"Dr. Harrison said," she remarked after a little while, "that you once told him he had but half learned his profession."

"What did you say, Miss Faith? I mean, not to that, but to the question?"

"I didn't know what to say!—I didn't want to go at all—I don't know whether that was wrong or right; but at last I said I would go. Do you think I was right, Mr. Linden?"

"Did you promise to go with him?"

"I didn't know any other way to go," said Faith. "I don't know where the woman lives, and he said I couldn't find it; and old Crab has a lame foot. Dr. Harrison asked me to go with him. I don't think I should have minded going alone."

"Neither should I mind having you," said Mr. Linden, with a look more doubtful and anxious than Faith had often seen him wear, though it was not bent upon her.

"Do you think I said wrong then, Mr. Linden? I did not like to go—but I thought perhaps I ought."

"I don't think you did wrong," was the somewhat definite answer. "I wish I had been alongside of you when the request was made."

A wish which he had not been the first to know. Faith was silent.

"You made a fair promise?" he said—"and feel bound by it?"

"I said I would go,"—she said looking at him with her fair, grave face. "If you thought it was wrong, or that I was putting myself out of my way, I would not, Mr. Linden. He asked if he might come for me at two o'clock, and I said yes."

"Miss Faith—you must not make such a promise again!"

She looked at him enquiringly, very soberly, and then her eyes went to the fire and mused there. Mr. Linden was looking at her then, though with eyes still shielded. Once indeed the hand came with a soft touch upon her hair, drawing it back where it had fallen a little; but the motion was quickly checked. She started, looked round with a little frank smile and colour, and instantly went back to her musing.

"I'm afraid I must let you go—" Mr. Linden said presently, smiling a little too, as if it were no use to be grave any longer. "I'm afraid I have no right to hinder you. If I had, I would. Some other time I will tell you part of the wherefore, but the less I say to you before you go, the better. About that,—" he added in his usual manner,—"I think we might write another exercise."

She started up, but paused.

"Mr. Linden,"—she said timidly, "Dr. Harrison said he would not be here this morning. Would you like to have me first—it would be only pleasure to me, if you are not afraid,—do what he does for you?"

He answered at first rather quick, as if he knew what sort of pleasure it was.

"O no!—I can wait,—it cannot signify very much." And then with as quick a recognition of the real pleasure it would be, after all, Mr. Linden compounded matters.

"I am afraid. Miss Faith!—I am naturally timid."

"What does that mean?" said she coming before him and looking with an inquisitive smile. "I don't know, Mr. Linden!"

"Do you expect me to explain such a humiliating confession?"

"No, certainly.—I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't keep to it, after all."

"I am a little afraid for you. What do you suppose I shall do this afternoon while you are gone?"

"I don't know—" she said, looking a little wistfully.

"I shall lie here and study that wood-box. You see I carry out my principles, Miss Faith—I have not thanked you for it."

"I don't think you'll study it very long," said Faith,—"there isn't much in it."

"Somebody has said," replied Mr. Linden, "that 'in every subject there is inexhaustible meaning,—the eye sees in it what the eye brings means of seeing.' You must not limit my power of eyesight."

"If you wouldn't limit my power of something else?"—she said with gentle persistency.

He looked up at her.

"I will not, Miss Faith—then will you please perform your kind office at once? It will be a great comfort to me, and I shall be the better able to do something for you afterwards." And the manner almost made Faith feel as if the proposition had come from her at first.

She went about it, not this first time without some trembling of heart, but with also a spirit that rose above and quite kept down that. She knew exactly and intelligently what was to be done; it was only the hands that were unwonted, and therefore she feared unskilful. But there are things that some women have by nature, and a skilful hand is one of them; and it was Faith's. Her womanly love and care were enough for all the rest; she made no mistakes, nor delays; and her soft fingers inflicted no pain that it was in the power of fingers to spare. A little longer than the doctor she was perhaps about it; not much, and not more awkward; and that is saying enough.

So soon as that was done, Faith went for her exercise, and sat down as yesterday to write it.

He too went on with the exercise; but watching her, lest relief might be wanted in another quarter. There was nothing of that, though. Quiet and very great satisfaction, was the result of the matter in Faith's mind; at least it was all she permitted to be seen; and now she gave herself happily to the connexion of her nouns and adjectives, and to watching against the 'german' or 'sophisticated' letters in her handwriting. The exercise indeed was fast taking a very compound character; so much so, that Faith might well begin to suspect there had been a two-fold reason for proposing it. But Mr. Linden had a peculiar way of teaching—especially of teaching her; and made her almost forget in the pleasure of learning, the fact that she had need to learn. And as for his memory on the subject, or his perception of how it might touch her,—they were out of sight: she might have been a little child there at his side, for the grave simplicity and frankness of his instructions. And so exercise and reading and philosophy followed on in a quiet train, and the surface of the earth revealed new wonders, and the little French book was closed at the end of a pretty chapter.

"Whenever I get about my duties again, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I shall make one very stringent rule for our future intercourse."

"What's that, Mr. Linden?" she said, with the face of quick deep pleasure she always wore when about any of her studies with him.

"From the time when I come home to dinner till I go off again, I will neither speak nor be spoken to, Miss Faith, except in French. That is, you may speak—but I shall not answer."

Faith started a little, looked puzzled, and looked terrified,—as much as she ever did; but rather closed with looking as if it was impossible.

"I should make the rule at once," said Mr. Linden smiling, "but I foresee that you would absent yourself entirely. Now when I am down stairs you will have to see me—whether you want to or not."

"But I don't know one word!" said Faith breathlessly. "I am afraid I shall not say, or hear, much, Mr. Linden."

"O you shall hear a great deal—I will take that upon myself."

Faith shook her head, gave the fire a final mending, and ran off; for it was again an hour past the mid-day. Mr. Linden's dinner came up, and was hardly removed before Dr. Harrison followed.

"Well, Linden!" he said coming jauntily in,—"I hope you haven't missed me this morning."

"Not in the least."

"I am glad of that. How do you do? I will try and put you in condition not to miss me this evening—though it is benevolent!"—added the doctor, pulling off his left glove. "It is a great secret—to make oneself missed!"

"It is a secret your gloves will hardly find out, by my fire," said Mr. Linden. "How well you look, doctor!—not a bit like Nought and All."

"No,"—said the doctor,—"I believe I disclaimed that particular sphere of existence yesterday. One had need be One and Somewhat in this wind—if one will keep a place in a wagon, or elsewhere! But fire mustn't tempt me, Linden. I'll see to you and be off, and decide what I'll be afterwards."

"You may be off without preamble."

"Do you mean to dismiss me?" exclaimed the doctor raising his eyebrows. "Have I said that you must accept my poor services?"

"Why no!" said Mr. Linden,—"doubly no! I am most happy to see you, doctor."

"The happiness will be mutual when I have the felicity of understanding you," said the doctor, settling himself in an attitude. Mr. Linden surveyed him from head to foot.

"I perceive indeed that you are One and Somewhat!" he said,—"you still need 'the four azure chains.' Do you need explanations too?"

"If you'll be so good!" said the doctor. "Or—ha! you don't mean that, do you?"

"My arm has been dressed," said Mr. Linden quietly.

"Never trust a woman!" said the doctor wheeling round. "I thought she had got enough of that yesterday. Did she do it well?"

"Excellently well."

"Your face says so as well as your tongue," said the doctor, with an odd manner of despair. "I have lost—not my occupation, for I never had any!—but I have lost my power over you; and she has got it!—I don't know how to whistle, or I suppose I could take comfort in that."

Mr. Linden did not whistle, nor laugh, nor speak,—all that could be said of him was that he lay there very quiet, with his eyes open, looking remarkably well.

"Let a woman alone for doing what she has a mind to!" the doctor went on, in his usual manner now, putting on his gloves. "I tell you what, Linden—they're the hardest creatures to manage there are;—boys are nothing to them! Well, good morning!"

"Good morning,"—said Mr. Linden. "I hope you will be able to manage the wind."

The Dr. Harrison who had been up stairs was not at all the Dr. Harrison that met Faith in the hall and escorted her to the carriage. Grave, gentle, graceful, but especially grave, for some reason or other, he was; and not the less for that agreeable, she thought. Faith was in a sober mood herself; for she was about an undertaking she did not much like; and which Mr. Linden had liked even less. Faith pondered, as they drove swiftly along, what the particular objections had been which he had not chosen to tell her; and now and then thought a little uneasily of the coming interview with the doctor's patient, with Dr. Harrison himself for auditor and spectator. She did not like it; but she had honestly done what she thought right, and Mr. Linden had said she was not wrong. And she was bound on the expedition, which she could not get rid of; so though these considerations did float over and over her mind they did not shake what was nevertheless a very happy peacefulness. Faith was glad the doctor was pretty well engaged with his horses; and let her own musings run upon the pleasant things of the morning, and of yesterday, with glances at the delightful new world of work and knowledge into which she had entered, or was entering; and happy resting down on the foundation for all joy so lately known to her. Whirled along on smooth going wheels, in that bright brisk day, little interrupted with talk, these thoughts and meditations took fair little flying passages through her head; chasing and succeeding each other, put in and put out by the lights and shadows, the hills and fields, sky and trees and wind-clouds, as the case might be, and mixing up with them all.

Dr. Harrison had come for her this time in an easy pleasant-going curricle, drawn by beautiful animals, and who felt beautifully in that gay wind. They looked so, certainly, every motion from ears to tail telling of life and the enjoyment of it.

"You are not afraid of anything, I know," said Dr. Harrison, one time when he had been obliged to hold them in with a good deal of decision;—"or I would have brought the old family trotter for you."

"What makes you think so, Dr. Harrison?"

"I have had proof of it," said he looking at her. Faith shook her head a little, and could have told him several things; but did not.

"You are not afraid of these fellows?"

She said no.

"There is no pleasure in handling what gives you no trouble;—don't you think so?"

Faith sought for illustrations of the subject in her own experience; did not find them.

"Now look at those fellows," the doctor went on. "They are fit to fly out of their skins; but a little bit of steel in their mouths—and a good rein—and a strong hand at the end of it—and they are mine, and not their own," said he, giving them a powerful check at the same time which brought them on their haunches;—"and they know it. Now isn't there some pleasure in this?"

"It is rather a man's pleasure," said Faith;—"isn't it?"

"Do you think so?" said the doctor. "Ah, you know better. Do you mean to say," he added softly, "that a woman doesn't know the pleasure of power?"

"I don't think I do," said Faith meeting his eyes with a smile. He smiled too, a different smile from what was usual with him.

The drive was long—much longer than Faith had counted upon, although they went so fast. "Down by the river"—the doctor had said; but it appeared not yet what part of the river he was aiming for. Still it was beautiful; the broken country, open and free, with the cloud shadows and the brilliant sunlight driving across it, and grey sharp rocks everywhere breaking it, and tufts and reaches of brown or sear woodland diversifying it, was not easy to weary of. Nor did Faith weary. The doctor's words had sent her off on a long journey of thought, while she travelled over all that open, sunlight and shadow, country. Starting from the words, "Behold we put bits in the horses' mouths, that they may obey us";—she had gone on to moral government and suasion; the means and the forces of both, not failing to illustrate largely here from personal experience; and on and up to the one great and strong hand that holds the reins of all, and makes even sunlight and shade, rock and hill, do his work and his bidding.

But now in all that broad picture of life and life work, appeared a little dark spot; which, small as it was, formed for the moment the vanishing point, where every line of beauty and sunlight met and ended. For with that strange recognizing of unknown things, Faith saw before her the house where the dying woman lay,—and knew it for that, before the doctor spoke. A plain, brown, unpainted house; straight and square, with no break of piazza or window blinds; tapestried on the front with frost-bitten gourd vines, the yellow and green fruit yet unscathed. The usual little gate and dooryard common to such country houses; the usual remains of autumn flowers therein; the usual want of trees. Yet by the universal law of indemnification, the house was more picturesque than painting and architecture could have made it. Neighbours it had none, for contrast; but a low woody point of land stretched off behind it, reaching out even into the Mong. And the Mong itself—with its cool sharp glitter in the stirring wind, and the swash of its blue waves at the very foot of the little paling about the house; its white-sailed craft, its white-winged sea gulls;—

"Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave.

'Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still."

Of the two that now entered that little dooryard, one felt all this and one did not. The one who had felt "the power of an endless life," perceived the narrow bounds of this,—to the one who had nothing beyond, its domain was vast. And as is often the case, the man went first and the angel followed.

The doctor stepped up to the bedside and made some general enquiries. But it did not appear that there was much he could do.

"Mrs. Custers," said he presently, "you know I promised I would bring, if I could, a lady to see you. Here she is—Miss Derrick."

Faith came to the side of the bed. Little her quiet face shewed how she was trembling. In her soft sweet way she asked the sick woman how she did. And Mrs. Custers turned her head a little, and gazed up into the blooming face with strange, eager, feverish eyes—eyes that thirsted, but with no bodily thirst. Then she closed them again and turned her face away, but said nothing.

"Have you been sick long?" asked Faith.

She did not answer, then; though as if the tones of Faith's voice were making their way, there came presently a slight quiver of the face, and a bright drop or two that the closed eyelids could not quite keep back. But she was at that point of time where the fear of man has lost its power,—where the doctor loses his supremacy and visiters their interest: where men and things are pushed like shadows into the background, and the mind can see no object save "the great white throne." This was what the silence expressed,—it was not dislike, nor churlishness; but those surface questions failed to reach her where she stood. The next gentle and tender "What is the matter?"—was so spoken that it found her even there. Her eyes came back to Faith's face with the sort of look they had given before. And then she spoke.

"Where would you be going if you were lying where I be?"

Faith heeded not the doctor then, nor anything else in the world. She waited an instant; she had drawn herself up on hearing the question; then leaning forward again she said slowly, tenderly,

"I should be going—to be happy with my divine Redeemer. Are not you?"

"What makes you think you would?"

"Because I have his word for it," said Faith. "He says that whoever believes in him shall not perish, and that every one that loves him shall be with him where he is;—I believe in him and love him with my whole heart; and I know he is true. He will not cast me away." Slowly, clearly, the words were spoken; so that they might every one enter and be received by the ears that heard.

The woman looked at her,—scanned her, examined her,—looked down towards the foot of the bed at the doctor—then back at Faith.

"Do you believe all that?" she said.

"I know it!"—said Faith, with a tiny bit of joy-speaking smile.

Again that intent look.

"Well he don't," she said with a motion towards the doctor. "Which of ye am I to believe?"

"Don't believe either of us!" said Faith quickly, her look rather brightening than otherwise, though the play of her lips took a complicate character.—"Believe God! Don't you know his words?"

"I s'pose I do—some of 'em. I can't believe anything with him down there lookin' at me!" she said impetuously. "He said he didn't believe—and I keep thinkin' of that."

"Will you believe him, rather than God?—rather than the Lord Jesus, who came and gave his very life for us, to bring us to heaven. Do you think he would tell us anything but truth after that? His words are, 'He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'"

"Well I'm most dead—" said the woman in a sort of cold, hopeless tone.

"Let Jesus make you live!" said Faith, in a voice as warm and loving.

"The doctor said he couldn't," she answered in the same tone as before. "He believes that, anyhow."

Faith answered,

"'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'"

That same little quiver passed over the face, but it changed into an irrepressible shudder.

"Sit down here on the bed," she said, looking up at Faith, "and put your face so I can't see his'n—and then you may talk."

And with that fair head for a screen, as if it really warded off some evil influence, Mrs. Custers lay and listened quietly for a while; but then her hands were clasped over her face, and she broke into a low sobbing fit—as if mind and body were pouring out their griefs together. Not loud, not hysterical; but weary, subdued, overpowering; until the utter exhaustion brought sleep.

Faith got off the bed then,—looked at her, looked at the doctor,—and then by an irrepressible feeling, sunk on her knees. Leave her, go out of the house with him, she could not, until she had put the cause of them all into the hand she knew her friend and wished theirs. A few moments' motionless hiding of her face, during which, as indeed during the whole conversation, Dr. Harrison was nearly motionless too, and used his eyes silently; and Faith rose from her knees. She gave another look at the poor weary face that lay there, and then led the way out of the house. The doctor followed her, having perhaps got more than enough of the result of his ride. But as he was unfastening his horses, or rather after he had done it and was waiting to hand her in, Faith addressed him.

"Dr. Harrison, on whose errand do you go telling that woman that God's word is not true?"

She spoke gently, yet as the doctor faced her he saw that her soft eye could be steady as an eagle's. He did not answer.

"Not for God's service," she went on answering herself,—"nor for yours. See to it!"

She turned and let him put her into the carriage and they set off again. But the drive homewards promised to be as silent as the drive out had been. The doctor was grave after another fashion now, with a further-down gravity, and scarce looked at anything but his horses; except when a glance or a hand came to see if Faith was well wrapped up from the wind, or to make her so. And either action was done not with his accustomed grace merely, but with even a more delicate tender care of her than ordinary. Faith was in little danger of cold for some time. Grief and loving sorrow were stirred and stirring too deeply for thought or feeling of anything else; only that beneath and with them her heart was singing, singing, in notes that seemed to reach her from the very harps of heaven,—

"I thank Thee, uncreated Sun, That thy bright beams on me have shined!"

As they went on, however, and mile after mile was passed over again, and the afternoon waned, the wind clouds seemed thicker and the wind more keen; Faith felt it and began to think of home The horses felt it too, and perhaps also thought of home, for they travelled well.

"What are you meditating, Miss Derrick?" the doctor said at length, almost the first word he had spoken.

"I was thinking, just at that minute, sir, of the use of beauty in the world."

"The use of beauty!" said the doctor, looking at her; he would have been astonished, if the uppermost feeling had not been of relief. "What is its use? To make the world civilized and habitable, isn't it?"

"No—" said Faith,—"I should think it was meant to make us good. Look at the horses, Dr. Harrison!"

The carriage had turned an angle of the road, which brought the wind pretty strongly in their faces. The horses seemed to take it as doubtful fun, or else to be inclined to make too much fun of it. They were all alive with spirit, rather excited than allayed by their miles of quick travelling. The doctor tried to quiet them by rein and voice both.

"They get a little too much oats for the work they do," said he. "I must take them out oftener. Take care of this wind, Miss Derrick; I haven't a hand to help you. What's that?—"

'That' was a bunch of weeds thrown into the road just before the horses' heads, from over the fence; and was just enough to give them the start which they were ready for. They set off instantly at full run. The road was good and clear; the carriage was light; the wind was inspiriting, the oats suggestive of mischief. The doctor's boasted rein and hand with all the aid of steel bits, were powerless to stop them. In vain he coaxed and called to them; their speed increased every minute; they had made up their minds to be frightened, and plunged along accordingly. The doctor spoke once or twice to Faith, encouraging or advising her; she did not speak nor stir.

They were just hearing the brow of a hill, when an unlucky boy in the road, thinking to stay their progress, stepped before them and waved his hat over his head. Faith heard an execration from the doctor, then his shout to her, "Don't stir, Miss Derrick!"—and then she hardly knew anything else. The horses plunged madly down the hill, leaped carriage and all across a fence at the bottom of it, where the road turned, overthrew themselves and landed the doctor and Faith on different sides of the carriage, in a meadow.

The doctor picked himself up again, entirely unhurt, and going round to Faith lifted her head from the ground. But she was stunned by the fall, and for a few minutes remained senseless.

In these circumstances, no house being near, the doctor naturally shouted to a cap or hat which he saw passing along the road. Which cap also it happened belonged to Sam Stoutenburgh, who was on an errand into the country for his father.

If ever Dr. Harrison was unceremoniously put aside, it was then. Sam had come rather leisurely at first—then with a sort of flying bound which cleared the fence like a thistle down, he bore down upon the doctor, and taking up Faith as easily as if she had been a kitten, absolutely ran with her to a spring which welled up through the long meadow grass a few yards off. There the doctor found him applying the cold water with both gentleness and skill, for Sam Stoutenburgh had a mother, and her fingers had been so employed about his own head many a time.

"You're a handy fellow!" said the doctor with a mixture of expressions, as he joined his efforts to Sam's.—"That will do it!"—

For Faith opened her eyes. The first word was "Mother!"—then she sat up and looked round, and then covered her face.

"Are you hurt?" said Dr. Harrison after an instant.

"No sir, I think not—I believe not."

"Can you stand up?"

With the help of his hand she could do it easily. She stood silent, supported by him, looking on the prostrate horses and shattered curricle; then turned her grave eyes on the doctor.

"Don't stand too long, Miss Faith!" said Sam earnestly, with trembling lips too, for the manhood in him had not got very far. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Sam!" said Faith giving her hand to him.—"I didn't know it was you who was helping me."

"I only wish I'd been here for you to fall upon!" said Sam, with a queer mingling of grief and pleasure. "Seems as if folks couldn't always be in just the right place."

"I am not hurt," she said with a little shudder.

"Now, how are you going to do to get home?" said the doctor looking much concerned. "Shall I—"

"I will walk home," she said interrupting him.

"You are not able! We are three miles, at least, from Mrs. Derrick's house. You could not bear it."

"I can walk three miles," she said with a faint, fair smile. "I will go home with Sam, and you can take care of the horses."

"That would be a tolerably backhanded arrangement!" said the doctor.—"Young man, will you bring these horses into town for me—after I get them on their legs—to Judge Harrison's, or anywhere?—I must take care of this lady and see her safe."

"Yes—I'll bring 'em into town," said Sam, "but Miss Faith's to be seen to first—if they don't get on their legs all night! That'll be a work of time, I take it. Miss Faith—could you walk just a little way?—there's a house there, and maybe a wagon."

"You don't understand me," said the doctor. "I asked if you would do me the favour to bring my horses into town. I will take care of the lady."

Sam considered a minute—not the doctor but things.

"Miss Faith," he said, "I can run faster than you can walk, beyond all calculation. If you'll keep warm here, I'll run till I find a wagon—for if you don't ride and tell the story some one else will,—and then there's two people will be worse hurt than you are. You'd get home quickest so." Faith was about to speak but the doctor prevented her.

"Then you refuse to take care of my horses?" he said. "I told you I would take care of the lady."

"Bother the horses!" said Sam impatiently,—"who's to think about horses with Miss Faith here frightened to death? I'm ready to drive 'em all over creation, when I get ready, Dr. Harrison!"

Faith in her turn interposed.

"I would rather walk than wait, Dr. Harrison. If Sam knows some house near by, I would rather walk so far with him than wait for him to go and come again. We could send some one to help you then. Sam, you'll help Dr. Harrison get the horses up."

So much Sam was willing to do, and the doctor with such grace as he might, accepted; that is, with no grace at all. The horses with some trouble and difficulty were raised to their feet, and found whole. The carriage was broken too much to be even drawn into town. Faith then set out with her escort.

"How far is your house, Sam?"

But Sam shook his head at that—the nearest one of any sort was a poor sort of a place, where they sometimes had a wagon standing and sometimes didn't. "But we can try, Miss Faith," he said in conclusion. Sam's arm was a strong one, and certainly if he could have induced his companion to lean her whole weight on it his satisfaction would have increased in proportion; as it was he gave her good help. And thus they had walked on, in the fading afternoon light, more than what to Faith was "just a little way," when the first house came in sight.

Fortunately the wagon was at home; and before it stood an old horse that one of the men said "he should like to see run!"—but for once such deficiency was the best recommendation. Another man set off on foot to find and help Dr. Harrison, and the owner of the slow horse gave the reins to Sam. The wagon was not on springs, and the buffalo skin was old, and the horse was slow!—beyond a question; but still it was easier than walking, and even quicker. Sam Stoutenburgh did his best to make Faith comfortable—levying upon various articles for that purpose, and drove along with a pleasure which after all can never be unmixed in this world! Even Sam felt that, for his long-drawn "Oh Miss Faith!"—said much, and carried Faith's thoughts (she hardly knew why) to more than one person at home.

"Sam," said Faith, "I don't want to say anything about this to-night."

"Well, ma'am—I won't say a word, if I can help it. Do you mean to anybody, Miss Faith?"

"Not to anybody. I mean, not to any one at home."

"I won't if I can help it," Sam repeated. "But it's my night to stay with Mr. Linden."

"Is it?—Well—what if it is?"

"I don't know—" said Sam dubiously,—"he has a funny way of reading people's faces."

"But what is going to be in yours, Sam?"

"I don't know that, neither," said Sam. "But the fact is, Miss Faith, he always does find out things—and if it's anything he's got to do with you may just as good tell him at once as to fuss round."

A pretty significant piece of information! Upon which Faith mused.

It was not so late when they reached Mrs. Derrick's door, that the good lady's anxiety had got fairly under way. At that moment indeed, she had quitted the front of the house, and gone to hurry Cindy and the teakettle; so that Faith was in the house and her escort dismissed, before Mrs. Derrick appeared.

"Why pretty child!" she said—"here you are! I was very near getting worried. And I went up and asked Mr. Linden what time it was, lest the clock shouldn't be right; but he seemed to think it wasn't worth while to fret about you yet. You're tired to death!" she added, looking at Faith. "You're as pale as anything, child!"

"Yes mother—I'm very tired."

And very glad to get home, she would have said, but her lips failed it.

"Well do sit down, child," said her mother, "and I'll take your things up stairs. Tea's all ready—that'll do you good, and then you shall go right to bed."

But that did not seem what Faith was ready to do; instead of that, she preferred to sit down by her mother, and wrap her arms round her again and lay her head in her mother's lap. Even then she did not sleep, though she was by no means inclined to talk and answered Mrs. Derrick's fond or anxious words with very few in return, low and quiet, or with quiet caresses. And when her mother was silent, to let her sleep, Faith was silent too.

They had sat so motionless for awhile, when Faith changed her posture. She got up, sat down on a chair by her mother's side, laid her head in her neck and wrapped arms round her in turn.

"Mother—" she said most caressingly,—"when will you begin to follow Christ with me?—I want that, I want that!"—



CHAPTER XXV.



While Dr. Harrison was sleeping off the effects of his exertions, mental and physical, of the preceding day; and his horses in their stable realized that the reaping of wild oats has its own fatigues; Mrs. Derrick was stirring about with even unwonted activity, preparing for that unwonted breakfast up stairs. An anxious look or two at Faith's sleeping face had assured her mother that the fatigue there had been nothing very serious; and Mrs. Derrick went down with a glad heart to her preparations. There Faith joined her after awhile, and as breakfast time approached, Mrs. Derrick suggested that Faith should go up and see that the table was all right, and receive the breakfast which she herself would send up. Cindy was already there, passing back and forth, and the door stood open to facilitate her operations.

If Faith had felt curious as to the success of Sam Stoutenburgh's efforts at concealment, her curiosity was at once relieved. The room as she saw it through the half-open door was bright with firelight and sunshine; the spoons and cups on the little table shone cheerily in the glow; and all things were in their accustomed pretty order and disorder. But the couch was empty, and Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, leaning one arm there, his face bent down and covered with his hand.

Faith had no need to knock—the door being open and Cindy in full possession; but as her light step came near the fire he turned suddenly and held out his hand to her without a word. Then gently pushing her back to the corner of the couch, Mr. Linden bade her "sit down and be quiet—" and he himself took a chair at her side. She could hardly tell how he looked—the face was so different from any she had ever seen him wear.

For a minute she obeyed orders; then she said, though with an eye that avoided meeting his,

"I mustn't be quiet, Mr. Linden—I must see to the breakfast table."

If his first motion was to hinder that, he thought better of it, and suffered her to go and give her finishing touches; watching her all the time, as she felt, but without speaking; and when Cindy shut the door and tramped down stairs, the room was very still. Only the light crackling of the hickory sticks in the chimney, and those soft movements about the table. If ever such movements were made with pleasure—if ever a face of very deep peacefulness hovered over the placing and displacing of knives and forks, plates and salt-cellars,—it was then. Yet it was not a very abstracted face, nor looked as if the outward quiet might be absolutely immovable. The last touch put to the table, Faith glanced at the hickory sticks on the fire; but they wanted nothing; and then her look came round to Mr. Linden, and the smile which could no longer be kept back, came too; a smile of touching acknowledgment.

"Miss Faith, will you come and sit down?"

She came, silently.

One deep breath she did hear, as Mr. Linden arranged the cushions and with gentle force made her lean against them, but either he did not feel himself able to touch directly what they were both thinking of—or else thought her not able to bear it. His tone was very quiet, the rest of his hand upon her hair hardly longer than it had been yesterday, as he said,

"What will my scholar be fit for to-day?—anything but sleep?"

For a moment it was a little more than she could bear, and her face for that moment was entirely grave; then she smiled up at him and answered in a tone lighter than his had been,

"Fit for anything—and more fit than ever, Mr. Linden. I only rest here because you put me here."

The next remark diverged a little, and was given with darkening eyes.

"How DARED he take you with those young horses!"

"He thought he could do just what he pleased with them—" said Faith, shaking her head a little.

"And with you—" was in Mr. Linden's mind, but it came not forth. "Where is your mother?—does she know?"

"Mother's coming," said Faith raising herself from the cushions,—"as soon as she sends up the breakfast. She doesn't know yet. I told Sam not to tell you, Mr. Linden.

"How do you do to-day?"

She answered him with a bright fair glance and in a tone as sweet as happiness could make it,

"Very well!"

Mr. Linden's eyes went from her to the opening door and the entering dishes.

"Sara was not in fault, Miss Faith,—I heard you come home."

In the train of the dishes came Mrs. Derrick, and looked with a little amaze at Mr. Linden off the couch and Faith upon it. But if the first didn't hurt him, she knew the second wouldn't hurt Faith, with whose appearance her mother was not yet quite satisfied. And when they were all at the table, Mrs. Derrick might wonder at those words of very earnest thanksgiving that they were all brought together again, but they needed no explanation to any one else. In all her life Faith had never known just such a breakfast. That sweet sense of being safe—of being shielded,—of breathing an atmosphere where no evil, mental, moral, or physical, could reach her,—how precious it was!—after those hours of fear and sorrow. If her two companions had visibly joined hands around her, she could not have felt the real fact more strongly. And another hand was nearer and more precious still to her apprehension; even the one that made theirs strong and had brought her within them. Faith's face was a fair picture, for all this was there. But Faith's words were few.

How many Mr. Linden's would have been, of choice, cannot be known; for Mrs. Derrick's mind was so intent upon the last night's expedition, so eager to know how the poor woman was, and what she said, and where she lived; and how Faith enjoyed the drive, and what made her get so tired,—that he had full occupation in warding oil the questions and turning them another way. In compliance with her wishes he had taken his usual place on the couch, and there made himself useful both with word and hand; the particular use of breakfast to him, was not so apparent.

It was over not a bit too soon; for Cindy had not finished the work of removing it before she brought up word that the doctor was come and wanted to see Mis' Derrick. Faith judged the enquiry was meant for herself and ran down stairs accordingly. The doctor was satisfied that she was none the worse of her ride with him, but had brought a very serious face to the examination.

"Have you forgiven me, Miss Derrick?"

"I have nothing to forgive, sir!" Faith told him with a look that gave sweet assurance of it.—"I am not hurt. I am very glad I went."

"May I say," said the doctor, and he looked as if he was uneasy till he had said it,—"that you misjudged me yesterday from that woman's words. I did not choose to interrupt her—and the severity of your remarks to me," he said with a little smile which did not want feeling, "took from me at the moment the power to justify myself. But Miss Derrick, I have not done what you seemed to suppose—and fairly enough, for she gave you to understand it. I never set myself to overthrow her belief in anything. I have hardly held any conversation with her, except what related to her physical condition; if I have said anything it has been a word intended to quiet her. I saw her mind was very much disturbed."

Faith had looked very grave, with eyes cast down, during the hearing of this speech. She raised them then, at the end, and said with great gentleness,

"There is but one way to give quiet that will stand, Dr. Harrison."

"I am sure you are right," he said looking at her with an unwonted face, nearer to reverence than Dr. Harrison was often known to give to anything "I hope you will go and see that poor creature again and undo any mischief my careless words may have done."

"Won't you undo them yourself, Dr. Harrison?"

"I will endorse yours, so well as I can!" he said. "But won't you see her again?"

"If I can,—I will try to go."

"May I see Mr. Linden?" was the next question in a lighter tone; and receiving permission the doctor moved himself up stairs. He entered Mr. Linden's room with a quiet, composed air, very different from the jaunty manner of yesterday; and applied himself with business quiet to Mr. Linden's state and wants. And the reception he met was not one to set him a talking. It was not tinged with the various feelings which the thought of him had stirred in Mr. Linden's mind that night and morning,—if they lived still it was in the background. The grasp of his hand was firmer than usual, the tone more earnest, which said, "I am very glad to see you!"—and yet the doctor felt that in them both there was more—and also less—than mere personal feeling.

He had nearly finished the arrangements of Mr. Linden's arm when he remarked, "Did you hear the result of our expedition yesterday?"

A grave 'yes,' answered him.

"You see," said the doctor, "I couldn't manage the wind!"

But to that there was no reply.

"It was just that," said the doctor. "Those horses had been taking whiskey, I believe, instead of oats; and the wind just made them mad. They ran for pure love of running!—till a little villain threw up his hat at them—and then indeed it was which could catch the clouds first."

If the doctor wanted help in his account, he got none. He drew back and took a survey.

"What's the matter, Linden?—you look more severe at me this morning than Miss Derrick does;—and I am sure she has the most reason."

"I have a prudent fit come over me once in a while," said Mr. Linden goodhumouredly, but with a little restless change of position. "I'm afraid if I talk much upon this subject I shall get out of patience—and I couldn't lay all the blame of that upon you."

"What blame—do you pretend—to lay upon me, as it is?" said the doctor not illhumouredly.

"There'll be no pretence about it—when I lay it on," said Mr. Linden.

"Enact Macduff—and lay on!" said the doctor smiling.

"Let it suffice you that I could if I would."

"The shadows of strokes suffice me!" said the doctor. "Am I a man of straw? Do you take me for Sir Andrew Aguecheck? 'horribly valiant' after his fashion. What have I done, man?" He stood, carelessly handsome an handsomely careless, before the couch, looking down upon Mr. Linden as if resolved to have something out of him.

A part of the description applied well to the face he was looking at—yet after a different fashion; and anything less careless than the look Mr. Linden bent upon him, could not be imagined. It was a look wherein again different feelings held each other in check,—the grave reproof, the sorrowful perception, the quick indignation—Dr. Harrison might detect them all; and yet more, the wistful desire that he were a different man. This it was that answered.

"What have you done, doctor?—you have very nearly given yourself full proof of those true things which you profess to disbelieve."

"How do you know that I disbelieve anything?" said the doctor, with a darkening yet an acute look;—"much more that I profess to disbelieve?"

"How do I know whether a ship carries a red or a blue light at her masthead?"

"You don't, if she carries no light at all; and I do not remember that I ever professed myself in your hearing on either side of the 'things' I suppose you mean."

"What do you say of a ship that carries no light at all?"

"Must a ship always hang out her signals, man?"

"Ay—" said Mr. Linden,—"else she may run down the weaker craft, or be run down by the stronger."

"Suppose she don't know, in good truth, what light belongs to her?"

"It is safe to find out."

"Who has told you, Linden, that I believed or disbelieved anything?"

"Yourself."

"May I ask, if any other testimony has aided your judgment, or come in aid of it?"

"No," said Mr. Linden, looking at him with a grave, considering eye. "I am not much in the habit of discussing such points with third parties."

The doctor bit his lip; and then smiled.

"You're a good fellow, Linden. But you see, I can afford to say that now. I have you at advantage. As long as you lie there, and I am your attending physician—which latter I assure you I look upon as a piece of my good fortune—you can't, knock me down, if you feel disposed. I am safe, and can afford to be generous. As to the lights," said the doctor taking up his hat, "I agree to what you say—and that's more of a concession than I ever made on the subject before. But in the atmosphere I have lived in, I do assure you I have not been able to tell the blue lights from the red!"

"I believe you," said Mr. Linden,—"nor was it altogether the fault of the atmosphere. Even where the colour is right, the glass is sometimes dim. What then?"

"What then? why the inference is plain. If one can not be distinguished from the other, one is as good as the other!"

"And both shine with a steady clear light upon the heavenward way?"

"There's no question of shining," said the doctor half scornfully, half impatiently. "If they shew colour at all, it is on a way that is murky enough, heaven knows!"

"Then what have they to do with the question?" said Mr. Linden,—"you are applying rules of action which you would laugh at in any other case. Does the multitude of quacks disgust you with the science of medicine?—does the dim burning of a dozen poor candles hinder your lighting a good one? You have nothing to do with other people's lights,—let your own shine!"

Dr. Harrison stood looking at his adviser a minute, with a smile that was both pleased and acute.

"Linden"—said he,—"it strikes me that you are out of your vocation."

"When I heard that account last night,"—Mr. Linden went on—and he paused, as if the recollection were painful,—"the second thing I thought of was your own words, that heaven is not in 'your line.'"

"Well?—" said the doctor swinging his hat and beginning to pace up and down the room, and speaking as if at once confessing and justifying the charge laid to him,—"Now and then, I believe, a bodily angel comes down to the earth and leaves her wings behind her—but that's not humanity, Linden!"

"True servant of God, is as fair a name as angel," said Mr. Linden; "and that is what humanity may be and often is. 'Though crowns are wanting, and bright pinions folded.'"

"I don't know—" said the doctor. "I shouldn't have wondered any minute yesterday to see the pinions unfold before me." Which remark was received in silence.

"If such an angel were to take hold of me," the doctor went on meditatively,—"I believe she might make me and carry me whither she would. But I wonder if I shall be forbid the house now!"—He stopped and looked at Mr. Linden with a face of comic enquiry.

"You may come and see me," said Mr. Linden, with comforting assurance.

"Do you think I may?" said the doctor. He sat down and threw his hat on the floor.—"What shall I do with Mrs. Derrick? She will want to send me off in a balloon, on some air journey that will never land me on earth!—or find some other vanishing medium most prompt and irrevocable—all as a penalty for my having ventured to leap a fence in company with her daughter!"

But the prudent fit had perhaps come back upon Mr. Linden, for except a sudden illumination of eye and face, the doctor's speech called forth no opinion.

"The best driver on earth can't be a centaur, man! Horses in these days will have heads of their own." But then the doctor rose up and came gracefully and gravely again to take his friend and patient's hand.

"I agree to all you say!" said he, looking down with a goodhumoured wilful expression to Mr. Linden's face;—"and I know no other man to whom I would own as much, after such words and such silence as you have bestowed on me. Good-bye. But really, remember, a man is not answerable for all his horses—or all his wits—may do."

The doctor went; and then there was an interval of some length. Faith had found several things to do in her down stairs department, which she would not leave to her mother; especially after the shock Mrs. Derrick's mind and heart had received from the communication of what had happened the day before. So it was a little later than usual when the light tap was heard at Mr. Linden's door and Faith and a cup of cocoa came in. She set the cup down, and then went out again for a dish of grapes and pears—Judge Harrison's and Farmer David's sending—which she brought to the table.

"I didn't know which you would like best, Mr. Linden;—so I brought both."

"I should like to be waiting on you," he said,—"Miss Faith, you ought not to be waiting on me. I shall bestir myself and come down stairs."

There was expression in the kind of happy silence that answered him, as she offered the cocoa.

"I don't know where to begin to talk to you this morning," said Mr. Linden,—"everything demands the first place. Miss Faith, when you feel that you can, will you tell me all about yesterday? I wish I could give you this couch again, but I suppose in prudence I ought to lie still."

She saw him served with what he would have; then sat down, and a shadow of sweet gravity came over her.

"The ride out was all very pleasant. There wasn't much talk, and I could just enjoy everything. It's a long way, Mr. Linden," she said glancing at him—she spoke generally with her eyes bent somewhere else;—"it must be ten or twelve miles, for we went very fast; and it was beautiful, with the wind and the driving clouds and shadows. So I enjoyed all that part, and wasn't afraid of the horses, or not much afraid—though they went very fast and I saw they felt very gay. I liked the going fast and I thought the doctor could manage them." She paused.

"Are you sure you want to talk of this now?" Mr. Linden said. "You know we have other things to do—this can wait till you choose."

"I like to tell it," she said with another quick glance and a quick breath,—"but the visit comes next—and I don't know how to tell you of that. Mr. Linden, I wish you could see that woman!—And if you can't soon, I must,—somehow."

"If I can't—or if I can, I will find you the 'somehow,' if you want to go. And if you will let me," he added. "Is she really dying?"

"She says so—" Faith said low. And was silent a bit.

"Then we set out to come home, and all went very well till we were half way on the road; but then the horses seemed to grow more frisky than ever—I think the wind excited them; and Dr. Harrison had his hands full, I could see, to hold them in, especially after we turned Lamprey's corner and the wind was in their faces. I think it was something suddenly flung over the fence, that started them off to run—and then they ran faster and faster, and reins and bits were of no use at all."

Faith was excited herself, and spoke slowly and low and with hindered breath.

"I saw they were getting more and more furious,—and there were a few minutes, Mr. Linden, when I thought I should maybe never see home again.—And then I thanked you in my heart."

"Me?" he said with quick emphasis, and looking at her.

Faith did not look at him, but after a pause went on very quietly.

"I mean, on earth I thanked you. The end of it was, they took a new fright at something, I believe, just at the top of a hill; and after that it was all a whirl. I hardly knew anything—till I found myself lying on the ground in the meadow. The horses had jumped the carriage and all clean over the fence. The fence was just below the foot of the hill; the road took a turn there.—Sam told you the rest—didn't he, Mr. Linden?"

He said "yes," and not another word, but lay there still with those closely shielded eyes; and lips unbent from their usual repose, with grave humbleness and grief and joy. The silence lasted till Faith spoke again. And that was some little space of time. A shade graver and lower her tone was when she spoke.

"I shall never forget after this, that it is 'part of a Christian's sailing-orders to speak every vessel he meets.'—I think I shall never forget it again."

Mr. Linden did look then at the little craft that had begun her voyage so undauntedly under the Christian colours, though what he thought of her he said not; apparently his own words were not yet ready, though he spoke.

"'Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.'"

Faith spoke no more. She sat in the absolutest quiet, of face and figure both; looking into the fire that played in the chimney, with a fixedness that perhaps told—in the beginning—of some doubtfulness of self command. But the happy look of the face was in nowise changed.

A knock at the door was the first interruption, a knock so low down that the latch seemed quite too high to match it; but by some exercise of skill this was lifted, and Johnny Fax presented himself. He looked very wide awake, and smiling, and demure, as was his wont, though to-day the smiles were in the ascendant; owing perhaps to the weest of all wee baskets which he held in his hand. Coming close up to Mr. Linden, and giving him the privileged caress, Johnny stood there within his arm and smiled benignly upon Faith, as if he considered her quite part and parcel of the same concern. Who smiled back upon him, and enquired "where he had come from?"

Johnny said "From home, ma'am," and looked down at his tiny basket as if it were a weight on his mind that he did not know how to get rid of.

"Johnny," said Mr. Linden, "what have you got in that basket?"

"You couldn't guess!" said Johnny with a very bright face.

"I couldn't guess!" said Mr. Linden. "Don't you suppose I can do anything?"

"Yes—" said Johnny shaking his head,—"but you can't do that."

"Then I shall not try," said Mr. Linden, "and you'll have to tell me."

Johnny put his face close down by Mr. Linden, and whispered, but not so low that Faith could not hear—

"It's two white eggs that my black hen laid for you, sir!"

"Well I never should have guessed that!"—said Mr. Linden smiling. "I didn't suppose there was a hen in the world that cared so much for me. I don't believe she would if she was not your hen, Johnny."—Which last sentence Johnny understood just well enough to feel delighted; and stood with a glad little face while his teacher opened the basket, and taking up first one egg and then the other, commented upon their size and whiteness.

"As soon as I can get out I shall come and see that hen," said Mr. Linden, drawing the child closer and giving him another kiss—which Johnny thought was worth a whole basket of eggs;—"so you must tell her to have her feathers in good order. Now what have you to say to Miss Faith?"

"O she talks to me," said Johnny.

"Does she?" said Mr. Linden,—"is that the division of labour? What does she talk about, Johnny?—let me see how well you remember." It was said with a little acknowledging look that he was asking that to which somebody would demur—but also with a wilful assumption that somebody would come to no harm. So though Faith flushed and started, she sat back in her seat again without making any word interposition. Johnny stood and thought—for he was a real little literalist.

"She talked about heaven—" he said slowly,—"and how to get there,—and said she was going—and we must too. That's what she said Sunday. And at Judge Harrison's she said she was glad I'd got a red ribband—and down to Neanticut she told me to run away."

"I'm sure that was a gentle way of dismissing you," said Mr. Linden, stroking the child's forehead. "Well Johnny—are you trying to follow her in that way to heaven she told you of?"

The "yes" was given without hesitation, and came with strangely sweet effect from those childish lips. Then after a minute Johnny added, as if he feared some misunderstanding,

"It's the same way you told me, sir."

"Yes, I trust you will see me there too," Mr. Linden said, with a rather moved look at the little face before him.

What made Faith, at those last words of Johnny's, jump up and spring to the fire? And after a most elaborate handling of the sticks of wood, she did not come back to her seat, but stood still with her back turned to the couch and the little witness who was testifying there. He was not called upon for any more evidence, however. Mr. Linden talked—or let him talk—about various important things in Johnny's daily life and experience and gave a promise that he himself would be at school as soon as the doctor gave his permission.

Mrs. Derrick's soft knock and entrance came now, she herself looking in good truth as if a "tear-storm" had passed over her. But she brightened up a little at the sight of Faith.

"Pretty child!" she said, coming up to her, "and so you're here? I couldn't rest any longer without seeing just where you were."

Faith put one hand on her shoulder as she stood, and then clasped the other upon that.

"Pretty child!" her mother repeated, in a tone that spoke more of pain than pleasure—and Faith could feel the shudder that passed over her then. But she controlled herself. "Do you know it's dinner time, Faith? How is Mr. Linden?"

"There he is," said Faith smiling. "I don't know, mother."

"He don't look to me as if he had ever been asleep," said Mrs. Derrick,—but whether that shewed want of sleep, or the reverse, was, as Mr. Linden remarked, quite doubtful.

Mrs. Derrick looked at him, met his smile—then her whole heart answered to something it said.

"Oh Mr. Linden! think of her being in such danger!" and there was a minute of deep silence.

"Nay!" he answered softly—and the face was beautiful in its changing expression,—"think of her being so safe!"

Mrs. Derrick could bear neither word nor look after that. The two ladies went down together, leaving Johnny to dine with his teacher.



CHAPTER XXVI.



The dinner up stairs was a very quiet and uninterrupted one. The dinner down stairs was destined not to be so.

The first break was the entrance of Cindy with a bunch of flowers—which the doctor had sent to Miss Derrick, with the desire to know how she was. Faith received the flowers with a dubious face and put them in water on the dinner-table, where they looked splendid. Mrs. Derrick could hardly see their splendour.

"He needn't think to come round me that way," she said. "Child! I wouldn't let you go off with him again for twenty kingdoms!"

"Not with those horses, mother."

"Nor with any others. I sha'n't ever want to have you go with anybody again, Faith."

"What's goin' on here?" said a growling voice which they knew, before Mr. Simlins entered the door of the dining room. "That gal o' yourn wants me to stay politely in the parlour yonder—but I ain't polite—and I come to see you, not your doors and windows nor the pretty paper on your walls. What are you all about, Mrs. Derrick? I hear the very spirit of turbidness has got into this house!"

"There's not much spirit in me to-day," said Mrs. Derrick, "nor spirits neither. I've lost what little I had. Anybody could knock me down with a straw. Sit down, Mr. Simlins, and take some dinner."

"I'm afeard, if it's done so easy, I might occasionally do it with one o' them posies," said Mr. Simlins standing and surveying the bouquet as if he didn't know what to make of it. "Do you eat the grass of the field at your noon-spell?"

"You may ask Faith," said Mrs. Derrick; "she put 'em there."

"Sit down, Mr. Simlins," said Faith.

"I ain't goin' to sit down! I've eat my dinner. I've just come in, Mrs. Derrick, to see if you're all overturned, or if there's anything left straight yet."

"It's all straight," said Faith smiling up at him. "Sit down, Mr. Simlins."

"What's the truth of it, Mrs. Derrick? This child ain't all straight, is she?"

It followed that, bit by bit, Mr. Simlins got out the story of the accident, for neither Faith nor Mrs. Derrick was forward to speak about it. He then enquired, with an unsatisfied grunt, why Faith was "postin' round with Dr. Harrison?" Whereat Mrs. Derrick felt justly indignant.

"Why she ain't! Mr. Simlins. She went down there on business, and there was nobody else at hand to take her just then."

"What do you call bein' at hand?" said Mr. Simlins. "I've got two hands, and more'n two horses—that won't run away neither. It's only my cows do that!—Where's Mr. Linden?"

"O he's up stairs—" said Mrs. Derrick. "He's not been down yet. Faith, don't you think he's some stronger to-day?"

"And so," said Mr. Simlins turning to her again reproachfully,—"while he's lyin' up there and can't stir, you go drivin' over the country with 'tother one!"

But that brought out Faith's round low laugh, so incontrovertibly merry and musical that it changed Mr. Simlins' face on the instant. It came to an end almost as soon, but short as it was it was better than the warble of any nightingale; inasmuch as the music of a good sound human heart is worth all the birds in creation.

"When's Mr. Linden going to be down stairs, where a body can get sight of him?"

"The doctor says he mustn't go out for a long time yet," said Mrs. Derrick. "When are you going to find the man that shot him?—that's what I want to know."

"When I get a composition from the only witness," Mr Simlins answered. "And as the witness ain't particular about testifying, I'm afeard it'll be a spell o' time yet. It'll come out. I should think the fellow'd ha' made tracks, fust thing; but I 'aint heerd of any one's bein' missin' from town,—except—"

Mr. Simlins suddenly started, stopped, and gazed at Faith with a most extraordinary expression.

"Did you look at my flowers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith quite quietly, though without meeting his eye.

"I've seen nosegays afore," growled Mr. Simlins in a very uninterested manner. "I don't see as this is no more nor less than a nosegay. Do you s'pose I might go up and see somebody up stairs for two minutes, without creating any confusion?"

Mr. Simlins went up and shortly afterwards went away. But if Faith anticipated a good long lesson that afternoon, to make up for the morning and afternoon in which she had had none—albeit the morning had been better than lessons—she was to be disappointed. Hardly was the dinner over, and the muffins mixed which she was determined should make amends for Mr. Linden's poor breakfast, when Miss Harrison came; full of sorrow, and sympathy, and hope.

"Faith don't look a bit the worse, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Derrick.

"She couldn't look anyway but just so," her mother said with a fond glance.

"Why she could look pale, but I don't see that she does even that;—unless, perhaps, just such a tingy paleness as is rather becoming than otherwise. Dear Mrs. Derrick, I hope you have forgiven Julius?"

It was a sorrowful smile that met her words, and eyes that grew dim and looked away.

"I suppose I could forgive the whole world—since he didn't do any more harm," Mrs. Derrick said with her wonted gentleness. "But I wouldn't see her go with him again, Miss Sophy—if that's what you call forgiveness."

"Why not? Dear Mrs. Derrick!"—

"Why not?"—said the good lady—"why Faith's used to being taken care of, Miss Sophy—and I'm used to seeing it."

"My dear Mrs. Derrick!"—Miss Harrison exclaimed out of breath,—"do you think she was not taken care of? Julius knows his horses, and he is a capital hand with them; he says himself he thinks he should have brought them to, if that little wretch of a boy hadn't thrown op his nat before their eyes. No horses would stand that, you know. And the best man in the world, and the best driver, can't be certain of his horses, Mrs. Derrick. Not take care of her!—"

"I don't mean to say that he didn't mean to!" said Mrs Derrick quietly, "but I don't think he knows how. You needn't look so, Miss Sophy—I'm not saying a word against your brother. But Faith's only part of the world to him—and she's the whole of it to me. He should have taken horses he was sure of," said Mrs. Derrick with a little flush on her cheek.

"I don't know," said Miss Harrison softly, and looking at Faith,—"I don't know just what part of the world she is to him—but I think, and am very sure, he would have thrown himself oat rather than her. Can anybody do more? Can any man do more, Mrs. Derrick?" she said smiling. "I know you are her mother; and though I am not her mother, I think of her just as you do."

"I can't say what any man can do," said Mrs. Derrick pleasantly,—"I havent tried many. And you can't tell how I feel, Miss Sophy it isn't cross, if it sounds so. How long has Dr. Harrison had those horses?"

"Why, not very long," said Miss Harrison,—"he hasn't been home long himself. But he's a good judge of horses," she said, a little less sure of her ground than in the former part of the conversation. Perhaps she was not sorry to have it interrupted.

"My dear Mrs. Derrick!" said Mr. Somers entering,—"I have come to congratulate you! Miss Harrison, I see, is before me in this pleasant—a—office. Miss Faith!—I am glad to see you looking so well after your overthrow." Mr. Somers went round shaking hands as he spoke.—"Mrs. Somers will be here presently to join me—she stopped a few minutes by the way. Mrs. Somers always has more business on hand than I can—a—keep up with. Mrs. Derrick, I have rejoiced with you, indeed, ma'am."

Somers had managed to keep up with her business and him too, for she came in before Mr. Somers had well taken the measure of his chair. She walked up to Faith and kissed her, with a sort of glad energy, gave her a comprehensive glance from head to foot, and then turned to Mrs. Derrick with,

"There's nothing amiss with her, after all.—Sophy, what excuses have you brought in your bag?—it seems to be full."

"I wish you'd make some for Julius, aunt Ellen—I can see Mrs. Derrick has only half forgiven him."

"Has she got so far as that?" said Mrs. Somers.

"I don't know. Faith, you might come and say something—you know if it isn't true; and Mrs. Derrick will hear you."

Faith was busy giving Mrs. Somers a chair, and certainly looked as if she had nobody to forgive anything in the wide world.

"What do you want me to say, Sophy?"

"Why, that Julius wasn't to blame."

"I find it is still a disputed point, whether a man has a right to break his own neck," said Mrs. Somers. "I think he hasn't, myself, but most people don't agree with me. Mr. Somers thinks people may run away alone or together, just as they've a mind. I don't know whether it's the fees or the freedom that takes his fancy."

"I suppose, my dear," said Mr. Somers, "a man may lawfully set out to take a ride without intending to break his own neck, or anybody else's; and find it done at the end, without blame to himself. I never was, I hope, a promoter of—ha!—flighty marriages—to which you seem to allude."

"If he finds it done at the end, it isn't done very thoroughly," said Mrs. Somers. "But Pattaquasset's growing up into a novel—last week furnished with a hero, and this week with a heroine,—the course of things can't run smooth now. So we may all look out for breakers—of horses, I hope, among other things."

"Oh aunt Ellen!"—was Miss Harrison's not gratified comment on this speech.

"I hope Mrs. Somers don't mean that we are to look out for breakers of hearts, among the other things," said Mr. Somers.

"Look out for them? to be sure!" said Miss Harrison;—"always and everywhere. What would the world be without them?"

"The world would not be heart-broken," said Mrs. Somers. "Faith—which of you came to first? who picked you up?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Somers. Sam Stoutenburgh was passing just at the time and Dr. Harrison called him. I don't know who picked me up."

"Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mrs. Somers,—"well, he's made, if nobody else is! He'll bless Julius for the rest of his life for giving him such a chance. Do you know how that boy watches you, Faith?—I mean to speak to Mr. Linden about it the very first time I see him."

Something in this speech called forth Faith's colour. She had spoken Sam's name herself with the simplest unchanging face; but now the flushes came and came abundantly.

"I don't know what good that would do, Mrs. Somers."

"Nor I—till I try," said the lady smiling at her. "But if the mere suggestion is so powerful, what may not the reality do? I'll say one thing for Mr. Linden—he makes all those boys come into church and get seated before the service begins—which nobody else ever did yet; if they ever tried. I was curious to see how it would be last Sunday when he wasn't there—but they were more punctual than ever. It's quite a comfort—if there's anything I do hate to see, it's a troop of men and boys outside the door when they ought to be in. What are you afraid he'll say to Sam, Faith?"

Faith's eyes were looking down. The question brought them up, and then her smile was as frank as her blushes had been. "I am not afraid he'll say anything, Mrs. Somers."

"I don't know why he should, my dear," said Mr. Somers. "We all like to use our eyes—you can't very well blame a boy."

"O Mr. Somers!" said his wife—with that air which a woman puts on when she says she believes, what she wouldn't for the world say if she believed,—"of course you think that! Don't I know how you broke your heart after a green veil when you were in college? I don't think it's been right whole since. Now I have some feeling for Sam—or his future wife."

"Well Mrs. Derrick, what shall I tell Julius?" said Miss Harrison as she rose to go.

"Tell him?" said Mrs. Derrick enquiringly. "He wouldn't care to hear anything about me, if you did tell him, Miss Sophy."

"Well!—he'll have to come and talk to you himself," said Miss Harrison. "Faith, stand up for the right."

Faith went to the door with her and returned ushering in a new-comer, even the wife of Farmer Davids.

"Husband wanted me to come and see how Mr. Linden was," she said in meek explanation of her appearance. "He would have come hisself, but he was forced to be in the field, and he said he wisht I'd come myself. How is he, ma'am?"

"I hope he's better,"—said Mrs. Derrick, giving her new visiter a kind reception and a seat. "He don't get strong very fast. How are you all at home, Mrs. Davids?"

"We're considerable comfortable, ma'am," said Mrs. Davids taking the chair in an unobtrusive spirit. "I am happy to have the occasion to make your acquaintance better. Husband would have come hisself, only he couldn't. Mr. Linden don't get strong?"

"Not very fast," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know just when the doctor 'll let him go to school again. I suppose you're anxious about Phil, Mrs. Davids. But all the boys have to be out, now."

"Yes ma'am, we're anxious—and husband is anxious about Mr. Linden, and he sent me to know. But there is such a change in Phil, ma'am,"—she said turning to Mrs. Somers,—"such a change, you wouldn't believe! he never would go to school before—not regular—not for nobody—not for his father, nor for me; and it was mor'n my life was worth. My husband, he said it was my fault; but I don't know how 'twas! And now sir, he don't want a word spoke to him! he's off before it's time in the morning—and he learns too, for I catch him at it; and my husband don't think anything in the world is too good for Mr. Linden; nor of course, I s'pose, I don't. But however he's managed or overcome it, to make Phil draw in harness, I don't know, and husband says he don't. And ma'am, was those pears good? or what does Mr. Linden like? If it's on the farm he'll get it."

It would have taken more conversational skill than Mrs. Derrick possessed, to give a summary answer to all this; but her simplicity answered as well, after all.

"I guess he'll like what you've been saying better than anything, Mrs. Davids; I'll tell him."

"Do," said Mrs. Davids. "I wisht you would. Husband would have said it completer. He thinks ma'am," (turning to Mrs. Somers again) "that Mr. Linden is a wonderful man! And I'm of the opinion he's handsome."

Faith had been sitting, quiet and demure, for some time past, hearing what was going on; but this last sentence drove her to the right about like lightning. She found something to do in another part of the room.

"Did you ever hear anybody say he wasn't?" said Mrs. Somers. "Mr. Somers, it's time we were going. Ah—there's Squire Stoutenburgh! Faith—come here!"

And Squire Stoutenburgh, appearing in the doorway like the worthy father of his stout son, bowed to the company.

"Well Mrs. Derrick—" he said,—"good day Mr. Somers—and Mrs. Somers! I beg pardon—Well Miss Faith! I'm glad it is well, I'm sure. My dear, how do you do?"

"Why very well, sir!" said Faith.

"Why so it is!" said Squire Stoutenburgh taking hold of both her hands and looking at her. "Sam said you were as pale as a ghost when he carried you down to the spring—but Sam don't always see straight when he's excited. You needn't be frightened if I kiss you, my dear you know I always do, and always have—since you were a year old," said the Squire as he took his wonted privilege.

Faith gravely submitted, not letting the Squire however get any further than her cheek; which ought to have contented him.

"Sam was very good to me yesterday, sir," she answered.

"I think, Squire," said Mr. Somers, "your son was—a—in luck, as we say. A fortunate chance! What most people would have thought no—a—disagreeable office."

"Sam's a good boy—" said his father,—"a very good boy—always was. He does crow a little over Dr. Harrison, I must say. But what shall we do with the doctor, Mr. Somers?—what does he deserve for running away with our Pattaquasset roses and turning them into meadow lilies? Yes, yes, Miss Faith—you may look as pink as you please now—it won't help the matter. What shall we do with him, sir? My dear," said Squire Stoutenburgh seating Faith by his side and dropping his voice, "you're growing wonderfully like your father!"

A changed, sweet glance of Faith's eyes answered him.

"Yes!"—the Squire repeated meditatively and looking at her.—"Ah he was a fine man! I used to think he couldn't be better—but I s'pose he is now. My dear, you needn't wonder when I tell you that I thought more of your mother last night than I did of you. But you don't remember all about that. Well—I shall go home and tell Mrs. Stoutenburgh that you're as pretty as a posie, and then she won't care what else is the matter," he said, getting up again. "Mrs. Somers, I see the parson durstn't say a word about Dr. Harrison before you."

"I—I declare I don't think Dr. Harrison is very much to be blamed, Squire," said the parson thus called upon. "And Mrs. Somers is so well able to speak for herself—I have no doubt, Squire Stoutenburgh, if it wasn't for Mrs. Somers,—I dare say I might like to do as much as the doctor did, myself!"

"Bless my life!" said Squire Stoutenburgh, "I can't stay to be a party to confidences of that sort!—I must go!—" and he departed, laughing and followed by the two others.

But even as they went, Faith, who with her mother had accompanied them to the door, was electrified somewhat doubtfully at the vision of Miss Deacon just within the gate. Miss Cecilia came forward, also with some doubt upon her spirit, to judge by her air. But Faith's greeting of her was so pleasant and kind, though she could not prevent its being grave, that the young lady evidently took heart. Being reassured, she sat and talked at leisure, and at length, using her eyes as well as her tongue; thus making herself mistress of all the truth she could get at, and of some more. She was thorough in her investigations as to all the drama of the last seven days, and all and each of the actors therein; and at the close of her visit declared that "Sam had been a great fool to go away, and that she had told him so before"; and departed at last with her head full of Dr Harrison.

But detentions were not over. Miss Bezac came before Miss Deacon was quit of the parlour; and before Miss Bezac had been two minutes there, other members of the Pattaquasset community came pouring in. Everybody must see Faith, hear particulars, discuss realities and possibilities of the accident, and know how Mr. Linden was getting along. The hours of the afternoon waned away; but people came as people went; and it was not till long shadows and slant sunbeams began to give note of supper time, that the influx lessened and the friends gathered in Mrs. Derrick's parlour began to drop away without others stepping in to take their place.

"Faith," said her mother when they were at last alone, "I can't bear this any longer! I shall go crazy if I hear that story one other time to-night!" And she put her arms round Faith, and leaned her head wearily on her shoulder. "I'll sit up to tea," she went on presently, "and then if the rest of the town comes, you'll have to see 'em—for I can't!"

Faith gently put her into a chair and holding her in her arms stooped over her. "Mother"—the words were as soft as the kisses which came between,—"you mustn't mind it so much. Sit up to tea! Why I have made some of the best muffins that ever were seen."

"Child!" said her mother in a low voice, "I felt this morning as if I had been as near death as you had!"—and if the words needed any emphasis, they had it in the way Mrs. Derrick leaned her head against Faith and was silent. But not for long. She got up, and kissing Faith two or three times, said, "My pretty child!" in a tone that indeed told of possible heartbreak; and then half holding her, half held by her, drew her on into the tea-room.



CHAPTER XXVII.



It so happened that the first griddleful of muffins did not do credit to their raising—(or to their bringing up, elegant reader!)—therefore Mr. Linden's teatray waited for the second. Of course the other tea waited too. Mrs. Derrick walked out into the kitchen to see what was the matter with the griddle; Faith discovered that one spoon on the tray looked dull, and went to the spoonbasket to change it. Thus occupied, and giving little reprehensive glances at the spoons generally, and mental admonitions to Cindy, with the open closet door half screening her from the rest of the room, she was startled—not by the opening of another door, but by these words,—

"Miss Faith, shall I carry this tray upstairs?"

To this day it is uncertain what sort of a spoon Faith brought back!—or indeed whether she brought any at all. There was one flash of gladness in her cheek and her eye, with the exclamation, "Mr. Linden!"—then she came from the closet just her old little self.

"Are you well enough to be down stairs, sir?"

"In whose estimation, ma'am?"

"Because if you are, Mr. Linden," she said with a face of laughing pleasure, "won't you please come into the other room?"

"I think not," he said, laughing a little too,—if the exertion of coming down had made him pale, the pleasure partly concealed it. "I will take a chair here, if you please. Am I alone, of all Pattaquasset, to be forbidden to pay my respects to you to-night? Miss Faith, how do you do?"

"I am very well. But Mr. Linden, if you will please come into the other room, there is an easy chair there. Please do! this room is cold, for the fire got down while we were seeing people."

She led the way as she spoke, without waiting for another denial; pushed the table and a great chair of state, or of ease, in the sitting-room, into closer neighbourhood; and renewed the brilliancy of the fire. Then lit up the lamp and cleared books away from the table; all done with quick alacrity.

"That will do almost as well as the couch, won't it?" she said; and then repeated in gentler tones her question, "Are you well enough to be down, Mr. Linden?"

"I don't know, Miss Faith!—I am well enough to want to be down. How can you let the charms of society divert your mind from your books for a whole afternoon? Have you been so studious for the last few days only because you had nothing else to do?"

She laughed at the question, and went off, leaving Mr. Linden in a region of comfort. More comfort came soon in the shape of the teatray, borne by Cindy; then Mrs. Derrick; and lastly Faith herself appeared—bearing a plate of the muffins, perfect this time, and delicate as they had need to be for a delicate appetite. Mr. Linden was presently served with one of these and a cup of smoking tea; and Faith thought, and her look half said it, that being down stairs would do him no harm. Certainly the surprise and pleasure of such company to tea did Mrs. Derrick good, whoever else missed it; though it is presumable no one did. The pleasant sighing of the wind round the house and in the chimney (it sighed alone for that evening) the sparkling of the fire, the singing of the maple or hickory sticks, the comfortable atmosphere of tea and muffins diffused, like the firelight, all through the room; gave as fair an assemblage of creature comforts as need be wished; and the atmosphere of talk was as bright, and savoury, and glowing too, in its way; though the way was quiet. Mr. Linden amused himself (and Faith) by giving her little lessons in the way she would have to talk in those French "noonspells" she had in prospect: making Mrs. Derrick laugh with the queer sounding words and sentences, and keeping Faith interested to that point, that if he had not attended to her tea as well, she would scarce have got any.

"I shall not be hard upon you at first," he said smiling,—"when I see you sitting in silent despair because you want something at my end of the table, I will help you out with a 'que voulez-vous, mademoiselle?' and perhaps with a 'voulez-vous?' this or that. But after a week or two, Miss Faith, if you go without any dinner, it will not move me in the least."

Faith looked as if she would gladly forego her dinner to escape the French asking for it, and yet not quite so neither. But this ordeal was more terrible to her by far than all the rest; she could face them, indeed, they had ceased to be anything but pleasure—or pleasure with a spice that enhanced it; but at this she trembled. To the above speech—or threat,—she simply answered,

"I shall be so glad to see you come home to tea, Mr. Linden!"

"And so glad to see me go away from dinner!"

"I didn't say that."

"You will—" said Mr. Linden,—"I can imagine you falling back in your chair and exclaiming, 'Ah, quand voulez-vous partir, monsieur!'—which of course will make it extremely difficult for me to remain a moment longer."

"I don't think you can imagine me doing it," said Faith laughing. "I can't imagine myself."

"That proves nothing. Only don't ever say to me, 'Monsieur! partez a l'instant!'—because—"

"Because what, Mr. Linden?" said Faith seriously.

"Because we might disagree upon that point," he said with rather a demure arch of his eyebrows. Faith's full silver rang out, softly.

"You see!" she said. "It's beginning already. I don't know in the least what you are talking about!"

"No—you do not," was the laughing reply. "But Miss Faith, if I am kept at home long enough, and society keeps at home too, instead of coming between us and our exercises, those conversations will seem less terrible by the time they begin. I should certainly get you a pocket dictionary, but I prefer to be that myself. How far can you ride on horseback at once?"

"On horseback?" said Faith, much as if those words had been also French, or an algebraical puzzle.

"That was what I said."

"I know that was what you said—I didn't know what you meant, Mr. Linden. I have never been really on horseback but a few times in my life—then I rode a few miles—I don't know exactly how many."

"I wonder people don't do it more"—said Mrs. Derrick. "When I was a girl that was the common way of getting about; and nobody ever got thrown, neither."

"Wouldn't that be the pleasantest way of getting to Mattabeeset?" said Mr. Linden.

An illumination answered him first; then "Oh, yes!"

"I want you to see what is to be seen over there," he said,—"shall we go some day, if I get well enough before cold weather?"

Faith's quiet words of agreeing to this proposal were declared to be a sham by her eyes, cheeks, lips and brow, every one of which was giving testimony after a different fashion.

At this moment the door opened. It happened that Dr. Harrison had encountered Cindy at the hall door, where she was either loitering to catch snatches of indoor conversation, or waiting to entrap Jem Waters. But there she was, and being asked for Mr. Linden replied that he was down stairs, and without more ceremony ushered the doctor in; and entering the whole view lay before him in its freshness. Mrs. Derrick, complacent and comfortable, sat behind the no-longer-wanted tea-tray, listening and playing with a spoon. Faith's face, though considering her unfinished muffin, was brilliant with rosy pleasure; while the fire which she had for some time forgotten to mend, lay in a state of powerful inaction, a mass of living coals and smoking brands. In the glow of that stood the easy chair, and therein Mr. Linden, although with the air and attitude of one wanting both rest and strength, was considering with rather unbent lips no less a subject than—One and Somewhat!—further the doctor's eyes could not read. The precise direction of those other eyes was shaded. The doctor came up and stood beside them.

"Did I order you to stay up stairs?" he said in soft, measured syllables, without having spoken to anybody else.

"Good evening, doctor!" said Mr. Linden offering his hand. "As I meet you half way, please excuse me for keeping my seat."

From that hand, the doctor passed to Faith's; which was taken and held, just enough to say all he wished to say; which, be it remarked in passing, was a good deal.

"May I approach Mrs. Derrick?" said he then, turning round to Mr. Linden with a cool, funny, careless, yet good-humoured, doubt upon his face.

"What is the present state of your nerves?"

"Depending upon your answer, of course!—which the ordinary rules of society forbid me to wait for. Madam!—are you in sufficient charity with me to give me a cup of tea?"

"Yes, doctor—if the tea's good enough," said Mrs. Derrick with her usual quietness. "And if it isn't I'll have some more." So saying she got up and went towards the kitchen to call Cindy. The doctor skilfully intercepted this movement, placing himself in her way.

"May I ask, where you are going?" he said with a sort of gentle kindliness he did not always put on.

"Why to get some tea that's fit to give you, doctor. I don't think this is."

"Will you give me something else?"

"I'll give you that first," said Mrs. Derrick—"I'll see about the rest." And passing out into the kitchen she gave her orders about the teapot, and a quiet little injunction to Faith to go in and sit down.

"Mother, you're tired," said Faith. "Let me see about the tea!"

"I guess I will!" said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm not going to have the house stand up on one end just because Dr. Harrison wants his tea. You go off, pretty child,—if you stay here he'll think you're baking muffins for him, and I don't choose he should."

"Why I would do it, mother," said Faith. She went off, however, into the other room and sat down gravely, quite the other side of the fireplace from the tea-table. Dr. Harrison was standing on the rug with his back to the fire, and followed her with his eye.

"How do you do?" he said in a softened voice, stepping a step nearer to her. She looked up and gave him a frank and kind "very well!"

Was it altogether professional, the way in which he took up her hand and held it an instant?

"Cool, and quiet," he said. "It's all right. I didn't frighten you out of your wits yesterday?"

The "no, sir," was in a different tone.

"Do you suppose," he said, "that your mother will ever bear the sight of me again?"

"Why I hope so, sir," said Faith smiling.

"I don't know!" he said. "I wonder if I have been so much more wicked than I knew of? I don't think I have. I couldn't have punished myself any more."

Mrs. Derrick came in, followed by teapot and muffins, and having with her usual politeness requested the doctor to take a seat at the table, she proceeded to pour him out a cup of tea, nor even stinted him in sugar.

"If I stay at home according to your orders," said Mr. Linden, "I shall have all the trustees after me."

"You aren't just the person they ought to be after," said the doctor. "Mrs. Derrick, I don't know why we never have anything at our house so good as this." The doctor was discussing a buttered muffin with satisfaction that was evidently unfeigned.

Mrs. Derrick knew why—but she wouldn't tell him, though exulting in her own knowledge. A low knock at the parlour door announced Reuben Taylor.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Derrick—" he said,—"but I went"—

"I am here, Reuben," said Mr. Linden.

The boy stayed not for more compliments then, but passing the ladies and the doctor with a collective bow, and "good evening, Miss Faith," went round with a quick step and a glad face to Mr. Linden. And kneeling down by him, with one hand on his shoulder, gave him the post despatches, and asked and answered questions not very loud but very earnestly. That was a phasis of Reuben Dr. Harrison had not seen before. He took good and broad note of it, though nothing interrupted the doctor's muffin—or muffins, for they were plural. Neither did he interrupt anything that was going on.

"Are you better, sir? are you really well enough to be down stairs?"—Dr. Harrison would hardly have known the voice. And the answering tone was of the gentlest and kindest, though the words failed to reach the doctor's ears. Some directions, or commissions, apparently, Mr. Linden gave for a few minutes, and then Reuben rose to his feet with a long breath that spoke a mind very much relieved. He paused for a moment on his way out, opposite Faith, as if he wanted a word in that quarter; but perhaps the doctor's presence forbade, for all the congratulation that Reuben gave her was in his face and bow. That did not satisfy Faith if it did him. She jumped up and gave him her hand, almost affectionately.

"You see I am safe and well, Reuben."

"I am so thankful, Miss Faith!" And the words said not half.

The doctor had finished his muffins and was standing before the fire again. "Have you found out yet, my man," he said in a somewhat amused voice,—"whose friend you are?"

The words jarred—and the colour on Reuben's face was of a different tint from that which had answered Faith. It was with his usual reserved manner, though nothing could be more civil, that he said, "No sir—no more than I knew before." But the respect was from Reuben as a boy to Dr. Harrison as a man. Faith's eye glanced from one to the other, and then she said, "What do you mean, Dr. Harrison?"

"Only a play of words," said the doctor lightly. "This young fellow is very cautious of making professions—as I have found."

"He has no need, sir," said Faith. She quitted as she spoke, the boy's hand which she had held until then, and came back to her seat. The words were spoken quietly enough and with as gentle a face, and yet with somewhat in the manner of both that met and fully answered all the bearing of the doctor's.

"You need not wait, Reuben," said his teacher—"I shall see you again by and by."

"Who is that?" said the doctor as Reuben went out.

"One of my body-guard," said Mr. Linden, with lips not yet at rest from their amused look.

"Are you waited upon by a Fehm-gericht? or may the members be known by the uninitiated?"

"I beg pardon!" said Mr. Linden,—"but as you seemed to know him, and as you really did know his name a week ago—That is Reuben Taylor, Dr. Harrison."

"So do I beg pardon! His name I do know, of course—as I have had occasion; but the essence of my enquiry remains in its integrity. Him I do not know. Where and to whom does he belong?"

"He is one of those of whom we spoke this morning," said Mr. Linden. "True servant of God is his title—to Him does Reuben belong. His home here is a little hut on the outskirts of Pattaquasset, his father a poor fisherman."

There was a minute's silence, all round.

"May I ask for a little enlightening, Miss Derrick?" said the doctor. "What do you mean, if you will be so good as to let me know,—by a person who 'does not need' to make professions."

Faith hesitated.

"Will you please say first, Dr. Harrison, just what you mean by 'professions?'" she said somewhat timidly.

"I shall shelter myself under your meaning," said he looking at her. "Fact is, I am not good at definitions—I don't half the time know what I'm saying myself."

Faith cast an involuntary glance for help towards Mr. Linden; but getting none she came back to the doctor and the question, blushing a good deal.

"I think," she said, "professions are telling people what you wish them to believe of you."

The doctor looked comical, also threw a glance in the direction of Mr. Linden, but put his next question seriously.

"Why do you say this Reuben Taylor does not need to make professions? according to this definition."

"Because those who know him know what he is, without them."

"But do you mean that there is no use in making professions? How are you to know what a man is?"

"Unless he tells you?" said Faith smiling.

The doctor stood, half smiling; evidently revolving more thoughts than of one kind. With a face from which every shadow was banished he suddenly took a seat by Mrs. Derrick.

"Do you know," he said with gentle pleasantness of manner and expression, "how much better man I should be if I should come here and get only one definition a day from your little daughter?"

"What one has she given you now?" said Mrs. Derrick, whose mind evidently stood in abeyance upon this speech.

"One you didn't hear, ma'am. It was a definition of me, to myself. It isn't the first," said the doctor gravely. "Mrs. Derrick, are you friends with me?"

"As much as I ever was," said Mrs. Derrick, smilingly. "I always thought you wanted putting in order."

"How did you know that?"

"Why, because you were out of order," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting away. The doctor uttered the lowest of whistles and looked down at his boot.

"It's because of that unlucky dog!" he muttered. "Linden—" (glancing up from under his eyebrows) "when I was a boy, I set my dog on Miss Faith's cat."

"Felt yourself called upon to uphold natural antipathies—"

"Miss Faith, have you a cat now?" said the doctor looking over to her.

"No, sir."

"And I have no dog!" said the doctor. "I have only horses. If I could manage to do without animals altogether,—Mrs. Derrick, have you forgiven me?" This last was in a changed tone.

"I don't want to talk about it, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick very soberly.

"About forgiving me?" he said as soberly.

"And I don't mean to."

"Nor I," said the doctor quietly; "but you are going to inflict more punishment on me than I deserve."

"What am I going to do?" said Mrs. Derrick. "If you know, I don't."

"Refuse to give me your hand, perhaps."

"I never did that to anybody, yet," she said pleasantly.

"Then you must let me do as we do in another country."

He bent his face to her hand as he spoke, and kissed it. There was no mockery in the action. Done by some people it would have been ridiculous. By Dr. Harrison, in the circumstances, it was in the highest degree graceful. It spoke sympathy, penitence, respect, manly confession, and submission, too simply not to be what it certainly was in some measure, a true expression of feeling. Mrs. Derrick on her part looked amused,—her old recollections of the boy constantly tinged her impressions of the man; and perhaps not without reason.

"You're as like yourself as ever you can be, doctor!" she said, smiling at him. "How you used to try to get round me!"

"I don't remember!" said the doctor. "I am sure I never succeeded, Mrs. Derrick?"

"I'm afraid you did, sometimes," she said, shaking her head. He smiled a little, and turned the other way.

"Linden, I've been considering the German question."

"Will it please you to state the result?"

"This!" said the doctor. "I have come to the conclusion,—that in order to be One and Somewhat, it is necessary to begin by being Nought and All—Thus ranging myself in security on both sides of a great abyss of metaphysics. What do you think? Unphilosophical?"

"Unsafe—" said Mr. Linden. "And impossible."

"Humph?"—said the doctor. "Nothing is impossible in metaphysics—because you may be on both sides of an abyss, and in the bottom of it!—at once—and without knowing where you are. The angel that rode Milton's sunbeam, you know, was no time at all going from heaven to earth; and I suppose he went the other way as quick."