"I don't see the abyss in that case," said Mr. Linden,—"but

——'Uriel to his charge Returned on that bright beam'—

so probably he did."

"Yes"—said the doctor.—"And my meaning skipped the abyss,—also on a sunbeam. It referred to the unsubstantial means of travelling in use among metaphysicians."

"And among angels."

"That reminds me," said the doctor. And quitting his stand on the rug, which he had taken again, he went over to Faith and sat down by her.

"Is the Nightingale flourishing on her rose-bush to-day?"

"What, sir?" said Faith, her eyes opening at him a little.

"I beg pardon!" said the doctor. "I have been living in a part of the world, Miss Derrick, where it is the fashion to call things not by their right names. I have got a foolish habit of it. Do you feel quite recovered?"

"Quite. I'm a little tired to-night, perhaps."

"I see you are, and I'll not detain you. Mrs. Custers wants to see you again." He had dropped all banter, and was speaking to her quietly, respectfully, kindly, as he should speak; in a lowered tone, but not so low as to be unheard by others than her.

"I will try to see her again soon—I will try to go very soon," she answered.

"Would you be afraid to go with my father's old stand-bys?—they are safe!"—

"I cannot do that, Dr. Harrison—but I will try to see her soon."

"Can you go without riding?"

"No," she said smiling; "but I must find some other way."

"I won't press that point," said the doctor. "I can't blame you. I must bear that. But—I want for my own sake to have the honour of a little talk with you—I want to explain to you one or two things. Shall you be at leisure to-morrow afternoon?"

"I am hardly at leisure any time, Dr. Harrison. I do not suppose I shall be particularly busy then."

"Then will you take that time for a walk?"

Faith hesitated. "I have very little time, sir."

"But you take time to go out?"

"Not much."

"I will not ask much. A little will do; and so much you owe to skyey influences. You will not refuse me that?"

"I will go, Dr. Harrison," Faith answered after an instant a little soberly. He rose up then; proposed to attend upon Mr. Linden, and they went up stairs together.



CHAPTER XXVIII.



Faith was half ready to wish the next day might be rainy; but it rose fair and bright. She must go to walk, probably; and visiters might come. The only thing to be done was to despatch her ordinary duties as quick as possible, prepare her French exercise, and go to her teacher early. Which she did.

She came in with a face as bright as the day, although a little less ready to look in everybody's eyes. There were enough things ready for her. Lessons were pressed rather more steadily than usual, perhaps because they had been neglected a little for the last two days—or hindered; and it was not till one book and another had done its work, till the exercise was copied and various figure puzzles disposed of, that Mr. Linden told her he thought a talking exercise ought to come next,—if she had one ready he should like to have the benefit of it.

"You are tired, Mr. Linden!" said Faith quickly.

"You may begin by giving me the grounds of that conclusion."

"I don't know," she said half laughing,—"I don't see it; but that don't make me know. I was afraid you were tired with this work."

"Very unsafe, Miss Faith, to build up such a superstructure upon grounds that you neither see nor know. I was immediately beginning to question the style of my own explanations this morning."

"Why, sir?"

"If I seem tired, said explanations may have seemed—tiresome."

She looked silently, with a smile, as if questioning the possibility of his thinking so; and her answer did not go to that point.

"You didn't seem tired, Mr. Linden—I had no reason for thinking so, I suppose. I was only afraid. I was going to ask you what Dr. Harrison meant last night by the angel riding upon a sunbeam? I saw you knew what he meant."

Mr. Linden got up and went for a book—then came back to his couch again.

"Precisely what Dr. Harrison meant, Miss Faith, I should not like to say. What he referred to, was a part of Paradise Lost, where the angels set to guard the earth have a messenger.

'Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star.'"

"Who is Uriel? an angel?"

"Yes. He is called,

'The archangel Uriel, one of the seven Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, Stand ready at his command, and are his eyes. That run through all the heavens, or down to the earth, Bear his swift errands over moist and dry, O'er sea and land.'"

Faith listened, evidently with a pleased ear.

"But I suppose the angel could come as well without the sunbeam as with it?"

"I suppose so!" he said smiling. "In my belief, angels go where the sunbeams do not. But Milton chose to name Uriel as the special regent of the sun, and so passing to and fro on its rays."

"What do you mean by 'regent,' Mr. Linden?"

"A regent is one appointed to rule in place of the king."

"But that don't seem to me true, Mr. Linden," said Faith after a little meditation.

"What, and why?"

Faith blushed at finding herself 'in for it,' but went on.

"I don't suppose the sun wants anybody to rule it or to take care of it, under its Maker?"

"Yet it may please him to have guardian spirits there as well as here,—about that we know not. In the Revelation, you know, an angel is spoken of as 'standing in the sun,' and from that Milton took his idea. Part of the description is very beautiful, at least;—

'So spake the false dissembler unperceived; For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone, By his permissive will, through heaven and earth. And oft though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill, Where no ill seems: which now for once beguiled Uriel, though regent of the sun, and held The sharpest sighted spirit of all in heaven.'"

"Who is the person spoken of in the first line, Mr. Linden?"

"Satan—applying to Uriel for guidance to the new created earth and its inhabitants, on the same plea that Herod presented to the wise men."

"But that's a story?" said Faith.

"Yes. The Bible only tells the work done by him after he got here."

"Mr. Linden, will you read that over once more for me."

She listened with a face of absorbed intentness while it was read; then looked away from the book with an unconscious but very audible sigh.

"Well?" Mr. Linden said, smiling as he looked at her.

"I like it very much!" was Faith's answer.

"Is that what made you sigh?"

"Sigh!" she said starting a little and colouring. "No,—I didn't mean to sigh."

"The fact is more than the intention. Whence came that?"

"It was only—Please don't ask me, Mr. Linden. I can't tell you."

He made no answer to that, but turning over the leaves read to her here and there without much comment,—then asked her if she was tired of hearing about angels.

"I think I should never be tired!" said Faith. "But you must be, Mr. Linden. Please," she said putting her hand gently on the book,—"don't read for me any more. Is all the book like that?"

"Not quite all—I have given you some bits that I particularly like, but there is much more. You need not be uneasy about my being tired," he said smiling; "if I were, by your own shewing I can have rest. However, Miss Faith—lessons being the order of the day—will you read French to me?"

In her reading, Faith came to the description of the philosopher's perplexity in finding that the birds would not pick up the crumbs he threw to them on the roof as usual. He concluded the feathered things were not more reason able than mankind, and had taken fright for nothing.



"J'allais fermer ma fenetre sur cette reflexion, quand j'apercois tout a coup, dans l'espace lumineux qui s'etend a droite, l'ombre de deux oreilles qui se dressent, puis une griffe qui s'avance, puis la tete d'un chat tigre qui se montre a l'angle de la gouttiere. Le drole etait la en embuscade, esperant que les aniettes lui ameneraient du gibier.

"Et moi qui accusais la couardise de mes hotes! J'etais sur qu'aucun danger ne les menacait! je croyais avoir bien regarde partout! je n'avais oublie que le coin derriere moi!

"Dans la vie comme sur les toits, que de malheurs arrivent pour avoir oublie un seul coin!"



Faith closed the book then, very much amused with the philosopher's "chat tigre."

"But often one can't see round the corner," she remarked.

A little gesture of lips and brow, half asserted that if one could not, one could: but Mr. Linden only said,

"Most true! Miss Faith. Nevertheless, the knowledge that there are corners is not to be despised."

"I don't know. I shouldn't like to live always in fear of seeing the shadow of a cat's ears come in."

"Have you quite outgrown the love of cats?" said Mr. Linden smiling.

"No, but I was talking of the fear of corners," she said with an answering smile. "I don't think I want to remember the corners, Mr. Linden."

"I don't think I want you should. Philosophers and birds, you know, go through the world on different principles."

She laughed a little at that, gave the hearth a parting brush, and went off to dinner.

Business claimed its place after dinner, business of a less pleasant kind, quite up to the time when Faith must put on her bonnet to walk with Dr. Harrison.

Faith had no great mind to the walk, but she couldn't help finding it pleasant. The open air was very sweet and bracing; the exercise was inspiriting, and the threatened talk went well with both. There was nothing whatever formidable about it; the words and thoughts seemed to play, like the sunlight, on anything that came in their way. Dr. Harrison knew how to make a walk or a talk pleasant, even to Faith, it seemed. Whatever she had at any time seen in him that she did not like, was out of sight; pleasant, gentle, intelligent, grave, he was constantly supplying ear and mind with words and things that were worth the having. Probably he had discovered her eager thirst for knowledge; for he furnished her daintily with bits of many a kind, from his own stores which were large. She did not know there was any design in this; she knew only that the steps were taken very easily in that walk. So pleasant it was that Faith was in no haste to turn, in no mood to quicken her pace. But something else was on her mind,—and must come out.

"Dr. Harrison,"—she said when they were in a quiet part of the way, with nobody near, "may I speak to you about something?—that perhaps you won't like?"

"You can speak of nothing I should not like—to hear," he said with gentle assurance.

"Dr. Harrison—" said Faith, speaking as if the recollection touched her,—"when you and I were thrown out in that meadow the other day and came so near losing our lives—if the almost had been quite, if we had both been killed,—I should have been safe and well, I believe.—How would it have been with you?"

Dr. Harrison looked at her.

"If I had gone in your company," he said, "I think it would hardly have been ill with me."

"Do you know so little as that?"—she said, in such a tone of sorrow and pity as might have suited one of the 'ministering spirits' she had been likened to.

"I don't think I am as good as you are," the doctor said with a face not unmoved.

"Good!" said Faith. "What do you mean by goodness, Dr. Harrison?"

"I shall have the worst of it if I try to go into definitions again," he said smiling. "I think you will find what I mean, in consulting your own thoughts."

"Goodness?" said Faith again. "Do you remember the silver scale-armour of that Lepisma, Dr. Harrison? That is perfection. That is what God means by goodness—not the outside things that every eye, or your own, can see;—but when the far-down, far-back thoughts and imaginations of your heart will bear such looking at and be found faultless! Less than that, God will not take from you, if you are going to heaven by your own goodness."

He looked at her. They had changed sides; and as fearless now as he, she was the speaker, and he had little to say.

"I don't know much about these things, Miss Faith," he answered soberly.

"I don't know much, Dr. Harrison," she said humbly. "But think what you were near the other day."

"I don't know!"—said he, as if making a clean breast of it. She paused.

"Dr. Harrison, will a wise man leave such a matter in uncertainty?"

"I am not wise," said he. "I am ignorant—in this."

"You know you need not remain so."

"That is not so certain! I have seen so much—of what you have seen so little, my dear Miss Derrick, that you can scarce understand how light the weight of most people's testimony is to me."

"But there is the testimony of one higher," said Faith. "There is God's own word?"

"I don't know it."

"Won't you know it, sir?"

"I will do anything you ask me in that voice," he said smiling at her. "But after all one reads people and people's professions, miss Faith;—and they make the first impression."

"I dare say it is often not true," said Faith sadly.

"You are true," said he; "and you may say to me what you will, on this subject or any other, and I will believe it."

They walked a little distance in silence.

"What are you thinking of?" said the doctor in a very gentle accent of inquiry.

"I am sorry—very sorry for you, Dr. Harrison."

"Why?" said he taking her hand.

"Because it seems to me you are not caring in earnest about this matter."

He kissed the hand, without asking permission. But it was done with a grateful warm expression of feeling.

"I will do whatever you tell me to do!" he said.

How Faith wished she could send him to another adviser! But that she could not.

"Tell me," he repeated. "I will do it." The look and tone were earnest, moved, and warm; she had hardly seen the like in Dr. Harrison before.

"Then, Dr. Harrison, I wish you would read the Bible, with the determination to do what you find there you ought."

"I will," he said smiling. "And if I get into difficulty you must help me."

The rest of the way was extremely pleasant, after that; only it seemed to Faith that they met all the world! First there was Cecilia Deacon, whose eyes took good note, she thought, of both the walkers from head to foot. Then they met at intervals every one of Faith's Sunday school scholars; for every one of whom she had a glad greeting and word which she must stop for, somewhat to the doctor's amused edification. Miss Bezac happened, of all people, to be going up street when they were going down; and her eyes looked rather with some wistful gravity upon the pair, for all her pleasant nods to both. Then Mrs. Somers.

"Well I think you are Faith!"—was her brisk remark,—"or faithless—which is it? Julius, I heard a remarkable story about you yesterday."

"Aunt Ellen—I like to hear remarkable stories. Especially about anything remarkable."

"Well this isn't one of that sort," said Mrs. Somers.

"I am sure you said—However, let's have it, of any sort."

"I heard you had your pocket picked of a good opportunity," said Mrs. Somers. "Does Mr. Linden expect to be out next week, Faith?"

"I believe Dr. Harrison will not let him, Mrs. Somers."

A little unverbalized sound answered that, and Mrs. Somers said good evening and walked on. Faith thought that was the end, as they were near her own door. But Dr. Harrison followed her in; and entering the sitting-room, Faith found that her meetings were not over. There was no less a person than Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and there also, regaling her eyes and ears, were Mrs. Derrick and Mr. Linden.

Mrs. Stoutenburgh was a fair, pretty, curly-haired woman, a good deal younger than the Squire, intensely devoted to her own family, and very partial to Mr. Linden—whom she had taken under her wing (figuratively) from his first coming to Pattaquasset. The first sound Faith heard as she opened the door was Mrs. Stoutenburgh's merry laugh at some remark of his—then the lady jumped up and came towards her.

"My dear Faith, how do you do?—Dr. Harrison—I half said I would never speak to you again! Faith, how can you trust yourself with him for one minute?"

"Mrs. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor,—"I half thought I would shoot myself!"

"I guess that's as near as you'll come to it, on purpose," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "You needn't think I shall forget it—whenever I want Faith to come and see me I shall tell Mr. Linden to bring her. He's safe—or supposed to be," she added laughingly.

"I hope that's as near to it as I shall ever come on purpose, or otherwise, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!" said the doctor. "I think you should judge me safer than Mr. Linden,—as appearances go."

"Squire Deacon used to tell very hard stories of him when he first came," said the lady—"and I have heard a report or two since. I do love to talk to him about it!—he always looks so grave, I think he likes it."

The laugh was mutual, whether the delight was or no.

"Who is Squire Deacon?" said the doctor. "I should like to make his acquaintance."

Faith took off her bonnet, and then pulled off her gloves, deliberately, and bestowed them on the table.

"O he's a Pattaquasseter," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh—"haven't you seen his sister? She admires you—more than I think she need," she added mischievously. "But the Squire's been away for awhile,—he just got home this afternoon."

Faith had recourse to the fire. The doctor came round, took the tongs from her and did the work; after which he took a somewhat succinct leave of the assembly.

"By the way, Linden," he said pausing by his chair a moment,—"I expect to be in Quilipeak for a few days—I am very sorry, but I must. You won't want me, I think. Limbre can do all that is necessary. I shall see you Monday or Tuesday again."

"Doctor!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh—"I want you to take me home. Mr. Stoutenburgh always makes such a fuss if I'm out after dark and don't bring anybody home to tea, that I never dare do it."

"Will you trust yourself with me, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" said the doctor standing in comical doubt.

"Just wait a minute," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, as she went round with her pretty, free, womanly manner, and laid her hand on Mr. Linden's forehead and hands, just as if he had been one of her own boys. "I tell you what—I don't think you cure him up half fast enough among you. If I had him up at my house I'd take better care of him."

"No, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, even you could not do that," he said looking up at her. She stood still a moment.

"You shouldn't look at me so," she said,—"I shall go home and feel real bad for all the nonsense I've been talking. You know," she added, with the mischievous look coming back, "I never did believe one word of it—except—" and the sentence was finished softly. "Now I'm ready, doctor—O Faith, I had a message for you, but Mr. Linden will tell you. Good-bye. No, doctor—I'm not going to trust myself with you,—you're going to trust yourself with me."

Dr. Harrison was for once quiet, and went off without a repartee.

Other eyes looked with a different anxiety at Mr. Linden then, and another voice, more grave as well as more timid, asked, at his side, "Are you not so well to-night, Mr. Linden?"

He smiled, and gave her his hand by way of answer, before he spoke.

"I think I am, Miss Faith—you know Mrs. Stoutenburgh has not seen me before since I was quite well."

She brought both hands to test the feeling of his, for an instant, without speaking.

"Mr. Linden, I heard what Dr. Harrison said—Don't you think I can do instead of Dr. Limbre?"

"Yes, Miss Faith—if you will be so good," he answered without hesitation and with the simplest tone and manner. Her brow lightened immediately; and happy and quiet as usual, and that was very happy, she began to make her preparations for tea, clearing the table and rolling it to its last night's position. In which last operation she had assistance. Then she went off for her tea—and the lamp and the fire-light shone again presently on the pleasant scene of last night.

"Don't you want to hear your message, Miss Faith?" Mr. Linden said.

"Yes, but I wasn't in a hurry, Mr. Linden. I supposed it would come."

"It is in three parts. The first is nothing new; being merely that the birthday of the young heir of the house of Stoutenburgh occurs on the 29th of November. Whether the second part is new, I—being a stranger—cannot tell; but the day is to be graced with various suitable festivities."

"It's all new to me," said Faith laughing.

"Of the novelty of the third part you also must judge," said Mr. Linden with a smile. "The aforesaid young heir will consider the festivities entirely incomplete without your presence—nay, will perhaps refuse to have his birthday come at all, and wish that these 'happy returns' had never had a beginning."

Faith's laugh came with its full merry roll now, and she withal coloured a little.

"What must I do then, Mr. Linden?"

"I generally incline to the merciful side, Miss Faith—I believe I should advise you to go. Then I, not having such power in my hands, may not appreciate its fascinations."

"Such power? As what, Mr. Linden?"

"I ought in conscience to tell you—" he went on without answering her,—"it has been on my mind ever since, that the other night"—and the look was grave for a minute—"the trophy of a broken rosebud was picked up where you fell. And I had not the heart to reclaim it, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, with a submissive air of confession.

She looked at him with the prettiest look in the world, of grave, only half conscious enquiry; and then the lost rosebud was more than replaced in her cheeks.

"That is the state of the case," Mr. Linden said, as gravely as if both rosebuds had been out of sight and mind, "but your mother refuses to go. And it seems that I also am wanted on the 29th; so if you please, Miss Faith, I will try to see that you make the journey both ways in safety."

"I should like to go," said Faith quietly. "They are pleasant people."

The tea things were withdrawn, and Cindy was no more needed there, and Mrs. Derrick also had gone into the other part of the house to attend to some business. Faith stood before the fire looking meditatively into it.

"I wish," she said slowly and soberly,—"Dr. Harrison would please to talk to you instead of to me, Mr. Linden!"

"Talk to me?" Mr. Linden repeated, looking at her. "About professions?"

"No indeed!" said Faith, first astonished and then smiling,—"I mean very different things. About religion, and what he thinks of it?"

Rather soberly the words were received, and soberly answered, not at once.

"Do not let him say much to you on that last point, Miss Faith."

"How can I help it, Mr. Linden?" she said instantly.

"Forbid him, if need be. If he asks for information, and you choose to give it, that is one thing,—you are not obliged to hear all the skeptical views and arguments with which he is furnished. Your statement of the truth has nothing to do with the grounds of his unbelief."

"But—"

Faith got no further. She stood thinking of that afternoon's talk, and of the certain possible hindrances to her following such advice.

"I am talking a little in the dark, you know," Mr. Linden said,—"I am only supposing what he may say and ask you to say; and I do not think much of such conversation between any parties. Press home the truth—and like David's pebble it may do its work; but in a fencing match David might have found it harder to maintain his ground. And his overthrow would not have touched the truth of his cause, nor perhaps his own faith—yet the Philistine would have triumphed."

"Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said with a grateful smile. "That is just the truth. But, do you think Dr. Harrison is—exactly a Philistine?"

"Not in all respects," he said smiling. "What do you mean by a Philistine?"

"I thought you put him in the place of that Philistine," she said.

"Yes, for the illustration. But I do not know him to be strictly a champion of unbelief, although he avows himself on that side. His conversations with me have left me uncertain how far he would go."

Faith was silent and looked thoughtful.

"Have I touched any of your difficulties? May I hear any more?"

"No—" she said. "I believe you have said all you can say. And it is good for me."

"I have not said all I could say, but it is not easy for me to talk to you about it at all. You see, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden smiling, "there cannot be such an anomaly in nature as a philosophical bird—so what am I to do?"

Faith smiled a little and thought that as long as he gave her the benefit of his philosophy, it did not much matter. Which recondite view of the subject she did not put into words.

The days began to roll on smoothly once more, subsiding into their old uneventful flow. The flow of talk indeed had not quite subsided; but as nothing came to throw any light on the point of the unknown sportsman who chose his sport so strangely, curiosity took a modified, condensed form; and the whole matter was stowed away in people's minds as the one Pattaquasset mystery. Happy Pattaquasset!

Even Mr. Linden's protracted confinement to the house made little difference to most, he had been so little seen when he was able to be out: only the boys had had his daylight hours; and where he had spent those times of twilight and evening when he was not at home, no one knew but the poor unknown class who mourned his absence as they had blessed his presence, in secret. The boys were not silent,—but they had the indemnification of going to see him, and of watching—or sleeping—in his room at night, according to their various dispositions. There came all his scholars on Sunday,—met by Faith on her contrary way; there came the whole school by turns, and at all hours. Indeed when once the embargo upon visiters was taken off, the supply was great!—and without careful measures on the part of Mr. Linden, French exercises would have been put aside with a witness. But he made two or three rules, and carried them out. In the first place he would see nobody before dinner, except the doctor; nor anybody after tea, save the same privileged individual. In the second place, when he was able to be out of his room without too much fatigue, the lessons were carried on down stairs,—in the dining-room generally, as being more private. There could both parties come and go without observation; and often when Mrs. Derrick was entertaining a roomful, a sudden fall of the thin partition would have revealed the very people they were discussing, deep in some pretty point of information. Pretty those lessons were! Faith's steps,—arithmetical, geographical, or what other,—were swift, steady, and sure; herself indefatigable, her teacher no less. If Mr. Linden had not quite come to be in her eyes "an old school book," she was yet enough accustomed to his teaching and animadversions to merge the binding in the book; and as to him, she might have been one of his school boys, for the straightforward way in which he opened paths of knowledge and led her through. The leading was more careful of her strength, more respectful of her timidity,—was more strictly leading than pushing,—that was all. Of course in two weeks, or even in four, the best of teachers and scholars could make but a beginning; but that was well made, and the work went steadily on from thence—despite "teaching all day," despite the various other calls for time and strength.

And Faith was as docile and obedient as Johnny Fax himself, and as far as those qualities went, very much in the same way. If the denial of Phil's information and Mr. Linden's manner the day after her overturn, had raised a doubt as to the real abstractness of his regard for her, Faith's modesty and simplicity put the thought well into the background. She did not care to look at it or bring it up; in the full, happy, peaceful hours she was enjoying she had enough, for the present; and so Faith went on very much after her old fashion. A little quieter, perhaps, when not called out of it; a little shyer of even innocently putting herself forward; but in speech or action, speaking and acting with her wonted free simplicity.

The only breaks in these weeks were one or two visits to Mrs. Custers, and the doctor's comings and goings. He could not be shut out.

The Monday evening after the doctor's absence at Quilipeak, the little party were as usual in the sitting-room; and a pretty chapter of Physical Geography was in process of reading and talk, when the doctor's quick wheels at the door announced not only his return but his arrival. And Mr. Linden announced to his scholar, that it was needful now to return to the surface of the earth and attend to the flow of conversation—and to put the book in his pocket.

"Are you glad to see me back?" said the doctor as he took the hand of his patient. He looked rather glad himself.

"If I say yes, that will be to confess that I have reason. You perceive my dilemma," Mr. Linden said, but with a smile that was certainly as kind and trustworthy as any the doctor had seen since he went away.

"Do you mean—that you have no reason to be glad?" said Dr. Harrison slowly, eying the smile and giving it, to judge by his own, a trustful regard.

"Certainly not! It's a comfort to have somebody at hand who is ready to fight me at any moment," said Mr. Linden.

"What have you been doing since I went away?"

"Reading, writing, and considering the world generally."

"From this Pattaquasset centre!"

"Why not?—if lines meet and make it one."

"How do you get the ends of the lines in your hands!" said the doctor. "A centre, I feel it to be—but very like the centre of the earth—socially and politically. You see, I have just emerged to the surface, and come down again. Who has taken care of you?"

"I feel quite equal to the task of taking care of myself, thank you, doctor."

"You don't mean to say, man, you have dressed your arm yourself?"

"What do you suppose my powers are equal to?"

"That is a matter," said the doctor, "upon which I stand in doubt—which gives me an uncomfortable, troublesome sort of feeling when I am in your presence. It must be superstition. I suppose I shall get the better of it—or of you!—in time. Meanwhile, who has dressed your arm for you?"

The answer was given very quietly, very simply, not very loud. "The lady whom you had the honour of instructing in the art, Dr. Harrison."

"Did you do it well?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat comically, wheeling round before Faith.

She was a contrast; as her face looked up at him, rather pleased, and her soft voice answered,—"I think I did, sir."

"I don't doubt you did! And I don't doubt you would do anything. Are you preparing to be another Portia? And am I to be Bellario?"

"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Harrison."

"Do you know the story of Portia?—in the Merchant of Venice?"

"I never read it."

"She was a dangerous character," said the doctor. "Portia, Miss Derrick, wishing to save not the life but the character and happiness of a—But what a way this is to tell you the story! Is there a Shakspeare here?"

"We haven't it," said Faith quietly.

"I'll bring the play the next time I come, if you will allow me," he said sitting down by her;—"and indoctrinate you in something more interesting than my first lesson. How shall I thank you for doing my work for me?"

"It became my work."

"I am in your debt nevertheless—more than you can know without being one of my profession. I have some thing that I wish to submit to your inspection, and to take your advice upon, too. It will be fit to be seen, I hope, by the day after to-morrow. If I could I would bring it here—but as that is not possible—Will you go to see it?"

"Where is it?"

"Not far; but it will cost you the taking of a few steps."

Faith declared she had hardly time to go to see anything; but was obliged finally to yield to persuasion, and Thursday was the day fixed. The thing, whatever it was, however, was not ready when the day came, and the exhibition was put off indefinitely.



CHAPTER XXIX.



Those weeks, like others, came to an end. And then Mr. Linden gave notice to all and sundry of his scholars, that his time of seclusion was at an end—only giving way to advice so far, as to accept the daily use of Squire Stoutenburgh's close carriage, until his health should be in a more assured state. Monday morning he was to take up his old routine of school duties; though none too fit for it, in the estimation of some people,—the doctor said it was a month too soon. And no one could look at him and forget the last month's work,—a little exertion made the work very apparent; and as they sat at breakfast Monday morning, Mrs. Derrick made up her own mind privately that Dr. Harrison should have found some means to keep him in the house and from work yet longer. But the result of her meditations was not put in words; the effect betrayed itself in the extra care bestowed upon cups of coffee—the only thing within her reach.

It was a cold morning, true November, with its driving grey wind clouds, through which the cool sunbeams straggled fitfully; with trees shorn of their golden honours, and brown branches waving and twisting in the wind, and only mere specks of blue here and there overhead. The gulls sailed to and fro above the Mong as if they rejoiced in the fierce gusts of northern wind; the vessels shortened sail, or ran under bare poles. The wind shook the village windows, and poured dry leaves in every porch, and swept up the world generally—not much to the comfort of the same. In Mrs. Derrick's little eating-room indeed, it was warm enough, and the floor swept after another fashion; yet even there did the wind rush in, whenever the kitchen door opened, after Cindy and the hot cakes.

"Mr. Linden," said Faith after her eye had gone exploringly to the window, the wind and the clouds,—"I wish you would give the boys only half a day to-day!"

"I fancy you could have your wish seconded thirty times," he said smiling. "No—not thirty times, but perhaps twenty."

"I don't think those wishes would be worth minding; but I think mine is, Mr. Linden. I mean the reason of it."

"I think yours is—if I could mind it. What is the reason, Miss Faith?"

"I am afraid you are not quite fit for a whole day's work. In school," she added smiling.

"You don't know what you are asking!—if I stay at home I shall talk nothing but French the whole afternoon."

"Well," said Faith laughingly, "I should only be still. I could bear that."

"I couldn't—and you wouldn't. But you need not be uneasy, Miss Faith—I must not be at home."

She looked grave, but said no more.

The wind was not more busy out of doors that day, than the people within. Diligent and quick hands moved about in dairy and kitchen; and a quick and diligent spirit as earnestly—(for in Faith's mind it was all one work; that was on the way to this)—dealt with problems and idioms in the study room that Faith liked best and where she was most secure. But long enough before dinner she was helping Mrs. Derrick in the kitchen again.

"Mother," she said, "you can't think how I dread to see Mr. Linden come home to-day! He won't speak one word of English to me."

"I guess he would, if you wouldn't speak one word of French to him," said Mrs. Derrick sagaciously. "What are you afraid of, child?"

"I am afraid just of that," said Faith sighing. "Of having to speak those French words."

"Why you've been reading them to him, I'm sure," said her mother. "I didn't know anybody was afraid of him but me, Faith. But if you don't like it, why don't you tell him so?"

Faith however negatived that proposition with a dubious shake of the head; which meant, probably, that neither Mr. Linden nor herself would be satisfied with such a mode of procedure; and confined her present attentions to the dinner preparations. In which and other matters she became so engaged that she forgot her fears; and going into the dining room some time after with a dish in her hands and finding Mr. Linden there, Faith asked him earnestly and with great simplicity, "how he felt after his morning's work." Then remembering, or reminded by something in his face, she started away like a deer before any answer could be given; and only came back demurely with her mother,—to receive his grave reverence and "Me voici, mademoiselle!"—given just as if he had not seen her before. The half grave half laughing flash of Faith's eye spoke as much of amusement as of fear; yet afraid she certainly was, for she did not so much as speak English to her mother. The language of the eye was all she ventured; nor that boldly. It had to come, however, fear or no fear, the English might be dispensed with but not the French. She could not but try to understand the remarks or bits of in formation which were given her—sometimes gravely sometimes laughing; and if Mr. Linden was evidently waiting for an answer—what could she do but try that too! He was an admirable dictionary, very quick at seeing and supplying her want of a word, and giving his corrections of her phraseology and pronunciation so gently and by the way, that fear partly lost itself in interest. His own speech was singularly smooth and perfect; and whenever Faith found herself getting frightened, she was sure to be assailed with such a volley of swift flowing syllables, that she could do nothing but laugh,—after which Mr. Linden would come back to the slower utterance which she could better understand. After all, Faith's words that first time were few, and it may safely be asserted that she did not in the least know what she was eating, and made no sort of a dinner. Of that last fact her instructor was well aware, but as his first "Mais mademoiselle, mangez!" received but little attention, he postponed that point till just as he was going away, and then made a rather stringent request to the same effect.

So the afternoon passed on, and blew itself out, and the sun went to bed and night began to light her candles. Faith, standing at the window (it was too cold to be out) saw the red gleam fading from earth and sky, and the cold bright stars coming one by one into view. Then the boys began to pass by,—some together and some alone; walking or running home, or playing ball by the way. Mr. Linden's carriage was a little behind them all, but he came at last, and gave her a bow and a smile from the gate though she thought herself standing too far back to be seen.

"Now Mr. Linden," said Faith when he came in,—"I am so glad to speak to you again! How do you do?" The question was not lightly given.

"Miss Faith, did you finish your dinner?"

"No—" said Faith hesitating,—"but I am going to have some tea by and by. Aren't you well tired, Mr. Linden?"

"Pretty well—Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to be doing something else,"—said Faith, giving the easy chair a little push into place, and then brightening up the fire. "I shall have tea in here to-night, Mr. Linden. But we must wait a little while for it, for Cindy is out. You won't be sorry to rest first."

She was summarily, though very respectfully put in the easy chair herself.

"By what rule of right and wrong did you do anything else first? Do you know, Miss Faith, I did not finish mine either—I wanted another piece of bread, and could not get it!"

"Why not, Mr. Linden? I am sure there was bread on the table. But I am glad if you are hungry, for I have got something that you like. Now please rest!" she said springing up and beginning to arrange the table.

"I am sure I asked you for it politely," he said with a smile, as he yielded to her "please rest." "What have you been about all day?"

"I have been learning my lessons—and trying how well I could get on by myself."

"Get on by yourself?" he said rather slowly and inquiringly. "In what?"

"In the books—in my studies, Mr. Linden."

"Are you tired of my help, Miss Faith?"

She gave all her eyes to the answer, both in their sweetness and their gravity. "Do you think I could let you spend all your time upon me, Mr. Linden, when your whole day is given to such work? I'll come to you for help whenever I can't get on without it," she said with a smile, not exactly an enjoying one,—"but I know I can do a good deal by myself."

His eyes were given to the answer too, a little intently, but the smile that followed was different.

"I think you will let me do what I shall do, Miss Faith."

"I suppose that!" said Faith with a bright gleam in her eyes. She went out to see if Cindy had come back; but returned immediately, sat down and looked gravely into the fire.

"What is the use of startling people in that way?" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "I didn't know but you were going to send me to take up my abode at Mrs. Seacomb's!"

"Startling, Mr. Linden!" said Faith opening her eyes at him. "I said it because I thought it was right. I didn't think it was pleasant."

"Well," said he, "we were agreed upon that point. Now Miss Faith, as my time is precious, and I cannot well give any of it to people who have enough of their own—would it disturb you if I were to read aloud a little here for my own amusement?"

She changed her place to come nearer, without saying anything, but with a face of quiet delight only half revealed.

"What do you think of the relative and respective charms of Mirth and Melancholy, Miss Faith?—I mean their charms to inward perception, not outward sight."

"The pleasure of them?" said Faith.

"Yes—pleasure and satisfaction."

"I never thought there was any pleasure in Melancholy," said Faith smiling at the idea, but smiling inquiringly too.

In answer, Mr. Linden opened his book and gave her the Allegro and Penseroso,—gave them with not only a full appreciation, but with a delicate change and suiting of voice and manner—and look, even—that made them witching.

And if ever a hearer was bewitched, that was Faith. She lent her ear to the music, her eye to the eye, her thought to the thought, in utter forgetfulness of all else. At first she listened quietly, sitting where she was, looking sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the reader; but then she abandoned herself to full enjoyment, left her chair for a low seat near Mr. Linden, almost at his feet; and with upraised face and intent eye and varying play of lip, devoured it all. Sometimes the poetry certainly got beyond the bounds of her stock of knowledge; but that mattered not; for whenever the reading failed, the reader filled up all the gap and Faith listened to him. Precisely what it was to have just such a hearer, was best known to the reader himself; but he closed the book silently. Faith's comment was peculiar.

It wasn't made at first. Her look had come round slowly to the fire and slowly subsided. After sitting a minute so, she made her remark.

"But Mr. Linden, none of that seemed much like Melancholy to me?"

"That may be called the ideal of Melancholy," he said smiling.

"What is an 'ideal'? But oh," said Faith starting up, "it is time to have tea!—What is an 'ideal,' Mr. Linden?"

It was impossible not to laugh a little—but equally impossible to take that laugh amiss.

"The particular mental standard of perfection by which every person measures other people and things; and as that is generally more perfect than reality, the ideal is supposed to exist only in the idea."

She stood pondering the answer, with a somewhat humbled brow.

"I think I know," she said shaking her head a little,—"but I shall have to ask what exactly you mean by a standard, Mr. Linden. By and by—I must see to Cindy now."

And she ran off. Cindy presently brought in the tray; and Faith followed, arranging and setting in order everything. The tea did not immediately follow, perhaps the fire had got low, or Mrs. Derrick was not ready, for Faith did not seem expectant. She stood on the rug before the fire, looking into it very soberly and consideratively. There was a little abstraction in her figure and air. Suddenly she faced round where she stood.

"Do you feel very tired indeed to-night, Mr. Linden?"

"Not very—now," he said smiling. "I have been resting. I was a little more tired than usual when I came home."

Slowly and deliberately she came round behind his chair and stood leaning upon the back of it.

"Mr. Linden—I want to ask you something."

The tone was low and peculiar. It was a very common thing for her to be more or less moved by a little timidity; but now plainly Faith was afraid. It changed her voice, beyond the slight sweet touch that timidity often gave it.

"You know I like to have you, Miss Faith."

"I wanted to ask—if you would like,—or if you wouldn't dislike—if you would have any objection, to read and pray at night—here, with us,—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"

"I will, certainly," Mr. Linden said: "how could I have any objection? Miss Faith—will you please to come round here and sit down?—Why are you so much afraid of me?" She did not leave her position.

"I didn't know whether you would like it," she said in a very low voice. "I asked mother to ask you, but she wouldn't—though she said she would like to have you do it. I wanted it particularly for mother's sake."—The last words were said little above a whisper.

"I don't see where the fear came from, yet."

She was quite still, quite motionless, behind his chair. He turned a little, so as to see her face, and laid his hand upon hers.

"Will you come round here and tell me, Miss Faith? I shall not let you stand up all the evening."

She was looking, when he saw her, with the least bit of a smile upon a mouth all unbent, and eyes that were full; a very happy, stirred face. It quieted down as soon as he turned; except the smile which played rather more.

"Tell you what, Mr. Linden?" she said not leaving her place.

"What have I done to make myself such an ogre?"

"What is an ogre, Mr. Linden?"

"A ferocious sort of anomaly that everybody is afraid of."

"I don't know what you've done, Mr. Linden," she said half laughing. "I am not enough afraid to hurt anything."

"Enough to hurt me—I don't care about any other thing."

A grave glance of her eye was regretful enough.

"But it's true, Mr. Linden! I was a little afraid to ask what I wasn't sure you would like—that was all."

"Well," he said with a reassuring smile, as he got up and took hold of both her hands and brought her out of position, "I am not much hurt yet—but I desire that the fear may not increase. And therefore, Miss Faith, I want to have you sit here in the firelight, so that I can keep watch of it."

She smiled, as if it were beyond his ken now, but her words went to another point.

"What time would you like, Mr. Linden?"

"Whatever suits you."

She was silent for a minute or two, with a very happy face, till the door opened. Then she sprang up and received and placed the tea and things which Cindy had brought in. There was a dainty supply to-night, perhaps in consideration of Mr. Linden's first day of out-door work, and in delicate sympathy and reward thereof. And Faith, in her happiest mood though as quiet as a mouse, was an excellent 'ministering spirit' of the tea-table; to-night particularly, for every sense and affection seemed to be on the alert.

"How do you find all the boys, after their month out of school, Mr. Linden?" she said, when waffles and cups of tea were fairly under weigh.

"Very glad to see me—very much afraid I should tire myself; and some a little afraid they might share the fatigue. So things correct each other!—if they had not shewed the last fear, I might have felt the first."

"How did that work?" said Faith laughing a little.

"It worked—" said Mr. Linden. "Is that intelligible, Miss Faith?"

Her smile and shake of the head said that it was.

"Is Joe Deacon staying home yet?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"No, he began school again to-day."

"I wonder whether the Squire is going off again," said Mrs. Derrick,—"or whether he's going to stay home."

"I have heard nothing of his going away."

"You were going to tell me what exactly a 'standard' is, Mr. Linden? At least!"—said Faith correcting herself,—"I was going to ask you."

"There is a very intimate connexion between the two things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "A standard, in this sense, is simply some fixed rule of the ought to be, by which the is must be tried. Standard coin is that made according to the precise government regulation, and is the test of all other in the realm, as to size, weight, and alloy. So of standard weights and measures. For some things we have the Bible standard,—for most, each person has his own."

"Then Mr. Linden," said Faith, "I think my 'ideal' of Melancholy is something disagreeable."

"I don't believe you have any!" said he laughing. "You mean your idea, Miss Faith."

"Do I?" said Faith. "But perhaps you have such a thing, Mr. Linden; isn't it disagreeable?"

"Not at all—and besides I haven't any. But the ideal of Melancholy is about as much like the reality, as a picture of the Tragic Muse is like the fifth act of a tragedy."

That Faith did not know the meaning of tragedy, was a fact which she wisely and self-denyingly kept to herself, and for the present turned her attention to supplying her mother with a fresh waffle. And so with various bits of talk, tea came to an end, and Mrs. Derrick was called out to discuss some important matter with Mr. Skip.

"Mother," said Faith finding her opportunity, "I asked Mr. Linden, and he will do that."—A little shadow came over Mrs. Derrick's face.

"Well, child?" she said gently.

"Mother—I have asked him,—will you speak to Mr. Skip and Cindy?"

"I can't child—" said her mother, with the same tone and look. "I'll go in myself, but I can't try to do any more."

"Dear mother—" said Faith,—"I wish you would!"

Her mother turned and kissed her, but the difficulty was clearly not one to be overcome. The whole subject seemed to bring up some painful association.

"He'll call them in himself, if you ask him, child."

"Would it be right to ask him, mother?"

"Why yes!" said Mrs. Derrick—"I don't see why not. One of you must."

With this thought Faith went back to the sitting-room. Clearly there was some strong feeling against her being the one, for after a little sober silent waiting, she spoke.

"Mr. Linden—would you rather I should ask Cindy and Mr. Skip to come in?—or will you?"

He knew, better than she did, how well the question shewed her own wish, and how simple a matter it was to him.

"I will, Miss Faith, if you please. Is this the hour you have fixed upon?"

"I think so," she said,—"if you like it; because by and by they will be sleepy." And Mr. Linden at once proceeded to the kitchen.

A busy murmur of tongues, and bright firelight glancing from keyhole and crevice, guided him through the narrow passage which, sooth to say, he had never trod before, to the door of the kitchen; the latch of which yielded on slight persuasion, and Mr. Linden walked in. Supper was over there, too, and the dishes were washed and put away, and Cindy with dishcloth in hand was rubbing down the kitchen table. In one corner of the hearth sat Mr. Skip on a half bushel measure, a full corn basket beside him, an empty one in front, his hands busy with the shelling process; this hard work being diversified and enlivened with the continual additions he made to a cob house on the hearth. But, cob in hand, Mr. Skip paused when Mr. Linden came in, and looked up at this unusual apparition from under an extraordinary hat which drooped on all sides of his face, as if like its wearer it had long given up all idea of keeping up appearances. The face itself was strong, shrewd, apt. And so Mr. Skip looked at Mr. Linden. Cindy on her part, did nothing but wring the dish cloth and shake it out again, entirely oblivious of the greeting with which Mr. Linden favoured both parties; and she listened to the words he said about the corn, as if they had been Greek—double distilled. Those words were few.

"Mr. Skip," he said then, "I think that so long as God keeps us here together every day, we ought to thank him for it together every night. I want you and Cindy to come into the parlour and let us begin to do it now."

"Hey?" said Mr. Skip, between want of understanding and want of belief in the testimony of his ears. Mr. Linden repeated his words, with a composed distinctness that could leave no manner of doubt.

"Well!"—said Mr. Skip. "What do you want us for to do?"

"Come into the parlour."

"I s'pose we'll be to come,"—said Mr. Skip, dropping his cob and getting up and straightening himself. "Will you have us in now?"

"Yes," Mr. Linden answered, and led the way.

"Go along, Cindy!" said Mr. Skip in undertone. "S'pose it don't take fur to see into this."

Cindy obeyed, but without seeing 'fur' into anything—even the parlour, though she tried for it. There was not very much to see. Mrs. Derrick (with a little shadow of recollective sorrow) had placed the old Bible by the lamp, and now sat leaning her head on her hand and did not look up as they came in. Faith's face was one of grave joy; but the gravity was so quiet that the joy was beyond the ken of so dull a vision as Cindy's. She sat with clasped hands on a low seat beyond the fire. And Cindy at last fixed her attention upon Mr. Linden, with only an occasional roll of her eyes towards Mr. Skip.

It was a long time since such a service had been in that house,—a time at first swept by a storm of sorrow, then calmed and quieted into a stillness which had grown more and more bright, year by year. Whatever sunshine those years had seen, came from Faith; but that other faith, which should make even her more precious, had been unknown. And the words of the reading and prayer to-night, were to Mrs. Derrick like the renewing of things so long past, that she could scarce bear it; and different as Mr. Linden was from any one she had ever known, that Christian family likeness almost, to her feeling, transformed him.

It was a very simple matter to him, truly,—why not?—Why should it ever be anything else? or why, when the fear of God is on the tongue should the fear of man be in the heart? Yet it was even more the love of God than the fear, that his hearers perceived that night. Simple in word and tone and manner, it was the simplicity of a feeling so full and strong that it needed no capillary tubes of speech to carry it upward. The prayer ended, and the retreating steps on their way along the kitchen passage, Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, and putting her arms round her kissed first one cheek and then the other—then turned and left the room. And Faith sat still, with that joy filling her heart so full that her head bent with the weight of it.

One other comment she was destined to hear that night.

"I must say, Miss Faith," said Cindy, "I like these new notions firstrate! I always did say my prayers afore I went to bed, and I'm free to confess this saves a deal of trouble."



CHAPTER XXX.



The quiet of that very peaceful evening was for a short time interrupted by a call from Dr. Harrison. The doctor came, he said, to see how Mr. Linden felt after his day's work; and to tell Faith that his exhibition was in readiness for her and only waited a sunny day and her presence. It was agreed that if the sun did not fail of shewing himself the next afternoon, Faith should not.

Tuesday was fair, and the afternoon came on brilliant with sunbeams. But the doctor's steps did not reach Mrs. Derrick's door by some minutes so soon as he had purposed they should.

Passing down the main street of Pattaquasset, Dr. Harrison descried before him the well known figure of Squire Stoutenburgh, and the less familiar outlines of Squire Deacon. And the doctor's near approach procured him the favour of an introduction to the latter gentleman,—either because the Squire desired it, or because the other Squire was tired of his companion and wanted to be off—which he was, as soon as the introduction was over. For in Mr. Stoutenburgh's eyes the buttonhole of Dr. Harrison's soft coat was no more precious (to say the least) than that of his own grey Rough and Ready.

"Squire Deacon is anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health, doctor," he said,—"I refer him to you."

The doctor made a slight inclination, graceful as all his inclinations were, but also slight; intimating that he would have the honour of satisfying Mr. Deacon's inquiries but desired nothing more of him.

"How's he getting along?" said Squire Deacon—feeling the social duty thus imposed upon him.

"There is hope that he will be restored to his pristine state of strength in the course of a few weeks, sir."

"A few weeks!" said Squire Deacon. "Why he's in school again, ain't he?"

"He has gone in a carriage," said the doctor, who for some unaccountable reason had taken a fit of perversity,—"I understand he was in school yesterday."

"Did you know him afore he come here, doctor?"

"I had not that honour, sir, till I came here myself."

"Well I never saw anybody as did," said Squire Deacon.—"I s'pose he comes from somewhere."

"I doubt it," said Dr. Harrison with the slightest possible elevation of his eyebrows for an instant. Squire Deacon, however, was not just the fool Dr. Harrison took him for; of which fact a little gleam in his eyes gave notice.

"'Taint extraordinary you don't like him, doctor," he said carelessly. "Mr. Linden's a fine man, but 'most any pair o' wheels is one too many in some roads."

"I never followed a wheelbarrow, sir," said the doctor. "I suppose, from your allusion, you have. May I be honoured with your further commands?"

"Wheelbarrows have only one wheel, mostly," said Squire Deacon composedly.

"You know better than I, sir. Might I enquire why you are anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health?"

"Don't know as I said I was anxious—" said Squire Deacon. "When a man's lived in a place as long as he has, it's nothing wonderful if folks ask whether he's going to hold on. All the women in my house think he's dead and buried, now."

"Ah! He's a favourite in that line, is he?"

"Other lines just as much—for all I know," said the Squire. "Can't say I ever just went in for all Mr. Simlins says nor all Parson Somers says, neither,—can't help that, doctor, if he is one o' your folks."

"What have you against him?"

"I don't say nothing against him," said Squire Deacon,—"except he's a fine man. Maybe you think that is."

"Is there anything further you would like to say on any subject, sir?"

"Not much, I guess, if that's the time o' day," said Squire Deacon looking at him with a queer little bit of a smile. "'Taint useful to get stirred up that way, doctor, just because a man wishes you a good journey. But I can just as easy wish you another overturn—I s'pose you're pretty sure to get one or t'other out o' the horses. It's all one to me—and I dare say it is to everybody else."

"What is your name, sir?" said the doctor standing and looking at him in a sort of mazed consideration.

"My name's Sam Deacon,"—said the Squire with his peculiar sort of sullen composure. "Your father and I've always been friends, anyhow."

"Then Mr. Deacon will you have the goodness to under stand that I am not an agent for the transaction of Mr. Linden's affairs; but as I am a friend of his, I will inform him that you are interested in the subject. That is all, sir?"

"I'll go bail for the first part of that!" said Squire Deacon. "But it's your affairs I'm talkin' of—not his'n. And I s'pose I've as good a right as all the rest of Pattaquasset—and give no offence, neither. I was goin' to make you my compliments, doctor—that's all; and if you don't think you'll ever want 'em, why there's no harm done—and enough said. All I want to know is, what do you get so stirred up for?"

"Is that all?" said the doctor, as if he had a mind to know the whole before giving an answer.

"All what?" said Squire Deacon.

"All that you wish to communicate?"

"I haven't communicated anything yet," said the Squire. "I guess you knew all that before."

"Well," said the doctor, half laughing, though his expression had changed more than once during the last five minutes,—"then my answer is easy. In the first place, Mr. Deacon, I have no affairs—therefore it is impossible to talk about them. In the second place, when I am in want of your compliments I will send you mine. In the third place,—I declare I am at a loss how to answer you; for the only thing I ever get stirred up for, is my breakfast! Good afternoon!—"

Staying no more civilities, the doctor made the best of his way to Mrs. Derrick's. Faith was ready for him, and more gently with her he set out on the road back again. It was not a time of day to meet people—one familiar face however they did meet,—Squire Deacon. His eye did not seek Faith's face, but rested on the doctor with full effect.

Arrived at the Judge's house, the doctor led her to the library, and there unlocked the door of a little cabinet room. On a table in the window, standing in the full sunshine, was the object of their visit. It was simply a fine little Aquarium. More delightfully new to Faith's eyes nothing could be; as the same eyes shewed. While they explored the wonders of the box, the doctor at his ease proceeded to unfold to her the various meanings of them. He enlarged upon the habits and characters of the several inmates of the Aquarium; he explained to her the philosophy of keeping the balance of vegetable and animal life and thereby preserving both; he told which creature lived upon which other; what office they severally, some of them, performed for the small section of Ocean in which they lived and its vitrified shores; and then taking up the subject of Sea anemones, the doctor told stories, of natural truth, that with these living specimens before her entranced Faith out of all knowledge of place or time. Dr. Harrison asked no more. He gave her what she liked, and with admirable tact abstained from putting himself forward; any further than a quick eye, excellent speech, and full and accurate mind must make themselves known, and most gentle and graceful attention make itself felt.

"Do you suppose," said he, when Faith was absorbedly watching the Anemones feed,—"that Mrs. Derrick would give this thing house-room?"

Faith looked, but half comprehending.

"I am not always here," said the doctor carelessly, as he was supplying another bit of flesh to the voracious flower,—"and I should like to have it somewhere that it would be taken care of. If I left it to Sophy for a week, I should expect to find on my return that the vegetables and fishes had eaten up each other. Don't you admire that crab?"

"Very much," said Faith. "This little fish is just like some of the shells down on the shore."

"He came from the shore somewhere," said the doctor,—"little monster! The ocean world isn't much better than the world of earth, apparently, Miss Derrick."

"Do you think the earth-world is like that?" said Faith.

"Don't you?"

"I don't know what it is like."

"If you will permit me to say so, I hope you never will—any further than as you choose to make this a miniature of that. And things in miniature—are much less," said the doctor abstractedly, looking at the Anemone. "Would you like to have this little ocean box in your house for awhile, Miss Faith?—it could just as well as not. Indeed it would be rather a benefit to me."

"O I should like it!" said Faith. "But I should be afraid of its getting broken, Dr. Harrison."

"I am not afraid," said he. "It would be in less danger there than here. As I told you, Sophy neither knows nor cares anything about such things; and she would either kill them with kindness or forget them altogether—most likely do both alternately. But with you they would be safe, for the simple reason that you love them."

The sunbeams had left the window before Faith was at all aware of the passing away of the afternoon. And then, for once to her joy, Miss Harrison could not be found. They set out to walk home, and had got half way when a little rush of footsteps came up behind them, and Reuben and Sam passed by, arm in arm; or rather half by—then paused and said good evening.

"O have you seen Mr. Linden to-night, Dr. Harrison?" said Sam.

"Good evening, sir!" said the doctor. "Have I the honour of knowing you?"

"I should think you might," said Sam, in a tone not at all displeased—"but it don't signify much. Have you seen him to-night, doctor?"

"I should think I might, too," said Dr. Harrison looking coolly over the "young giant." "Allow me to observe, that 'to-night' is not come yet."

"Did you ever!" said Sam in an aside to Reuben, who had stood perfectly still without speaking. "Well any time since he got home then, sir?"

"No, sir."

"Have you, Miss Faith?" said Reuben.

"No, Reuben—I am just going home. What's the matter?"

"Why he fainted in school—that's all," said Sam,—"he said there was nothing the matter. Only we were going down to see how he got home, and I thought maybe the doctor might tell us first." And not staying for more words the two boys walked on a few steps, then set off and soon ran themselves out of sight.

The other two quickened their walk, the doctor moderating his steps however to suit the strength of his companion. But she soon took the lead, and Mrs. Derrick's house was reached in as short a space of time as the ground might be travelled without a speed which Faith did not dare assume.

There was nothing alarming in the little parlour. Mrs. Derrick sat knitting; Mr. Linden had been reading, but now was talking—half laughing, half chiding—with the two boys who stood before him. Reuben stood silent, smiling a little; Sam's energy was at work.

Faith came in quietly, with a face to which all her quick walk had not brought back the colour. She said nothing. But the doctor's tongue was free.

"Why what's this, Linden?"

"This is—Linden," said that gentleman coolly. "No boys—go off,—I think I can live without seeing either of you again till to-morrow. What's the matter, Dr. Harrison?"

"Just and precisely what I was asking," said the doctor; while Faith glided to her mother and sitting down by her whispered enquiry. But Mrs. Derrick knew nothing—had heard nothing, apparently.

"It's for you to state the case—" said Mr. Linden. "You speak as if you had a warrant of arrest in your pocket."

"Why!" said the doctor, standing and looking down upon him,—"here's a wind that has blown from nowhere! Do you want me to lodge information against yourself?"

"I don't wish to lodge any."

"Linden," said the doctor changing his tone to one of serious kindly interest, while Faith's eyes from her more distant seat waited for the answer,—"what is the matter? What made you faint to-day?"

"What nonsense have those boys been talking?" said Mr. Linden—but his look carried the charge a little beyond the range of his words. "I was faint for awhile—not quite in a 'deadly swoond,' however."

"That young scapegrace said and declared you had fainted."

"They are so used to their own red cheeks, they think red is 'the only colour,'" said Mr. Linden. "However, I believe he spoke true—but it was nothing worth speaking of, after all."

"What was the cause?"

"I presumed a little upon the successful way in which I got through yesterday—tried to do a little too much to-day, had one or two things to try me—and so. Which of my boys do you honour with that title of scapegrace?"

"You mustn't do so again," said the doctor seriously.

"There was no malice prepense to-day," said Mr. Linden. "What have you been about all the afternoon?—I expect to hear that you have sailed up the Great Pyramid in a canal boat, or coasted Japan in a Chinese lantern."

"Nearly right," said the doctor. "We have been enacting the part of the wise men of Gotham—I can't imagine where I ever heard of them!—who went to sea in a tub."

"Went to see—what?—" said Mr. Linden laughing.

"Went to Se-vast-a-pool!" said the doctor with perfect gravity. "I hope you're better!"

"Don't I look well?"

"If I were to take the votes on that subject," said the doctor, "I presume the verdict would be unanimous. But looks are proverbially—unsatisfactory! Do you know what damage you have done me by your exploit this afternoon?"

"I should be very glad to hear."

"Why you have brought me into discredit and disfavour with half Pattaquasset, man, because I have let you go out too soon—don't you see? Mrs. Derrick has already laid it to her account against me—which is getting to be a score I shall never dare to foot up."

Faith had left the room for a minute, and coming back again began to make ready the table for tea. Dr. Harrison's eyes followed her. She was not looking as she had looked at his anemones; quiet, sweet, and grave, she went round gathering up the books, and arranging the cups and plates. But the doctor, though asked, would not stay. He went off and the tea was brought in.

"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "if you are half as ready for that exercise as I am, we shall get on superbly to-night."

She almost started.

"You, Mr. Linden! Oh you're not fit for it!"

"Not fit for it!—Miss Faith, how can you say that to me?"

"Let it be so to-night, Mr. Linden!"

"I shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Faith, by your leave. You know I can rest here most comfortably, and make you work—after the same fashion, I hope. I am a little afraid," he said looking at her, "that you are working too much."

"Why, Mr. Linden? How could I?"

"By not keeping your studies well balanced with fresh air."

"O no!" she said smiling. "The work is a great deal better than the fresh air. Besides, I have been out to-day."

"You might as well say that bread is a great deal better than water. Yes, you have been out to-day, that is one good thing. And I shall try to throw somewhat into that scale myself, if I live. But I want all the books to-night, Miss Faith—and to-morrow, you know, is a half holiday, but you need not expect to have one."

Faith's tea went on after that in a manifestly different manner. Expeditiously the table was cleared after tea! And if ever Faith wrought with eager care to do perfections and save her teacher every word and thought that could be spared, she did it then. So the exercise was written, with most earnest guarding against anything 'german' or 'sophisticated' in her letters. Indeed Faith's handwriting, by dint of taking pains, was fast growing into stiff correctness—not without a certain beauty, of promise at least, but stiff still. And with all her other lessons, of thought or memory; what earnest quick effort could do was done that night, and done upon the back of a sound preparation.

Mr. Linden however did not spare himself words, riot much, and care not at all; watching and guiding his pretty scholar with equal gravity, gentleness, and attention; rarely diverging from the business view of the subject, unless Faith grew timid or frightened, in which case he indulged himself with making her laugh, and so brought her back to business again. What views Mrs. Derrick took of the two, thus engaged, it would be hard to say; save that they were wondrous pleasant ones—a little puzzled, a little thoughtful, loving and pleased to the last degree. How much she studied those two faces!—not Faith herself bestowed more care upon what she was about. But Faith came to conclusions—Mrs. Derrick never did; wanting help from the very person who cleared the path of learning for her daughter. His face—its gravity, its changes—she could not read; but she liked the study.

The doctor's plan about the Aquarium was excessively distasteful to Mrs. Derrick. She read the meaning and grounds of it, which Faith entirely failed to read; but then to give them to her was hardly an advisable thing. So the Aquarium came, after a few days; and Faith having found that Mr. Linden could give her some help, if necessary, in the care of it, relieved her mind of all concern about the responsibility and took the full good of the trust. In a sunny window it was placed, and many a happy minute between the times of other things Faith stood or sat there to watch the unfolding and shrinking Anemones, and the restless, eager, wild lives of the other and more distinctly animal inhabitants of this little section of Ocean. The only uncomfortable thing about it was that other people sometimes saw it and heard how it came there; and other people, Faith knew, drew very ridiculous inferences from nothing. And though ridiculous they were disagreeable. But however, she knew best how it came there and how simple a matter it was; and it was never the way of her simplicity to trouble itself overmuch about ridiculous things.

Another person, it may be remarked, knew how it got there; and he found it pleasant to come and see it some times. This was generally in the afternoon, now, when Mr. Linden was not at home and Faith was not occupied in household duties. Pleasant talks were held over the Aquarium; for there was never an end of things that might be told of old and new discoveries connected with what was in it. The conversations diverged often to other matters, religious or scientific as the case might be; and were clever, bright, interesting, or amusing accordingly—and invariably.

And so the time wore on towards the 29th. But in the fourth week of Mr. Linden's return to school duties, Faith began to have a new lesson—or rather she had it once and practised upon it many times. That once was at the end of a Wednesday afternoon, in exquisite Indian summer weather; when other subjects being dismissed for the time, Mr. Linden gave his scholar an interesting and precise account of the process of respiration; passing thence to the obvious benefits of fresh air, and finally requesting her to put on her things and come out and take them. After which, it may be observed, Faith was never heard to say that studies were "a great deal better than fresh air,"—often as the walk was repeated.

The other lessons made beautiful headway. Even the French talks at dinner. That was harder to Faith than any other trial to which she had been put. She shrank from it with great shrinking. But the desire to please her teacher overcame even fear. Rather than not do that,—Faith ventured, right or wrong; and once fairly launched, of course, with his good help and her own endeavours, soon got into smoother sailing.

Mr. Linden and the doctor now met not often; the doctor making his visits, as has been said, during school time. They met oftenest where the doctor went seldomest,—in those rooms where Dr. Harrison did sometimes let his profession call him, where Mr. Linden was drawn by somewhat beyond profession. Sometimes this intercourse was only of the eye,—sometimes they walked home together; the curious friendship between them deepening, as it seemed, from all sources.

Come home when Mr. Linden would, his room looked as if somebody had just stepped out of it. The fire was always in its best beauty; the hearth guiltless of ashes; the temperature genial whatever the weather out of doors might be; the books, the papers, the table, in their wonted order or disorder, as fresh as if dust never fell. But the fairy of the place was always out of sight.



CHAPTER XXXI.



The 29th of November came on Wednesday, which permitted Mrs. Stoutenburgh to have her dinner at an earlier hour than would else have been possible. To this dinner the two older guests were invited—the boys were only to come to supper; and four o'clock was the time.

Till near three, studies and reading were in full force, but then other duties claimed attention.

"If I could only sit next you at dinner, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as he shut up the books, "we could talk French all the time!—but there is no hope of that. And Miss Faith—" he said as she turned to go upstairs, "do you know that all the things on my table are not in their proper place?"

Very much wondering, Faith was for a moment at a loss.

"What is wrong, Mr. Linden?"

"I would not give it so harsh a name, Miss Faith—only I thought perhaps you would go in there before I come up and see that all is left just as usual,—if you would be so good."

Faith went up, querying with herself whether Cindy could perhaps have been in there and committed some dire damage—or what it could be.

What could it!—if ever a room was scrupulously in order, that was; and the table—it had not been stirred, nor a book upon it, since Faith's arranging hands had been there. Even writing implements were not laid about, as they often were,—the table was just as usual. Unless——

Yes, in front of the books stood a glass of water, and therein one dark velvet rose, truly of a "Cramoisi superieure," failing to support itself upon its own green leaves, laid its face half coquettishly and half wearily upon dark sprigs of heliotrope and myrtle. Thence it looked at Faith. And Faith looked at it, with a curious smile of recognition, and yet of doubt,—whether that could possibly be what he meant. But she was to see that all things were "left just as usual;" it did not admit of a serious question. So lifting the glass and the rose, Faith and it went off together.

Faith's best dress, of course put on for this occasion, was a black silk. She had thought that a little extravagant at the time it was got; but Mrs. Derrick would have it. It was made with the most absolute plainness, high in the neck, where the invariable little white ruffle graced the white throat; but the sleeves were short, and similar white ruffles softened the dividing line between them and the well rounded fair arms. Her hair was as usual, her feet were as usual, only the shoes were of fresh neatness; but when Faith had with eyes that saw only them, not herself, fastened the rose and myrtle on the bosom of her dress, a little figure stood there that in its soft angles and exquisite propriety of attire would have been noted in any circle of splendour, and might have satisfied the most fastidious lover of elegance. Wrapped up and hooded Faith went down stairs, and Mr. Linden put her in the Stoutenburgh carriage, which rolled off to the mansion of the same name in a very short space of time.

In solitary grandeur Faith was ushered into Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedroom, where first the fire kept her company, and then Mrs. Stoutenburgh herself came in from another door and both unwrapped her and wrapt her up! But when all that could be done was done, Mrs. Stoutenburgh ran off again, and told Faith, laughing, that she hadn't seen her yet—and was all ready for her in the parlour. Faith being left to herself stepped out into the passage, where Mr. Linden was standing with folded arms before a window that looked out upon the closing November day. Faith came softly up beside him.

"I've seen Mrs. Stoutenburgh," she said, "but she says she hasn't seen me. Are your flowers right now, Mr. Linden?"

"Miss Faith! why do you wear velvet shoes?"—he said turning full upon her. "You have not been down stairs?"

"No, certainly. I saw Mrs. Stoutenburgh up here."

"Then shall I have the pleasure of taking you down?—I see nothing that is not right," he added smiling.

It was rather an odd new thing to Faith, to be taken down, or in, anywhere. The form of having a gentleman's arm was something rather startling. But she did not shew it. Down stairs they went, into the glowing parlour, where Faith was met and greeted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh de nouveau.

"Ah Miss Faith!" said the Squire as he gave her his salutation, "how extravagant you are to add roses to roses in that style! Don't you know it's a waste of material?"

"No, sir. I shall use it all up."

"I should like to see you after you get through!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Ask Mr. Linden if it's not waste."

Mr. Linden however entirely declined to assent to any such proposition,—nay, even hinted that if any one was to be charged with wasting roses just then, it was the Squire himself.

"Yes, I think so too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"but how funnily you always see through things and turn them about!"

"Roses are not very opaque things to see through," he answered smiling, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh rescued Faith and putting her arm round her drew her off towards the sofa. Where Faith was glad to get at a distance from the rose-consumers. She felt rather nervous.

"Where is Sam?" she asked. "This is his day, isn't it?"

"He was here a minute ago," said his mother,—"I guess he ran off when he heard you coming. He takes fits of being bashful once in a while,—they don't last long. Your mother wasn't afraid to let you come with our horses, was she?"

"No ma'am," Faith said,—"not at all. But she hasn't got back her old trust in horses and carriages generally. I wish she had."

"I don't—" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"they're not to be trusted generally, child. Has your horse got well yet?"

"Not well. Mr. Skip says he's better, but we can't use him."

"Well I wanted to talk to you about that—Mr. Stoutenburgh's been at me to do it this month. You know we've always got more horses on hand than we can use—and there's one of 'em that would just suit you. Won't you let him stand in your stable this winter?—and give Crab a chance."

"O no, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!—thank you!" said Faith. "I dare say Crab will get better—it won't be necessary; and you know we don't ride much in winter. You're very kind to think of it."

"There you are—as usual!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I'm always afraid to ask you anything, you keep such magnifying glasses. But now Faith, listen to reason. Not ride in winter!—why it's the very time for riding, if there's snow; and you could drive Jerry, or your mother could, just as well as Crab—he's as quiet as he can be. At the same time," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a little dance in her eyes, "if anybody else drives him, he can go a little faster."

"I'll tell mother how good you are, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. It isn't my business to give answers for her. But did you ever see me drive?"

"Not horses," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing.

"Not anything else, I am sure? I used to want to go after the cows, but mother never would let me."

But whatever Mrs. Stoutenburgh meant she did not explain, for dinner was announced, and the Squire came up to take possession of Faith again; receiving his wife's little whispered "I've done it!" with all her own satisfaction.

In the dining-room Sam was at last visible, but the bashful fit had not gone off, and Faith's black silk was even more distracting than her white muslin. Her greeting of him was simple enough to have been reassuring.

"I hope you will be as happy a great many times as you are to-day, Sam," she said as she shook hands with him. "On the 29th of November, I mean."

Perhaps Sam thought that doubtful—perhaps impossible,—perhaps undesirable. At all events his words were few; and though he was permitted the post of honour at Faith's side, he did not do much for her entertainment at first.

The dinner itself, service and style and all included, was sufficiently like the Squire and his wife. Handsome and substantial, free, bountiful, and with a sort of laughing air of good cheer about it which more ceremony would have covered up. There was no lack of talk, either,—all the company having the ability therefor, and then, at least, the inclination. But if Mr. Linden now and then called Sam out of his abstraction, so did the Squire attack Faith; giving her a little sword play to parry as best she might.

"Miss Faith," he said, "do you know to what a point you are, day by day, winding up the curiosity of this town of Pattaquasset?"

"I, sir!" said Faith, apparently, by her eye and air, occupying the place of the centre of motion to all this curiosity;—the point of absolute rest.

"My dear," said the Squire, "they say two things about you! The first is that you never go out! Now don't trouble yourself to contradict that, but just tell me the reason. We're all friends here, you know."

"Why I go out very often indeed, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Faith.

"Didn't I tell you not to contradict me? Ah Miss Faith!—young ladies never will take advice! Well—the first thing is, as I said, that you never go out. The second," said the Squire laughing, "is—that you do!"

"Well sir," said Faith merrily,—"they can't both be true—and there isn't anything very bad about either of them. Nor very curious, either, I think."

"What I should like to know," said Mr. Linden, "is, who keeps watch at the gate?"

"Squire Deacon does, for one," said Sam promptly. "I see him there often enough."

"When you come to relieve the guard?" said Mr. Linden smiling. And the laugh was turned for the moment, rather to Sam's confusion.

"So that's what the Squire's come back for, is it?" said Mr. Stoutenburgh. "I thought somebody was to blame for his going away."

"Nobody was much to blame," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.

"I had a long talk with Sam the other day—Sam Deacon, I mean," said the Squire, "and he was keen to get acquainted with Dr. Harrison. And as the doctor came along just then, I gave him a chance. I guess the doctor blessed me for it!—I did him. By the way, Miss Faith, I s'pose you've got acquainted with the doctor by this time?"

"Yes sir—very well—" Faith said quietly, though she felt the ground uneasy and unsafe.

"Well what sort of a chap is he?—up to anything besides running away with all he can lay his hands on?"

"Don't you know him, Mr. Stoutenburgh?"

"Can't say I do, Miss Faith,—it rather strikes me he's not anxious I should."

"How can he be anxious, sir, when you are not?" said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that expecting too much?"

The Squire laughed.

"I don't expect too much of him," he said,—"and don't you expect too little. After all, I'd as soon take a boy's mind as a man's—and he aint popular among the boys. I thought he would be, after that exhibition—but he aint."

Which remark Mr. Linden knew to be true, though he did not say so.

"Well, Mr. Stoutenburgh! if you don't like him why do you talk about him?" said his wife. "Faith—you can play blind man's buff, I'm sure?"

"Wait a bit,—wait a bit," said the Squire—"I'm not ready to be blinded yet, if she is. You ladies are always in such a hurry! Now Mr. Linden and I want to have our ideas cleared up. What sort of a man is the doctor, Miss Faith? You say you know him 'very well,'—do you like him 'very much'?"

This shot brought Faith to a stand and obliged her, to be sure, to 'shew her colours,' which she did bravely. Nevertheless she faced the Squire and answered steadily.

"I like him a good deal, Mr. Stoutenburgh—in some respects very much."

"Hum—" said the Squire, as he cut a persuasive piece of duck and put it on her plate. "Well wouldn't you like to tell me, my dear, what you mean by 'some respects'?—That's Mrs. Stoutenburgh's word, and I never could find out yet."

"I suppose it means different things in different cases," said Faith smiling.

"Did you ever?"—said the Squire, taking a general survey of the table, which began with Faith and ended with Mr. Linden, "Aint that half of creation up to anything? I tell you what, Miss Faith, if I'd been in that meadow 'tother day, I'd have made Mazeppa of the doctor in no time,—Sam hasn't learnt to put his history in practice yet. And besides," said the Squire, with a peculiarly slow, innocent enunciation, "he never likes to do anything that would displease Mr. Linden!"

"Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife, though she was laughing merrily herself, "Can't you be quiet? Faith, why don't you answer me?"

"What, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"—Faith turned towards her a face from which, gentle as it was, the smile had disappeared.

"You play blind man's buff, don't you, dear?"

"When I can," said Faith.

"The real question, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, whose grave unmoved look—unmoved unless by a little fear that she might be annoyed—would have been some help to her during her cross-examination if she had seen it,—"the real question is, whether you are willing to play to-night."

"I am as willing as can be," said Faith.

"I don't know whether they'll want to play it," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "but they may; and Sam's never content unless I'm in the fun, whatever it is."

"Of course Miss Faith will play," said the Squire,—"she never refuses to please anybody."

"Mr. Linden said he would," said Sam.

"But how shall you and I manage, Faith?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "They'd tell us in a minute by our dresses—as there are only two of us."

Faith pondered this difficulty with an amused face.

"Sam must lend us some of his jackets or coats, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. Our heads are the worst,—or mine is—you and Sam might be mistaken for each other."

"But there'd be no use in Miss Faith's disguising herself," said Sam naively, "because she's so sweet."

"You wouldn't have her disguise that, would you, Sam?" said Mr. Linden laughing.

"What a boy!" said his mother,—"and what a reflection upon me!"

"Why I meant her flowers!" said Sam,—"you needn't all laugh so. I don't mean either that I didn't mean—" but what more he meant Sam left unsaid, which did not much stay the laughter.

"I will appoint two or three boys to play the part of the pigeon in hawking," said Mr. Linden,—"Miss Faith might get tired of being caught, if not of running away."

"How do you know that, Mr. Linden?" she said a little archly.

"Truly," he answered, "I know it not—but most things are possible, even in blind man's buff. And all boys are not provided with silk gloves. But you shall not complain of not being caught—I promise you that."

"Again!" she said with another soft flash of her eye, though now she coloured. "Don't you understand, Mr. Linden, that I don't intend to let anybody catch me?—if I can help it."

"Miss Faith, I have the most entire confidence in your intentions!"

Faith kept her energies for action, and said no more. And in a very harmonious temper the whole party left the dinner table and went back to the fire-lit parlour. All but Sam, who went to be ready for his particular guests in another room.

His place was presently supplied by a new-comer. There was a step in the hall—then the parlour door opened, and a little lady with a shawl round her shoulders, came in.

"Good evening!" she said in a very cheery voice. "Why I didn't expect to find so many of you! Is it a party, Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—and shall I go away? or will you let me come in, now I've got here?"

"Come in, come in, Miss Essie, and make it a party," said the Squire; while Mrs. Stoutenburgh took off the shawl and answered,

"Go away? why of course not! It's only Sam's birth-day—you're not afraid of boys, I guess."

"I'm not afraid of anything," said Miss Essie, and her bright black eyes said it too. "Isn't that Mr. Linden?—yes, I thought so. And Faith Derrick!—my! child, how you're dressed. What sort of a party have you got, Mrs. S.?"

"Why, boys!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while Mr. Linden said,

"Good evening, Miss Essie—you know I am one of them."

"Are you? I don't know much about you, except by hearsay, you know. I am glad you are here to-night. I shall study you, Mr. Linden."

Mr. Linden bowed his acknowledgments.

"Will you want my help, Miss Essie?"

She laughed. "Come!" said she—"don't get on too fast! I am beginning to like you already. What are the boys doing, Mrs. Stoutenburgh? Sam's birthday, did you say?"

"Yes, it's Sam's birthday,—I don't suppose they're doing much yet except coming," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "What they will do, no mortal can say."

"And you'll let them do anything! It must be a nice thing to be a boy, with such a mother as Mrs. Stoutenburgh, Mr. Linden."

His "yes" came readily enough, but was unaccompanied with any other word whatever. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's "Do hush!"—was sufficiently energetic though very low.

"How old is Sam?" was the instant question, as if the whisper had referred to him.

"O Sam can't get beyond fourteen till he's twenty," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "I suppose by that time I sha'n't care how old he is."

"I know who thinks he's a handsome fellow!" said Miss Essie shaking her head,—"and that's not you, Mrs. S. I know he's a smart one, for I pinned a blue ribband to his coat once. I wonder if he loves me properly for it.—Faith Derrick, how come you to be here, child?"

"Why because Mrs. Stoutenburgh asked me," said Faith, answering this sudden address with some surprise.

"Wrong!" said Miss Essie. "There's some mistake about it. I've just come from hearing you talked of."

"Whom did you hear, Miss Essie?" said the Squire. "Come—give up your authority."

"I was at Judge Harrison's," said Miss Essie, after a considerative look of her black eyes at the Squire;—"and that's all I am going to tell you, Mr. Stoutenburgh! Mr. Linden, what do you think of the propriety of people's talking about people?"

"I think well of the propriety, when it exists."

"Well what do you think of its existence? Honestly, now. I want to get at your opinion."

"I think its existence is rather limited and precarious, Miss Essie," said Mr. Linden smiling. "It is one of those things that may be said to have a delicate constitution."

"Well," said Miss Essie again, smiling too, both with lips and eyes,—"how could people get along in such a place as Pattaquasset, for instance, without it? People must talk. And it is so pleasant to know that Mrs. Stoutenburgh's son Sam is fifteen years old and had a party on his birthday; and that Mr. Linden and Miss Derrick were there and eat roast turkey;—and to know that Miss Essie de Staff went to New York to get a new carpet for her best room and what the new style is;—and that Miss Faith Derrick was run away with and brought home again, and went through adventures. How could we do without talking of these things? Now perhaps you will say it's immoral; but I'm in favour of a possible morality; and I say, how could Pattaquasset get along without all this?"