperfect,—specked, and flawed, and short-sighted; and can but faintly discern 'the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him that is perfect in knowledge.' But then!—

'When sin no more obstructs our sight, When sorrow pains our hearts no more, How shall we view the Prince of Light, And all his works of grace explore! What heights and depths of love divine Will then through endless ages shine!'"

The words moved her probably, for she sat with her face turned a little away so that its play or its gravity were scarce so well revealed. Not very long however. The silence lasted time enough to let her thoughts come back to the subject never very far from them.

"You are tired, Mr. Linden."

"By what chain of reasoning, Miss Faith?"

"I know by the sound of your voice. And you eat nothing to-day. Do you like cocoa, Mr. Linden?" she added eagerly.

He smiled a little and answered yes.

"Then I shall bring you some!"

Faith stayed for no answer to that remark, but ran off. Half an hour good had passed away, but very few minutes more, when her soft tap was heard at the door again and herself entered, accompanied with the cup of cocoa and a plate of dainty tiny strips of toast.

"Aunt Dilly left some here," she said as she presented the cup,—"and she says it is good; and she shewed me how to make it. Aunt Dilly has lived all her life with a brother who has lived a great part of his life with a French wife—so Aunt Dilly has learned some of her ways—and this is one of them."

But Mr. Linden looked as if he thought 'the way' belonged emphatically to somebody else.

"And so I am under the rule of the blue ribbands still!" he said as he raised himself up to do honour to the cup of cocoa. "Miss Faith, do you know you are subjecting yourself to the penalty of extra lessons?"

"How, Mr. Linden?"

"Don't you know that is one of the punishments for bad conduct? It's a great act of insubordination to bring one cocoa without leave."

She laughed, and then paid her attentions to the fire again; after which she stood by the hearth to see the cocoa disposed of, till she came to take the cup.

"Are you in pain, much, Mr. Linden?" she asked as she did this.

"Not mental—" he said with a smile; "and the physical can be borne Miss Faith, that cocoa was certainly better than I ever had from the hands of anybody's French wife. You must have improved upon the receipt."

"When Dr. Harrison comes for me this evening, shall he come up and see you again?"

"If he wishes—there is no need else."

"How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said with a very serious face.

"On this wise, Miss Faith. I, walking home at a rather quick pace, was suddenly 'brought to' as the sailors say, by this shot in my arm. But as for the moment it affected the mind more than the body, I turned and gave chase,—wishing to enquire who had thus favoured me, and why. But the mind alone can only carry one a certain distance, and before I had caught my man I found myself in such danger of fainting that I turned about again, and made the best of my way to the house of Mr. Simlins. The rest you know."

"What did the man run for?"

"There is no thread in my nature that just answers that question," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose he ran because he was frightened."

"But what should have frightened him?"

"The idea of my displeasure probably," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Have you forgotten my character for cruelty, Miss Faith?"

"But—" said Faith. "Why should he think he had displeased you? He wasn't near you, was he?"

"Why I am not supposed to be one of those amiable people who like to be shot," said Mr. Linden in the same tone.

"But how near was he, Mr. Linden?"

"Within gunshot range, of course—the precise distance is not easily measured at such a moment."

"But if he was not near," said Faith, "how could he think that his shot had touched you? He couldn't see it—and your running wouldn't seem like a man seriously injured?"

"He might think I disapproved of discharging a gun at random, in the public road."

"You don't suppose it could have been done on purpose, Mr. Linden!" she said in a changed awe-stricken tone.

"I have no right to assume anything of the kind—there are all sorts of so-called accidents. But Miss Faith! if you look so frightened I shall begin to think you are an accomplice! What do you know about it?" he added smiling.

"Nothing—" she said rather sadly, "except a little look of something, I don't know what, in your face when you said that, Mr. Linden."

"You must not look grave—nor think twice about the matter in any way," he said with a sort of kind gravity that met hers. "Is there light enough for you to read that first chapter of Physical Geography, and talk to me about it?—it is your turn to talk now."

"Do you mean, aloud?—or to myself, Mr. Linden?" she asked a little timidly,

"I mean, to me."

Faith did not object, though her colour rose very visibly. She placed herself to catch the fading light, and read on, talking where it was absolutely necessary, but sparing and placing her questions so as to call forth as few words as possible in reply. And becoming engaged in the interest of the matter she almost forgot her timidity;—not quite, for every now and then something made it rise to the surface. The daylight was fading fast, sunlight had already gone, and the wood fire began to throw its red gleams unchecked; flashing fitfully into the corners of the room and playing hide and seek with the shadows. A little rising of the wind and light flutter of the leaves against the glass, only made the warm room more cheerful. Faith made the fire burn brightly, and finished the chapter by that, with the glow of the flickering flame dancing all over her and her book in the corner where she sat. But pages of pleasure as well as of prettiness, all those pages were.

"Thank you, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as she closed the book. "I only wish I could give you a walk now in this bright evening air; but I must wait for that."

A little tap at the door came at this point to take its place in the conversation. It was Mrs. Derrick.

"Child," said the good lady, "here's Dr. Harrison down stairs." And stepping into the room, Mrs. Derrick walked softly up to the couch, and not only made enquiries but felt of Mr. Linden's hand to see if he had any fever. Faith waited, standing a little behind the couch head.

"I'm not quite sure—" she said,—"your hand's a little warm, sir—but then it's apt to be towards night,—and maybe mine's a little cool. If you could only go to sleep, it would do you so much good!"

And Mr. Linden laughingly promised to try, but would not guarantee the success thereof.

Faith went down stairs, a little afraid that she had been doing harm instead of good, and at the same time not seeing very well how she could have helped it. She found Dr. Harrison in the sitting-room, and gave her quiet reasons for not going out with him. The doctor declared "he should be in despair—but that he had hope!" and having made Faith confess that she would like to see his microscope, gently suggested the claims of the next two evenings; saying that he must be in Quilipeak for a day or two soon himself, and therefore was not impatient without reason. Faith did not know how to get off, and gave the doctor to understand that she might be disengaged the next night. Having which comfort he went up to see Mr. Linden. Then followed Mr. Linden's tea, with cresses and grapes which Dr. Harrison had brought himself.

"Mother," said Faith, when the two ladies were seated at their own tea-table,—"did Dr. Harrison dress Mr. Linden's arm again to-night?"

"Yes child—and I guess it was good he did. I think Mr. Linden was almost asleep when I went up."

"Do you know how to do it, mother? if it was wanted when the doctor is not here?"

"I don't know—" said Mrs. Derrick thoughtfully,—"no, child, I don't know how—at least not so I'd like to try. Do you, Faith?"

"No, mother—but could you learn?"

"Why—I suppose I could, child," said her mother, as if she disliked to admit even so much. "But I'd about as lieve have my own arm shot off—I'm so dreadfully afraid of hurting people, Faith—and I always was afraid of him. Why can't the doctor do it? he can come six times a day if he's wanted—I guess he don't do much else."

Faith said no more on the subject, but hurried through her tea and sat down by the lamp in the sitting-room to read her letter. A minute or two she sat thinking, deeply, with her cheek on her hand; then dismissing everything else she opened the precious paper at last.

It was another Italy letter, but took her a very different journey from the last. A little graver perhaps than that, a little more longing in the wish to use eyesight instead of pen and ink; and as if absence was telling more and more upon the writer. Yet all this was rather in the tone than the wording—that was kept in hand. But it was midway in some bright description, that the message to Faith broke forth.

"Tell Miss Faith," she said, "that I would rather have seen her roasting clams down at 'the shore,' than anything I have seen since I heard of it,—which is none the less true, that I should have wanted to stand both sides of the window at once. And tell her if you can (though I don't believe even you can, John Endy) how much I love her for taking such care of one of my precious things. I feel as if all my love was very powerless just now! However—you remember that comforting old ballad—

'Where there is no space For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come he will enter, And soon find out his way!'

So, Miss Faith, you may expect to see me appear some time in the shape of a midge!—Endecott will tell you I am not much better than that now."

So far Faith got in reading the letter, and it was a long while before she got any further; that message to herself she went over again and again. It was incomprehensible, it was like one of Mr. Linden's own puzzles for that. It was so strange, and at the same time it was such a beautiful thing, that Mr. Linden's sister should have heard of her and in such fashion as to make her wish to send a message! Faith's head stooped lower and lower over the paper, from her mother and the lamp. It was such a beautiful message too—the gracious and graceful wording of it Faith felt in every syllable; and the lines of the old ballad were some of the prettiest she had ever seen. But that Faith should have love sent her from Italy—and from that person in Italy of all others!—that Mr. Linden's sister should wish to see her and threaten to do it in the shape of a midge!—and what ever could Mr. Linden have told her to excite the wish? And what of this lady's precious things had Faith taken care of?—'such care' of! "Mother!"—Faith began once by way of taking counsel, but thought better of it, and went on pondering by herself. One thing was undoubted—this message in this letter was a matter of great pleasure and honour! as Faith felt it in the bottom of her heart; but in the midst of it all, she hardly knew whence, came a little twinge of something like pain. She felt it—yes, she felt it, even in the midst of the message; but if Faith herself could not trace it out, of course it can be expected of nobody else.



CHAPTER XXII.



Phil Davids, taking his morning walk through the pleasant roads of Pattaquasset, engaged in his out-of-school amusements of hunting cats and frightening children, was suddenly arrested in the midst of an alarming face ('got up' for the benefit of Robbie Waters) by the approach of Sam Stoutenburgh. In general this young gentleman let Phil alone, 'severely,' but on the present occasion he stopped and laid hold of his shoulder.

"Phil Davids! I've a warrant against you."

"Hands off, Sam! and let a man alone, will you! What do you mean by that?" said Phil gruffly.

"Yes—I'll let him alone—when I find him, if he's like you," said Sam with great coolness and some little contempt. "But if you're tired of your own face, Phil, why don't you make up a handsome one, while you're about it? Keep out of his way, Robbie! can't you?"

"Guess you don't know what folks says o' yourn! Do you?" said Phil, wriggling his shoulder from under Sam's hand, "I do!"

"I guess I know as much as is good for me," replied the undaunted Sam. "But that's none of your business just now. Mr. Linden wants to see you, Phil—and it aint often anybody does that, so you'd better make the most of the chance." With which pleasing sentiment, Sam released Phil, and taking a sharp run after Robbie. Waters enticed him into a long confidential conversation about his new Sunday school teacher. In the midst of which Phil's voice came again.

"'Twon't hurt you Sam—jest listen once. They say, Sam Stoutenburgh would have been a Lady apple, if he hadn't grown to be such a Swar, and all the while he thinks he's a Seek-no-further. That's what folks says. How d'ye like it?"

"Firstrate!" said Sam—"glad I missed the Lady apples, anyhow,—and as for 'tother, never thought myself one yet—don't like 'em well enough. When you get through paying me compliments, Phil Davids, you'd better go and see Mr. Linden."

"Guess I will!" said Phil swaggering off,—"when I want to see him; and that aint to-day, by a long jump."

"He said you were to come—" Sam called after him. "If I wasn't a Stoutenburgh sweeting, Phil Davids, I'd teach you to talk of him so! If I only was!—" Sam added sotto voce, "wouldn't I pack myself up in a basket! Robbie, what sort of flowers did Miss Faith have in her bonnet?" At which interesting point the two turned a corner out of Phil's sight.

But Phil pursued his way; decently regardless of threats or invitations, and having a wholesome opinion of his own that in holiday time Mr. Linden had nothing to say to him. In no possible time had he anything to say to Mr. Linden that he could help. So it happened, that coming in soon after Mr. Linden had dismissed his breakfast, Faith found Mr. Linden alone. She brought to his side a basket of very fine-looking pears.

"Mr. Davids has sent you these, Mr. Linden."

"He is very kind," said Mr. Linden. "That is more than I asked for. He hasn't sent Phil in the basket too, has he?—as the easiest way of getting him here."

Faith rather startled, and passing over that asked Mr. Linden how he did. Which point, having learned all he wanted upon the other, Mr. Linden was also ready for. Faith then leaving the basket by the couch side, went to the fire and hearth, and put them more thoroughly to rights than Cindy's delicacy of touch, or of eye, had enabled her to do; and going on round the room, care fully performed the same service for everything in it generally. This work however was suddenly stopped in the midst, and coming to the head of the couch, rather behind Mr. Linden, Faith spoke in a low and ill-assured tone.

"Mr. Linden—will you let me be by this morning when Dr. Harrison dresses your arm?"

There was a moment's silence, and then raising himself up and turning a little so as to see her, Mr. Linden answered, gravely though smiling,

"No, Miss Faith!"

She coloured very much and drew back.

"I asked—" she said presently, speaking with a good deal of difficulty,—"because he spoke of being away—and then there would be no one to do it—and mother is afraid—"

And there Faith stopped, more abashed than anybody had ever seen her in her life before. He held out his hand, and took hers, and held it fast.

"I know—" he said,—"you need not tell me. When is the doctor going away?"

"I don't know," she said almost under breath—"he said perhaps—or I thought—I understood him to mean in a few days."

"Miss Faith!"—and the tone was half expostulating, half scolding, half caressing. "Come here and sit down by me," he said, gently drawing her round to the low chair at his side, "I want to talk to you. Do you need to be told why I said no?"

She sat down, but sunk her head a little and put up her other hand to shield the side of her face which was next him. The answer did not come at once—when it did, it was a low spoken "no." Her hand was held closer, but except that and the moved change of his voice, Mr. Linden took no notice of her fear.

"I would not let Pet do it—" he said gently, "if I could help it. My child, do you know what a disagreeable business it is? I could trust you for not fainting at the time, but I should ill like to hear of your fainting afterwards. And then if you chanced to hurt me—which the doctor often does—you would be unhappy for the rest of the day,—which the doctor by no means is. That is all—I would a great deal rather have your hands about me than his, but a thing that would give you pain would give me very doubtful relief. I had rather go with my arm undressed."

He had gone on talking—partly to give her time to recover; but the silent look that was bent upon that shielded face was a little anxious.

She dropped the hand that shielded it presently, and shewed it flushed and wistful, yet with a tiny bit of smile beginning to work at the corners of the mouth.

"Then Mr. Linden," she said almost in the same tone and without turning her face,—"if you have no other objection—please let me come!"

"But that one is strong enough. You may send Cinderella up to take a lesson."

"You said that was all?" she repeated.

"That is the only real objection—I would not raise even that in a case of greater need. But I suppose unskilful hands could hardly do me much mischief now. So if you will send Cinderella," he added with a smile, "she may enlarge her world of ideas a little."

"Mr. Linden,"—said Faith looking at him now fearlessly—"I am going to come myself."

"You are!" he said, looking at her—and then his eyes went from her to the fire, and back again to her face. "Then if you faint away, Miss Faith, and I jump up to take care of you (which I shall certainly do) I may faint myself—at which stage of the proceedings Dr. Harrison will have his hands full."

"I shall not faint—before nor after," she said, shaking her head.

"I should not like to count too much upon your unfeeling disposition," said Mr. Linden, in whose face different currents of thought seemed to meet and mingle. "And then you see, my senses may be guilty of as great a breach of politeness as the warder in a German story I was reading yesterday."

"What was that?"

"It fell out," said Mr. Linden, "that a lady of surpassing beauty arrived at a certain castle; and next day, the lord of the castle brought before her his warder, bound in chains for a great breach of politeness; he having failed to give his lord notice of the lady's approach! The warder thus defended himself: he had indeed seen the lady, but his dazzled eyes mistook her for another sun! So," added Mr. Linden smiling, "if my eyes should mistake you for a sunbeam or a maple leaf, I might forget myself, and not keep my patience so perfectly as I ought under the hands of such a chirurgeon."

"What is going to try your patience, Mr. Linden?—I?"—said Faith, now indubitably in a puzzle.

"Do you really want to do this for me?" he said in a different tone, looking at her with that same grave, kind look which she had seen before.

"I think I can—and I should like to do it, Mr. Linden, if you are perfectly willing," Faith answered.

"I am willing, since you wish it,—and now you must get the doctor's leave—or rather I must get it for you; but in the mean time, Miss Faith, we may go on with some of our studies, if you are at leisure."

Faith went to get the books, but returned without them and with a disturbed face.

"Mr. Linden, one of the boys wishes to see you."

"I suppose it never was heard that a boy came at the right time," said Mr. Linden. "Well Miss Faith—I believe I must see him—will you write another exercise for me? Here is your pen and paper—I will try not to be hindered long."

Faith mutely took the pen and paper, and went out with a divided mind, for the boy whom she let in, Cindy being nowhere visible, was Phil Davids. Phil had thought better of his determination, and wisely judging that if Mr. Linden wanted to see him he probably would accomplish the measure some time, concluded the shortest way was to see him as smoothly as possible. So in he walked and made his bow, grumly civil, but civil.

Mr. Linden's opening remark, after he had given the boy his hand (which even he liked to touch) was at least peculiar.

"Phil—do you know what a smart boy you are?"

And the answer was a strictly true, though blundering, "No, sir."

"I don't know how smart you could be, myself," said Mr. Linden, "but I know you are very smart now. You always make me think of the man who found a bag of jewels lying in the road and didn't know what they were."

It occurred to Phil's mind that not to know jewels when they were seen was a doubtful proof of smartness; so he answered with a somewhat surly, "How, sir?"

"This man," Mr. Linden went on, "instead of having his jewels set in gold, to wear or to sell, went round the town flinging them at his neighbour's windows—or his neighbour's cats,—as you do, Phil, with your very bright powers of head and tongue. Why don't you make a man of yourself—and use those powers for something worth while?"

"You never see me doin' it, sir!" said Phil, answering the most interesting part of Mr. Linden's address.

"Don't I?" said Mr. Linden,—"I see and hear a good many things. But nobody can get on in the world after such a prickly fashion,—why even a porcupine smooths himself down before he tries to go ahead. If you were to be a lawyer Phil, you'd fight your clients instead of helping them fight,—and if you were a farmer, you'd be like the man who burnt up three stacks of his hay because the fourth got wet."

Phil reddened, though he couldn't help smiling, and was evidently getting angry.

"That 'ere farmer was a big fool!" he said.

"Yes, we are agreed upon that point," said Mr. Linden,—"I daresay he would have said so himself next day. Well Phil—this was not what I wanted to talk to you about to-day—much as I like to see smart boys make the most of themselves. I want to know exactly what it was that you heard Reuben Taylor say about Miss Derrick."

Phil's eyes opened unmistakeably.

"I never heerd him say nothing about her!" he said boldly.

"Then why did you say you did?" said Mr. Linden, with the cool face of one who knows his ground.

"I didn't!" said Phil. "I'm blessed if I did."

"No you are not—" said Mr. Linden gravely,—"people are never blessed who do not speak truth. And you have shut both doors by which such a blessing might have come in this case, Phil."

"Who said I ever said so, sir?" Phil asked confidently.

"You told Dr. Harrison, for one," said Mr. Linden.

"I never spoke a word to Dr. Harrison—" Phil began and checked himself. "I never said anything but the truth, sir!"

"What truth did you say to him?" said Mr. Linden. "I wish you would do the same for me. The roughest truth, Phil, is pleasanter to ray ears than the smoothest falsehood."

"I said nothin' but what was truth, sir," said Phil, perplexedly, as if he felt caught in a snare. "I didn't think you meant that."

"That is precisely what I meant."

"'Twarn't nothing but the truth, sir."

"Well—" said Mr. Linden,—"I never was afraid of the truth yet, and I don't mean to begin now. You didn't say I had cut your ears off, did you Phil?"

"I didn't say nothin' about you, sir, good or indifferent."

"That's something," said Mr. Linden with unmoved gravity. "What else did you say?"

"It was down to Neanticut, sir," said Phil—"I told Reuben Taylor as how he'd druv her down, Joe Deacon said he had; and Reuben said Joe had made a mistake. That's the hull of it, sir."

"Who is her?" said Mr. Linden.

"She—Miss Faith Derrick, sir."

Phil was getting very uncomfortably red in the face.

"Well why did you tell Miss Derrick that Reuben didn't drive her down?—would not she have been likely to know."

"I didn't, sir."

"I thought not. What did you tell her?"

"She knows what I told her!"—said Phil, looking abstractedly at the corner of the couch on which Mr. Linden lay.—"I don't know as I can recollect. But that's what Reuben said, sir."

"Well tell me as near as you can recollect—" said Mr. Linden. "And also just the words you used to Reuben."

Phil took time to reflect.

"I don't want ter," he said.

"No, I see you don't—but I want to hear them," said Mr. Linden very quietly. "But tell me the truth this time, Phil."

"Folks has a right to speak," said Phil, stating a broad proposition,—"but they hain't a right to tell all they say!"

"Well?"—said Mr. Linden, waiving that.

"'Twarn't nothin'!" said Phil—"and it 'll just make folks mad—and I durstn't—"

"Dare not repeat what you have dared to say? how is that, Phil? But my forgiveness always meets confession half way, as you know," said Mr. Linden.

"Well," said Phil, "I jest told Reuben he'd druv her down, and Reuben said Joe was mistaken. It was Joe said it first,"

"And what did you say before Dr. Harrison?"

"I said what Reuben said,"—said Phil feeling poorly.

"And what was that?"—Mr. Linden was as untireable as a minority juror.

"I said Reuben said she warn't what Joe said," Phil got out at last in a lowered tone.

"And what was that?"

"Well—" said Phil desperately—"Joe said she was—"

Mr. Linden waited. So did Phil.

"This is the house that Jack built," Mr. Linden remarked. "What did Joe say she was?"

The answer came in articulation pretty well smothered up.

"Joe said she was Mr. Linden's sweetheart."

"O!—" said Mr. Linden, with a tone Phil felt to the tips of his ears,—"that was it! I really did not know, Phil, that you and Joe took an interest in such matters. Have you had much experience?"

Phil shuffled and looked exceedingly embarrassed, but words found none. He had exhausted his stock, of more than words.

"Well!" said Mr. Linden,—"you will find, Phil, that it is generally safe to study arithmetic before you begin algebra. There's a little mistake here. Reuben did not drive anybody down to Neanticut—Mrs. Derrick drove the whole way. That explains his words. As for yours, Phil—I wish," said Mr. Linden, looking at him gravely, but gently too, "I wish I knew something you would like very much to have. Can you tell me?"

If ever in his life Phil Davids mentally stared, (physically, too) he did it now. 'Something he would like very much to have'? What could Mr. Linden want to know that for? In his confusion Phil didn't know himself. To take in Mr. Linden, all over, was all he was competent to.

"Well?" said his teacher with a smile—it was rather a faint one, for he was tired, but very pleasant still. "What is there, Phil?—I am in earnest."

"I'm sorry I said it, anyhow!" burst at last from the boy's reluctant lips. That seemed to be his ultimatum. He could see that his words gave pleasure, though they were not directly answered.

"I must send you away now," Mr. Linden said, taking his hand again. "I am not strong enough to talk any more. But Phil—if you will learn to speak the truth—so that at the end of six months you can truly say, 'I hate every false way'—I will give you then what you like,—you shall choose your own reward. I would give anything I have in the world if I could make you fear to displease God by telling a falsehood, as much as you fear to displease me by owning it!"

It was as much as Phil could do, to take his teacher's hand, and that was done more humbly than certainly any previous action of his life. Speak he could not; but so far as Mr. Linden's influence and authority were concerned that boy was conquered. Whatever he became in after times, and whatever his mates found him still,—and they were not open-mouthed in praise,—for his teacher that boy was a different boy.

On his way out of the house he chanced to pass Faith, and did so without a sign of recognition, giving her about as wide a berth as if she had been a ghost. At the door he met Dr. Harrison coming in; but the doctor perhaps did not recognize him. Once clear, Phil ran for it. And at the stair-foot the doctor found Faith.

"Dr. Harrison," she said with grave simpleness, "if you will allow me, I should like to see you dress Mr. Linden's arm. If you go to Quilipeak there will be nobody to do it,—and I think I can learn. Mother is afraid, and it would be very disagreeable to her."

"And not to you?" said the doctor.

"Not so disagreeable. I think I can do it," she answered, meeting his look steadily.

"You must not!" said he. "You were not made for such things. Could do it! I don't doubt you could do anything. But if I go, I will send Dr. Limbre in my place. There is no need for you to do disagreeable work. Now it's pleasant to me!"

"Dr. Limbre I shouldn't like to have come into the house," said Faith. "And you know he can't leave his own house now—he is sick. I will go up with you, if you please."

Dr. Harrison could but follow her, as she tripped up the stairs before him; but there is no reasonable doubt he would have sent her on some other errand if he could. Faith tapped at the door, and they entered the room together.

"How do you do?" said Dr. Harrison rather gravely, approaching the couch.

Now the fact was, that those two previous interviews had been both long and exciting; and the consequent prostration was greater than usual; so though Mr. Linden did take down the hand which covered his eyes, and did meet the doctor's look with his accustomed pleasantness, his words were few. Indeed he had rather the air of one whose mind has chosen a good opportunity to ride rampant over the prostrate flesh and blood, and who has about given up all attempts to hold the bridle. Whether Dr. Harrison perceived as much, or whether there might be some other reason, his words were also few. He addressed himself seriously to work.

"Will you permit me to introduce an apprentice?" he said, in a more commonplace way than was usual for him, as he was removing Mr. Linden's wrapper from the arm. Faith had come quietly up to the head of the couch and was standing there.

"Is not that the doctor's prerogative?"

"Hum—" said the doctor doubtfully; but he did not explain himself further.

Faith had come close to the head of the couch, but stood a little back, so that Mr. Linden could not see whether she looked like fainting or not. There were no signs of that, for the lessening of colour in her cheeks, which was decided, kept company with a very clear and intent eye. One little caught breath he might hear, when the wounded arm was first laid bare; but not another. The doctor heard it too, for he looked up, but Faith was gravely and quietly busy with what she had come there to see; giving it precisely the same simplicity of attention that she brought to her physical geography or her French exercise; and that was entire. She did not shrink; she rather pressed forward and bent near, to acquaint herself perfectly with what was done; and once or twice asked a question as to the reason or the use of something. Dr. Harrison glanced up at her the first time—it might have been with incipient impatience—or irony,—but if either, it disappeared. He answered her questions straightforward and sensibly, giving her, and with admirable precision, exactly the information she desired, and even more than absolutely that. For everything else, the work went on in silence. When the doctor however was standing at the table a moment, preparing his lint or something else, and Faith had followed him there and stood watching; he said to her over the table in a sotto voce aside—but with a sharp glance—

"Was the information true, that we received the other night?—under the lanterns?"

"What a singular question!" said Mr. Linden from his couch.

"Pourquoi?" said the doctor as simply as if the original words had been addressed to Mr. Linden himself. "Well, it may be a singular question, for it was singular information. Was it well-founded, Miss Derrick?"

"No—at a venture," said Mr. Linden, with just the sort of air with which a sick person puts in his word and assumes superior knowledge.

The doctor looked at one and at the other; Mr. Linden's face told him nothing, any more than his words; Faith, by this time, was covered with confusion. That at least it might be visible to only one person, she moved back to her former place.

"Were you behind us?" said the doctor;—"or were you French enough to come by invisibly?"

"Is that the last new method?" said Mr. Linden. "You have been in Paris since I was."

"Never got so far as that though, I am sorry to say," said the doctor coming back to the couch. "But after all, that was very vague information—it didn't tell one much—only I have a personal interest in the subject. But I am glad you spoke—the man that can tell the dream should be able to give the interpretation. What did it mean, Linden?"

"Behold a man of an enquiring turn of mind!" said Mr. Linden with the same half listless half amused air. "He asks for truth, and when that tarries demands interpretation."

"I don't know what sort of a man I behold!" said the doctor, moving his eyes with a double expression for an instant from Mr. Linden's arm to his face.

"I should think you were a German student in pursuit of the 'Idea'!" said Mr. Linden taking a quiet survey of the doctor's face. "Have you completed the circle, or is there still hope the Idea may seize you?"

"The idea seized me a good while ago," said the doctor, with a most comical mock confessional look.

"Well then," said Mr. Linden in a sort of confidential tone, "what is your opinion upon the great German question—whether it is better to be One and Somewhat, or to be Nought and All?

"You see,"—said the doctor, standing back and suspending operations,—"everybody can't be One and Somewhat!"

"Then you choose the comprehensive side—" said Mr. Linden. "That is without doubt the most difficult,—the One and Somewhat is called egotistical, but to be Nought and All!—one must be—what do you suppose?"

"A philanthropist, I should suppose!" the doctor answered, with a change of expression not agreeable. And returning to his work, for awhile he behaved unusually like other people; not hurrying his work, but doing it with a grave steady attention to that and nothing else—answering Faith, and saying no more. Perhaps however he thought silence might be carried too far; or else had an unsatisfied mood upon him; for as he was finishing what he had to do, he looked up again to Faith and remarked,

"What do you think of this for our quiet town, Miss Derrick? Has Mr. Linden any enemies in Pattaquasset—that you know?"

It was merciless in the doctor; for through all this time she had been in a state of confusion—as he knew—that made speech undesirable, though she had spoken. And she didn't answer him now, except by a quickly withdrawn glance.

"Who do you suppose loves him well enough," pursued the doctor, "to send a charge of duck shot into him like that?"

A sudden little cry of pain, driven back before it was well begun, was heard and but just heard, from Faith. The doctor looked up.

"I was afraid this—Are you faint?" he said gently.

"No sir,—" she answered; and she stood still as before, though the overspread colour which had held its ground for a good while past, had given way now and fluttered pain fully. But the doctor's words brought Mr. Linden, for the first time since his accident—to a perfectly erect position on the couch—with a total disregard of where his arm went, or what became of its bandages.

"What are you about!"

"I declare, I don't know!" said Dr. Harrison, standing back. "I thought I was just disposing of you comfortably for the day—but I am open to conviction!"

The left hand let go its grasp of the couch—taken so suddenly, and for which the wounded arm took swift vengeance; and Mr. Linden laid himself down on the cushions again, the colour leaving his cheeks as fast as it had come.

"What's the matter, Linden?" said the doctor with rather a kind look of concern. "You have hurt yourself."

Faith left the room.

"I fear I have disarranged some of your work."

The doctor examined and set to rights.

"I'll see how you do this evening. What ailed you to pitch into me like that, Linden?"

"I think the 'pitching in' came upon me," he answered pleasantly.

"It seems so, indeed. I hope you won't try this kind of thing again. I am sure you won't to-day."

And so the doctor went. A quarter of an hour or a little more had gone by, when the light knock came at Mr. Linden's door that he had certainly learned to know by this time; and Faith came in, bearing a cup of cocoa. The troubled look had not entirely left her face, nor the changeful colour; but she was not thinking of herself.

"I knew you were tired, Mr. Linden—Would you like this—or some grapes—or wine—better?"

The most prominent idea in Mr. Linden's mind just then, was that he had already had what he did not like; but that had no place in the look which answered her, as he raised himself a little (and but a little) to take the cup from her hand.

"Pet would thank you better than I can now, Miss Faith."

She stood looking down at him, with a little sorrowing touch about the lines of her mouth.

"Do you know how much better two cups of cocoa are than one?" said Mr. Linden.

"I don't know how you can have two at once, Mr. Linden."

"Then I will bestow one upon you—and wait while you get it."

"I am well—" she said, looking amused through her gravity, and shaking her head. "And besides, I couldn't take it, Mr. Linden." And to put an end to that subject, Faith had recourse to the never failing wood fire; and from thence went round the room finishing what she had failed to do in the morning; coming back at the point of time to take Mr. Linden's cup. He looked at her a little as he gave it back.

"You are too tired to go over all those lessons to-day—which do you like best? will you bring it?"

"I am not tired at all," she said with some flitting colour,—"but you are, Mr. Linden. Won't you rest—sleep—till after dinner—and then, if you like, let me come?"

"I will let you come then—and stay now," he said smiling.

"Let me stay and be silent then—or do something that will not tire you. Please, Mr. Linden!"

"Your line of action lies all within that last bound," he said gently. "But you may read French if you will—or write it and let me look over you,—or another geographical chapter. Neither need make me talk much."

The hint about looking over her writing startled Faith amazingly, but perhaps for that very reason she took it as the delicate expression of a wish. That would be a trial, but then too it would call for the least exertion on the part of her teacher. Faith was brave, if she was fearful, and too really humble to have false shame; and after an instant's doubt and hesitation, she said, though she felt it to her fingers' ends,

"My exercise is all ready—it only wants to be copied—but how could you look over me, Mr. Linden?"

"Could you do such an inconvenient thing as to use that small atlas for a table? and bring it here by me—I am not quite fit to sit up just now."

Faith said no more words, but went for her exercise and sat down to write it, as desired, under an observing and she knew a critical eye. It was well her business engrossed her very completely; for she was in an extremely puzzled and disturbed state of mind. Dr. Harrison's words about the occasion of Mr. Linden's accident, carelessly run on, had at last unwittingly given her the clue her own innocent spirit might have waited long for; and grief and pain would have almost overcome her, but for a conflicting feeling of another kind raised by the preceding colloquy between the two gentlemen. Faith was in a state of profound uncertainty, whether Mr. Linden's words had meant anything or nothing. They were spoken so that they might have meant nothing—but then Phil Davids had just been with him—what for?—and whatever Mr. Linden's words might have meant, Faith's knowledge of him made her instinctively know, through all the talk, that they had been spoken for the sake of warding off something disagreeable from her—not for himself. She tried as far as she could to dismiss the question from her thoughts—she could not decide it—and to go on her modest way just as if it had not been raised; and she did; but for all that her face was a study as she sat there writing. For amid all her abstraction in her work, the thought of the possibility that Mr. Linden might have known what he was talking about, would send a tingling flush up into her cheeks; and sometimes again the thoughts of pain that had been at work would bring upon her lip almost one of those sorrowful curves which are so lovely and so pure on the lip of a little child—and rarely seen except there. All this was only by the way; it did not hinder the most careful attention to what she was about, nor the steadiest working of her quite unsteady fingers, which she knew were very likely to move not according to rule.

For a little while she was suffered to go on without interruption, other than an occasional word about the French part of her exercise; but presently Mr. Linden's hand began to come now and then with a modifying touch upon her pen and fingers. At first this was done with a gentle "forgive me!" or, "if you please, Miss Faith,"—after that without words, though the manner always expressed them; and once or twice, towards the very end of the lesson, he told her that such a letter was too German—or too sophisticated; and shewed her a more Saxon way. Which admonitions he helped her, as well as he could, to bear, by a quietness which was really as kind, as it seemed oblivious of all that had disturbed or could disturb her. And the words of praise and encouragement were spoken with their usual pleasure-taking and pleasure-giving effect. All this after a time effectually distracted Faith from all other thoughts whatever. When it was done, she sat a moment looking down at the paper, then looked up and gave him a very frank and humble "Thank you, Mr. Linden!" from face and lips both.

If Faith liked approbation—that clover-honey to a woman's taste, so far beyond the sickly sweets of flattery and admiration—she might have been satisfied with the grave look of Mr. Linden's eyes at her then.

"You are a brave little child!" he said. "I wish I could do something to give you a great deal of pleasure!"

"Pleasure!"—said Faith, and what was very rare with her, not only her face flushed but her eyes, so that she turned them away,—"why it is all pleasure to me, Mr. Linden!"—'Such pleasure as I never had before,'—she was near saying, but she did not say.

"Well I must not let you tire yourself," he said with a smile, "for that would not be pleasant to me. Have you been out to-day?"

"No," said Faith, thinking of her brown moreen.

"Nor yesterday—that will not do, Miss Faith. I am afraid I must give you up to the open air for a good part of this afternoon."

"What shall I do there?" said Faith smiling.

"Let the wind take you a walk—I wish I could be of the party. But the wind is good company, Miss Faith, and talks better than many people,—and the walk you want."

"So I want to finish my wood-box," said Faith, looking at the corner of the fireplace. "And I should think you would be tired of seeing the wood lie there, Mr. Linden. I am. I have got to go out this evening too—" she said with a little hesitation,—"to see that microscope."

Mr. Linden was silent a moment.

"The microscope does make some difference," he said,—"as for the wood-box, Miss Faith, I don't think I can permit it to have any voice in the matter,—you may leave it for me to finish. But if you are going up there this evening—there are two or three things I should like to talk to you about first."

"Then shall I come by and by?" she said. "I must do something else before dinner."



CHAPTER XXIII.



"Well child!" said Mrs. Derrick as they took their seats at the dinner-table, "what have you been about all day? I've just spent the morning looking over those apples, so I've had no chance to look you up. How's Mr. Linden? does the doctor think he's getting better?"

"He is, I hope, mother; the doctor didn't say anything about it." And a little shudder ran over Faith's shoulders, which she was glad her mother could make nothing of if she saw. "I have been as busy as you have, mother—so I couldn't look you up—nor my wood-box either."

"Learning all the world!" said her mother smiling, though there was a little touch of regretfulness not quite kept down. "I think I'd rather sit and look at you, child, than eat my dinner. What are you going to do this after noon?"

"I've got a little ironing to do after dinner, mother, and something to make for tea—and Mr. Linden wants to see me for something. I'll get ready for Judge Harrison's, and then after I am through up stairs I'll come down and see to you and my box together. I wish you were going with me, mother."

And Faith leaned her head on her hand.

"Don't you want to go, pretty child?" said Mrs. Derrick fondly.

"No, mother—but I couldn't help it. I found I should have to go sooner or later."

"I'd go with you in a minute," said her mother, "if it wasn't for Mr. Linden. I don't care a pin whether they want me or not, Faith, if you do. And I dare say some of the boys will be here"—Mrs. Derrick looked perplexed, as at the feeling of some unknown possibility. "Shall I, pretty child?" she said with an anxious face,—"what are you thinking of, child?"

Faith came behind her and put both arms round her and kissed first one side of her face and then the other.

"Mother!" she said with those silvery tones,—"I don't want anything! I suppose I shall like to see the microscope—but I'd rather stay at home and learn my lessons. Don't look so!"—Which with another kiss upon her lips, finished off Mrs. Derrick's anxiety.

The ironing and the 'something for tea' Faith despatched with extra diligence and speed, and then dressed herself for the evening. It was not much extra dressing; only a dark stuff dress a little finer than ordinary; the white ruffle round the neck and wrists was the same. And then, giving a few minutes to the seeking of some added help to quietness, for Faith's mind had been strangely disturbed, she went again to Mr. Linden's room. A gentle vision she was, if ever one was seen, when she entered it.

"You say I mustn't thank you, Mr. Linden," she said giving him back his sister's letter;—"but—will you thank her for me?"

"I don't think she deserves many thanks," he said with a smile, "but I will tell her."

The course of study that afternoon was peculiar, and eminently a talk. Mr. Linden called for none of the usual books at first, but began by giving Faith a very particular account of the whole process of circulation; thence diverging right and left, in the most erratic manner as it seemed to her,—passing from the bright crystal points in chymistry to the blue mould on a piece of bread, and then explaining to her the peculiar mechanism of a fly's eye. Two or three times he sent her to the cupboard for some book to shew her an illustration of the subject, but if there was any connecting link that she could see between one and another, it was simply the wonderful minute perfection of the world. And she needed none—for the different things were touched upon so clearly and yet with such a happy absence of needless details, that they stood forth in full relief, and set off each other. The daylight was already failing, and the red firelight was playing hide and seek with the shadows in Mr. Linden's room, before he gave her a chance to think what time it was. When she saw it, Faith started up.

"I told mother I would come and see her before I went!"—she said, drawing a long breath like a person in an atmosphere he can't get enough of. Then with a little change of tone, after standing a minute looking at the fire, she went on.—"All I can do, is to drive the nails into that wood-box—but I'll do it before to-morrow." She held out her hand as she spoke.

"No you must not," Mr. Linden said, as he took the hand. "To-night you will be out, and you must not give me a late breakfast, Miss Faith!—therefore you must go to bed as soon as you come home, and leave the box to me."

Faith ran away and did not go to her hammering just then. She brought a low bench to her mother's feet, sat down there; and taking Mrs. Derrick's hands from whatever they were about, wrapped both arms round herself, laying her head on her mother's lap.

"Mother," she said caressingly,—"I couldn't come down before. I was so busy and so interested, I didn't in the least know what time it was; and I hadn't a chance to think."

"I'm sure I'm glad, pretty child," said her mother, bending down to kiss her. "I think sometimes you think too much. But you look just like a baby, for all that. I'm sure I shall always love Mr. Linden for pleasing you so much," said Mrs. Derrick stroking Faith's hair, "even though he does please himself too."

Faith secured that hand again and held them both wrapped round her; but further words for a moment spoke not.

"I shall come home as early as I can," she said;—"mother, time enough to do everything for breakfast."

"You sha'n't do a thing, child," said her mother. "You may come home as early as you like, but I'm going to keep you out of the works. I feel so grand when you're up stairs studying—you can't think! You wouldn't know me, Faith."

Faith laughed, the laugh that was music to Mrs. Derrick's ears, and indeed would have been to any, and held the hands closer.

"I feel a little grand too,"—she said,—"sometimes in a way—"

This did not seem to be one of the times, or else feeling grand had a soporific effect; for Faith's eyelids presently drooped, and when Dr. Harrison came to the house and for some time before, she was fast asleep on her mother's lap.

"Psyche!"—exclaimed Dr. Harrison as he discerned by the firelight the state of the case. Mrs. Derrick gave him a little reproving glance for speaking so loud, but other reply made none, save a low-spoken polite offer of a chair.

"Thank you—I am going up to see Mr. Linden. Miss Derrick was so good as to promise she would go with me to see my sister this evening. In these circumstances,"—said Dr. Harrison in his softest voice—"do you think it would be presumption to wake her up?"

"Well go up, then," said Mrs. Derrick, "and I'll wake her up before you come down."

Which arrangement took effect; and in a very few minutes thereafter, Dr. Harrison's horse making much better speed than old Crab could do now, Faith was deposited safely at Judge Harrison's door. There she was received with open arms and great exultation by Miss Sophy and with great cordiality and pleasure by the Judge; and with a certain more uncertain amount of both by Mrs. Somers, whom Faith found there, the only addition to the family party; while the doctor stood complacently on the rug, in silence surveying everybody, like a man who has gained his point.

"Well Julius," said Mrs. Somers, "how's Mr. Linden to-night? did you see him?"

"Yes ma'am—I saw him."

"Well how is he?" repeated Mrs. Somers.

"He is—very happily situated," said the doctor. "I should like to be in his place."

"What do you go there twice a day for? Do you think him worse? You began with going once," said Mrs. Somers.

"Always begin gently," said Dr. Harrison. "You get on faster."

"How soon do you expect to take up your abode there altogether, at that rate?"

"At what rate, aunt Ellen? You are too fast for me."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Somers, "do you suppose I want to be told what you go there for?—what I do want to know, is whether he's like to get well, and how soon."

"He will be conquering Pattaquasset in a few weeks," said the doctor.

"I wonder whether he'll conquer Phil Davids," said Mrs. Somers. "I should like to see that done. Julius, did you ever find out anything about the man that fired the shot?"

"Really, aunt Ellen, I am not a detective"—said the doctor carelessly, looking at Faith, who kept as quiet as a dormouse. "If it had been my business I suppose I should have found out."

"I think I heard you opine that Mr. Linden knew"—said Mrs. Somers. "And I think somebody ought to find out—unless you want the thing done over again. Don't you think so, Judge Harrison?"

"Well my dear," said the Judge, "I understand Mr. Linden to have been actuated by a very benevolent motive—I understand his feelings. He wouldn't run the risk of accusing a man unjustly—I can't blame him. It's right, I think, though it's provoking. What do you think, Miss Faith?"

Faith lifted her eyes, but perhaps the doctor saw in her changing cheek some token of the pain he had stirred in the morning. He prevented her reply.

"Ladies don't think about these things, my dear sir!—Aunt Ellen is so sharp she gets ahead of her sex. Let me have the honour of suggesting a pleasanter subject of meditation. I have seen to-night, aunt Ellen, the most exquisite and valuable jewelry I have ever seen in my life!"

"Here in Pattaquasset!" said his sister.

"In Pattaquasset—or perhaps in the world."

"Don't excite yourself, Sophy," said Mrs. Somers,—"let's hear what they were, first."

Faith, like everybody else, looked for the doctor's answer, though she hardly knew what she was looking at.

"A lady, aunt Ellen," the doctor went on, glancing at her,—"had made a necklace of her mother's arms,—and a cross, more precious than diamonds, of her mother's hands; and clasping this cross to her breast, adorned with this most exquisite and rare adornment, had—gone to sleep!"

"And for once," said Mrs. Somers, "you preferred the wearer to the jewels and—went into a trance! I can imagine you!"

"I? not I!"—said the doctor—"I went up stairs. But you have no idea of the effect."

Faith had been experiencing some of the scattering fire of society, which hits no one knows where and no one knows when. First the name of Phil Davids had ploughed up the ground at her right; then the question about the man who had fired the shot had ploughed up the ground at her left; and shaken first by one and then by the other she had welcomed the doctor's change of subject and now was smiling as pleased as anybody.

"I didn't suppose the trance was a long one," said Mrs. Somers, with a little raising of her eyebrows. "Faith, my dear, what have you done to that little Seacomb child? I can't get over my astonishment at his transformation."

"I am afraid there isn't much transformation yet," Faith said. "He listens very quietly and behaves well in school—but I don't know how he is at home."

"You are not a school teacher too?" said the doctor.

"It isn't a bad trade," said Faith, though her cheeks had answered for her another way.

"Not a bad trade—certainly—but one may have too many trades. Aunt Ellen—I had the honour—do you believe it? of giving Miss Derrick lessons this morning."

"I think she was very good to permit it," said Mrs. Somers composedly.

"She was very good"—said the doctor demurely. "I am afraid that is her character generally!"

He was called off by his father, and Miss Harrison seized Faith and planted her between herself and Mrs. Somers on the sofa.

"Don't mind his nonsense, Faith! Julius never can talk like anybody else. Why haven't you been here this age?"

"I've been busy, Sophy."

"Why wouldn't you go to ride with us? Julius wouldn't go after what you said. Why wouldn't you?"

"It was Sunday, Sophy."

"Well—what if it was?"

"Sunday isn't my day—I can't use it for my own work."

"But taking a little ride isn't work?"

Faith hesitated.

"Isn't it work to the horses, Sophy? And if it is only pleasure—Sunday has its own pleasures, dear Sophy,—I can't have both."

"Why can't you?"

"Because,—if I take these, God will not give me those," Faith said very gravely.

"But Faith!"—said Miss Harrison looking disturbed,—"you didn't use to be so religious?"

Faith's face flushed a little and was touchingly humble as she said, "No—I didn't."

"What's changed you so?"

"It isn't a bad change, dear Sophy!"

"I don't believe anything's bad about you," said Miss Harrison kissing her,—"but don't change too far, dear; don't forget your old friends."

"I want them to change too," said Faith looking at her winningly.

"That's right Faith, stand by your colours!" said Mrs. Somers, with a tone and manner that came quite from the other side of her character. "Sophy—your mother wouldn't know her child, to hear you ask such questions."

Miss Harrison looked troubled, and left the room. Dr. Harrison immediately took her place, and almost as immediately tea came in.

That is to say, tea and chocolate were handed round, together with a sufficient abundance and variety of delicate substantials to suit the air and the style of a country town. Judge Harrison's was the only house in Pattaquasset where tea was served in this way,—except perhaps the De Staff's; though there was this difference to be observed,—the De Staffs never had tea carried round unless when they had company; at the Harrisons' it was never carried round unless they were alone.

Dr. Harrison attended politely to his aunt, but he was eyes and hands for Faith; finding at the same time very agreeable occupation for her ears. If people could be content with being agreeable! But in the midst of cold tongue and chocolate the doctor broke out again.

"After all," said he,—"what about that piece of curious information, Miss Derrick? You know I was balked this morning and led a Will o' the wisp chase after the Idea! Is Mr. Linden in the habit of spoiling people's fun in that manner?"

Faith said simply she did not know. She did not, but in private she thought it likely enough.

"Well, about the question," said the doctor helping her to something at the same time,—"what was the truth of it, Miss Derrick? You see I am interested. Was our little informant correct?"

Now Faith had no mind, even in the dark, or about anything, to set her 'yes' against Mr. Linden's 'no.' Besides, she knew that the doctor had heard no names, and what ever might be the extent of Mr. Linden's knowledge, he knew nothing. And she was very willing to take the shelter of the shield which had been thrown round her. The deep, deep dye of her cheeks she could not help; but she answered with tolerable quietness, behind that shield,

"I hoped you had got enough of the subject this morning."

The doctor had enough of it now! He changed his ground with all speed, and for the rest of the evening Dr. Harrison shewed himself at his best.

So soon as the removal of tea things gave him a clear field, he brought out his microscope; and from that instant Faith almost forgot and forgave him everything. She forgot everything present—the Judge, Sophy, and Mrs. Somers; and came to the table so soon as the bright brass of the little machine caught her eye. The machine alone was a wonder and beauty; it seemed to Faith like an elegant little brass gun mounted on the most complicate and exquisite of gun carriages—with its multiplication of wheels and screws and pins, by which its adjustment might be regulated to a hair; with its beautiful workmanship and high finish, and its most marvellous and admirable purpose and adaptation. Dr. Harrison had never adjusted his microscope with more satisfaction, perhaps, than with those childish womanly eyes looking on; and neither he nor many other people ever performed better the subsequent office of exhibiting it. He troubled Faith now with nothing; his very manner was changed; and with kindness and sense most delicate, most thoughtful, most graceful always, gave her all he could give her.

He was a trifle surprised to find that the amount of that was not more. There was no lack indeed; he could talk and she could listen indefinitely—and did;—nevertheless he found some of his channels of communication stopped off. At the first thing he shewed her, Faith looked for an instant and then withdrawing her eye from the microscope and facing him with cheeks absolutely paled with excitement and feeling, exclaimed rapturously,

"Oh!—are those the chalk shells?"

The doctor hadn't counted upon her knowing anything of chalk shells

"Aunt Ellen—" said he, as he looked to shift or adjust something—"do you think Miss Derrick has ever lived upon anything worse than roses?"

"Upon something stronger, I fancy," said Mrs. Somers, a little surprised in her turn, but well pleased too, for Faith had come nearer her heart that evening than ever before, and the voyage of discovery was pleasant.

"I should certainly think I was in Persia!" said the doctor,—"only the bulbul knows nothing of scientific discoveries, I fancy."

But Faith was in no danger of hearing, or caring, if she had understood; she had gone back to the chalk shells, and back still further, from them, into the world of those perfections which God had made for himself. A new world, now for the first time actually seen by her, and for a moment she almost lost her standing in this. Mrs. Somers watched her, smiling and curious.

She drew back presently with a long breath, to give the other ladies a chance; but Miss Harrison had looked all she cared to look, and Mrs. Somers was not new to the thing. They took a view occasionally, one for form, the other for real interest; but for the most part Faith found the exhibition was for her and she and the doctor might have it all their own way. A long way they made of it; for the doctor found a good deal of talking to do, and Faith was most ready to hear. He talked well and gave her a great deal of what she liked, with a renewal every now and then of his first surprise; for in the midst of some elaborate explanation he was launching into for her benefit, most innocently and simply Faith would bring him up with a gentle "Yes, I know,"—not spoken with the faintest arrogance of knowledge, but merely to prevent him going into needless detail; and herself too rapt in the delight of the subject that occupied her to have any heed of the effect of her words.

"I have kept the best for the last," said the doctor, when this exhibition had lasted a much longer time than Faith was aware of;—"I thought you would like to see the circulation;—and I have sent all over town for a frog—found one at last, by great happiness."

"All over town!" said Mrs. Somers,—"do try out of town next time, and save yourself trouble."

"Have you got to kill the frog, Julius?" said Miss Harrison with a disturbed face.

"I hope not!" said the doctor gravely. "That would rather interfere with our purposes than otherwise, Sophy.—Aunt Ellen, I never learned the real extent of 'town' yet—when I was a boy it seemed to me to have no limits;—and now it seems to me to have no centre. Tell James to bring in that frog, Sophy."

Miss Harrison retreated from the frog; but the doctor assured Faith that he was in very tolerable circumstances, shut up in a little bag; and that he was only going to be requested to exhibit a small portion of the skin of his toe, and to hold himself still for that purpose; which benevolent action the doctor would help him to perform by putting him in a slight degree of confinement. The holding still was however apparently beyond the frog's benevolent powers, and it was some little time before the doctor could persuade him to it. Then Faith saw what she had never seen nor fully imagined before.

"O Sophy!—O Mrs. Somers!"—she exclaimed,—"look at this!"

She stood back with a face of delighted wonder Miss Harrison looked an instant.

"It is curious—" she said. "What are those little things, Julius?"

"You have heard of the 'circulating medium,'" said the doctor. "That is it."

Faith evidently had never heard of the 'medium' referred to. Turning to her, the doctor began a clear full account of the philosophy of what she saw going on in the frog's foot. But there she met him again.

"Yes, I know, Dr. Harrison,"—she said with the simple tone of perfect intelligence. The doctor bit his lip, while Faith stooped over the microscope and read, and read, what was to be seen there.

"Faith," whispered Sophy, "it's cruel of me—but I am afraid your mother will be anxious, and Julius will never let you know—"

"What time is it?" said Faith starting up.

"About—half an hour—after eight—" said the doctor.

"After ten, Faith."

Not another look did Faith give, but for her bonnet, and went home as fast as the doctor would walk with her.

Whether Mrs. Derrick was anxious or no, she did not say, but glad she certainly was to see Faith back.

"Well child," she said, undoing the wrappers from Faith's head and neck, "I hope you've had a grand time?"

"Yes mother, very—only I didn't mean to stay so late. I meant to be home in good time. I have seen everything, mother!"

"Everything!" said her mother,—"I guess at that rate I might say I'd been everywhere."

"Where have you been, mother? anywhere?"

"I've been out to tea!" said her mother, with the manner of one who has a remarkable secret on hand.

"You have! Where, mother?"

"Guess"—said Mrs. Derrick smiling at her. "I went up stairs to tea, Faith!—what do you think of that? What'll you expect to hear of my doing next?"

"Oh mother!" said Faith laughing,—"I am glad! That was the best thing you could have done."

"It wasn't my doing, though," said Mrs. Derrick. "But when I went up with Mr. Linden's tea, he asked me if you had gone, and I said yes, and he said since there was nobody better worth seeing down stairs he wished I'd come and drink tea with him. So I went, child, and it was real pleasant too. And I don't know how it was, but I staid there all the evening,—only I wouldn't let him talk to me, and he just went to sleep as if I hadn't been there. I think he was very tired, Faith. So then I felt very comfortable," added Mrs. Derrick smiling, "and I sat there and watched him till Reuben came a little while ago."

"Was he tired!" said Faith, the light in her face changing. "He had been talking to me all the afternoon!—Mother, half the pleasure I had to-night he gave me, for he was all the afternoon preparing me for it." She stood looking at the fire reproachfully.

"Why child," said her mother, "I suppose his arm pains him a good deal—and that tires one, you know. He didn't talk to you a bit more than he wanted to, I'll warrant. Why he even talked to me all tea-time!" said Mrs. Derrick, as if she felt quite proud in consequence.

"Well mother, we must go to bed now, for I must be up very early to finish that box."



CHAPTER XXIV.



Very early it was, when Faith's hammer was at work again on the brown moreen, and short interruption did she give herself from anything that could be spared, till the box was done. It suited her well when it was done. The cover was stuffed, old-fashioned brown binding was lapped over the edges and seams, and fastened off with rows of brass-headed nails; which made it altogether an odd, handsome, antiquated-looking piece of furniture. With this, when her morning work was done and her exercise prepared, Faith went up to Mr. Linden's room; to see it brought in and placed properly.

"I shall have to put a stop to this state of things!" he said,—"that blue ribband will work me mischief yet. Miss Faith, how can you take advantage of my disabled condition?"

"Are you better this morning, Mr. Linden?"

"The time has not quite come yet for me to be much better. But Miss Faith, if I had known that you would wake yourself up early this morning, what do you think I should have done?"

"I can't think, Mr. Linden," she said looking merry.

"I should have invited you and Mrs Derrick up here to breakfast!—which I only did not do, because I could not take the extra trouble upon myself, and because I knew you ought to sleep, till this time."

Faith shook her head a little, perhaps sorry to have missed the breakfast; then went off and brushed away the dust and chips left round the wood-box. Then came and sat down.

"I saw almost everything, last night, Mr. Linden!"

"Well before you go off to last night—will you come to-morrow morning? Now what did you see?"

The bright smile and flush and sparkle answered the invitation; and perhaps Faith thought no other answer was needed; for she gave no other.

"I know now," she said after an instant, "what you were doing all yesterday afternoon, Mr. Linden!"

"I know what you were, Miss Faith."

She smiled innocently and went on,

"All that just fitted me, as you meant it should, to take the good of the evening—and I had a great deal," she said gravely. "I saw almost everything you spoke of—and other things. I saw the chalk shells, Mr. Linden!—and the circulation in a frog's foot; and different prepared pieces of skin; and the moth's plumage! and the silver scale-armour of the Lepisma, as Dr. Harrison called it; and more."

"And with very great delight—as I knew you would. I am very glad!"

"Yes," said Faith—"I know a little better now how to understand some things you said the other day. I am very glad I went—only for one thing.—"

"What was that?"

"Dr. Harrison asked such a strange thing of me as we were walking home—at least it seems to me strange."

"May my judgment be brought to bear upon it?" Mr. Linden said after a moment's silence.

"Yes indeed," said Faith; "that was what I was going to ask. He wants me to go with him to see a woman, who is dying, he says, and miserable,—and he wants me to talk to her. He says he does not know how." And half modestly, half timidly, she added, "Is not that going out of my way?"

A quick, peculiar smile on Mr. Linden's face, was succeeded by a very deep gravity,—once or twice the lips parted, impulsively—then took their former firm set; and shading his eyes with his hand he looked into the fire in profound silence.

Very soberly, but in as absolute repose of face, Faith now and then looked at him, and meanwhile waited for his thoughts to come to an end.