Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work. Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come—and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;—what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in.

"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,—"you're the very person I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made? What'll it be, to begin with?—I always do like to begin with that—and it's bothered me a good deal—not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,—and lace is different from 'em both—and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together.

"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?"

"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,—but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith—would you work it with red flowers or green?—I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day—O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the apron.

"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,—"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac."

"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,—aprons and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I have worked in my day!—but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."

"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.

"Why no, child, because I never take any more,—that's the way not to have things—troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?—when one hasn't eyes—for sewing or crying. Mrs. Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie—and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,—send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."

"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day—instead of bread and milk;—some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember," said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,—"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"

"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac—"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?—and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!—who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards—and of course he would wear anything you made.—I'll go right off and get my patterns."

Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least.

"Stop!—Miss Bezac!—you don't understand me. I want work!—I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!—" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were.

"Well then—how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody? Want work, Faith?—you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon's true? Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"—which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,—"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say that's a mercy too—and this,—though I wouldn't believe it last night."

"Then you have heard it?"

"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,—though I do get out of patience with them now and then."

"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will—what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;—no way to make money, I mean."

For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,—then she roused up.

"Nothing to live upon but butter!"—she said,—"well that's not much,—at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else. And what you want you must have—if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work—and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on—and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believe this'll suit him though—and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?"

"What you please—what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?"

"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give you this apron, Faith—I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See—this is nice and light and pretty—like the baby it's for,—you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes."

"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,—"I think that what God gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,—and I am sure I am willing. He knows best."

"Yes, yes, my dear—I believe that,—and so I do most things you say," answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?—because if you don't, say so."

"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss Bezac!"

"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,—"and what you can't, you can't—all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast—that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!—lay you up in lavender,—like my work when it's done and isn't gone home."

So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented.

A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.

Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.

Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business.

"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle.

"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what that'll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."

"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"

"Nothing at all," said the Squire,—"not a cent."

"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.

"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,—"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."

"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—I mean about the house. We can pay for it."

"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough—if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,—I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?"

"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read.

"No my dear, I don't—though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybe you did. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it—what do you suppose is the reason?"

"I don't think there can be any, sir."

"Must be!" said the Squire,—"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,—it was always, 'Hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!—My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know—will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer.



CHAPTER XXXV.



Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company than usual, this summer.

By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither worse nor better,—there was no news to send. Everything else the letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.

So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the needles were at work.

There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply Mr. Skip's place—he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for the first month,—that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,—the morning light shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.

The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly, the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw—that lay idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him, Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr. Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her voice joined in.

For a minute Reuben did not hear her,—then in some pause of arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling it. But he did not speak—nor even thought to say good morning; only pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence.

"Reuben!"—said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very attitude as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!—her knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith."

Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him.

"Reuben—what are you about?"

"Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"—with a half laugh then.

"I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.)

"I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith."

"Now you are caught and found—do you know what your punishment will be?"

Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess.

"You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every morning."

"O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,—"thank you very much, Miss Faith."

"It is necessary," said Faith gravely;—"and you are not to thank me for what you don't like."

"It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching up a stick of hickory.

"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or—I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough.

"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"

"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?—but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest—he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended.

August went on,—Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,—Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids.

"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired.

From Germany news came at last,—but it was of the sort that one can bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her. And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America, there was but one thing he could do—finish his course in a German University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No question now of fall or winter or spring,—summer was the first time that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was beginning his work anew in a foreign land.

It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet.

Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet meant—it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again.

"And I sha'n't see him again till——." It gave Faith a great pang. That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too very happy."—And after a few such talks with herself Faith went straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as cheerfully.

It was not long after this, that passing Mr. Simlins' gate one afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not prevent his carrying her off into the house.

"'Twont hurt you to rest a minute—and 'twont hurt me," said he. "Why I haint seen you since——How long do you s'pose folks can live and not see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins to give us something good for tea."

"What would mother do for hers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith resisting this invitation.

"Well you can sit down anyhow, and read to me," said Mr. Simlins, who had already taken a seat himself in preparation for it. "People can't get along without light from one phenomenon or the other, you know, Faith."

She took off her bonnet, and brought the Bible. "What do you want, Mr. Simlins?" her sweet voice said meaningly.

"Fact is," said the farmer rather sorrowfully, "I s'pose I want about everything! I don't feel to know much more'n a baby—and there aint more'n three grains of corn to the bushel in our minister's preachin'. I go to meetin' and come home with my head a little more like a bell than 'twas; for there's nothing more in it but a ringin' of the words I've heerd. Do you mind, Faith, when somebody—I don't know whether you or I like him best—wanted me to try a new kind of farming?—you mind it? I guess you do. It never went out o' my head again, till I set out to try;—and now I find I don't know nothin' at all how to work it!"

"What is the trouble, dear Mr. Simlins?" said Faith looking up.

The farmer hesitated, then said low and huskily, "I don't know what to do about joinin' the church."

"The Bible says, 'If a man love God, the same is known of him,'"—Faith answered softly.

"Well, but can't it be known of him without that? Fact is, Faith, I'm afeard!"—and a rough hand was drawn across the farmer's eyes—"I'm afeard, if I do, I'll do something I hadn't ought to do, and so only just dishonour the profession—and I'd better not have anything to do with it!"

Faith turned back the leaves of the Bible.

"Listen to what God said to Joshua, Mr. Simlins, when he was going to lead the people of Israel over into a land full of enemies.—

'Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.'"

"It's easy to say 'be strong'," said the farmer after pausing a minute,—"but how are you going to contrive it?"

Faith read from the Psalms; and her words fell sweeter every one. "'In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.' That is what David says, Mr. Simlins; and this is Isaiah's testimony.—'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.'"

"Go ahead, Faith!"—said the farmer, who was sitting with his head down in his hands. "You aint leavin' me much of a corner to hide in. Turn down a leaf at them places."

Faith was still again, turning over leaves.

"Paul was in trouble once, Mr. Simlins, and prayed earnestly about something; and this is what he says of the Lord's answer to him.—'And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.'—'When I am weak, then am I strong.'—And in another place—'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'"

"But he wa'n't much like me," said Mr. Simlins "he was an apostle and had inspiration. I hain't none."

"He was a man, though," said Faith, "and a weak one, as you see he calls himself. And he prays for the Christians at Ephesus, that God would grant them 'to be strengthened with might by his Spirit;' and they were common people. And the Bible says 'Be strong in the Lord and in the power of his might;'—we aren't bid to be strong in ourselves; but here again, 'Strengthened with might, according to his glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness.' Won't that do?" said Faith softly.

"Have you put marks in all them places?" said the farmer.

"I will."

"If that don't do, I s'pose nothing will," said Mr. Simlins. "They're mighty words! And they've stopped my mouth."

Faith was silently marking the places. The farmer sat looking at her.

"You do know the Scripturs—I can say that for you!" he remarked.

"No, Mr. Simlins!—" said Faith looking up suddenly, "I don't know this string of passages of myself. Mr. Linden shewed them to me," she said more softly and blushing. She went on with what she was about.

"Well don't he say you like to speak truth rayther than anything else?" said the farmer. "If he don't, I wouldn't give much for his discretion. When's he going to have leave to take you away, Faith?" It was half sorrowfully spoken, and though Faith rose up and blushed, she did not answer him quickly.

"My business must take me away now, sir;—good night."

But Mr. Simlins shouted to Jem Waters, had the wagon up, put Faith in with infinite care and tenderness, and sent her home so.

One rainy, stormy, wild equinoctial day in the end of September—not long after that letter had come, Squire Stoutenburgh came to the door. Faith heard him parleying with her mother for a minute—heard him go off, and then Mrs. Derrick entered the sitting-room, with her eyes full of tears and her heart, at least, full of a little package,—it did not quite fill her hands.

"Pretty child!" she said, "I'm so thankful!"—and she went straight off to the kitchen, and the little package lay in Faith's lap. The thick brown paper and wax and twine said it had come a long way. The rest the address told. It was a little square box, the opening of which revealed at first only soft cotton; except, in one corner, there was an indication of Faith's infallible blue ribband. Fastened to that, was a gold locket. Quite plain, alike on both sides, the tiny hinge at one edge spoke of a corresponding spring. That touched, Faith found Mr. Linden. Admirably well done and like, even to the expression, which had probably struck the artist's fancy; for he had contrived to represent well both the pleasure and the pain Mr. Linden had felt in sitting for this picture, for such a reason. The dress was that of the German students—such as he was then wearing.

Faith had never guessed—till her wondering fingers had persuaded the locket to open—she had never guessed what she should find there; at the utmost she looked to find a lock of hair; and the joy was almost as overwhelming as a little while ago pain had been. Faith could hardly see the picture for a long time; she called herself foolish, but she cried and laughed the harder for joy; she reproached herself for past ungratefulness and motions of discontent, which made her not deserve this treasure; and the joy and the tears were but enhanced that way. Faith could hardly believe her eyes, when they were clear enough to see; it seemed,—what they looked at,—too good to be true; too precious to be hers. But at last she was fain to believe it; and with blushes that nobody saw, and a tiny smile that it was a pity somebody didn't see, she put the blue ribband round her neck and hid the locket where she knew it was expected to find its place. But Faith forgot her work, and her mother found her sitting there doing nothing, looking with dreamy happy thoughtfulness into distance, or into herself; all Miss Bezac's silks and stuffs neglected around her.

And work, diligent, happy, contented, continued, was the order of the day, and of many days and weeks after. Miss Bezac giving out that she would take as much work as was offered her, she and Faith soon had both their hands completely full. The taste and skill of the little dressmaker were so well acknowledged that even from Pequot there was now many an application for her services; and many a lady from there and from Pattaquasset, came driven in a wagon or a sleigh to Miss Bezac's cottage door.



CHAPTER XXXVI.



It was the month

"When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue bird's warble know,"—

the month of the unbending of Nature—of softening skies and swelling streams and much underground spring work. As for instance, by the daffodils; which by some unknown machinery pushed their soft, pliant leaves up through frozen clods into the sunshine. Blue birds fluttered their wings and trilled their voices through the air, song sparrows sang from morning to night, and waxwings whistled for cherries in the bare tree tops. There the wind whistled too, "whiles," with the fall approbation of snow birds and chickadees,—the three going out of fashion together.

It was a busy month at Miss Bezac's—two weddings at Pequot and one in Pattaquasset kept her hands full,—and Faith's too. Just now the great point of interest was the outfit of Miss Maria Davids—the wedding dress, especially, being of the most complicate and ornamented description. Miss Bezac and Faith needed their heads as well as their hands, Miss Maria's directions with regard to flowers and furbelows being somewhat like the Vicar of Wakefield's in respect of sheep—only Miss Maria was willing to pay for all that went on, whereas the Vicar wanted the sheep for nothing.

Thus they stood, the two friends and co-workers, with the dress spread out on a table, contriving where the flowers should go and how many it would be possible to put on. Miss Maria's box of Pequot flowers on a chair near by, was as full as her directions.

"It would be better to take the box and turn it right over her after she's dressed, and let 'em stick where they would!" said Miss Bezac in some disgust. Whereupon, dropping her grave look of thought, Faith's laugh broke up the monotony of the occasion.

"Well that's good any way," said Miss Bezac. "And I'm sure everything's 'any way' about this dress. But I won't have you about it a bit longer,—you're tired to death standing up."

"I'm not much tired. Miss Bezac, let the lilacs have the bottom of the dress, and the roses and lilies of the valley trim the body.—And it will be like a spotted flower-garden then!" said Faith laughing anew.

How little like her occupation she looked,—with her brown stuff dress, to be sure, as plain as possible; her soft brown hair also plain; her quaint little white ruffles; and that brilliant diamond ring flashing wherever her hand went! N.B. A plain dress on a pretty person has not the effect of plainness, since it lets that better be seen which is the highest beauty.

Up Miss Bezac's mountain road came a green coach drawn by two fat grey horses; the coachman in front and the footman behind being in the same state of plethoric comfort. They addressed themselves to the hill with no hasty approbation yet with much mind to have their own way, and the hill yielded the ground step by step. At Miss Bezac's door hill and horses made a pause.

"Coaches already!" said Miss Bezac,—"that's a sign of summer, as good as wild geese. And you'd think, Faith, not having had much experience, that it was the sign of another wedding dress—but nothing worse than a calico wrapper ever comes out of a coach like that."

"Why?"—said Faith looking amused.

"The people that drive such coaches drive 'em to town for a wedding dress," said Miss Bezac sagely. "There's a blue bird getting out of this one, to begin with."

While she spoke, a tiny foot emerged from the coach, and after it a dress of blue silk, which so far from "standing alone" followed softly every motion of the wearer. A simply plain shirred spring bonnet of blue and white silk, made the blue bird comparison not altogether unapt,—the bird was hardly more fair and dainty in his way than the lady in hers. She stood still for a minute, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking off down the road; a slight, delicate figure, with that sort of airy grace which has a natural poise for every position,—then she turned abruptly and knocked at the door.

Now it was Miss Bezac's custom to let applicants open and shut for themselves, her hands being often at a critical point of work; so in this case, with a refractory flower half adjusted—while Faith was in the intricacies of a knot of ribband, she merely cried, "Come in!" And the young lady came—so far as across the threshold,—there she stopped. A quick, sudden stop,—one little ungloved hand that looked as if it had never touched anything harsher than satin, clasped close upon its gloved companion; the shawl falling from her shoulders and shewing the bunch of crocuses in her belt; the fair, sweet, high bred face—sparkling, withal flushing like a June rose. For a minute she stood, her bright eyes seeing the room, the work, and Miss Bezac, but resting on Faith with a sort of intenseness of look that went from face to hand. Then her own eyes fell, and with a courteous inclination of her head, she came for ward and spoke.

"I was told," she said, advancing slowly to the table, and still with downcast eyes,—"I was told that—I mean—Can you make a sunbonnet for me, Miss Bezac?" She looked up then, but only at the little dressmaker, laying one hand on the table as if to support herself, and with a face grave enough to suit a nun's veil instead of a sunbonnet.

Faith's eyes were held on this delicate little figure with a sort of charm; she was very unlike the Pattaquasset models. At the antipodes from Miss Essie De Staff—etherial compared to the more solid proprieties of Sophy Harrison,—Faith recognized in her the type of another class of creatures. She drew back a little from the table, partly to leave the field clear to Miss Bezac, partly to please herself with a better view.

"A sunbonnet?" Miss Bezac repeated,—"I should be sorry if I couldn't, and badly off too. But I'm afraid you'll be, for a pattern,—all I've got are as common as grass. Not that I wish grass was uncommon, either—but what's the stuff?"

"When I came out this morning," said the lady, glancing at Faith and then down again, "I did not expect to come here. And—I have brought no stuff. Can you send some one down to the village?—this young lady, perhaps.—May I take her with me now?"

"Why of course you may!" said Miss Bezac delightedly.—"Just as much as if I was glad to get rid of her—which I aint,—and am too,—for she's tired to death, and I was just wishing somebody that wasn't would take her home. Or some horses."

There was a sweet amused play of the lips in answer to this lucid statement of facts, and then turning towards Faith, the stranger said, "Will you go?"—the words were in the lowest of sweet tones.

"Where do you wish me to go?" said Faith, coming a step forward.

"With me—down into the village."

"I will go," said Faith. "Then I will take these two mantillas, Miss Bezac,—and you shall have them the day after to-morrow."

The straw bonnet and shawl were put on in another minute, and not waiting for her gloves she followed the "blue bird" to the carriage, rather pleased with the adventure.

The little ungloved hand took firm hold of hers as they stepped out of Miss Bezac's door, and but that the idea was absurd Faith would have thought it was trembling. Once in the carriage, the two side by side on the soft cushions, the orders given to the footman, the coach rolling smoothly down the hill, the stranger turned her eyes full upon Faith; until the tears came too fast, quenching the quivering smile on her lips. Her head dropped on Faith's shoulder, with a little cry of, "Faith, do you know who I am?"

A sort of whirlwind of thoughts swept over Faith—nothing definite; and her answer was a doubtful, rather troubled, "No."—

"I know who you are!" said the stranger. "You are Mignonette."

"Who told you so?" said Faith, drawing back from her to look.

"Some one who knew!"—the face was lovely in its April of mischief and tears.

Faith's face grew very grave, with doubt, and bewilderment, and growing certainty, and drew yet further off. Rosy blushes, more and more witchingly shy, chased in and out of her cheeks; till obeying the certainty which yet was vague, Faith's head stooped and her two hands covered her face. She was drawn back into the stranger's arms, and her hands and face (what there could) were covered with kisses.

"Faith, is it strange your sister should know?—and why don't you let me have the rest of your face to kiss?—I haven't half seen it yet. And I'm sure Endy would not like to have his message delivered in these out of the way places."

Even as she spoke, the hands quitted the face, veiled only by the rosiest consciousness; and laying both hands on the stranger Faith gave her warm kisses—on cheeks and lips; and then looked at her, with eyes alternately eager and shy, that rose and fell at every new stir of feeling.

"How did you come here?"—she said with a sort of soft breathlessness. The eyes that looked at her were as intent, a little laughing, a little moved.

"How did I come here?—Faith, I knew you at the first glance,—how came you not to know me?"

"I—could not!" said Faith. "How came you here?"

"Here? in Pattaquasset—how I love the name! Faith, I shall expect you to take me to every place where Endecott set his foot when he was here."

Faith's eye gave a little answering flash. "I don't believe I know them all. Then—" she checked herself—"But how did you come here? You—were in Germany."

"Then what?—please answer me first."

How Faith blushed!—and laughed; but she grew very grave almost immediately.

"Please answer me!" she said.

"Yes, I was there—and I could not help coming here," Miss Linden answered. "To leave him there, after all! But I could not help it, Faith. When he determined to spend the year there—and I never saw him look so grave over a determination—it was for one reason alone. You know what?"

Faith did not assent nor dissent, but her eyes were swallowing every word.

"It seemed then as if it might not much lengthen his absence, and would ensure its being the last. And by-the-by, fair ladye, Endecott said I might make the most of you before he got home; for then he meant to have you all to himself for six months, and nobody else should have a sight of you."

As far as they could go, Faith's eyes fell; and her new sister might study the fair face and figure she had not had so good an opportunity of studying before. Perfectly grave, and still to her folded hands.

"After he was fairly launched in his work," Miss Linden went on, "Aunt Iredell began slowly to grow better; and as the winter passed she took the most earnest desire to come home—to America. Nothing could shake it; and the doctors approved and urged that there should be no delay. Then, Faith, I would have stayed,—but she was exceedingly dependent upon me, and most of all, Endecott said I ought to come. I believe he was glad to think of my being here for another reason. He came with us to Paris—it happened just then that he could come—and put us on board the steamer. But we were three days in Paris first,—O such pretty days!" she added smiling. "I'll tell you about them another time."

The downcast eyes were lifted and rested for a minute on the sparkling face before them. If a little warm light in their glance meant that all was "pretty" about which those two had to do, it said part at least of what was in Faith's mind.

"Now I am to be your neighbour for a while," said Miss Linden. "Aunt Iredell was ordered out of town at once, and last night we came up to Pequot,—so you must not wonder if you see me every other day after this. O how good it is to see you! Do you know," she said, wrapping her arms round Faith again, and resting the soft cheeks and lips upon hers, "do you know how much I have to say of this sort, for somebody else?"

"You are not going back to Pequot to-day?" said Faith softly.

"May I stay in Pattaquasset till to-morrow?"

"If I can take good enough care of you!" said Faith, kissing her half gladly, half timidly.

"And may I go home with you now?"

"Where are we going?" said Faith looking out.

"My dear, you ought to know! but I do not. I told them to drive about till I gave contrary orders. Now you must give them." And the check string brought the horses to a stand and the footman ditto. A half minute's observation enabled Faith to give directions for reaching the main Pattaquasset road and taking the right turn, and the carriage rolled on again. There was a little pause then, till Faith broke it. A rich preparatory colour rose in her cheeks, and the subject of her words would certainly have laughed to see how gravely, with what commonplace demureness, the question was put.

"Was Mr. Linden well, when you came from Germany?"

"Faith!" was his sister's prompt reply. Faith's glance, soft and blushing, yet demanded reason. Whereupon Miss Linden's face went into a depth of demureness that was wonderful. "Yes my dear, Mr. Linden was well—looking well too, which is an uncommon thing with him."

"Is it?"—said Faith somewhat wistfully.

"Not in the way I mean," said her new sister smiling,—"I thought nothing could have improved his appearance but—Mignonette. And I suppose he thought so himself, for he was never seen without a sprig of the little flowers."

Faith's look in answer to that was given to nothing but the ground, and indeed it was worthy to have been seen by only one person.

"Faith," said Miss Linden suddenly, "are there many French people in Pattaquasset?"

"No,—not any. Why?"

"Because Endecott gave me a message to you, part of which I did not understand. But I suppose you will, and that is enough."

"What is it?" said Faith eagerly.

"You would not understand the other part, to-day."

Faith went back to her thoughtfulness But as the carriage turned into the Pattaquasset high street she suddenly faced round on Miss Linden, flushing again before she spoke.

"Pet," she said a little timidly—it was winning, this air of timidity that was about her,—"don't say—don't tell Mr. Linden where you found me."

"Faith! does he not know? is it something new? O dear child, I am very sorry!"—and Miss Linden's other hand came caressingly upon the one she held.

"Don't be sorry!—" said Faith, looking as fearless and sonsy as any real piece of mignonette that ever shook its brown head in the wind;—"I wouldn't tell you, only you must see it. You know, perhaps, that mother lived by a farm.—Last summer the farm was taken away and we had nothing left but the house. We had to do something, and I took to dressmaking with Miss Bezac—where you found me. And it has been very pleasant and has done very well," said Faith, smiling at Miss Linden as honestly as if the matter had been of music lessons or any other accomplishment. Miss Linden looked at her—grave and bright too. Then with a sparkle of her eyes—"I won't tell Endecott now, but some time I will tell him over what sort of a wedding-dress I found you poring. But my dear child!—" and she stopped with a look of sudden thought that was both grave and gay. Faith's eyes asked what the matter was.

"No, I will not tell him now," Miss Linden repeated,—"it is so little while—he could not know it in time for anything but his own sorrow. But Faith! I am going to make one of those mantillas!"—and she looked a pretty piece of defiant resolution.

"You shall do what you please," Faith said gayly. "But—will you stop them?—there is the house."

The coach came to a stand before Mrs. Derrick's little gate and the two ladies alighted. Miss Linden had been looking eagerly out as they drove up—at the house, the fence, the little garden courtyard, the steps,—but she turned now to give her orders, and taking Faith's hand again, followed her in, looking at every inch of the way. Faith drew the easy-chair out before the fire, put Miss Linden in it, and took off her bonnet and shawl. She staid but to find her mother and introduce her to the parlour and her guest; and she herself ran away to Mr. Linden's room. She knew that the brown woodbox was near full of wood which had been there since his sudden departure nine months ago. It was well dried by this time. Faith built a fire and kindled it; made the bed, and supplied water and towels; opened the blinds of one or two windows, laid books on the table, and wheeled up the couch. The fire was blazing by that time and shone warm and glowingly on the dark wood and furniture, and everything wore the old pleasant look of comfort and prettiness. Then Faith went for her guest.

"You will know where you are," she said a little vaguely,—"when you open the cupboard doors."

Miss Linden stood still for a moment, her hands folded, her lips again taking their mixed expression.

"And that is where he lay for so long," she said. It was a mixed remembrance to Faith; she did not like to answer. A moment's silence, and she turned her bright face to Miss Linden.

"Let me do what I can for you," she said with that mixture of grace and timidity.—"It isn't much. What may I now, Pet?"

"You did a lifetime's work then, you dear child!—and how I used to hear of it." And putting her arm round Faith's waist Miss Linden began to go slowly about the room, looking at everything—out of the windows and into the cupboards. "If you could have known, Faith—if you could have seen Endecott in some of the years before that, you would have known a little how very, very glad I was. I hardly believed that he would ever find any one who could charm him out of the solitary life into which sorrow had led him."

"I didn't do it!" said Faith simply.

"What do you suppose did?"

"I think he charmed himself out of it,"—Faith said blushing.

Miss Linden laughed, holding her very fast. "You are clear from all charge of malice prepense," she said. "And I will not deny his powers of charming,—but they are powerless upon himself."

"Do you think so?" said Faith. "A charm comes at the rebound, doesn't it sometimes?"

"Does it? How do I know?"

Faith laughed a little, but very softly. "Now shall I leave you for a little while?" she said.

"Will you be busy, or may I come down when I like?"

"I am going into the kitchen,—You wouldn't like to follow me there?"

"If I have leave—I am in the mind to follow you everywhere."

"Come then!" said Faith joyously.

Miss Linden might not be accustomed to seeing kitchens, or she might! there was no telling from her manner. Certainly that kitchen was a pleasant one to see. And she "followed," as she had said, wherever Faith went and watched her whatever she did, conversation going on meanwhile amusingly enough. Faith was making some cakes again; and then concocting coffee, the Pattaquasset fete dish in ordinary; while Mrs. Derrick broiled the chicken. With a great white apron enveloping her brown stuff dress, and her arms bared, running about the kitchen and dairy in her quick still way, Faith was a pretty contrast to the "blue bird" who smiled on her and followed her and talked to her throughout. Then the cakes were baking, and Faith came back to the sitting-room; to set the table and cover it with all dainty things that farm materials can produce. And if ever "Pet" had been affectionately served, she was that night, and if ever a room was fresh and sweet and warm and glowing, the fire-lit room where she went to sleep afterwards was such a one.

But before that, when they had done tea, and talk and motion had subsided a little, Miss Linden brought a low seat to Faith's side, and taking that left hand in hers looked silently at the ring for a few minutes,—then laid her cheek down upon it in Faith's lap. Faith's lip trembled; but she only sat still as a statue till the cheek was lifted up.



CHAPTER XXXVII.



In the early morning which Faith and her mother enjoyed next day together, Mrs. Derrick was in a contemplative and abstracted state of mind; assenting indeed to all Faith's words of pleasure and praise, but evidently thinking of something else. At last the matter came out.

"Faith, how much money have we?—I mean, to last how long, suppose you didn't do anything else but the butter?"

"Why, mother?"

"Why child, I've been thinking—do you know how much you've got to do for yourself?—it won't do to put that off for Miss Bezac."

Faith's lips softly touched Mrs. Derrick's.

"Hush, mother, please!—Don't you think Dromy could find some water-cress at the foot of the Savin hill?"

"Yes—like enough," said Mrs. Derrick,—"Reuben could if he was here. And child, you may say 'hush,' but things won't hush, after all." With which sentiment Mrs. Derrick gave attention to the tea-kettle, just then a practical illustration of her remark.

About as bright and fresh and sweet as the morning Miss Linden looked when she came down, but warmer and gentler than March in his best mood. Her interest in everything about the house and its two tenants was unbounded, and without being really like her brother, there was enough family likeness in manner and voice to give a pleasant reminder now and then. While they were at breakfast the man came from Pequot according to order, but she went out alone to attend to him, coming back to the table with a sort of gleeful face that spoke of pleasure or mischief in prospect.

"Faith," she said, "we cannot touch those mantillas this morning."

"Can't we?" said Faith. "Which part of Pattaquasset shall we go to see?"

"Suppose we go up to my room and discuss matters."—

Faith was ready. Ready as a child, or as the "bird" she used to be called, for any innocent play or work.

"My dear little sister," said Miss Linden as they ran up stairs, the glee working out at the dainty finger ends that were on Faith's belt, "don't you know that I promised you a 'message'? and don't you want to have it?—O how lovely this room is! That trunk is not lovely, standing just there. Dear Faith, you need not think all my baggage is coming after it!"

"I wish it could,"—said Faith, looking after her "message."

"I want to shew you the key of this—it has something peculiar about it," said Miss Linden searching in her bag. "Endecott said, Faith, that as you and he had been together so much in a French atmosphere, you must let him do one thing in the French style. To which message, as well as to the trunk, you will find this the key."

Now attached to the key was a little card, on which was written simply the word, "Trousseau."

Faith understood the word well enough, and it seemed to turn her into a pretty petrifaction—with internal life at work indeed, as the rising and falling colours witnessed. She stood with bended head looking at the mysterious key; then making a swift transit to the window she opened it and threw back the blinds and stood looking out, the key in one hand giving little impatient or abstracted taps against the fingers of the other. It was a pretty landscape certainly, but Faith had looked at it often before.

Miss Linden on her part followed Faith to the window with her eyes and a smile, then sat looking at the great leathern trunk in its travelling cover, which it wore still. Once she made a motion to take this off—then laid her hands back in their former position and waited for Faith to come.

"Pet," said Faith presently,—"have you looked out of the window this morning?" Which question brought two hands round her shoulders in no time.

"Yes my dear, I have. What new beauties have you discovered?"

"It looks pretty in the spring light.—But I wasn't thinking of it, either," said Faith blushing. And without raising her eyes, looking distressed, she softly insinuated the key with its talismanic card back into Miss Linden's hand.

"Well? what, dear Faith?"

"I don't know,"—said Faith softly. "You know."

"I know,"—said Miss Linden, "that Endecott locked the trunk and tied the label to the key, and it is a great mistake to suppose that I will unlock the one or take charge of the other. In the second place, I need not even look on unless you wish. It can go to another room, or I will leave you in undisturbed possession of this. So speak," she said, kissing her.

Faith did not immediately. She wound her arms round her new sister and hid her face in Miss Linden's neck, and stood so clasping her silently for a few minutes. But when she raised her head she went straight to the "trousseau" trunk; pulled off, business fashion, the travelling cover; set the key in the lock, and lifted the lid.

"I should tell you, dear," said Miss Linden while this was doing—she had seated herself a little way off from Faith and the trunk, "I should tell you, that if it had been possible to get a pattern dress and so forth, you would have found nothing here to do but look. As it is, there is some work for your fingers, and I hope for mine." The lid was now open, and between the two next protecting covers lay a letter. A recognizing flash of eye greeted that; Faith put it out of sight and lifted the second cover. From where she sat Miss Linden could see her hand tremble.

There were two or three characteristics that applied to the whole arrangement, choice, and filling of the "trousseau." The absence of things useless was not more notable than the abundance of things useful; and let not useful be understood to mean needful,—for of the little extras which are so specially pleasant to those who never buy them for themselves, there was also a full supply. The daintiness of everything was great, but nothing was out of Faith's line: the stuffs might be finer than she had always worn, but the colours were what she had always liked, and in any one of those many dresses she might feel at home in five minutes—they suited her so well. She could see, well enough, that Mr. Linden not only remembered "her style" but loved it,—in the very top rack, that was first laid open, she had proof of this—for besides the finest of lawn and cambric, there were dainty bands of embroidery and pieces of lace with which Faith could ruffle herself to her heart's content.

At this point Faith drew a rather quick breath. She was on her knees before the trunk, and shielding her face a little from Miss Linden, she sat looking in—steadfastly at bits of French needlework and lappings of the daintier texture, lifting now and then, also daintily—the end or fold of something to see what lay underneath. There was so much food for meditation, as well as for industry, in this department, that Faith seemed not likely to get through it. How clearly she saw any one thing might be doubted. She made no progress.

"You may see Endecott in everything, Faith," said Miss Linden. "In the matter of quantity I could sometimes give him help, but every colour and style had to be matched with the particular pattern in his mind. I wish you could have seen it!—it was one of the prettiest things I ever saw. Those three days in Paris!—I told you they were pretty days."

Faith gave her a swift look, very flushed and very grave. A pretty picture of wonder and humility she was; and something more was borne witness to by those soft eyes, but Miss Linden had only a second's look of them.

The racks seemed to hold the light varieties, each done up by itself. There was the little French parasol in its box; the fan box, with most pretty contents. There was the glove box, beautifully filled, and holding among the rest the prettiest of riding gauntlets—all of just the right size, by some means. At the other end to keep this in countenance, was a little French riding hat in its own pasteboard container. The riding whip Mr. Linden had given her long before. There were stockings in pretty variety; and handkerchiefs—not laced and embroidered, but of fine material and dainty borders. The various minor things were too many to mention.

Faith was in an overwhelmed state, though she hardly shewed that. Her fingers made acquaintance almost fearfully with the various items that lay in sight; finally she laid both hands upon the edge of the rack.

"It is exactly like him!—" she said in profound gravity. His sister laughed—a gay, pleased little laugh.

"He said they were all like you, Faith. His fear of touching your individuality was comical. Do you know he says he shall expect you always to have a brown merino?—so you will find one there."

But first, at the bottom of the rack, under all the others, was the flat mantilla box; and its contents of muslin and silk, in their elegant simpleness, left Miss Bezac's "nowhere". How Faith would have liked to shut up the trunk then and run away—nobody knew! For she only quietly lifted out the rack and took the view of what came next. It was not the brown merino!—it was something made up,—the gayest, prettiest, jauntiest dressing gown; with bunches of tiny carnations all over it, as bright as Faith's own. Though that be saying much, for at this hers reached their acme.

"How beautiful—" she said gravely, while her poor fluttering thoughts were saying everything else. "How perfectly beautiful!—"

And as delicately as if it had been made of silver tissue, Faith laid it off on the rack. Laid it off to find the next stagc in the shape of morning wrappers, also made up. "They fit so loosely at best—" Miss Linden explained,—"and Endecott knew your height."

Now neither in these nor in what lay beneath was there such profusion as would furnish a new dress every day (for an indefinite number) at a watering place; but there was just such as befitted a young lady, who being married in summer-days yet looked forward to winter, and was to be the delight of somebody's eyes summer and winter.

They were downcast and wonderfully soft eyes that looked at those morning dresses now,—as Miss Linden could see when by chance they were lifted. But that was not generally; with lowered eyelids and unsteady lips Faith went on taking out one after the other. Below, the packages were more solid and compact, some close at both ends, others shewing shawl fringes. Dress after dress lay in close order—muslin and silk and stuff; under them pieces of linen and flannel such as Pattaquasset could hardly have furnished. One particular parcel, long and soft, was tied with white ribband. Faith looked at it doubtfully.

"Must I open this, Pet?"

"It is tied up for that express purpose."

A little suspicious of each new thing, Faith pulled the easy knot of white ribband and uncovered what lay within. It was a white embroidered muslin, fine and beautiful in its clear texture, as was the wrought tracery upon it. No colour relieved this white field,—a pair of snowy gloves lay upon it, with the lace and sash for its finish of adornment; with them a folded handkerchief, plain like the rest but particularly fine. Separately wrapped up in soft paper that but half hid them, were the little rosetted slippers.

"He said you must have none but real flowers," Miss Linden said—too softly to call for a look in answer.

That dress was what not even Miss Bezac had been able to make Faith look at in imagination—and there it lay before her! Perhaps, to tell the truth, she had been hardly willing to realize to herself the future necessity of such a thing. The blood came deeper to her cheeks, then left them in another moment pale. Faith laid her face in her hands on the edge of the trunk,—for once overcome. Again Miss Linden's quick impulse was to come to Faith's side, and again she checked herself; thinking perhaps that she was too new a friend to have her words pleasant just then—feeling that there was but one person who could say what ought to be said. So she sat quite still, nor even turned her eyes towards Faith except now and then in a quick glance of sympathy and interest; both which were shewn in her folded hands and averted head. But very soon Faith was softly doing the parcel up again in its white ribbands; and then she began to lay the things back in the trunk, with quick hands but dainty. Half way through, Faith suddenly stopped.

"Shall I put these back here for the present?"—she said, looking towards Miss Linden.

"For the present, dear?—I am not sure that I understand."

"Just now—till I can arrange some other place to put them."

"I have nothing to do with 'this place'," said Miss Linden smiling,—"it came with my trunks, that is all."

Faith coloured again and went on with what she was doing. Miss Linden watched her.

"Faith," she said, "don't finish that work just now,—sit still there and read Endy's letter—won't you, darling? I am going down to pay your mother a visit." And with a kiss and embrace she was gone.

Faith's hands stopped their work as the door closed, and she sat still, looking at the voiceless messages of love, care, thought, and anticipation, which surrounded her. Looking dreamily, and a little oppressed; and when she moved her hand it was not first to get her letter, but to draw out the locket from her bosom and see Mr. Linden's face; as if she wanted his look to authenticate all these messages, or to meet her own heart's answer. At any rate it was not till after a good study of the little picture that Faith put it away and took out her letter.

It was not just like having him there to talk or caress away her discomfort—and yet it was like it, though the pages were well on their way before the trousseau was even alluded to. But the words, the atmosphere of the letter made Faith breathe easier,—it was like the wand of the Fairy Order, smoothing out the little tangled skeins of silk. And when that subject came up, it was touched so lightly, so delicately, yet with such evident pleasure,—there was such mingling of play and earnest in the charge given her to be ready before he came, and such a strong wish that he could have saved her all the work,—the terror of the trousseau could not stand before it. And at the hope that her taste would be suited, Faith's heart made a spring the other way. She drank in every word of the letter; and then feeling healed, though tender-spirited yet, she finished putting away her riches and went down stairs.

Mrs. Derrick having gone off to attend to dinner preparations, Miss Linden sat alone, singing to herself softly in company with the March wind and the fire, and (of all things!) at work upon one of Miss Bezac's mantillas. Faith's two hands were laid upon the one which held the needle. "Not to-day—" said the silver voice which Miss Linden must learn to know.

"Yes—unless you'll give me somewhat else to do!" she said leaning her sunshiny head back against Faith. "I was out of patience with myself because I could not do what no one but Endecott could—so in my woman's pride I took up something which he couldn't. What are you going to do, darling?"

Faith thought she knew why she was called "Pet"—but she only kissed her. "I shall have to ask you a great deal about those things up stairs," she said;—"but to-day I want to see you What would you like?"

The thing Miss Linden liked best, was to see some of her brother's old haunts; and a notable drive the two had that afternoon. Wherein, under the light of a Spring day, Miss Linden saw Pattaquasset, the Quapaw people, (part of them) and not least of all, Faith herself, who shewed herself very much as the Spring day. And of Mr. Linden his sister talked the while, to her heart's content, and Faith's—in the full joy of that affection which can never say enough, speaking to that which can never hear too much.

It would be long to tell how the trousseau was made up. Mrs. Iredell came from Pequot and established herself in a farmhouse at Pattaquasset; and the two future sisters put their heads and their hands—a good deal of their hearts too—into the work that was done in Faith's blue-wainscotted white room. There they sat and sewed, day after day; while the days grew warm, and the apple blossoms burst, and the robins whistled. They whistled of Mr. Linden's coming home, to Faith, and sent her needle with a quicker impulse. She never spoke of it.

But Miss Linden knew whither the look went, that seemed to go no further than the apple trees; and what was the pressure that made a quick breath now and then and a hurried finger. Perhaps her own pulses began to move with accelerated beat. And when towards the end of May Mrs. Iredell found business occasion for being in Quilipeak a fortnight, Pet so urged upon Mrs. Derrick the advantages of the scheme, that she carried off Faith with her. It would break the waiting and watching, and act as a diversion, she said,—and Faith did not contradict her.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.



Established fairly in that great Quilipeak hotel, Faith found her way of life very pleasant. Mrs. Iredell was much in her own room, coming out now and then for a while to watch the two young things at their work. A pretty sight!—for some of the work had been brought along,—fast getting finished now, under the witching of "sweet counsel." Miss Linden declared that for her part she was sorry it was so near done,—what Faith thought about it she did not say.

Meantime, June was using her rosy wings day by day, and in another week Mr. Linden might be looked for. Just what steamer he would take was a. little uncertain, but from that time two people at least would begin to hope, and a day or two before that time they were to go back to Pattaquasset.

The week was near the ending—so was the work,—and in their pretty parlour the two ladies wrought on as usual. The morning had been spent in explorations with Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, and now it was afternoon of a cool June day, with a fresh breeze scouting round to see what sweets it could pick up, and coming in at the open window to report. On the table was a delicate tinted summer muslin spread out to receive its trimming, over which Faith and Miss Linden stood and debated and laughed,—then Faith went back to her low seat in the window and the hem of a pocket handkerchief. So—half looking out and half in,—the quiet street sounds murmuring with the rustle of the many elm leaves,—Faith sat, the wind playing Cupid to her Psyche; and Miss Linden stood by the table and the muslin dress.

"Faith," she said contemplatively, "What flowers do you suppose Endecott would get you to wear with this—out of a garden full?"

"It is difficult to tell"—said Faith; "he finds just what he wants, just where I shouldn't look for it." And a vision of red oak-leaves, and other illustrations, flitted across Faith's fancy.

"Very true," said Miss Linden,—"precisely what Aunt Iredell said when she first saw you,—but I am inclined to think, that the first day you appear in this you will see him appear with a bunch of white roses—probably Lamarques; if—"

"Why Lamarques?" said Faith sewing away. "Pet, how pleasant this wind is."

Miss Linden did not immediately answer. She stood resting her finger tips on the muslin dress, looking down at it with an intentness that might have seen through thicker stuff, the colour in her cheeks deepening and deepening. "Why?" she said abstractedly,—"they're beautiful—don't you think so?—Oh Faith!"—With a joyous clasp of the hands she sprang to the window, and dropped the curtain like a screen before her. There was no time to ask questions—nor need. Faith heard the opening door, the word spoken to the waiter,—saw Mr. Linden himself come in.

Pet sprang towards him with a joyful exclamation—an unselfish one, as it seemed; for after a moment's concentrated embrace which embodied the warmth of half a dozen, she disappeared out of the room. Mr. Linden came forward, looking after her at first with surprise,—then as if a possible explanation occurred to him, he stood still by the mantelpiece, watching the door by which she had gone. Faith had waited behind her screen—she could not have told why—utterly motionless for that minute; then a little quick push sent the curtain aside, and she came to him,

"Faith!" he exclaimed—"are you hiding from me?—My dear Mignonette—"

She hid from him then,—all her face could; for her gladness was of that kind which banishes colour instead of bringing it. He let her stand so a few minutes, himself very silent and still; then one hand brought her face within reach.

"Little bird!" he said, "I have you safe now,—you need not flutter any more!"

Perhaps that thought was hardly composing, for Faith's head drooped yet, in a statue-like stillness. Not very unlike a bird on its rest however, albeit her gravity was profound. And rest—to speak it fairly—is a serious thing to anybody, when it has been in doubt or jeopardy, or long withheld. What could be done to bring the colour back, that Mr. Linden tried.

"Faith," he said, "is this all I am to have from your lips—of any sort? Where did you get such pale cheeks, precious one?—did I frighten you by coming so suddenly? You have not been ill again?"

"No,"—she said, raising her eyes for the first time to look fairly in his face. But that look brought Faith back to herself; and though she drooped her head again, it was for another reason, and her words were in a different key. "We didn't expect you for a week more."

"No—because I didn't want you to be watching the winds. Mignonette, look up!"

Which she did, frankly,—her eyes as delicious a compound of gravity and gladness as any man need wish to have bestowed upon him. "Pet brought me here,—" she said.

"Well do you suppose I have brought an invoice of Dutch patience?"

"I don't think you are particularly patient,"—said Faith demurely,—"except when you choose. Oh Endy!—"

That last note had the true ring of joy. Her forehead touched his shoulder again; the rest of her sentence was unspoken.

"I do not choose, to-day. Mignonette, therefore tell me—do you think I have had all I am fairly entitled to?"

She flushed all over, but lifted up her head and kissed him. Mr. Linden watched her, smiling then though she might not see it.

"My little beauty," he said, "you have grown afraid of me—do you know that?"

"Not very—" she said. Certainly Faith was not good at defending herself.

"No, not very. Just enough to give us both something to do. Mignonette, are you ready for me?"

Faith's face was bowed again almost out of sight. "Don't you think," she half whispered, "that Pet must be ready to see you, by this time?"

For all answer—except a smile—she was led across the room to a seat near the window. But just there, was the table and its muslin dress! Mr. Linden stopped short, and Faith felt and understood the clasp of his arm about her waist, of his hand upon hers. But he only said laughingly, "Faith, was that what made you hide away?"

"Pet hid me," Faith said very much abashed;—"not I. She let fall the curtain."

Mr. Linden let it fall again, in effect, for he quitted all troublesome subjects, and sat down by her side; not loosing his hold of her, indeed, nor taking his eyes from her, but in the gravity of his own deep happiness there was not much to disturb her quiet.

"I sent you a telegraphic despatch this morning to Pattaquasset, dear Faith,—I did not mean to take you quite by surprise. And my stopping anywhere short of that was merely because the arrangement of trains forced me to lose an hour here on the way. I thought it lost."

"It hasn't proved so."

"There was such a doubt of my being in time for this steamer, that I would not even speak of it. Faith, I have not often heard such music as the swash of the water about her paddle-wheels as we set off."

"Didn't you hear the swash of her paddle-wheels as you came in?" said Faith merrily.

"No!" The wistful gladness of her eye was a pretty commentary.

"Is Miss Reason in full activity yet?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—his comment.

"She has had no interruption, you know, for a great while."

"Take care of her, Faith,—she has a great deal of work before her." The look that answered this was a little conscious, but shewed no fear.

There was nothing very unreasonable in the face that bent over hers; the eyes with their deep look, lit up now and then with flashes of different feelings; the mouth wearing its sweet changeable expression. A little browner than usual, from the voyage,—a little thinner, perhaps, with hard work; Mr. Linden still looked remarkably well and like himself; though Faith felt that nameless change—that mingling of real and unreal, of friend and stranger, which a long absence always brings. One minute he was himself, as he had been in Pattaquasset,—giving her lessons, riding with her, reading to her, going off to school with one of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's white roses. The next—he was a gentleman just arrived from Europe!—from whom she could not get away. Perhaps the last impression was the most remarkable. But in spite of this, Faith was herself, every inch of her; with the exception of that one little difference which Mr. Linden had pointed out and which was not to be denied.

Some time had passed, when Faith felt Pet's little hand come round her neck—the other was round Mr. Linden. Faith's start was instant; springing up she went to the window where behind the curtain lay the work her hand had dropped. Faith gathered it up. She would have put that muslin dress out of the way then!—but there it lay in plain sight and close neighbourhood. Yet somebody must do it, and it was her business; and with cheeks of a very pretty deep rose that set off her white drapery, Faith applied herself to the due folding of the troublesome muslin. In two minutes Pet came to help her, but in a different mood, though her eyelashes were glittering.

"Endy, come here and look at this—I think it is so pretty. What flowers must Faith wear with it?"

"Carnations look very well."

"I said white roses."—

"Which will you wear, Mignonette?" said Mr. Linden.

He was favoured with a glance from two gentle eyes, which it was worth a little wickedness to get. It was only a flash. "I think Pet is right,"—she answered with great gravity.

He came close to her side, the low-spoken "you shall have them—" touched more things than one.

"What do you suppose I found her doing?" said Pet, folding down a sleeve.

"Pet!"—said Faith. "Don't touch that! Not to-night."

"Do you wish me to leave it unfolded?—the servants will perhaps sweep in the morning."

"Pet," said Faith softly,—"don't you raise a dust! We might not lay it so soon."

"Endy," said his sister, "how do you do?—you haven't told me."

"Perfectly well, dear Pet."

"Turn round to the light and let me see—You've grown, thin, child!"

He laughed—giving her a kiss and embrace to make up for that; which was only half successful. But she spoke in her former tone.

"He looks pretty strong, Faith,—I think I might tell him."

"Mr. Linden," said Faith, "won't you please ask Pet not to tell you something?"

"I will ask you," he said softly, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Faith—I think we may dispense with 'Mr. Linden' now, even before people."

She was oddly abashed; glanced up at him and glanced down, with the grave air of a rebuked child. There was nothing about it that was not pretty; and the next thing her eyes went to Pet. How lovely and precious she looked as she stood there! with her sweet shy face and changing colours. Mr. Linden held her to his breast and kissed her more than once,—but in a way that was beyond chiding.

"Why must I ask Pet not to tell me something?"

"It is nothing great!"—said Faith stammering over her words—"Only you won't like it very well—but you will have to hear it. I thought another time—that's all."

"He'll never hear it from you—what I mean," said Miss Linden, "so he shall from me. We'll see whether he likes it. Know then, Endecott, that I found this child absorbed in wedding dresses!"

"Wedding dresses!" he repeated. "More than one?"

"Oh Endy," said his sister with a sort of laughing impatience, "what a boy you are! I mean other people's." Faith stood smiling a little, letting her manage it her own way.

"Imagine it," Miss Linden went on,—"imagine this one little real flower bending over a whole garden of muslin marigolds and silk sunflowers and velvet verbenas, growing unthriftily in a bed of white muslin!" Mr. Linden laughed, as if the picture were a pleasant one.

"Mignonette," he said,—"how could you bear the sight?"

"I was trying to make the best of it."

"In whose behalf were you so much interested?"

"Maria Davids," said Faith glancing up at him. "But I was not interested,—only so far as one is in making the best of anything."

"Who is trying to make the best of her?"

Faith looked down and looked grave as she answered—"Jonathan Fax." Mr. Linden's face was grave too, then, with the recollections that name brought up.

"There is one place in the house she cannot touch," he said. "Faith, I am glad she is not to take care of him."

"I have thought that so often!"

"Do you like my story, Endy?" said Miss Linden presently.

"Very much—the subject. I am less interested in the application. Who next is to be married in Pattaquasset?"

"I don't know."—

"Aunt Iredell says she wishes you would be married here," observed Pet demurely. To which insinuation Faith opposed as demure a silence.

"Oh Endecott," said his sister changing her tone and speaking in that mixed mood which so well became her,—"I'm so happy that you are here! This week Faith has been pretty quiet, by dint of being away from home; but nothing would have kept her here next week—and I had been thinking what we should do,—if the week should run on into two—or if the wind should blow!" She spoke laughingly, yet with a voice not quite steady.

"'So he bringeth them to the haven where they would be'!" Mr. Linden said. But his voice was clear as the very depth of feeling of which it told. "Aunt Iredell cannot have her wish, Pet," he added presently,—"there would be at least three negative votes."

"I suppose that! But I shall come down Saturday to hear what wishes are in progress."

"Won't you go with us, Pet, to-morrow?" said Faith earnestly. She had been standing in a sort of abstracted silence.

"No, pretty sister, I will not. But I shall keep all those ruffles here to finish, and Saturday Reuben Taylor shall escort them and me to Pattaquasset."



CHAPTER XXXIX.



Things were yet in their morning light and shadow when Faith set off on this her first real journey with Mr. Linden. She felt the strangeness of it,—in the early breakfast, the drive alone with him to the station,—to stand by and see him get her ticket, to sit with him alone in the cars (there seemed to be no one else there!) were all new. The towers of Quilipeak rose up in the soft distance, shining in the morning sun: over meadow and hillside and Indian-named river the summer light fell in all its beauty. Dewdrops glittered on waving grain and mown grass; labourers in their shirt-sleeves made another gleaming line of scythe blades, or followed the teams of red and brindled oxen that bowed their heads to the heavy yoke. Through all this, past all this, the Pequot train flew on towards Pattaquasset; sending whole lines of white smoke to scour the country, despatching the shrill echoes of its whistle in swift pursuit.

Faith saw it all with that vividness of impression which leaves everything sun-pictured on the memory forever. In it all she felt a strange "something new;"—which gave the sunlight such a marked brilliancy, and made dewdrops fresher than ordinary, and bestowed on mown grass and waving grain such rich tints and gracious motion. It was not merely the happiness of the time;—Faith's foot had a little odd feeling that every step was on new ground. It was a thoughtful ride to Pattaquasset, though she was innocently busy with all pleasant things that came in her way, and the silveriest of tones called Mr. Linden's attention to them. He did not leave her thoughts too much chance to muse: the country, the various towns, gave subject enough for the varied comment and information Faith loved so much. Mr. Linden knew the places well, and their history and legends, and the foreign scenes that were like—or unlike—them, or perhaps a hayfield brought up stories of foreign agriculture, or a white sailing cloud carried them both off to castles in the air. One thing Mr. Linden might have made known more fully than he did—and that was his companion. For several times in the course of the morning, first in the station at Quilipeak, then in the cars, some friend or acquaintance of his own came to greet or welcome him. And Faith could see the curiosity that glanced at so much of her as her veil left in view,—Mr. Linden saw it too, with some amusement. And yet though all this was a little rouging, it was interesting to her in another way,—shewing her Mr. Linden as she had never seen him, among the rest of the world,—giving her little glimpses of his former life; for the bits of talk were sometimes quite prolonged.

"Mignonette," he said after one of these occasions, "some people here are very anxious to make your acquaintance."

"I am glad you don't want to gratify them."

"Why?—In the first place, I do."

"Do you!"—said Faith, somewhat fearfully.

"Certainly. I, like you, am 'a little proud of my carnations'. How do you like this way of travelling?"

"I like it such a morning as this," said Faith. "I don't think it's the pleasantest. But to-day it's delicious."

"Yes—to-day," he repeated. "What way of travelling do you like best?"

"You know I never travelled at all, except to Quilipeak and Pequot. I believe I like a wagon or a sleigh better than this,—in general."

"That is our last whistling post!" said Mr. Linden "Faith, I shall be glad to get rid of that veil. And I have so many things to say to you that cannot be said here. Is Mr. Somers in Pattaquasset still?"

"Everybody's there—" Faith answered.

The little shake of the head with which this intelligence (so far as regarded Mr. Somers) was received, Faith might understand as she pleased, for in another minute they were at the Pattaquasset station; the train was puffing off, and she standing there on the platform with Mr. Linden. A little way back was Jerry and the wagon—that Faith saw at a glance; but there too, and much nearer, was Squire Stoutenburgh—in doubt whether to handle the new corners separately or together, in his great delight.

From all this Mr. Linden rescued Faith with most prompt skill; carried her off to the wagon, shook hands with Dromy and dismissed him, and then with the reins in his own hands had her all to himself once more. And Jerry dashed on as if he knew his driver.

"Mignonette, please put back your veil," were the first words. Which Faith did, and looked at him, laughing, blushing and a little shy, all in one pleasant combination.

"What have you been doing to make yourself lovelier, little Sunbeam?"

"I have been a year without seeing you,"—said Faith with excellent seriousness.

"My presence seems to have no counteracting effect. By the same rule, I should be—marvellous! To you perceive it?"

Her eye gave one of its little flashes, but Faith immediately looked away.

"Do you know," said Mr. Linden, "I can hardly believe that this year of exile is over—and that there are none others to follow it. What do you suppose will be the first subject you and I shall consider?"

"Mr. Skip," said Faith gravely.

"Mr. Skip merits no consideration whatever. Is Miss Bezac at work on that dress?"

"Because he don't live with us any longer, Endecott."

"Does he not?—Unfortunate man!"

"And Dromy is in his place."

"My dear, my own place is the only one I can think of with any intense interest. Except yours."

"Because we have had no farm to manage this winter," said Faith; "so Dromy could do what we wanted."

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,—"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you—my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession.

Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other.

By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room—Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing but doing up some of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,—what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again.

"Mother—has Cindy come?"

"She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,—that's all under way."

Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for—the strawberries looked over—the cream made ready—the table set—the lettuce washed—the dishes warming for the vegetables—the pickles and bread on the table—and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,—for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;—when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder.

"My own dear little Mignonette!—Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?"

She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look—"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything."

"See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them."

Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety.

"What has been the matter?"

"You know I told you Mr. Skip had gone away?"

"Yes."

"And that he went because we hadn't any farm to manage?"

"What has the farm to do with your studies?"

"What shall I do if I make you very angry with me?" said Faith, the least touch of seriousness mingling with her words,

"You had better ask what I shall do. Has Mr. Deacon come back and taken possession?"

"Yes—And you know, Endy, we used to live by the farm. When that was gone we had to live by something else. I wouldn't tell you if I could help your knowing it."

"Mignonette, what have you been doing?"

"You know what Pet found me at?"

"Yes."—She could not tell whether he saw the whole,—he was clearly in the mind to hear it, taking both her hands in his.

"I did that," said Faith.

"Did what?"

"I got work from Miss Bezac.—She gave me lessons."

"For how long?"

"Since—about a fortnight after you went away. It was then Squire Deacon took away the farm. From that time until Pet came—" she added with a little rise of colour in her cheeks.

"And that all the daylight and candlelight hours of each day?"

"O no, not that. I had long walks to Miss Bezac's, you know—or rides—every day or two; for we kept Jerry; and I never sewed before breakfast. And in the evening I used to write letters—part of the evening."

"Child! child!"—He dropped her hands, and began to pace up and down the moderate limits of Mrs. Derrick's best carpet. Until after a few turns Faith put herself straight in his way and intercepted him, with a very innocent face.

"Faith, did no one protest against this—for me?"

"Yes, sir."—

"And you knew that I had guarded—that I had tried to guard you against any such possibility?"

Faith paused. "Yes, I knew,—but Endy, that couldn't make any difference."

"It did not—How, could not?"

"It ought not," she said softly and colouring.

"Can you tell why?"

"You know, Endy, it was better,—it was right,—it was better that I should work for myself."

"Never, Mignonette—while I could work for you. How do you expect to manage when you are my wife?—And do you think I had no right even to know about it?"

"I thought—now was the best time—" Faith said.

"Am I to learn from this and similar instances what my wife will expect of me if I chance to be sick or in trouble?"

It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair.

"Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion.

"I cannot say you did right."

"But when you could do me no good,"—said Faith very gently,—"and I should only have given you pain—for nothing?"

"It would not have given me pain to have you tell it—and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature—as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),—it can only give you pain to hear of it—so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time—what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!—till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us."

Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely.

"I will not do so again, Endy.—About important things, I mean,"

"You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?"

"I might like it,"—said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott."

"Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet."

Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him.

"There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"—she said.

"What is that?—the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?"

"Strawberries!"—

"Only another style of nomenclature,"—said Mr. Linden.

"You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them."

And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses—there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better.