"Pattaquasset could get along without some of the things, to start with," said the Squire. "I don't know what you call 'pleasant,' Miss Essie, but I never was so angry in my life—since some rascal told me Mrs. Stoutenburgh was going to marry somebody else," he added laughing.

"But I say," said Miss Essie, "how could Pattaquasset get along without talking of these things? and I ask Mr. Linden. I want to know his opinion."

"I will not say that it could," said Mr. Linden.—"Miss Essie, you know Pattaquasset better than I do."

"Well do you think there is any harm in talking of them?"

"What do you think of the modern definition of a young lawyer, Miss Essie—'a man who is where he has no business to be, because he has no business where he ought to be'?"

Miss Essie laughed, and laughed.

"Don't Sam get along fast with his reading and writing. Mr. Stoutenburgh?"

"Always did—" said the Squire; "and with everything else too. What are you talking about? I lost that. I'd gone off to that rascal—"

Miss Essie's laugh rang out again and her eyes danced.

"That rascal! Now for shame, Mr. Stoutenburgh! You know better. I wonder if you never had young horses yourself, and took Mrs. Stoutenburgh to ride, too. Now I like him very much. Mr. Linden, you know Dr. Harrison, don't you?"

"I should—a little."

"Well aren't you a judge of character? Do you think he deserves to be called a rascal?"

But Squire Stoutenburgh prevented the answer. "I wish you'd just stop and let me catch up with you, Miss Essie," he said. "Now before we go any further, whoever said he was a rascal?—I didn't."

"Did you mean somebody else, Mr. Stoutenburgh?"

"That's the way you talk over pleasant things!" said the Squire. "If I hadn't hallooed after you, Miss Essie, I should have had a challenge from the doctor before morning—or a shot,—that's getting to be the fashion."

"Do you think Dr. Harrison is that kind of man?" said Miss Essie. "Mr. Linden, what kind of man do you think he is? You can tell better than the Squire, and I want to know."

"Miss Essie!—he is my friend and I am his,—you cannot expect me to give you Dr. Harrison's components—'each with its Latin label on'!"

"Not at all! but in general, how would you characterize him, if asked what sort of a man he was!"

"I should perhaps decline."

Miss Essie had no chance to push her question, for Sam came with a demand for Mr. Linden himself, which was at once obeyed.

A little while passed, and then Mr. Linden came back again; and walked composedly round to the back of Faith's chair. "Mrs. Stoutenburgh," he said, "will you let me take this lady away for five minutes?—Miss Faith, will you come?"

Nothing loth, if the truth must be told, Faith rose up to follow his leading; which was out of the parlour and through the hall.

"Miss Faith," he said as he shut the door, "have you been conjugating the verb s'ennuyer?"

"No," she said. "I was amused to hear you and Miss Essie talk."

"What singular ideas people have on the question of pleasant things!" said Mr. Linden. "Come in here, Miss Faith"—and he opened the door of a mingled library, study room, and office—"I want to give you (before we go any further) the whole quotation which I did not dare to give Miss Essie, though it would not have been meant for her, if I had." And he took down one of the books, and read—

"'Her eye,—it seems a chemic test, And drops upon you like an acid; It bites you with unconscious zest, So clear and bright, so coldly placid; It holds—you quietly aloof, It holds, and yet it does not win you; It merely puts you to the proof And sorts what qualities are in you,' &c.

'There you are classified: she's gone Far, far away into herself; Each with its Latin label on, Your poor components, one by one, Are laid upon their proper shelf In her compact and ordered mind,' &c.

'O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err, For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art;— Thou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter Of any simple human heart.'

That's comforting doctrine—isn't it?" he said smiling as he put up the book.

"How good that is!" said Faith, as much in the spirit of enjoyment as of criticism. But it isn't just Miss Essie. It's more like"—She stopped.

"Well—who? No, it is not Miss Essie."

"I was going to say, Mrs. Somers—but it is not Mrs. Somers, either. She is more kind than that."

"Yes, I think so—though she keeps her kindness under lock and key, like her sweetmeats. Miss Faith, shall I give you a loophole view of those boys—before you venture yourself among them?"

She said yes, with a bright face that shewed her primed for any enjoyment, or anything else perhaps, he might propose. He knew the house, apparently, and led her out of one door and in at another, giving her little undertone remarks by the way.

"I know you and I agree in some of our notions about pleasant things," he said, "or I should not presume that you would find this one. To some people, you know, boys are mere receivers for Latin and Greek—to me they are separate little pieces of humanity. I study them quite as much as they do their lessons. Now you shall see them off their guard. This room is dark—but I know the way."

He took her hand as he spoke, and led her through the darkness to a spot of shaded light at the further end of the room, whence too came laughter and voices; then drew back the curtain from a sash door and let her look in.

It was pleasant, as he said,—the room was glowing with light, the boys in a knot about the fire; some sitting, some standing, one or two couchant upon the rug. Sam was the spokesman just then—the rest listening, interrupting, applauding; the flashing firelight shewing such different faces! such varied indications!—they looked like a little Congress of representatives.

"What are they doing, Mr. Linden? Sam is having a good time!—and all the rest of them for that matter."

"I am not quite sure what they are doing, Miss Faith,—Sam looks as if he might be recounting some of his own exploits—for the twentieth time."

"But Reuben, who never would recount one of his, is five times as much of a man."

"Yes,—I wonder what Miss Essie would say of the two, respectively. She means to study me to-night, you know," he said smiling—"and I mean she shall! There comes Mrs. Stoutenburgh—now I shall take you in."

Not by the sash door, but round again by another way they came upon the little company. Mrs. Stoutenburgh had been in before, and her reappearance had not made much change in the order of things; but when Faith came in every boy rose to his feet, and the admiring looks were only bounded by the number of eyes. They fell back right and left as she came on towards the fire; and once seated there in an easy chair, those who knew her came up to pay their respects—those who did not stood still and paid them at a distance, whispering and touching each other with,

"My! ain't she handsome!"—

All of which amused at least two of the lookers-on. One or two of the boys Mr. Linden brought up and presented. Faith however was presently out of her chair of state and wound in and out among them, speaking to those whom she knew or remembered at Neanticut. She was in a little gale of good-fellowship by the time Mr. Linden with Miss Essie returned to the room.

"Well!" said Miss Essie. "Now what's the first order of things? Mr. Linden, these are all your boys, I suppose?"

"These are all and not all, Miss Essie."

"Yes. Do they always do what you tell them?"

"They are extraordinary boys!" said Mr. Linden. "Not one of them has a will of his own."

"Oh!" said Miss Essie. "What has become of their wills? Have you stolen them? Now I am going to put that to the proof. Sam Stoutenburgh—you are not twenty years old yet, your mother says; have you a will of your own?"

"Mother says I have," replied Sam.

"Ah!—you see!" said Miss Essie. "You sir,—I know you but I don't remember you,—your teacher says you haven't a will of your own—now is it true? I want to know."

"A will of my own, ma'am?" Reuben repeated, looking doubtfully from Miss Essie to Mr. Linden. "Against whose, if you please?"

"Well—" said Miss Essie, a little surprised, and laughing—"upon honour, will you tell the truth?"

"I'll try, ma'am."

"Against Mr. Linden's. Now upon honour!—I'll go bail for you."

The bail was not needed. Reuben's quiet "No, ma'am, and don't want to have," was very forcible.

"I declare!" said Miss Essie turning to Mr. Linden,—"you're a wonderful man!—For of course Sam's word is his mother's word, and that's nothing in the circumstances. I wish I had been so happy as to be a boy and go to school to you, Mr. Linden! All my life my trouble has been a will of my own; and I never found anybody that could deprive me of it."

"Nor yourself ready to give it up?"

"Of course! but I never could, you know. It was stronger than I."

"I'll tell you what," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, coming up, "if you two people want to talk any more, you've got to stand out of the way,—Faith and I are going to have a game with these boys."

"What sort of game?"

"Why blind man's buff," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Sam—go to my room and fetch that plaid ribband that lies on the bed."

"Now I'll tell you," said Miss Essie, "you must play this game as they do it up at Suckiaug. Any game wants a stake, you know, Mr. Stoutenburgh, to make it thoroughly interesting. You must play it this way. Everybody that is caught and found, must answer any question the person catching chooses to ask. And if he refuses to answer, he must answer some other question and give a reason for it. That'll make 'em fly round!"

In the midst of a little general bustle that ensued, Faith was startled at finding that her rose and myrtle were gone. The next instant a hand presented them unceremoniously under her face, and an abrupt voice announced, "Here's your flowers!" It was even Phil Davids who had done it. Faith seized her flowers, and then sprang after Phil and thanked him very gratefully; rightly hailing this civility as an omen for good. The flowers were next bestowed carefully in a glass of water, to be in safety till the play should be over.

Now began the fun of robing and disrobing. The ladies pinned up their silk skirts into order and quiet compass, and pulled on over their arms and shoulders whatever boys' gear would fit. Faith was jaunty in a little cloth jacket which covered her arms; Miss Essie wrapped about her a plaid travelling shawl of the Squire's. Mrs. Stoutenburgh deferred her disguising till she should need it, being in the first place to be the catcher, not the caught. Mr. Linden on his part chose to rely on his own resources for safety, but two or three of the boys tied on shawls and scarfs—soon discarded in the melee.

If Sam's intent was to have a steady game of running, never to produce results—unless fatigue and laughter—he had well chosen the first 'catcher.' Mrs. Stoutenburgh's powers of entanglement lay not in that line, though she ran about with the most utter good will and merriment. But how the boys jumped over her arms!—or dived under them! How Sam caught her round the waist, and even kissed her, regardless of danger! She might have been playing till this time, if Mr. Linden had not interposed and gallantly suffered himself to be caught.

"We'll have to step round now, I tell you!" said one of the boys,—"this'll be another guess sort of a run!"

"Look out for yourself now, Miss Faith!" said Reuben—both which things were profoundly true and necessary. And Faith soon found out that she was the quarry—and that pigeons were of no avail. Whether Mr. Linden had heard her steps about his sick room till he had learned them by heart,—whether the theory of 'spirits touching' held good in this case,—he gave her a swift little run round the room, and shut her up gracefully in the corner. Then with the simplicity which characterized most of his proceedings, disregarding jacket and cap, he took hold of her hand and inquired,

"Miss Faith—do you consider yourself disguised?"

The soft laugh which it was impossible to keep back, answered to his ear, as the flush which overspread Faith's face answered to eyes of the rest of the company.

"That will do to begin with," he said as he took off the plaid ribband, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed and clapped her hands after her own lively fashion.

"But Miss Faith!" said Sam—"don't tie up your head, please!—if you shut your eyes it will do just as well."

"You can't see her eyes if they're shut, you foolish boy," said Mr. Linden,—"go off and attend to your own affairs. Miss Faith, shall I tie this on—or do you wish for a deputy?"

There is a great deal of character that comes out in a play! Miss Essie might have had excellent opportunity for prosecuting her "studies," if she had not been busy on her own score. For Faith did not play like Mrs. Stoutenburgh. She played like herself—with a gentleness that never overstepped delicate bounds; but her foot was light and true, and her movements fearless and free as those of the very boys. It was a pretty game that she played. It would have been a short one, but that it was so hard to identify her captives. One boy after another Faith caught,—to the feeling they were all alike! At last her hand seized an other prize, and her voice exclaimed, Mr. Stoutenburgh!

There was a sharp change about now between the older and the younger people. Faith did her best not to be caught again. But after half a dozen changes between Mr. Linden and the boys, he again had the pleasure of investing her with the plaid ribband.

"May I give her the question?" whispered Miss Essie at Mr. Linden's ear.

"No indeed!" said Mr. Linden.—"Miss Faith, what is the difference between a bird and a philosopher?"

Somewhat to the surprise as well as amusement of the company, the answer to this was the heartiest, merriest bit of a laugh; then she said,

"One looks round the corner, Mr. Linden!"

"Well you won't see round the corner now," he said softly and laughing as he tied on the ribband. "Miss Faith! do you mean to say I did?"

She said "no," and ran away. But Faith was not in luck this time, for she caught Miss Essie. And Miss Essie in a few minutes got the chance she wanted at Faith. She wouldn't have had it, for Faith ran too well and vanished too skilfully; but a little knot of the boys getting into a knot just in her way and at the wrong time, Faith fell a prey.

"Now," said her captor unbinding her ribband, "what do you think I am going to ask you?"

Faith was very doubtful on the subject, and waited in silence.

"Only a matter of taste," said Miss Essie. "Who do you think"—(speaking slowly)—"is the handsomest man in Pattaquasset?"

The colour mounted in Faith's cheeks too distinctly to leave any room for the doubt that no other answer was at hand. She avoided Miss Essie's black eyes.

"Come!" said that lady.

"I can't tell you,"—said Faith, amid the laughter of some of the company, which was enormous.

"You can't!" said Miss Essie. "Now you are at my mercy. You have got to tell me something else and give your reason. What do you think is the best profession a man can follow?"

"Any one is good that is used right," said Faith, looking down and speaking with difficulty,—"but I suppose the best is a minister's."

"Why?" said Miss Essie, disappointed.

"Because the business of that profession is to lead men to heaven;—that of others is only to fit them for earth."

"My dear, you're a fine girl!" said the Squire—willing Faith should say anything that cut out Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, what do you mean by asking her such a string of questions?—how can she tell who's the handsomest man? She wouldn't like to hurt Mr. Linden's feelings by saying me, nor to make us both mad by saying anybody else—if there was anybody else to speak of."

"You hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Miss Essie. "Don't you know how to ask questions? Now Faith Derrick—run off with yourself." Faith obeyed with a trifle less than her usual spirit; but the game presently called it back again. Darting about, like some gentle-hearted hawk, among those flying pigeons, she had seized one boy and another with her usual bad success in the matter of identifying, when the boys suddenly cleared away a little—anxious perhaps that Mr. Linden should be caught again; for of all the players he gave them the most fun. And so effectually did they clear the way—so ineffectually did he protect himself! that the next grasp of Faith's hand was upon his arm. And her voice gravely announced that she knew it.

"Now Faith!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "do puzzle him if you can—give him a hard question."

"She does not want to ask me any questions," said Mr. Linden as he untied the ribband. "You forget, Mrs Stoutenburgh, how many she can ask every day. Now with Miss Essie the case is quite different."

Very quiet and pleasant was the look bent on Faith,—very cool and undisturbed the manner. "Miss Faith, are you tired?—I must be philosophical enough to inform you that there is a shadow of puss-in-the-corner!"

And a very plain expression of gratitude was in her eyes and smile as she answered, "No, I'm not tired, Mr. Linden—but I would as lieve look on as play."

That seemed to be the general grown-up mind; but before the looking on had lasted long, everybody was called into another room to supper. There the boys were left somewhat to themselves at one end of the table, and the half dozen others stood or sat in the warm fireplace corner at the other. Mr. Linden indeed, and Squire Stoutenburgh, were both "boys" very often; but their returns to the ladies were frequent and prolonged. Faith was enthroned in a great chair, and there petted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while everybody brought her things by turns—a privilege highly prized by some of the boys. Neither could Miss Essie complain of want of attention, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh and Mr. Linden took laughing care of each other between whiles.

"Miss Essie," he said as he brought her a cup of coffee, "where are you in the pursuit of knowledge?"

Miss Essie laughed; yet not a triumphant laugh, nor even a satisfied one; it might be considered doubtful.

"I think," she said, "you are one of a sort I don't much understand, Mr. Linden—perhaps because I don't know them much. Aren't you one of what I may call the good sort?"

Faith's laugh, which was indeed very low but unavoidable, was the first testimony.

"I hope you may—" said Mr. Linden,—"the words sound pleasant. I am not quite sure what they mean."

"Ah! There you are again!" said Miss Essie. "As difficult to catch at other things as at blind man's buff. Well I'll be frank with you, for I don't mean to offend you. I mean, the sort of people who are called 'rigidly righteous'—people who think it incumbent on them to be better than their neighbours."

"O no—" said Mr. Linden,—"I quite disclaim that. I only think it incumbent on me to be better than myself."

"Yes, but you are one of the people I mean—aren't you?"

"Not according to that term, Miss Essie. May I ask what you mean by the other?"

"Rigidly righteous?"

"Yes."

"Why I told you—people that pretend to be better than people in general. People in general, you know, get on without pretending much to be good at all: and of course it's disagreeable to be brought short up at every turn with 'you ought not,' and 'you ought;' and whether it is said or acted don't make much difference. Now here's this child, a little while ago, thought she mustn't say anything was good but a minister.

"Do you mean Christians?" said Mr. Linden.

"Well—" said Miss Essie, "I hope we're all Christians—aren't we? We're not heathens."

"I mean the followers of Christ. Is that what you meant? I do wear the badge of that 'Legion of Honour.'"

Miss Essie looked fidgeted. Faith was letting her ice-cream melt while she listened. Mrs. Stoutenburgh in the midst of supper-table attentions gave an anxious eye and ear to the conference, which she would not interrupt.

"Well now tell me what you mean by that?" said Miss Essie, feeling herself in some confusion, of terms at least.

"Can I find plainer words? You know what was meant by a follower in the old feudal times?"

"No I don't," said Miss Essie beginning to sip her coffee again. "Tell me!"

"A follower was one who binding himself to the service his lord required of him, thenceforth paid it—in peace or in war,—to the end of his life. And the terms of agreement were two-fold,—fidelity on the one side, protection on the other. 'They follow me,' says Christ, 'and I give unto them eternal life.'"

"Yes, but," said Miss Essie, "do you think it is required that we should put ourselves so much out of the way to be good? I think people were meant to enjoy themselves."

"I enjoy myself—" said Mr. Linden smiling a little. "What think you makes the lark fly circling up into the very sunbeams, singing as lie goes?—is it duty? is it to rise above the robins and sparrows?"

"I don't understand you!" said Miss Essie respectfully.

"That is just the inner life of many a Christian,—his very heart-cry is,

'Nearer, my God, to thee! Nearer to thee! E'en though it be a cross, That raiseth me!'—"

"Well, you think nobody can be safe that don't live just so?" persisted Miss Essie.

"In whom such a life is not at least begun?—How can it be, Miss Essie? Safe? without the blessing of God?"

"Well there we differ," said the lady. "That's what I mean by being rigidly righteous. I think every one must judge for himself."

A little more erect Mr. Linden stood, drawing himself up slightly—it was his wont sometimes under a touch of excitement, and spoke with his deep emphasis these words—

"'This is life eternal, to know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent.'—Miss Essie, where is your permit for free judgment against the Bible?"

"I didn't mean that," said Miss Essie, lowering her crest. "But I mean that everybody can't be good after your strict way."

"I am not standing up for myself, you know," said he pleasantly, "nor denying that you have described me right; but what a follower of Christ ought to be, is no more rigid than sunlight—or than the wings of angels. Yet both sun and angels 'always do his commandment' who made them both."

"Oh people can't be sunlight—nor angels neither, in this world. You're Utopian! That's what I said."

"They can be 'burning and shining lights,'" said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, will you gainsay the Bible? Why can they not?"

"They can be—but I suppose they aren't obliged to be; or what is to become of us all?" said Miss Essie, half seriously half defiantly.

"That will depend upon whom we follow," he answered gravely.

"Well now, Mr. Linden, how many people in the world are 'followers' in the way you have described them?—and are all the rest going to destruction? Take the people in this room now, for instance,—boys and all here's twenty of us perhaps. How many do you suppose are here of your way of 'following'? You're one—who's another? Stand off there, and see whom you can get to join you!"

"Stand off and say with Moses—'who is on the Lord's side?'—there would be several, Miss Essie."

"Well count up," said Miss Essie. "I suppose they have no objection to shew themselves. You are one—who's another?"

"I am another," said Faith, rising and setting down her ice cream.

"You!"—said Miss Essie turning the black eyes upon her,—"you look like it, child!"

"You must put the 'rigid' out of your head," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which changed as he spoke.

"Well who else?" said Miss Essie, for some reason or other in an impatient temper. "Tell them your definition, will you, and ask who'll stand by you. Mrs. Stoutenburgh!—make them all stop and attend."

"If I ask them you may think they come to please me."

"No, no, you know how to say it. Mr. Stoutenburgh!—boys!—listen. I want to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people—Mr. Linden will tell you what kind."

He spoke then—as Faith had once or twice heard him speak, sending his voice through the room almost without raising it.

"Miss Essie de Staff wishes to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people—those that 'have sworn unto the Lord, and will not go back.' Whoever is of that number will please come over to this side."

There was a little astonished pause. Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, just then at the further end of the room, had moved at Miss Essie's summons, but stopped short at the first sound of Mr. Linden's voice, and looked in a sort of maze,—he clearly was not jesting, that was all they could make out. That too the boys saw: but for a minute they stood like statues,—then Reuben stepped from the group and walked quietly, deliberately, over to where Mr. Linden stood; the covenant-signing in his face glowing with the Free Church addition—"until death!"

One and another followed him—one after another,—Faith was surprised to see how many: ranging themselves about Mr. Linden. But something in it all touched him—stirred him,—something perhaps personal to himself and them; for after the first three or four had come he looked no more,—his eyes fell, and the firmly compressed lips could not quite conceal their trembling. He stood as statue-like as the boys had done.

In the interest of a moment and a scene that she never forgot, it was a simple thing that Faith lost thought of her own standing. Perhaps Miss Essie shared her oblivion of self for that minute; her look of uneasy curiosity changed to a sobriety that was almost awe. Perhaps self-recollection came back; for after eying the dumb show with uncommonly blank black eyes, both they and she suddenly started into action.

"That will do," she said with voice and gesture,—"you may go back—scatter! and be boys again. Mr. Linden, what I complain of is, that you say you are on the Lord's side and that everybody else is not!"

His thoughts came back slowly, as from some far distant region,—he even turned to Faith and wheeled up a chair for her before he answered.

"No, Miss Essie—those last words I believe I never said. But the 'Lord knoweth them that are his'—let each one have answering knowledge for himself."

Miss Essie's look was not comfortable. She abandoned the point in hand, and swallowed her cold coffee.

"What are you talking about?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh coming up to them. "What sort of a game was that, Miss Essie?"

"Nothing,"—said Miss Essie. "I said I would study Mr. Linden—and I have. I've found out two things about him."

"I wonder if he's been studying too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.—"What are the two things? Miss Essie, your coffee's just as cold as Faith's ice is warm!—that comes of talking when you ought to be eating. Mr. Linden—just help Mr. Stoutenburgh with that little table, please—and I'll have the coffee-pot here and be comfortable."

"And I shall tell Miss Essie a story about fishes," said Mr. Linden as he obeyed.

Mrs. Stoutenburgh sat down behind her coffee-pot, while the gentlemen went back and forth between the two tables, bringing cups and cake and what else was needed for this "German cotillion," as Mr. Linden called it. During which interlude Miss Essie, after taking an observant view of Faith, gave her a significant private admonition, that "somebody" would not like her being there. Faith in vain endeavoured to get some light on this dark information; Miss Essie was startling but enigmatical, and suddenly turned from her and asked Mr. Linden "what was the story he had promised?"

"Not much of a story, though I called it one. It has to do with the way different races of fishes wear their bones."

"Well?" said Miss Essie, using her eyes; while Faith forgot her flushed cheeks and used hers.

"You are perhaps aware," he said smiling, "that even fishes have their inflexible points; in other words, a region of bone somewhere."

Miss Essie bowed her head, mentally ejaculating, "You have!"

"And all the fossil tribes, as well as those which now exist, are divided into two great classes,—those which wear their bones on the outside, and those which wear them within. The first have a perfect plate armour—jointed and fitted and carved, piece by piece; but the inner framework is merely cartilaginous. The others, while they shew nothing but pliant flesh, have an internal structure of bone which can outlast ages."

"Curious!" said Miss Essie, eying him all the while carefully. "Then I suppose we are all fishes!"

"I was thinking—apropos to our talk awhile ago—of the intangible, unseen nature of a Christian's strength. The moment his defence is worn on the outside, that moment there is a failure of strength within. His real armour of proof is nothing more 'rigid,' Miss Essie, than 'the girdle of truth,' 'the breastplate of righteousness,' and 'for a helmet the hope of salvation.'"

"Very good armour," said Miss Essie; "but can't he wear it without being unlike other people?"

"Can he?"

"Look here," said Squire Stoutenburgh, "what have you been about? If you've been studying anatomy, Mr. Linden, I'll go learn dancing!"

And the conversation diverged.



CHAPTER XXXII.



Faith pondered probably Miss Essie's enigmatical words; but she said nothing on the subject even to her mother. Other people's words and looks had produced their share of disturbance at the time; disturbance that Faith did not like to recollect. And she would not recollect it, practically. It left no trace on her face or behaviour. The simplicity of both, unchanged in a whit, testified for her that her modesty would not take such hints from other people's testimony, and that there was no folly in her to be set fluttering at the suggestion.

The next Wednesday morning was one of great promise,—fair and soft and quiet, with November's sunshine softening November's brown dress.

"I think, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said before he went off after breakfast, "that you should take a short run or two, before you try that long one to Mattabeeset."

"A run, Mr. Linden? Didn't I have one last night?"

"Truly yes,—but I mean on horseback. Will you take such a one to-day?"

"Yes!" said Faith, looking different things, especially pleasure,—"but Mr. Linden, I don't know where I am to get a horse. Crab can't go now."

"Well, as I am to play the part of page, and run by your side," said Mr. Linden, "I am rather glad he can't!—no disrespect to his other good qualities. When will you be ready, Miss Faith?"

The hour fixed upon had need to be early, for the days were short; so though books had a little time after dinner, it was but a little. Then the horses came; and Mr. Linden took Faith in charge, with words from her mother that might have been very useful if they had been needed,—which in his case they hardly were. A fact which his reply, or the manner of it, seemed to impress upon Mrs. Derrick's mind, for she saw them ride off with nothing but pleasure.

Other people saw them with a variety of emotions All the boys they met (except Sam) looked unqualified delight,—from her window Mrs. Stoutenburgh gave them a gay wave of her hand; Miss Bezac on the sidewalk absolutely turned to look again. They rode leisurely up the grassy road, hardly beyond a walk at first, and it was not till the houses grew few and the road more open, that Faith had her promised run: which was but an easy trot, after all.

"You must begin very gently, Miss Faith," said her companion as they walked their horses up a little hill. "Look how those topsails mark the water line!"

"Yes—don't you like to see the white sails peeping over the trees? I always do. But Mr. Linden, I don't get tired easily—you needn't be afraid. I can go just as fast as you like." She looked enough in the mood.

"You know I am interested in the matter,—if I should come home to-morrow and find you gone to sleep at midday—I should lose my French lesson! Now you may have another run."

This run was rather a long one, yet came to an unexpected end, for turning a woody point in the road the two riders saw a wagon before them, so directly in their way, that the run changed to a walk even before they perceived that the wagon was in distress. Some bit of harness, some pin, had given way, and the driver had dismounted to repair damages. But moody, or intent upon his work, Faith's horse was close upon him before he looked up—then she saw it was Squire Deacon. He looked down again as suddenly, with only a slight motion of his hand to his hat.

Faith's first impulse would have been to rush on; but she checked that. Her next would have been to wait and leave somebody else to speak first; but she overcame that too. So it was her very clear gentle voice that asked,

"Are you in trouble here, Mr. Deacon?"

The Squire had no time to give his answer, and scarce a moment wherein to concoct it, for Mr. Linden had dismounted and now came between Faith's horse and the wagon, with,—"What is the matter, Squire Deacon?—can I help you?"

The Squire looked up them, full, with a face that darkened as he looked.

"It's you, is it?" he said slowly. "I thought it was Dr. Harrison!"

"Can I help you?" Mr. Linden repeated—and the tone was a little peremptory.

Sullenly and slowly the Squire told the damage—the broken harness, the lost lynch-pin; and let Mr. Linden take the first out of his hands, and do what he chose with it; looking on the while—then by degrees taking hold himself and working with him as with any other man, but throwing off jealously the kindness of his helper's words or manner. It was a grave kindness, certainly, but it did not belie the name. Faith sat looking on. After awhile her voice broke the silence.

"Did you say a lynch-pin was wanting, Mr. Deacon?"

"There's one gone."

"I should like to be doing something to help. Will you lend me your knife, Mr. Deacon?—and I'll try." But that brought a hand on her bridle.

"I cannot trust your horse out of my sight, Miss Faith,—I will get what is wanting."

"There's no use in anyone's doing anything," said Squire Deacon, by way of a settler; and the harness work went on in silence.

Faith waited a little.

"I am not the least afraid," she said then, leaning over her horse's neck but speaking no name. "There's a place only a little way back where I think I can get a lynch-pin,—if anybody will lend me a knife. Please let me go and be doing something! I want to go."

"This cord," said Mr. Linden, taking one up from the bottom of the wagon—"is it wanted for any special purpose, Squire Deacon?"

"I guess if you ask Joe he could tell you," said the Squire with a glance that way. "'Twas good for something, but he's tied it in forty knots—just to see if I'd be fool enough to pick 'em out."

"It would be very useful about this harness," said Mr. Linden,—"will you try and get rid of the knots?"—and he handed Faith the cord, with a smile which said she must make that do instead of the lynch-pin.

Which Faith did not particularly like, for she had a strong hankering for the ride back to the bushes. She dropped the bridle upon her horse's neck, and began to exercise her patience and skill upon the knots.

"I wish I had a knife!" she said as she did so, "and I'd shew you that I am not afraid." And a little colour rose in her face, which rather grew.

"That's easy," said Squire Deacon, looking suddenly up and extending his hand. "Here's one as'll cut through most things." Mr. Linden's head was bent over the harness,—neither eye nor hand stirred from his work.

"Thank you, Mr. Deacon," said Faith, feeling the blood rise to her brow,—"but I won't go for it now.—I'll do this first." In her confusion Faith did not see another person that joined the group, till he was standing at her horse's side.

"What sort of a bee are you gettin' up here on the high-way?" said Mr. Simlins in his good-humoured growl (and he had a variety.) "What air you doin' on horse-back?"

"There's harness to be mended here, Mr. Simlins—and I'm making rope for it."

"You go 'long!" said he. "Who are you makin' rope for? Give that to me?" But Faith held fast.

"No, Mr. Simlins, you can't have it—I am bound to get out these knots. There is work doing round here, that perhaps you can help."

Mr. Simlins stooped under her horse's head and went round to the other side, and then for the first time he got a full view.

"That's the way you perform actions!" he said; seeming too profoundly struck to be at all wordy. "'Say and Seal' I guess you be! What's the matter with you, Squire?"

"If anything is, I haint heard of it," said Mr. Deacon, with the knife lying heavy against his ribs. "Mr. Linden's turned harness-maker—that's the last news."

"O are you there, Mr. Simlins?" said the new mechanic, looking up from his work.

"Can't be more unlikely than you," said the farmer, beginning on his part to finger the broken harness. "How you come to be here passes all my imagery. That'll do smartly. Where did you learn all trades? I don't see, Squire Deacon, but he's as good at mendin' as you be at marrin'. What do you think?"

"I don't see as one man has much to do with another," said Mr. Deacon lucidly.

"Yes, that will do," said Mr. Linden. "Now Miss Faith—give me that cord if you please, and you shall go after the lynch-pin."

"No," she said pleasantly,—"it'll be done in a minute—I want to finish it."

"When did you get back from York, Squire?" said Mr. Simlins—"and what took you away? I haint heerd yet. I never believed you were gone for good—though folks said it."

"'Taint generally worth while to believe what folks says," replied the Squire. "I've been back three weeks, I guess. Shouldn't wonder if I went again though."

"Shouldn't wonder if you did," said Mr. Simlins. "I would if I was you—if I wanted to. Mr. Linden, it was a providential thing, that you should come along at this idiomatical moment. There aint another man in Pattaquasset would ha' done this so good as you."

"There is another line of business open to me then," said Mr. Linden, who had begun upon the other end of the piece of cord with opposition fingers.

"What aint open to you?" said Mr. Simlins. "Do you know of anything? Give us that cord—will you?"

"Yes, you may have it now—the knots are all out," said Mr. Linden, as he put the disentangled cord in the hands of Mr. Simlins and himself in the saddle. "Now Miss Faith, you shall have a lesson in lynch-pins—s'il vous plait."

"You do beat all!" said Squire Deacon looking up from under his hat, and with a voice that kept his eyes company.

Faith looked very pretty as she turned her horse in obedience to the intimation given her, with a somewhat demure smile and blush upon her face. Mr. Simlins looked, as well as the Squire, with a different expression.

"Well, I guess you're about right!" was his answering remark. "I do believe he can get the whip hand of most things. He's a Say and Seal man, he says." To which, however, the Squire deigned no response. Stooping over his harness, fingering and fitting, he was silent a little; then spoke in a careless, half inquiring half assenting sort of way.

"What wonders me is, why he don't marry that girl out of hand. I reckon she'd follow him down that road as easy as she does down others. What's he waiting for?"

"I guess he haint pitched upon a likely place to settle yet,"—said Mr. Simlins, in a manner equally careless and devoid of reliable information. Squire Deacon gave a little inarticulate reply.

"He'd better hurry up—" he said,—"Dr. Harrison's giving chase."

"Is he?" said Mr. Simlins. "He'll be where the dog was when he chased the wolf—if he's spry. I shouldn't wonder."

"O—you think he's a wolf, do you?" said Mr. Deacon. "Well—the doctor's chance aint much the worse of that."

"Don't look very carnivorous," said Mr. Simlins, "but I aint sure. I wouldn't be so quick in my presumptions, Squire. You'll shoot the wrong game one of these days—if you haint already."

"Think so?" said the Squire. "Well, I aint after the game they are, any way, so it don't matter to me which of 'em gets her. Most folks say it's like to be the doctor,—she seems tryin' 'em both by turns."

The riders, on their part, had a short run back on the road they had come, to where there was a hedge and thicket and trees together; and Faith's horse being led close up to the side of the hedge, and she herself provided with a knife, she was free to cut as many lynch-pins as she chose. But at this point Faith handed back the knife. "I can't do it half so well," she said. "I would rather you did it, Mr. Linden."

"You would rather not do it?" he said looking at her. "Is no bread pleasant but that 'eaten in secret'?"

Faith coloured very much. "I didn't care about doing it, Mr. Linden, except to be useful, and for the enterprise of going off for it by myself. And I didn't care about that, more than two minutes."

"You know I had a charge about you before we came out," he said, taking the knife and bending down towards the hedge to use it. "But for that—or a like one in my own mind—you should have had your enterprise. There—I think that may serve the purpose."

The lynch-pin being delivered, the riders left the distressed wagon behind; and again the free road stretched before them; the soft air and light filled all the way and even the brown tree stems with pleasantness. The horses felt they had had a rest and pricked up their ears to be in motion again, and the minds of the riders perhaps felt a stir of the like kind.

"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "a German writer says, that 'one should every day read a fine poem, look upon an excellent picture, hear a little good music, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.'"

"Why do you tell that to me, Mr. Linden?"

"I consider it my duty to keep you well informed as to yours."

"But then!" said Faith, who by dint of trotting had got into as merry a mood as her gentleness often wore, "I hope you will also think it your duty, Mr. Linden, to tell me how I can perform mine. Will you?"

"Of course!—please speak a few sensible words to me at once."

"You begin with the easiest thing!" said Faith.

"Yes, I am generally considerate. But as it is part of my duty to hear a little good music, I am willing you should sing first."

Music he had, though not exactly of the specified sort; for Faith's laugh rolled along the road, like the chafing of silver pebbles in a brook.

"Now for the next part," said Mr. Linden smiling.

"I think I have done too much already," said Faith growing grave. "Besides," she added, the corners of her mouth all alive again, "I don't remember what the next part is, Mr. Linden."

"Why the sensible words!—what are the most sensible you can think of on a sudden, Miss Faith?"

"I don't know that I could think of anything very sensible on a sudden, Mr. Linden. Is it my duty to do it on sudden?"

"It might be, Miss Faith. Indeed I think it is now!"

"What would you like them to be about, Mr. Linden? and I'll try."

"Nay, you may choose: sense is of universal application."

"If I should say what was uppermost," said Faith, "it would be, How very pleasant what we are doing now, is!"

"Which part?"

"Both parts!—Every part! One makes the other more pleasant." And Faith's happy face looked so.

"Very sensible words!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "I agree to them perfectly,—which is, you know, in every mind, the great test of sense. The picture, Miss Faith, we have before us."

"Yes,—isn't it lovely to-day, Mr. Linden? and hasn't it been lovely ever since we set out? Except that broken harness—and I don't think that has hurt anything, either."

"No, I am not sure that even the harness was much the worse. And 'it' has been very lovely. As for the poem, Miss Faith, you cannot be trusted with that—and must resign yourself to hearing it read. What shall it be?"

"I don't know," said Faith. "I know hardly any poetry, Mr. Linden, except what I have heard you read. Will you read some, perhaps, this evening?"

"Yes—every evening, if you like,—if we are to follow Goethe's rule. Just before tea is a good time, don't you think so?"

"Yes indeed!" said Faith, whose colour rose from pure pleasure, as her thought went back to L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. "I don't think there is any time pleasanter for it. But they're all pleasant—I've dropped my whip, Mr. Linden!"—

"I will get it for you," he said checking his horse, "if you will promise not to run away! I am afraid of your 'enterprising' spirit, Miss Faith."

But her look at him was a little touched and deprecating. They turned their horses together and went back a few steps. There was no trouble in finding the whip, for just where it had been dropped, a boy stood holding it on high for Faith's acceptance The boy was Phil Davids.

"Thank you, Phil!" said Faith, surprised and grateful.

"I see it go out of your hand," said Phil.

"Yes," said. Mr. Linden—whose smile and word of thanks had accompanied Faith's,—"Phil has singularly quick eyes. They have done me good service before."

As they turned again, Farmer Davids stood at their horses' heads. They were just at the farmer's door, and he so entreated them to come 'in and rest,' that there was no refusing his hospitality. It was large, and various—Pumpkin pies and cider, and much pouring forth of gratitude and admiration for Mr. Linden's success with Phil.

"What have you done to that fellow?" his father remarked admiringly to Mr. Linden. "You never see such an alteration in a boy. He used—oncet—to talk hard words agin you, sir;—you won't mind hearing it now; but he's come all about, and lately there's nothing to Phil's mind can equal up to Mr. Linden. He don't say much about it, sir, but it's evident. And he's been at me and his mother this fortnight or two, to give him something to make a present to you—the boys do, he says; and he wants the best thing on the farm should go, and so do I, sir, if we knowed oncet what would be most favourable. It would be a kindness, sir, as I should be grateful for,—if you'd say what would do you most service or be most pleasure—of anything that is on the farm;—fruit or vegetables or dairy. We're plain folks, sir; I say what I mean. Take some pie, Mr. Linden!—some cider, sir?"

Answering these various questions and demands as best he might, Mr. Linden contrived to convince Mr. Davids that Phil himself was the thing "on the farm" that he cared most about; and his goodwill, better than any special manifestation thereof; giving at the same time full and grateful thanks for the other things that had come to him when he was ill.

"Yes," said Mr. Davids, smiling one of his grim and rare smiles,—"all that don't help our difficulty, you see. Well, Phil and I'll have to put our heads together. But there's one person can send nothing that will tell half his good feelings of gratefulness to you,—and that's me." And a very unwonted softening of the stern man's eye and brow shewed that he spoke a gentle truth.

Kind words answered him,—words of personal kindness and interest, and deep pleasure too; but Mr. Davids knew it was a pleasure, an interest, a kindness, that had each (like Samuel Rutherford's hope) "a face looking straight out unto that day!"

Truly, "a city that is set on an hill, cannot be hid!"

And the farmer felt it, and his manner softened, and his interest grew more wistful and intent with every minute they stayed.

Faith was on horseback and Mr. Linden about to follow, when Farmer Davids arrested him with a low remark and question.

"She's a fine-faced girl—looks as her father needn't ha' been ashamed of her. Looks good—like he did. Is she going to marry the son of Judge Harrison, sir?"

"Dr. Harrison has told me nothing of the kind."

"I heerd it"—said the farmer. "I didn't know nothing, how it might be. Good day, sir! I hope you'll come again." And they trotted off at last, with again the renewed feeling of liberty and pleasure of motion. But the sun had descended perceptibly nearer to the horizon than he was when they dismounted. However there was nothing to do but to ride, for the proposed route was a circuit and they were passed the first half of the way already.

"That was good, Mr. Linden," said Faith.

"Which part of it this time?"

"I don't mean the pumpkin pie and the cider," she said smiling.

"Do you feel rested?"

"Oh yes! Rested and tired too. At least, quite ready to move on again."

"Yes, so am I. But do you know Goethe left out one very important item in his daily directions?"

"What was that?"

"One should, if possible, every day give some one else a little pleasure."

"Yes!" said Faith. "And it's so true, and so easy. How much you gave there just now, Mr. Linden!"

"It was rather of their taking than my giving. But Miss Faith,

—'How necessary is it now-a-days, That each body live uprightly in all manner ways?'"

"Yes, Mr. Linden! What are you thinking of?"

"Just that—" he said smiling. "A thought of the darkness makes one want to trim the lights. Did you ever notice, Miss Faith, that many things which were written in a mere worldly sense, will bear a very sweet Christian application? Take this for instance:—

'Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he who runs it well, runs twice his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, that happy state, I would not fear nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night,— To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.'"

She listened with a bright face at first; then as the quotation was ended her face flushed, she turned her eyes away, and a grave look of sorrow crept over her lips. But in a little while she looked again.

"How many books do you carry about in your head, Mr. Linden?"

"If I should tell you, Miss Faith, then you would know—and then I could never delude you any more! Now we must quicken our pace, or we shall scarce get our poem before tea."

For awhile the trotting was pretty brisk, then they drew bridle again and went gently on, but now towards the setting sun, whose bright rays were caught and held by the white sails that gleamed here and there in the distance. Now they met lines of cattle, driven by some bare-footed boy or sun-bonneted girl, and ploughmen trudged along the road behind their teams. Thicker curls of smoke from wayside chimneys spoke of supper, and where a house stood in the shadow of some bit of forest, lights were already gleaming from the windows.

"How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise, and true perfection!"

Which bit of excellent eulogy might also have been true of Quapaw creek and the bridge over it, which they reached in seasonable time. Quapaw creek was here a little bit of a river, and the bridge over it was an insignificant little bridge—'no count,' in Squire Deacon's language. But now, of all times in the year, the little bridge was already full of more than it could hold, literally, for it couldn't hold what was upon it. A heavy farm-wagon loaded with some sort of produce had got fairly upon the bridge some hour or two before and then broken through; men and teams had for the present deserted it, and there was the way pretty effectually blocked up. What was to be done? They were not more now than a mile or two from home, but to go back and round by the nearest way would be several miles. The water was not very broad, nor generally deep; but the banks and the bed of the stream were uneven and strewn with rocks and stones, small and great. It was fordable, certainly; a good rider might cross well enough; but a good rider would scarce choose to trust an unskilful one there. What was to be done?

"We shall have to go back, Mr. Linden," said Faith;—"and you mustn't mind my riding fast now, or mother will be uneasy."

Mr. Linden took the case into consideration.

"Will you mind riding before me, Miss Faith?"

"What, sir?" she said, not understanding.

"Will you let me take you across?"

"How can you, Mr. Linden?" she said, looking a little startled, and flushing.

"Very easily—on my horse. Stay where you are a minute, and let me try the ford." And not waiting for an answer to that, he rode down the bank and into the stream. It was easy enough, for a man who knew what to do with his horse's mouth; not easy, nor perhaps safe for another. The footing needed to be chosen by the hand of the rider; so chosen it was good. Mr. Linden rode to the other side and came back.

"Will you try, Miss Faith?"

"Yes," she said, putting her horse in motion,—"I am not afraid. I will follow you. It will be better than going round." But his horse did not stir.

"I shall not follow you, Miss Faith,—and yet if you cross it must be before me. No other way is safe for you."

"Well, we can go round, can't we?" said Faith.

"Yes," he said,—as the sun dropped down behind the low horizon, and the cool shade fell on everything but the tree tops. "You know it is about six times as far. Are you afraid of my horse?"

"No, not when you hold him. I will do just what you please, Mr. Linden," she said, though her colour mounted.

"Then do not be afraid of me," he said, dropping his own bridle and gently disengaging the hand from hers. "Please take your foot out of the stirrup, Miss Faith—" and the transfer was made in a moment: she was lifted across the little space between the two horses, and seated in front of Mr. Linden, and held fast.

"Are you afraid?" he repeated, looking gravely down at her.

"No sir.—Not a bit, Mr. Linden," she said, throwing a little more warmth into her words, for the first had been spoken somewhat under breath. So leaving the one horse fastened to a tree-branch, the other set forward with his unwonted burden, which indeed at first he did not much approve; pricking his ears, and sidling about, with some doubtfulness of intent. But being after all a sensible horse, and apprehending the voice and rein suggestions which were made to him, he began to pick his way slowly and carefully among the stones on the bank, and then through the stones in the river; setting down his feet with great judgment and precaution, and paying no heed to the rushing and splashing of the little stream, except by his ears—which certainly worked, for once. And so the dangerous "pass" was soon behind them, and Mr. Linden dismounted and lifted Faith down, and seated her on a grey stone on the bank, while he went back for her horse. Which crossing, it may be observed, was accomplished much quicker than the last. The twilight was falling fast, and the little river, and the two horses as they forded its swift current, looked shadowy enough; set off by the white foam on both. The evening wind began its fitful stir, and swept the dry leaves past Faith's feet, and shook the cedar boughs above her head; and so she sat there, and watched the crossing.

"I have had the best picture to-day, Mr. Linden," she said, when she was placed in the saddle again. "You ought to have seen the river, and you and the two horses coming over it, in this light, as I did. You don't know how pretty it was. Now you'll let me ride fast, won't you?—for mother will be looking for us."

"As fast as you please—but after all, you have not seen my picture," he said smiling.

Faith profited by the permission given and put her horse to a pace that proved she was very much in earnest to prevent that "looking for them" on Mrs. Derrick's part. She got out of the trot into a canter—or her horse did—and then away they flew; too fast to see or be hindered by any more friends or foes; till they drew bridle at home.

It was too late to have the reading before tea. So to have tea as speedily as possible was the next object. And then they adjourned to the fire-lit sitting-room, where Faith lighted the lamp in uncertainty whether reading or studies was to be the next move. Mr. Linden, however, went for his book—a little old volume, of which Faith had never taken notice; and began, without doubt, the prettiest description of a garden that ever was written;—

"How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays:"—etc.

The reader paused a moment, to tell more particularly what these leafy honours were, and then went on.

"Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude."

At which words precisely, the spirit of contrariety opened the door and ushered in Dr. Harrison. All he saw, was Mr. Linden with a book, in one easy-chair; Mrs. Derrick with her knitting in another; and a little further off, Faith, sitting on her low cushion and apparently doing nothing. Probably for that reason the doctor made up to her first. He sat down beside her, and enquired in a low tone how the fishes were? Faith answered that they were well; only one of them had been eaten up by the others.

"You are a little tired and are feeling remarkably well to-night," the doctor went on. "What have you been doing?"

"I have been trying to do my duty," Faith said colouring and laughing.

"Don't you always do that?" said Dr. Harrison looking at her enquiringly.

"But I didn't know what it was till to-day."

"You are doing what is very uncommon with you," said the doctor—"fighting me with my own weapons." His smile was pleasant though acute; but Faith coloured exceedingly.

"I can't tell you exactly what duty I mean," she said, "but Mr. Linden can."

"Do you take your notions of duty from him?"

"To-day,"—said Faith with a smile, sweet and with spirit enough too.

"I maintain that duties are facts, not notions," said Mr. Linden.

"Hum—" said the doctor turning,—"Now you are too quick for me. May one not have a notion of a fact?"

"One may. What are your notions about society and solitude?"

"Of duty in those regards?"

"Not at all,—your notions of those facts."

"Confused—" said the doctor,—"Incomprehensible—Melancholy—and Distracting!"

He had got up and assumed the position he seemed to like, a standing-place on the rug, from whence he could look down on everybody.

"What do you say to this?—

'Two paradises were in one, To live in Paradise alone.'—

I suppose that meets your 'notions.'"

"No," said the doctor,—"not unless Eve were the paradise. And even then, I shouldn't want her any more to myself than to let all the world come and see that she was mine."

"It is a grave question," said Mr. Linden, "whether paradise becomes smaller by being divided. In other words, whether after sharing it with Eve, Adam still retained the whole of it for himself!"

"Just the other way!" said the doctor,—"it was doubled—or trebled. For in the first place he had Eve; she was a second paradise;—then all her enjoyment of paradise was his enjoyment; that was a third;—and in short I should think the multiplication might go on ad infinitum—like compound interest or any other series of happiness impossible to calculate."

"Simple interest isn't a bad thing," said Mr. Linden.

"Yes," said the doctor with an answering flash of his eye, "but it never contented anybody yet that could get it compound—that ever I heard of. Does Miss Derrick understand arithmetic?"

"Miss Derrick," said Mr. Linden, "how many angels can stand on the point of a (darning) needle without jostling each other?"

"Don't be deluded into thinking that is arithmetic," said the doctor. "Some of them would get their feet hurt. What duty has Mr. Linden been persuading you to do to-day?"

"Mr. Linden can tell," said Faith.

Which appeal Mr. Linden answered by deliberately finishing his poem aloud, for the benefit of the company.

"'What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, the curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.'

'Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.'" etc.

The doctor listened, faithfully and enjoyingly; but his finishing comment was,

"What a pity it is November!"

"No," said Faith—"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July."

"Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?"

"It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith.

"What have you got there, Linden?"

"Various old poets, bound up together."

"What was that you read?"

"Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'"

"It's a famous good thing!—though I confess my soul never 'glided into the boughs' of any tree when my body didn't go along. Apropos—Do you like to be on the back of a good horse?"

"Why yes," said Mr. Linden, "when circumstances place me there."

"Will you let me be a circumstance to do it? I have an animal of that description—with almost the facility of motion possessed by Andrew Marvell's soul. Will you try him?"

"Can he run?" said Mr. Linden with comic demureness.

"Fleetly. Whether away with you depends, you know, on what I have no knowledge of; but I should think not."

"I should like to know beforehand—" said Mr. Linden in the same tone. "However—Is it to be on simple or compound interest, doctor?"

"I never take simple interest," said Dr. Harrison. "I want all I can get."

"Well if I take your horse, what will you ride alongside of me?"

"That is easily arranged," said the doctor smiling. "This fellow is a new-comer, comparatively, and a pet of mine. I want to know what you think of him. When is your next time of leisure?"

"My daylight leisure is pretty limited now. Part of Saturday I could take."

"Then you'll hold yourself engaged to me for Saturday morning,—and I'll hold myself engaged to give you some thing pleasant to do with it. The roads hereabout are good for nothing but riding—you can have the pleasure of motion, there isn't much to take your thoughts away from it."

"Except emotion?"

"If you're another Marvell of a man, and can send your soul into the boughs as you pass;—as good as stumbling on melons," said the doctor. "Unless your horse stumbles!"

"I see his character is coming out by degrees," said Mr. Linden smiling.

"He's as sure-footed—as you are! Here comes emotion—in the shape of my aunt Ellen. Isn't Mr. Linden a careful man?" he asked whimsically in a low voice, returning to his place by Faith. The question touched Faith's feeling of the ludicrous, and she only laughed at the doctor. Which he liked very well.

Mrs. Somers' errand was to invite the younger portion of the company to spend Christmas evening with her. And having succeeded in her mission, she made the doctor take her home.



CHAPTER XXXIII.



The week thereafter passed with the usual quiet business of those days. Friday evening, however, when the lamp was lit, instead of opening her books at once, Faith took the doctor's station on the rug.

"Dr. Harrison has been here this afternoon, Mr. Linden; and asked me to go with you and him in the ride to-morrow."

"Well, Miss Faith?"

"I was afraid at first that it might hinder the good of your ride, if I went; but Dr. Harrison said no; and he put it so that at last I said I would. But I am afraid of it still."

"How did he put it?"

"I don't know," said Faith half laughing;—"in a way that left me no excuse; as if he thought it would be more pleasure both to you and to him, to have me along."

"Miss Faith, if you go, you must give me leave to keep very near you. I trust my own care better than Dr. Harrison's. You will understand why I do it?" Faith did not understand very well.

"I supposed of course, Mr. Linden, you would be very near! I knew mother would not let me go to ride with Dr. Harrison, but with you I thought she would not be afraid."

He looked at her a little doubtfully—as if he wanted to say something; but whatever it might be, it was not what he did say,—a quiet

"I will try and take care of you. Miss Faith." Which words were afterwards enlarged upon.

"Miss Faith, may I trust that you will not fall behind my 'fleet' horse to-morrow?"

"Do you mean, if he goes very fast?" said Faith, with questioning eyes.

"His speed shall not put you to any inconvenience. Indeed it may chance that he will be obliged to go slower than you like,—in which case, Miss Faith, I hope your liking will change."

The doctor came the next day in a gay mood.

"I told you," said he, "I shouldn't be content with simple interest—I wanted compound. I hope you approve of my addition to our plan?"

"So far so good," Mr. Linden said smiling.

They went out, and Mr. Linden's first move was towards the horse with the side saddle; not with the intention of mounting him, however: but a more particular, thorough, systematic examination of every buckle and strap of his harness, that particular horse had never had. Then Mr. Linden turned and held out his hand to Faith.

She gave him hers with a facile readiness that quite precluded interposition, and testified either that she had expected it or had not expected it; most probably the latter. Dr. Harrison bit his lips, but that was a second's emotion; his next step was to dismiss the groom who stood at the horse's head and take that office on himself.

"You are more careful than is absolutely necessary in this case," said he smiling. "This horse, Miss Faith, is the mate, I presume, of the one Job used to take his exercise upon. I chose him for you, thinking of Mrs. Derrick.—Give 'Stranger' to Mr. Linden!"—The last words being a direction to the groom.

A very different creature was Stranger! If it had been the purpose of Dr. Harrison to give his friend so much to do with his own particular affairs that he would have no leisure to bestow on those of other people, he had chosen the horse at least well. A very fine and beautiful animal, he deserved all the praise given him for facility of motion; no feet could disdain the ground more daintily; no carriage be more absolutely springy and soft. But the mischief and spirit of both the runaways combined would not match his case. He did not indeed appear to be vicious, any further than a most vehement desire to please himself and that in all manner of eccentric ways, totally irrelevant to the purpose of getting ahead on the road or serving the will of his rider, might be called vice. It rather seemed the spirit of power in full play. However it were, there was no lack of either 'motion' or 'emotion' during the first half mile of the way; for Stranger's manner of getting over so much of the ground was continually either calling Faith's blood into her cheeks, or driving it out from them.

They were well matched, however, the horse and the rider,—and the spirit of power in equal exercise. Neither did Mr. Linden seem averse to the play—though Stranger presently found that what play he indulged in, was clearly matter of concession; his name, as regarded his rider, soon lost its point. On the whole, the performance came as near the 'Centaurship' declared impossible by Dr. Harrison, as most things have in modern times; but so far as the doctor had any stake depending upon Stranger's antics, so far he lost. Mr. Linden had never seemed more absolutely at leisure to attend to other people's affairs, and had rarely, it may be said, attended to them more thoroughly, than during that 'springy' half mile. An occasional Pas seul round the minuet of his companions, rather heightened the effect. On another score, too, perhaps the doctor lost; for whatever efforts he made, or she made, it was simply impossible for Faith to attend to anything else whatever with any show of consecutiveness, but the said horse and his rider. An attention sufficiently accounted for in the first place by the startled changes of colour in her face; latterly the colour rose and became steady, and a little varying play of smile on lip and eye during the third quarter of a mile attested the fact that other "emotions" had displaced that of fear. Clearly the doctor had lost upon Stranger.

"How do you like him?" he said at last speaking across Faith who was not "good" for conversation.

"Very much."

"I see you do—and he likes you, which is, to be sure, a correlative position. As I see he don't fill your hands, may I impose upon you the care of my sister? We are an uneven number you are aware, and as I thought it desirable not to look odd, I gave her permission to go with us."

Dr. Harrison did not see—if Faith did—the tiniest bit of a glance that sought her face while he was speaking; but nothing could be easier than the terms in which Mr. Linden declared himself ready to take charge of any number of ladies,—it was only equalled by Stranger's bound the next minute.

How dismayed one of the party was at this addition of Miss Harrison's company, nobody guessed. They turned in at Judge Harrison's gate, and found Miss Sophy all ready for them. But to Faith, the play was suddenly taken out of "the play." She and Dr. Harrison set forward to be sure, over a pleasant road, in delicious weather; the doctor was in one of his balmiest moods; and though quietly, she was very well mounted. It was pleasant, or would have been pleasant; but all the while, what was Stranger doing behind her that she could not see! Then in answering some kindly, graceful remark of the doctor's, Faith chid herself for ungratefulness, and roused herself to give and take what good was in her power.

The ride was pleasant after that! The air in all its calm sweetness was well tasted; the barren landscape, never barren to Faith's eyes, was enjoyed at every step. Her horse went agreeably, and the talk between her and Dr. Harrison grew interesting and enlivening.

Meanwhile Mr. Linden's horse and his companion were at the antipodes—of each other. Thoroughly good and estimable as Miss Harrison was, she never left the beaten track,—and Stranger never kept in it. Between these two opposites Mr. Linden amused himself as best he might. To do him justice he tried his best to amuse his companion.

Several miles of way had been passed over, when in a broad grassy reach of the road, the two riders ahead fell back upon the rest of the party; Faith taking Miss Harrison's side, while the doctor drew up by Mr. Linden.

"How does it go?" he said good humouredly.

"What is the impersonal in this case?" said Mr. Linden, while Stranger snorted and bounded, and by every means in his power requested the doctor to keep at a distance.

"A conglomerate, for which I found no better term. You, Stranger, and my sister, and the world generally."

"Stranger is in a sufficiently ardent mood, for his share—he gives me a fine view of the country," said Mr. Linden, as the creature brought himself to a tolerably erect position, and seemed to like it so well as to be in no hurry to come down; and when he did, took the precaution to take his hind feet off the ground before the fore feet touched. "Miss Faith—how does this agree with your ideal of Melancholy?"

Faith forgot to answer, or thought answers impertinent.

"That horse frightens me out of my wits," said Miss Harrison. "I have been jumping out of the saddle half the time, since I came out. Sometimes he'll go very quietly—as nice as anybody—and then he'll play such a caper as he did then. That was just because Julius came up alongside of him. He had been going beautifully this last mile. I wish he'd have nothing to do with such a creature!"

"I suppose he's very pleasant to ride," said Faith eying the creature.

Perhaps Stranger—with his full, wild eyes, took note of this look of partial favour, for he backed a little from the doctor, and came dancing round by Faith, and there danced along at her side for a few minutes; evidently in an excited state of mind. His rider meanwhile, gave Faith a quiet word of admonition about keeping so loose a rein, and asked, in the same half undertone, if she felt tired?

"O no!" Faith said with a look of thanks and pleasure.

"That piece of care I must trust in your hands—don't forget that I do so trust it. How would you like to cross Quapaw creek on this piece of quicksilver?"

"I don't think you'd like to have me!" Faith said very decidedly. "I never saw anything so beautiful, quite, Mr. Linden—that I recollect at this minute," she added smiling.

"I want to dance with you to-day—more than I ever did before," he answered, smiling too. "Miss Faith, if you have not yet said the 'few sensible words,' or if you have any left, won't you please say them to me?"

"That question comes like a constable upon all my sense," said Faith laughing, "and it feels as I suppose a man does when he is clapped on the shoulder."

"But then the man cannot run away, you know."

"Nor my sense don't," said Faith,—"that I know of,—but it feels as if it hadn't possession of itself, Mr. Linden."

"Well see if it is equal to this demand—What would be the consequences if you and I were to start off and scour the country 'on our own hook,' as people say?"

"I think 'our hook' would draw two people after us," said Faith, looking very much amused and a little afraid of being overheard.

"That is a melancholy fact! And my self-indulgence needs to be kept in check. Miss Faith," he said dropping his voice still more, "Stranger regrets very much that he must now go through that figure of the cotillion called 'Ladies change'!" And with a low and laughing bow, Mr. Linden reined back his horse and returned to his former place with all the soberness that circumstances allowed.

There was no soberness whatever in the face with which Faith recommenced her tete-a-tete with Miss Harrison. The doctor was perfectly in order.

"I have been thinking," he said, "since my question of how the world went with you, what a very insignificant thing, as to extent, 'the world' of any one person is."

"Compared with the universe," said Mr. Linden.

"What sort of a world have you got into?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat impatiently. "No—the actual extent of your and my consciousness—of that field of action and perception which we magnificently call our world! What a mighty limited field it is!"

"I think you describe it correctly," said Mr. Linden: "it is both mighty and limited. A little space railed off for every man—and yet larger than that man can ever fill."

"It seems to me too insignificant to be worth filling."

"There is a little outlet on every side that makes it impossible to fill!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that while our action at every step touches other people, and their consequent action moves on with like effect, the limits of our power in this world can never be known."

"Will you think me impertinent if I ask once more what you mean?—or rather, ask you to enlarge a little?"

"If a man plants the first clover seed or thistle-down in some great continent," said Mr. Linden, "from whose little field is it, that in a hundred years the whole land bears thistles or clover?"

"It won't," said the doctor, "if a hundred other things are sown at the same time. And so it seems to me in life—that one action is counteracted by another, universally,—and nothing makes anything!—of any avail."

"If nothing is of any avail, things don't counteract each other. You are proving my position."

The doctor smiled, not unpleasantly.

"I see," he said, "you can maintain any position you choose to take,—on the ground or in the air! I must give way to you on this ground." And Dr. Harrison reined back his horse and came into Faith's neighbourhood.

"Miss Derrick, the road is getting too contracted for such a procession—will you draw bridle?"

"I don't want to ride behind, Dr. Harrison," said Faith looking laughingly back at him. "I'll go on in front." Which she did, so briskly that the doctor had to bestir himself to come up with her.

"I didn't know," he said, and he spoke somewhat in earnest,—"I didn't know that you cared anything about eminence or preeminence."

"Didn't you, Dr. Harrison?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know—" said Faith gravely. "Eminence?—yes, I should care very much for that, in some things. Not for preeminence, I think. There's Mr. Simlins!—and I must speak to him." Faith's horse which had been on an easy canter, came to a stand; and so must the doctor. Mr. Simlins too was on horseback.

"Mr. Simlins," said Faith after giving him her hand, "will you have half a day's leisure Monday or Tuesday?"

"Leisure?" said the farmer with his best growl—"no, I sha'n't have it if you take it."

"Do you think I may take it?"

"I don't suppose there's anybody that can hinder you," said Mr. Simlins—"without excepting my own identity. I can't. Do you want to go up yonder again?"

The doctor interposed to make offers of his father's horses, carriage, and servants; but Faith quietly negatived them all.

"How did you get home the other night?" said the farmer. "Did you get over the river?" Then shifting his ground as Miss Harrison and Stranger came up into the group, he changed his question.

"I say Mr. Linden!—I heerd Quapaw creek was choked up the other night—how did you get home?"

"The same way I expect to now," said Mr. Linden. "How did you, Mr. Simlins."

"The harness was all right," said Mr. Simlins—"if anything else was in a disorganized state, 'twas somebody's fault besides yourn. That lynch-pin made trouble though; it didn't fit more places than one. Did you get across Quapaw creek on your horses?"

"Do you suppose I crossed on foot?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Do you take me for a witch, Mr. Simlins?"

"I haven't just made up my mind about that," said the farmer. "I've a temptation to think you air. What's that you're on?"

"Only a broomstick in disguise, Mr. Simlins. As he belongs to Dr. Harrison, I am willing to own so much."

"He's as well-shaped a broomstick as ever I see," said the farmer consideratively. "I shouldn't mind puttin' him in harness. Well good-day! I'm glad this girl didn't have to go all round again the other night—I was afeard she had. I'll take you over creation," he sung out after her as they parted company,—"and I'll be along Monday."

"Quapaw creek?" said Dr. Harrison, as the interrupted procession took up its line of march again,—"I think I remember that. What was the matter?"

"The bridge was broken, with a loaded wagon upon it," Faith explained.

"And you crossed by fording?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it rather a difficult ford? If I remember right, the bed of the stream is uneven and rough; doesn't it require some guiding of the horses?"

"I believe so—yes. It isn't safe for an ignorant rider."

"I didn't give you credit," said he looking at her, "for being such a horsewoman. That is quite a feat for a lady."

Faith coloured high. But she was not going a second time to fight the doctor "with his own weapons." A very little she hesitated, then she said boldly, though not in very bold tones it must be confessed,—

"I am not a horsewoman—Mr. Linden carried me over."

The doctor looked very moody for a few minutes; then his brow brightened. Faith's straightforward truth had served her as well as the most exquisite piece of involution. The doctor could not very well see the face with which her words were spoken and had to make up his mind upon them alone.

"It is so!" was his settled conclusion. "She has only a child's friendly liking for him—nothing more—or she never, simple as she is, would have said that to me with that frankness!"

Moodiness returned to the doctor's brow no more. He left Quapaw creek in the distance and talked of all manner of pleasant things. And so, with no second break of the order of march, they went on and went home.

"Mr. Linden," said Faith when she was lighting the lamp for study in the evening,—"you'll never ask anything of me so hard to do as that was to-day."

"Hard?" he replied. "Why?"

"To keep in front, where I could not see you and that horse."

"Miss Faith! I am very sorry!—But you know I had you in charge—I felt bound to keep you in sight."

"I know,"—she said; and sat down to her work.



CHAPTER XXXIV.



There was no more riding after that—the weather grew too cold, and Mattabeeset was put off till spring; but with walks and talks and reading aloud, Goethe's maxim was well carried out. For there is music that needs no composer but Peace, and fireside groups that are not bad pictures in stormy weather. And so December began to check off its short days with busy fingers.

There came a sudden interruption to all this, except December's part of it. For a letter arrived from Miss Delia Danforth, at Pequot, begging that Faith would come and spend a little time with her. Miss Delia was very unwell, and suffering and alone, with the exception of her brother's French wife; and she wrote with longing desire to see Faith. Mr. Danforth had been some years dead, and the widow and the sister who had lived so long together with him, since his death had kept their old household life, in a very quiet way, without him. But now Miss Danforth longed for some of her own kindred, or had a special liking or desire for Faith's company, for she prayed her to come. And it was not a call that Faith herself a moment doubted about answering. Mrs. Derrick's willingness lingered, for various natural reasons; but that too followed. It was clear that Faith ought not to refuse.

The day before she was to go, Mrs. Derrick made her self unusually busy and tired, so as to spare Faith's study-time; and thus it fell out, that when night came and prayers were over, Mrs. Derrick went straight to bed; partly from fatigue, partly to be ready for an early start next day; for she was to drive Faith over to Pequot. No such need or inducements sent Faith to bed; and the two students planned a longer evening of work than common, to anticipate lost time. But when the hours were about half spent, Cindy came to the door and called out, "Miss Faith!"—Faith left her book and went to the door, which she held open.

"There was a boy come to-night," said Cindy, "from that old starvation creatur' down by Barley point, and he says she's more in a box than ever. Haint a crumb of bread for breakfast—nor supper neither, for that."

"Is the boy here now?"

"Why sakes no!" said Cindy. "He come while you was to supper. I s'pose I might ha' telled ye before, but then again I was busy bakin' cakes—and I'm free to confess I forgot. And prayers always does turn everything out of ray head. I can't guess how I thought of it now. Mr. Skip's away to-night, too," said Cindy in conclusion. Faith shut the door behind her.

"It's too far for you to go alone. Can you find somebody to go with you, Cindy? I'll put up a basket of things for her."

"Aint a soul in sight—" said Cindy. "I'd as lieves go the hull way alone as to snoop round, hunting folks."

"Then Cindy, if you'll get ready I'll go with you. She must have something."

Cindy looked at her. "Guess you better get fixed first, Miss Faith. 'Taint hardly worth my while, I reckon. Who shouldn't we have after us!"

"Just have your shawl and bonnet ready, Cindy, will you?" said Faith gravely,—"and I'll be ready in a very few minutes."

She went with business speed to pantry and cellar, and soon had a sizeable basket properly filled. Leaving that in Cindy's charge, Faith went back to the sitting-room, and came and stood by the table, and said quietly, "I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Linden. I must be busy in another way. I am going out for a little while."

"May I ask—not from curiosity—with whom?" he said looking up at her.

"With Cindy—to attend to some business she didn't tell me of in proper time." Faith had laid her books together and was going off. Mr. Linden rose from the table.

"With me, if you please, Miss Faith. I will not intrude upon your business."

"It's no business to be intruded upon!" she said with her simple look into his face. "But Cindy and I can do it. Please do not let me take you away! I am not afraid—much."

"Miss Faith, you want a great many lessons yet!—and I do not deserve this. Don't you know that in Mrs. Derrick's absence I am guardian of her house—and of you? I will go with you, or without you—just as you choose," he added smiling. "If you would rather study than walk, you shall. Is the business too intricate for me to manage?"

"It's only to carry some things to an old woman who is in great want of them. They can't wait till to-morrow. If you will go, Mr. Linden,—I'll be ready in a minute. I'd like to go."

She ran to get ready, and Mr. Linden went to the kitchen and took the basket from Cindy, and then waited at the front door till Faith came, and they went out into the moonlight together. A very bright moonlight, and dark shadows—dark and still; only one of them seemed to move; but that one made Faith glad of her change of companions. Perhaps it made the same suggestion to Mr. Linden, for his first words looked that way.

"Miss Faith, you did not do quite right, to-night. Don't you know—" with a gentle half smiling tone—"you must not let anything make you do wrong?"

Her look and tone were both very confiding, and touched with timidity.

"Did I, Mr. Linden? I didn't mean it."

"I know that—but you must remember for another time." And he went off to other subjects, giving her talk and information that were perhaps better than books. The walk was good, too; the air bracing, and the village sights and sounds in a subsiding glimmer and murmur. The evening out of doors was worth as much as the evening within doors could have been. Faith thought so. The way was down the road that led to Barley point, branching off from that. The distance to the poor cottage seemed short enough, but if it had seemed long Faith would have felt herself well paid—so much was the supply needed, so joyfully was it received. The basket was left there for Mr. Skip to bring home another time, and at a rather late hour in the evening the return walk began.

The night was sharp and frosty, and still, now, with a depth of silence. The moon, high and full, beamed down in silver splendour, and the face of the earth was all white or black. The cold, clear light, the sharp shadows angling and defining everything, the absolute stillness—how well they chimed!—and chime they did, albeit noiselessly. In that bracing air the very steps of the two homeward bound people seemed to spring more light and elastic, and gave little sound. They went on together with a quick even step,—the very walking was pleasant. For a while they talked busily too,—then Thought came in and claimed her place, and words ceased.

They had left the turn to the belt of woods, and were now passing one or two empty fields where low hedges made a black line of demarcation, and the moonlight seemed even whiter than before. Faith was on the side next the road, and both a little way out, for the walking was smoother and dryer.

How it was done Faith could not tell—the next two seconds seemed full of separate things which she remembered afterwards—but her hand was disengaged from Mr. Linden's arm, and he was standing before her and she behind him, almost before she had fairly seen a little flash of red light from the hedge before them. A sharp report—a powdery taint on the sweet air, came then to give their evidence—to what?

That second past, Mr. Linden turned, but still standing so as to shield her, and laid both hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" he said, in a voice lowered by feeling, not intent.

One bewildered instant she stood mute—perhaps with no breath for words; the next minute, with a motion too unexpected and sudden to be hindered, lifting both hands she threw his off, bounded to one side to be clear of him, and sprang like a gazelle towards the spot where the red flash had caught her eye. But she was caught and stopped before she reached it, and held still—that same shield between her and the hedge.

"Did it touch you?" Mr. Linden repeated.

"No—Let me! let me!"—she said eagerly endeavouring to free herself.

He was silent a moment—a deep drawn breath the only reply; but he did not loose his hold.

"My dear child," he said, "you could find nothing—for what would you go?"—the tone was very gentle, even moved. "You must walk on before me as quick as you can. Will you promise to do it? I will keep you in sight."

"Before you?—no. What are you going to do? Are you touched?"—Her voice changed as she went on.

"I am not hurt—and mean to do nothing to-night but follow you home. But give me your promise, Miss Faith,—you must not stand here."

"Why in front? will they be behind us?"

"I must have you in sight—and I will not have you near me." And letting go his hold he said, almost imperatively,

"I will trust you. Walk on before me!—Miss Faith, you must not delay a moment."

"I will go with you," she said low, and clinging to his arm.—"Your safety is in being near me. I will not delay. Come!"—

But the hand was taken off again, and held in both his while he spoke.

"I will not have you anywhere near me! If you do not walk on far in front, I shall,—and keep watch of you as best I can." And he let go her hand, and stepped back with a quick pace that soon put some distance between them. She stood still a moment, looking, and then sprang back till she reached him; speaking with a low vehemence that did not seem like Faith.

"I will not do it, Mr. Linden—I will not! I will not!—Come, come! don't stay here!"—

Whatever Mr. Linden felt at that appeal—and he was not a man to feel it lightly—his words lost none of their firmness.