And then—what came then? Truly, the same over again—looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As she would wash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German.

"Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read."

"Letters, Endecott!—Who has written to me?"

"Through me—three regions of country."

"What do you mean?"

Just as she spoke the words, Faith paused and set down the tumbler she was wiping. Her ears had caught the sound of a modest knock at the front door. She looked at Mr. Linden.

"Stay here, Endy—please!" she said as she threw down her towel and ran off. But Faith's hope of a chance was disappointed. She ushered somebody into the sitting-room and came back gravely and flushed to Mr. Linden.

"It's Mr. Somers—and he wants to see you, Endecott!"

Faith went at her tumblers, and simultaneously, greatly to the dismay of one party as to the surprise of the other, in walked Mr. Somers after her.

"Miss Derrick told me you were in this room, sir," said the clergyman shaking Mr. Linden's hand,—"so I came in. Ha! I am glad to be one of the first to welcome you back. How do you do, Mr. Linden? You've been a great while from Pattaquasset!—and you've been missed, I don't doubt."

Apparently not by Mr. Somers! But Mr. Linden met all the advances as he should, merely stating his belief in the general proposition that "there is always somebody to miss everybody."

"Will you take a seat here, sir?" he said—"or may I go with you to the next room?"

"I—have no choice," said Mr. Somers looking benignantly around;—"it is very pleasant here, very!—cool;—perhaps Miss Derrick will have no objection to our taking our seats here?"

Faith did not say, but as Mr. Somers had taken her leave for granted, and his seat consequently, she was saved that trouble. How she reddened at the thought of the roses with which she was dressed! And there she stood in full view, washing her spoons! But Mr. Somers looked the other way.

"I—I am very happy to see you again, Mr. Linden—very happy indeed, sir! I heard from Squire Stoutenburgh that you were expected, and I lost no time. How have you enjoyed your health, sir, this year? A year's a long time! isn't it?"

Mr. Linden, taking his seat as in duty bound, looked abstractedly at Faith and the spoons and the roses, and answered according to the evidence.

"Yes, Mr. Somers,—and yet it depends very much upon how far the two ends of the year are apart in other respects. The 'Voyage autour de ma chambre' could never seem very long, whatever time it took."

"Ha!"—said Mr. Somers blandly,—he hadn't the remotest idea what this speech might mean,—"no. Did you have a good passage coming over? We had every sign of it."

"Very good,"—said Mr. Linden smiling,—"and very stormy."

"Ah?"—said Mr. Somers,—"very good and very stormy? Well I shouldn't have thought that. But I suppose you have got to be such a traveller that you don't mind which way the wind blows, if it blows you on, ha?—like Dr. Harrison. He never minds the weather. Dr. Harrison's a great loss to Pattaquasset too," said Mr. Somers looking at Faith and smiling a little more openly;—"all our—ha!—our pleasantest members of society seem to be running away from us! That's what Mrs. Somers says."

"One more spoon—and put them up,"—thought Faith,—"and then I'll be away!"—

"But I've come to see if I can't get you to do me a favour, Mr. Linden," said Mr. Somers withdrawing his eyes and mind from her. "I—should be very much obliged to you indeed! I'm almost afraid to ask, for fear I sha'n't get it."

Faith wiped her spoon slowly.

"I like to do favours," said Mr. Linden,—"at least I think I should. But I cannot imagine how you can give me a chance, Mr. Somers."

"Don't you think it would be a great gratification to all your old friends in Pattaquasset, if you would consent to fill my pulpit next Sunday? They—I believe they'd come from all over the country!—and it would be—a—it would be a very great gratification indeed to me. Can't I prevail with you?"

Faith had ceased her work and was standing quite still, with bended head, and cheeks which had gathered their colour into two vivid spots. On those carnations Mr. Linden's eyes rested for a moment, with a strange feeling of pleasure, of emotion. The sort of touched smile upon his lips when he spoke, did not, it may be said, belong to Mr. Somers. His answer was very simple and straightforward.

"I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you—and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!—it is you who confer the favour."

"Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy—very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure—a very great pleasure—a—I assure you, sir. It's profitable for—a—people to have a change—they listen—ha!—they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,—and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news. How long are you going—a—to remain in Pattaquasset?—But I don't know," added he laughing,—"as I ought to ask!"

Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out.

"And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir."

"No—certainly. I was—a—premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,—as you have so kindly—a—consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?"

The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,—talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went. Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,—then a clear—not loud-spoken—"Mignonette—where are you?"

Faith sprang back through the passage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers.

"What are you about, little Sunbeam?—are you busy?"

"No."

"Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,—do you want the same with me?—or are you tired?"

"No—yes;—I'm not tired a bit."

"Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room.

"No!" she said laughing a little,—"did you ever think I was, Endecott?"—But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely.

"I am going to try you—" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes."

There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed assuredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined.

Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour—which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour.

Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments—then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her.

"Mignonette, when may I put it on again?"

There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers.

"Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"—she said in a very low voice.

"No, darling—not certainly."

"Then—do you want to know this yet?"

"Very much."

Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key.

"What do you wish?"

"What I have been waiting for all these years."

"But as to time?"

"As little as possible."

"I know,—but what is that, Endy?"—she said with very timid intonation.

"'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,—"the words hardly need explanation—I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette—but I do not know what is possible for you."

What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides.

"I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother."

"No, with you," said Mr. Linden,—"what do you please? Am I to repeat the passage of Quapaw creek?"

She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not.

"You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,—is that done?"

"Yes nearly."

"'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,—"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'—Shall we say a week from to-day?"

She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.

"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,—"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific—and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"

There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.

"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."

"Yes, Endy,"—she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying—much as he had done at Quapaw creek—"Are you afraid, dear child?"

"No—" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.

"Then it only needs my seal.—In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,—so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty—are you ready for your walk?"



CHAPTER XL.



It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.

Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.

Subjects started of themselves—in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,—about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.

"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"

"No, Endecott."—

"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."

"What's that story!"—said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.

"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."

"How did he?"

"Got her consent first—(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)—ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."

"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?—" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.

"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."

"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."

"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune—but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."

"That's the story—but what do you mean, Endy?"

"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."

Faith jumped up. "Do you!"—

"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."

Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.

"But Endecott—"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"

"You haven't a wooden horse!"—she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.

"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"

The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure—" she said. "I thought so."

"What is the point of the remark?"

She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy—if that were so,—I don't want to go!"

"How did your royal pride get turned about?—that you will look at none but a wooden horse?"

She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.

"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,—not yet. Besides, the horse—of whatever sort—will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,

Being in the air, Will not care How they fare!"—

Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.

"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months—though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."

"But where are you going, Endy?"

"That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,—the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some shore where you can see real surf—and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way."

Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island shore, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!—with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!—She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too.

"I thought I should go right to work," she said,—"to study—to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?"

"As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?"

"It is made up,"—she said gently, after a minute's hesitation.

"How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,—"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child—I want to consult you about various things."

Faith sat down and looked—like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy.

"I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves."

A flush rose, but she looked steadily.

"You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed—where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town—it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely.

"How large is the town, Endy?"

"Ten or fifteen thousand—I do not know precisely."

"And no other churches?"

"Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority."

Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely.

"An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring—Mrs. Linden!—to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once."

Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks.

"Do you think she will?" said Mr. Linden demurely.

"What is the other, Endy?—You said three."

"The other, love, is from those very White Mountains you are going to see. Another friend writes the letter,—one who has built himself a nest there for summer migrations. It is a strange place, Faith, by all accounts—I have never been to that part of the mountains. A scattered population, sprinkled about on the hills like their own dewberries, and to be found in much the same manner. Neither church nor chapel, but only an unused schoolhouse—of which Mr. Olyphant prays I will come and take possession. Snow and frost, the valleys and the everlasting hills—that would be your society."

Faith's eyes were raised now and met Mr. Linden's. Grave, as one who felt the weight of the question to be settled; but with a brow unshadowed, and eyes unfearing. A child's look still!

"Mr. Olyphant says there could not be better air for my bird to sing in," he went on with a smile,—"there was one great objection to the place in Pennsylvania. How does this seem to you, dear Faith?—it is rather on a spur of the mountains—not absolutely shut in. Then I am not sure how much society you would have but mine,—what do you think of it, in comparison with Newport?"

She answered at first with a rare little smile, so happy in its grave trust, and which withal a little significantly deferred the question.

"I know you will go where you think you ought to go. Endy—I don't know about places."

"I doubt whether I shall grant more than half of Mr. Alcott's request," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose if George has not got home I may venture to grant that. Faith, it is a very singular fact that everybody falls in love with you."

To judge by Faith's blush, it was a somewhat painful "fact." "Whom are you talking of?" she said doubtfully.

"The present occasion of my remark is George Alcott—said to be absent on a crusade of search after a pair of eyes he saw in Pattaquasset."

"I don't know him," said Faith laughing a little; but instantly recurring to business she asked very earnestly, "Then, Endy, you think you will go to that place in the mountains?—or haven't you made up your mind?"

"I am inclined to that one, of the three—I cannot say my mind is absolutely made up. It has had so much else to do since I came home! Faith, do you mean to have any bridesmaids?"

Faith jumped up off her rock. "Endy, I want to run down and look at these little fish. And it's growing late, besides!"—

"Yes, but, you must answer me first," said Mr. Linden laughing and holding her fast. "It is needful I should know beforehand, because they will want supporters, if I do not."

"I don't want any, Endy," said Faith with cheeks like two pink roses, but standing very still now.

"Then come and shew me the fish. Don't you think it would be gladsome work to seek out those untaught and uncared for people up in the mountains?"

They had come down to the rocks between and among which at low tide the shell fish played in an inch or two of water; and sitting on one of the mossy stones Faith was watching the mimic play of evil passions which was going on among that tribe of Mollusca below her; but her mind was on something else.

"I read the other day," she said, "those words of Paul, where he says to the Thessalonians 'we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel'.—They made me very happy—they make me happy now. What I thought of in connexion with them, I mean."

"And what was that?"

"That they are your words too,"—she said after looking up as if she thought her meaning must be known.—"And that even I—have something to do," she added lower.

Mr. Linden stood by her, looking off at the rippling waves, then down at his fair little helper. "Yes, Faith—it is a glorious thing to have any part of that work in trust,—and the part which makes least show may be no less in reality. 'In trust'!" he repeated, looking off again. "Such beautiful words!—such terrible."

"No!"—she said with a smile,—"I don't think so."

"Nor I, dear, from your point of view. But in the world, Faith, where you have been so little, I have seen the words of the trust to be boundless—the faithfulness of the trustees within very narrow limits. And to be always ready to 'sow beside all waters'—who is? 'Freely ye have received, freely give,' is the command—but what Christian sees with half perception what he has received!"

Faith paused and looked thoughtful, and then smiled again. "I always think of the words you read to me one day,—'Only be thou strong and very courageous,—for the Lord, thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.'"—

The answering look told that if Mr. Linden's words had not been said for the purpose of drawing her out, they had at least served that purpose.

"You are a dear little Sunbeam!" he said. "Acting out your name, as I told you long ago. There is nothing needful to get you ready for the White Mountains but a fur cloak. Now come—it is growing late, as you say."

It was a late tea-time when they got home. They sat down to tea and Faith had not told her mother yet! which she remembered with a somewhat uneasy mind. There was nothing uneasy about the third member of the family!—the poise and balance of the white strawberries upon each other was not more complete than the resting adjustment of all his thoughts.

"Mrs. Derrick," he said as she handed him his cup of tea, "what do you consider the prettiest time of day?"

"The prettiest time of day?" Mrs. Derrick repeated,—"do you mean when the day looks best—or the people? I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Linden,—I never watch anybody from morning to night but Faith."

"I am talking of Faith—or what concerns her."

"O well all times of day are alike to her," said her mother fondly,—"she's just as pretty one time as another,—and one day as another. Only the days when she used to get letters."

"Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "when should I have heard such a piece of news from you?"

"I never knew it before," said Faith.

"How many hours does she need for a morning toilette?" said he, pursuing his researches.

"Hours!" said Mrs. Derrick—"you'd better say minutes. It's less than an hour, commonly."

"But I mean uncommonly."

Mrs. Derrick looked thoroughly puzzled. But Faith had got the key, and hopeless of stopping Mr. Linden she thought the next best thing was to expedite matters.

"When I take longest, mother,"—she suggested in a low voice.

"How long would she need to arrange orange flowers to her satisfaction—" said Mr. Linden,—"or white muslin?"

"O!—" said Mrs. Derrick setting down the teapot with her cup half filled. "I didn't know what you were talking about."

"I am talking about next Thursday," said Mr. Linden, with a gay gentleness of manner. "Because we have decided—or I have—that Thursday is to be the prettiest day of the week, and now we want to choose the prettiest time of day."

A little flush came into Mrs. Derrick's quiet face,—she said not a word.

"You are willing it should be then?" Mr. Linden said.

The mother's "yes" was very firm and clear, and yet not in just her usual tone. That came back a minute after with the relief which a thought of business always brings.

"That dress isn't made!" she said. Mr. Linden's "Faith!—" was expressive.

"I knew that it could be done in a day at any time, Endecott,"—said Faith, very grave and flushed. "It is up stairs in my drawer, mother."

"Kept there by what piece of superstition?" he said smiling. "Did you think if you made it up that I would never come back?"



CHAPTER XLI.



Friday passed all too swiftly. Not in much work, so far as Faith was concerned—unless so far as Mr. Linden gave her work. Apparently she had been out of his sight long enough—he was not in the mood to let her be so any more. Saturday followed close in Friday's steps until after dinner, then came a move. For Pet and Reuben were to come in the afternoon train; and Mr. Linden going with Jerry to the station to meet them, summoned Faith to give "her sweet company."

So far as the station, Faith gave it; but there she drew back into the furthest corner of the wagon, and waited, while Mr. Linden walked up and down between the wagon and the front platform. Waited, and watched, furtively, everything; him and the people that spoke to him; with those strange eyes that saw everything new. Then came the whistle! the rush and roar of the train—the moment's lull; and then Faith saw the three she looked for coming towards her. Reuben a little in advance with Miss Linden's travelling bag, she with one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes on his face, coming rather slowly after,—talking, asking questions, some of which Faith could almost guess from the look and smile with which they were answered. It was a pretty picture; she felt as if she knew them both better for seeing it. Before they had quite reached the wagon, Pet received an answer which made her quit Mr. Linden with a little spring and leave him to follow with Reuben. And Faith had opened the wagon door.

"Faith! you dear child!" said Miss Linden, "what have you been doing with yourself—or what has anybody done with you, to stow you away here like a forgotten parcel?" She had entered the wagon no further than to rest one knee there holding both Faith's hands and looking at her with full, bright, loving eyes. "How came Endecott to leave you here, alone?"

"Two people must be alone—if they are not together," said Mr. Linden. "Pet, shall I put you in or out?"

She laughed, jumping into the wagon then and twining one arm about Faith's waist, much like a spray of woodbine.

"What do you think I have asked him?" she whispered,—"and what do you think he has told me?"

"I don't know," said Faith;—"but I guess."

A significant clasp of the woodbine answered that—then the hand rested in a quiet embrace.

"How well he looks!" she said, her eyes taking glad note of one figure on the seat before them. "Faith, how are you?"

"I am well."—Nothing could be quieter in its kind. "Did he tell you what he is going to do to-morrow, Pet?"

"No—" she said looking her quick inquiry. Faith's face might have told her before she spoke; such a joy sat gravely on her brow and in the depth of her eyes.

"If you go to church to-morrow, you will know."

A sudden flush, both of cheeks and eyes, bore witness to the interest of this news. The look met Faith's for a moment—then rested on Mr. Linden, and then with that little tide of feeling deepening its sweet flow, the eyes fell, the unbent lips wavered and trembled. Faith ventured only a silent act of free-masonry; a fast clasp of her fingers round Miss Linden's hand that rested on her waist; but maybe never yet in their short friendship had they felt their hearts beat so close together. With one, there was perhaps some old recollection or association—some memory of the time when such a day had been first talked of, that made self-command a hard matter; for though the lips presently grew still, and the eyes quiet, the gravity that remained was easily stirred, and the voice spoke doubtfully.

There was more discussion of various things that evening than Faith cared for, but it could not be helped. Sunday brought a lull of discussions. But the gravity which sat on Faith's face that morning was not the less but the more. If a guardian angel had shewn himself bodily, his face might have worn such a pure distance from low and trifling things and like kindred with the blue sky and the truth it emblematizes. That day was the first of her new life to Faith. Not such to Mr. Linden; but it was the first of her seeing him publicly take the office to which his life was to be given, and in which hers was to be by his side. She was a very grave "sunbeam" when she set out to walk to church—and as clear!

There were sunbeams in plenty of the literal kind abroad; it was a perfect day; and everybody was glad of that, though some people remarked it would have made no difference if it had rained cannon-balls. Never did Pattaquasset see such a coming to church! never in the remembrance of Mr. Somers. They came from all over; the country was gleaned; and many a fire was raked up on the hearthstone that day which most Sundays got leave to burn and somebody to watch it. The fishermen came from Quapaw, and the labourers from the farms all over the country; those who did not directly know Mr. Linden, knew of him; and knew such things of him that they would not have missed this opportunity of hearing him speak, for a week's wages. The fathers and mothers of the boys he had taught, they knew him; and they came in mass, with all their uncles, aunts and cousins to the remotest degree, provided they were not geographically too remote. The upper society of Pattaquasset lost not a man nor a woman; they were all there, some with great love, others with great curiosity. The Stoutenburghs had plumed themselves. Mr. Simlins was as upright as his new beaver. Miss Essie De Staff with magnified black eyes; Judge Harrison with benevolent anticipation. Mr. Stephens the fisherman had driven his little lame child down to the Pattaquasset church, "for once;" Jonathan Ling was there with his wife, having left the eldest child to keep house, and both being in great smartness and expectation. Jonathan Fax was there and his new wife; the one with a very grave head, the other with a very light one, and faces accordingly. Mrs. Derrick and Pet had long ago been quietly seated; when through that full house, after her Sunday school duties were over, Faith came in. Her colour was very bright, and she trembled; but it was not because many saw in her an object of curiosity; though Faith remembered it, at that minute she did not care. She felt the stillness of expectation that filled the house, with which the little murmur of sound now and then chimed so well; the patter of childish feet that followed her up the aisle spoke so keenly to her wrought up feeling of the other one of her class, who used to follow him with such delight, that Faith felt as if the happy little spirit long since received in at the golden gates, was even there in the church, to hear once more his beloved teacher. Who else?—what other angel wings stirred in the soft breeze that floated through from door to door?—what other unseen, immortal senses waited on those dear mortal lips?—Faith's step grew lighter, her breath more hushed; eyes might look at her—she looked not at them.

And eyes did look, from all sorts of motives; perhaps in the whole church there was not a person who did not try to see her, except the one who next to herself was the most interested—Pet never moved. Her head was bent, her hand half supporting half concealing in its position, like any statue she sat there, nor even stirred when the stir of every one else told who had come in. If she held her breath to bear every one of her brother's steps as he passed by, she did not look at him; did not raise her head till his first prayer was ended; then her rapt gaze was as unwavering.

The service which followed could not be measured by the ordinary line and rule of pulpit eloquence and power,—could not be described by most of the words which buzz down the aisles after a popular sermon. There was not the "newness of hand" of a young preacher—for almost from boyhood Mr. Linden had been about his Master's work. To him it was as simple a thing to deliver his message to many as to one,—many, many of those before him had known his private ministrations, and not a few had through them first known the truth; and now to all these assembled faces he was just what each had seen him alone; as humble, as earnest, as affectionate, as simply speaking not his own words,—for "Who hath made man's mouth—have not I, the Lord?" No one who heard the ambassador that day, doubted from what court he had received his credentials. "In trust with the gospel!" Yes, it was that; but that with a warm love for the truth and the people that almost outran the trust. As the traveller in the fountain shade of the desert calls to the caravan that passes by through the sand,—as one of the twelve of old, when Christ "blessed and brake and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude"; so did he speak from the words—

"Eat, O friends!—drink, yea drink abundantly, O beloved!"

There were some there who would never forget that day. There were many to whom it seemed, that not the warm summer breeze that floated in was gentler or sweeter than the feeling that filled the place. The little lame girl, and her older and rougher father and mother, listened alike to their dear friend with moveless eyes; and drank such a draught of those sweet waters as it was long, long since either of them had tasted in a church. It was a white day for all the fishing population; and nothing would have kept them from coming in the afternoon. Miss Essie's black eyes lost all their fire. Farmer Simlins, unknown to himself, sat and smiled. And the one who listened most tenderly and joyfully, listened indeed quietly to the last word, or till her face had leave to bow itself from sight; quietly then no longer, only that such tears come from no broken-up fountains of unrest. They came freely, as Faith recalled and applied the whole of her quoted sentence of Paul to the Thessalonians—

"For as we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel, SO WE SPEAK."

She was very quiet when the benediction was spoken, but she drew her veil closely as they left the church.

It was a lingering getting out, even for them, because others would linger. Some turned to look, some stopped to speak; and if Mr. Linden had had twenty hands they would all have found employment. Part of this the two veiled figures saw as they made their way to the door, and there Miss Linden paused and looked back. The broad stream of sunlight that lay across the church, the shadowy background figures,—in that very spot of light, Mr. Linden,—made a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Reuben Taylor stood close behind him, a step back, looking down; little Ency Stephens perched up on the pew cushions had one hand; Robbie Waters—far down below the other. Phil Davids and his father, Squire Stoutenburgh, and some of the Quapaw fishermen made up the group. Pet gave one look, and then she went swiftly down the steps and on.

Slowly the people scattered away, up and down the road; not with the brisk steps and busy voices that give token the church service has but interrupted—not suspended—the current of everyday thought and behaviour. It was a fair picture of a Sunday in a New England village; the absolute repose of nature copied and followed by hands that other days let nothing stand still. Before Faith and Pet got home the road was almost empty. Mr. Linden had overtaken them, but all his greeting was to put Faith's hand on his arm—then he walked as silent as they. It was a little thing, and yet it touched the very feeling she had had all day—the beginning of her new way of life, with him.

The afternoon was like the morning. Not a creature was missing of all who from far and near had filled the house in the former part of the day! and doubtless it was well that Mr. Somers could not hear the spoken and unspoken wishes that would have unseated him and caused him to relinquish for ever his charge in Pattaquasset.

The afternoon air was enticing, the afternoon walk home very lingering; then standing in the hall to look and taste it still, the sweet peace of everything seemed to enter every heart. Even Pet, who all day had been unheard and almost unseen, stood with clasped hands looking out; and only the heavy eyes spoke of the oppression that had been. But as she looked the tears came back again, and then she turned to Mr. Linden—wrapping her arms round his neck.

"Endy, Endy!—do you remember the first time we talked of this day?"

Mr. Linden gave back her caresses without a word, but with a look of pain that Faith had rarely seen on his face. It was some minutes before he spoke. "Dear Pet—she knows it now!"

Miss Linden looked up then, mastering her tears, and with a broken "Forgive me, Endy—" she kissed him and went away up stairs. But Mr. Linden did not look out any more. He went into the sitting-room, and resting his face on his hand sat there alone and still, until Faith came to call him to tea.



CHAPTER XLII.



"Now my two pets," said Mr. Linden as they left the table Monday morning, "what are you going to do?"

"I am going to work," said his sister. "Mrs. Derrick and I have business on hand. You can have Faith."

"There is an impression of that sort on my own mind."

"But I mean to-day. Except for about five minutes every half hour."

"It would be needless for me to say what I am going to do," observed Faith quietly.

"If that is a little piece of self assertion," said Mr. Linden, "allow me respectfully to remark that my 'impression' had no reference to the present time. Do you feel mollified?"

"No," said Faith laughing. "You are wide of the mark."

"Then will you please to state your intentions?—So far from being needless, it will be what Mr. Somers would call 'gratifying.'"

"I don't know," said Faith merrily. "I understand that if I tell you, you will say I have no time for them!"—

"For them!—enigmatical. Who told you what I would say?—Ask me." But Faith laughed.

"I am going to make Pet and you some waffles for tea."

"Do they require more time than shortcakes?"

Faith stood before him quietly as if she had a great deal to say. "I am going to make bread, for mother and all of us."

"What else?"

"Sponge cake, I think."

"And after that?"

"Crust for pot-pie."

"De plus?"

"Curds,"—said Faith, looking down now.

"Pourquoi, Mademoiselle?"

"To eat," said Faith demurely. "You like them."

"Mademoiselle, I prefer you."

"Each in its way,"—replied Faith admirably well, but with a glance, nevertheless.

"There is only one in my way," said Mr. Linden. "Well does that complete the circuit?—I suppose nothing need go between cheese and bread but waffles?"

"I shall wish—and I suppose you would wish that I should, look over strawberries."

"Where do you commonly do all these things?"

"The sponge cake and the strawberries in the other room—other things in the kitchen."

"We may as well begin as we are to go on!" said Mr. Linden. "If you will not come and keep me company I must do that for you. Faith, I think Miss Essie's statement of facts was much like the artistic representation of lions and men, in the fable!"

Faith did not at all dislike this compounding of matters; and so the strawberries were looked over, and the sponge cake beaten in the dining-room; with various social enlivenings. For besides Mr. Linden's calls upon her attention, and the subjects by him presented to be looked over along with the strawberries, Faith made now and then a run into the kitchen to see Mrs. Derrick or Cindy there; and if the runs up stairs were less frequent, they took more time. For Miss Bezac had arrived, and she and Miss Linden were deep in the white folds of Faith's muslin dress. There too was Mrs. Derrick, for the touch and the making of that dress stirred her very heart. Faith was often in demand,—not to use her needle, but her taste—or to be fitted, or 'tried on,' as Miss Bezac said.

Coming back from one of these "trying" visits to the three workers, Faith found Mr. Linden by the sitting-room table; before him a package, in his hands a letter.

"Faith," he said, "come and look at this." Faith ran in from the strawberries.

"Rosy fingers are not needed," said Mr. Linden, "but as eyes are first called for they may pass. Sit down here by me, Mignonette, and take off this wrapping paper."

Which very curiously and amusedly, and now with a little suspicious tinge in her cheeks, Faith did; remarking that she could not help her fingers being rosy.

"Keep the roses to their chosen location," said Mr. Linden gravely, as the first paper parted right and left and shewed a second, which bore this inscription.—"For Mrs. Endecott Linden—with the warmest regards and respects of W. and L. Olyphant." Faith suddenly jumped up, pushed back her chair and whisked back to the strawberries, where she was found diligently putting the hulls into a dish by themselves.

"Mignonette, your fingers will be more rosy than ever." Mr. Linden spoke from the doorway where he stood watching her. Then coming forward he laid a key on the table. "That belongs to you."

"Wouldn't you be so good as to take care of it? You see I am busy."

"No my dear, I will not be so good. You shall have that pleasure—as a reward for running away. Would you like to hear this letter?"

"If you please—" Faith said with a little hesitation.

"You shall read it to yourself if you like better—" but he read it to her, after all. It was a pretty letter, shewing so well Mr. Linden's place in the writer's affection that Faith could not but enjoy it. Neither could she dislike the messages to herself though they did cost her a few roses. As to the contents of the package the letter gave no hint.

"What is that the key of, Endy?" she said, glancing up after the letter was finished.

"I don't know!"—Faith went on with her strawberries.

Through the open hall door came little uneven steps, tracking on through other open doors even to the dining-room,—there the steps and Charles twelfth came to a pause.

"Ma said," he began,—then fixed his eyes and mind on Mr. Linden with a concentration that was marvellous. The general attire and appearance of the little potentate were as usual, but both hands were in use to support a heavy mass of red coral, hugged up to his blue apron in the most affectionate manner. With a sigh of relief Charles twelfth withdrew his attention from Mr. Linden long enough to set the coral on the floor, then gazed anew, with his hands behind him.

"Charley!" said Faith laughing,—"what are you doing!—and what have you done?"

"Ma said—" began the child, stopping short as before.

"Charles twelfth," said Mr. Linden holding out his hand "do you never use anything but your eyes? Come here and speak to me. Who is prime minister now?"

"You,"—was the very prompt reply. "Ma said so yesterday."

The laugh in Mr. Linden's eyes as he looked at Faith, was a thing to see. "Faith," he said, "the conversation is in your hands!"

Faith was in doubtful readiness to speak. "Charley!"—she said as soon as she could,—"come here. Was that all your ma said?"

"No," said the boy, "she said a heap more."

"Well what did you come here for to-day?"

"I came to fetch that—" said Charles twelfth with another sigh.

"Poor child!—What did you bring it for, Charley?"

"Why for you," said Charley. "Ma said she didn't know when it oughter come—and she guessed you'd like it, 'cause it used to live off in the place where you said they eat up babies and people!" and Charles twelfth's eyes grew large and round with the announcement. "And ma said she's sorry 'twarnt more. I ain't."

Faith's eyes went to Mr. Linden with a flash and a burst of the uncontrollable little laugh; but after that they were suspiciously downcast, and Faith busied herself in providing little Charles twelfth with the refreshment of a good saucer of sugared strawberries, with which he sat down in a corner much consoled. And when he was setting off again, Faith gave him a whispered message to ask his mother to come and see her Thursday. Just what Mr. Linden saw in the piece of red coral he did not declare, but when Faith came back to the table he was looking at it very fixedly.

"Faith," he said, "that is not the worst token, nor the worst envoy—that might be. What a shy child you were that first time I took you down there! And you have not changed any too much," he added, carrying her off to the other room. "I am not sure that you ought to be indulged—suppose you open this box."

"You do it, please, Endecott!"—she said with a crimson rush to her cheeks.

"I do not believe there is any explosive material under such an address,—however, if there is I prefer that my hands should fire the train. Stand back, Faith!"—and with cautious and laughing deliberation the key was turned and the lid raised. It was a very plain lid, by the way—mere white pine.

"There is nothing here (that appears) but silk paper and cotton,—not gun cotton, probably," said Mr. Linden. "Faith, do you wish me to risk my safety any further?"

"Yes."—

"My dear, you must have more courage. If I am to open all your boxes I shall have my hands full, and—ne vous en deplaise—I would rather see the work in yours." And she was seated before the portentous pine box, Mr. Linden keeping his stand at her side. Faith blushed and didn't like it; but applied her fingers with a sort of fearful delicacy to the silk paper and cotton, removing one after the other.

The box had interior divisions, by way of help to the silk paper, its different contents being thus more securely separated. Faith's fingers exploring among the papers brought out first a silver chocolate pot, then the dainty china cups for the same, then the spoons, in size and shape just suiting the cups. Spoons and chocolatiere were marked with the right initials; the cups—chocolate colour themselves, that no drop of the dark beverage might hurt their beauty—had each a delicate gilt F. L. twining about the handle.

If the givers could have seen the gift uncovered and inspected!—the rosy delight in Faith's cheeks, the pleasure in her eye! They would have considered themselves rewarded. She looked and bent over the pretty things, her attitude and blush half veiling her admiration and satisfaction, but there was no veiling them when she looked up at Mr. Linden. "I am so glad you like chocolate!"—she said naively. But it was worth a hundred remarks of aesthetic criticism.

"I am so glad I do!" he said, stooping to kiss her. "Faith, one would almost imagine some bird of the air had told them our chocolate associations."

"Now won't you put these back for me?" said Faith,—"because, if that sponge cake is to get done to-day I haven't two minutes to lose!"

The pretty chocolatiere was but the beginning, as Faith soon found. Found to her most utter and unbounded astonishment—though to that of no one else.

Tuesday arrived a packet from Madame Danforth, accompanied by a note of affection and congratulation. The present was peculiar. A satin sachet, embroidered after the little Frenchwoman's desire, and to do it justice very exquisitely scented, was the first thing. A set of window curtains and toilet cover, of a curious and elaborate pattern of netting, made of very fine thread,—a manufacture in which Madame Danforth delighted and on which she prided herself,—was the second thing. The third was a pretty breakfast service of French china.

Faith enjoyed them all, with some amusement and some pleasure of possession, and not a little affectionate remembrance. Even the sachet, in this view, was particularly precious; that was the only use Faith saw in it. But the next arrival gave her a great start.

It was again this time a deal box, but immensely heavy; and it was a strong box that Faith did not attempt to open; marked only 'Grover & Baker', which told her nothing. There was no occasion indeed. A note was delivered with the box, and a small covered basket. The note conveyed the assurance of Sophy Harrison's love and a request that Faith would let her shew it on the present occasion. It went on.—



"Papa has sent you, dear Faith, an odd thing for a present—for such a present—but I haven't been able to put it out of his head. He insists it is what you ought to have, and that he shall have the pleasure of giving it to you To save you the trouble of opening the box before you want it, I will state that it contains a sewing machine. Papa has taken great pains to satisfy himself—and it is certainly the best or one of the best. My offering, dear Faith, is in the basket, and may be looked at with less difficulty."



Miss Sophy's offering was a kindly one. She had sent a little invoice of silver spoons and forks. Faith was pleased; and yet she looked grave, and very grave, over these things. She made no remark whatever to say why.

If no one else knew there was to be a wedding, at least the express man did!—and probably in his mind joined these new packages with those he had so often brought before, very comfortably. The next arrival was a delicate pair of silver salt-cellars and spoons from Mr. Alcott,—then a little framed sketch from the Captain of the Vulcan, portraying the meeting of two steamers at sea, with these words underneath—'The despatch post'. At which Mr. Linden looked with much amusement. Faith was delighted.

First on Wednesday morning came Miss Bezac,—bringing the well assorted tokens of an elaborate needlebook and a simple bread trencher and knife; and staying only long enough to say, "You see, Faith, what made me think of this, was that the first time I heard of that, was when you came in for bread and milk. And now you'll have to think of me, whether you sew or eat!"—with which triumphant sentiment Miss Bezac departed.

They say ill news flies fast,—in this case so did the good: certainly people are quick to hear and understand what pleases them. The friends who had heard from Pet or Mrs. Iredell what was to be, had spread the information: and in the same sort of way, from two or three old family dependants another class of Mr. Linden's friends had heard it. Perhaps among all her presents the little tokens from these people touched her most. They came queerly done up and directed, sometimes the more formal 'Mrs. Linden' changed into an ill-spelled 'For Mr. Endecott's wife'—or 'For the young lady, in care of Mr. Linden'. She knew the names thereto appended as little as they knew hers,—could only guess the vocations,—the tokens were various. A pair of elaborately carved brackets,—a delicate rustic footstool, trimmed with acorns and cones,—a wooden screw pincushion, with a flaming red velvet top,—a case of scissors, pretty enough to have come from anybody, declared the trade of the sender by the black finger marks on the brown wrapper, and a most mysteriously compiled address. One of the old sailors who had crossed with Mr. Linden long ago, sent by Pet's hands a stuffed tropical bird of gorgeous colours; a woman who had once been upper servant in his mother's house, sent by the same messenger a white toilet cushion, made exactly after one that had belonged to her mistress and which she had been allowed to keep. It was worth while to see Mr. Linden examine these things,—every name was familiar to him, every one called up some story or recollection. Alternating with these, came richer presents,—books and vases and silver; then from the poor people in and about Pattaquasset, a couple of corn husk mats, a nest of osier baskets. The children brought wild flowers and wild strawberries, the fishermen brought fish, till Mrs. Derrick said, "Child, we might as well begin to lay down for winter!"

Ency Stephens, having got Reuben to bring her two fine long razor shells, had transformed them into a pincushion. This she sent, with a kiss, by Mr. Linden.

"I half promised her that she might come before the rest of the world to-morrow, Faith," he said. "She never saw any one married, and has the greatest desire to see you—and I said if you were willing, Reuben should bring her here at one o'clock." Faith was just then exploring the contents of a new package—or rather two: one of as many spools of white thread as she had scholars in her little class, (presented by Robbie Waters,) the other a wee far-sent carved box of curled maple. She looked up with wet eyes.

"Oh let her come, Endecott—I should like to have her here."

Faith had been living in a strange atmosphere this week. The first presents that came simply pleased and amused her to a great degree; Judge Harrison's and his daughter's she saw with a strong admixture of painful feeling. But as tokens from rich and poor began to throng in—not of respect for her wedding-day so much as of respect and love for Mr. Linden,—Faith's mood grew very tender and touched. Never perhaps, since the world stood, did anybody receive wedding presents from friends known and unknown with a more gentle and humble heart-return to the senders. There was no least thing of them all that Faith did not dearly value; it told her of something so much better than the gifts, and it signified of a link that bound her with that. How beautiful to her eyes the meanest of all those trifles did seem! and for the rest, she was as quick to be delighted with what was really beautiful and glad of what would be really useful, as any sensible child could have been. So the amusement with which the week began changed into a grave, loving, and somewhat timid appreciation of each new arrival.

Meanwhile, on Faith's table stood a little silver saucepan sent by Mrs. Somers with the sage remark that she would want it for others if not for herself; and near by, a beautiful butter cup and knife from Mrs. Stoutenburgh. With the butter cup trotted down a little mountain pony, with the daintiest saddle and bridle that the Squire could find for money.

Miss Linden's love had chosen for itself sundry channels; from the silver knives—of all sorts—which made their appearance now, to various comforts, great and small, which were to await her brother and sister in their new home. In those Mrs. Iredell too had a share; her present token was a silver tea-service, whereon the chasing developed itself in sprays of mignonette. A mark of attention which Mr. Linden at least appreciated.



CHAPTER XLIII.



It was very early indeed in the still sweet morning of Thursday, when Faith threw open the windows and blinds of the sitting-room. No one was abroad, and not even a wind moving. The leaves of the trees hung motionless; except where a bird stirred them; the dawn was growing slowly into day; sweet odours called forth by the dew, floated up to the windows, and the twitter and song of the birds floated in. The freshness and stillness and calmness of all the earth was most sweet. Faith could not read; she knelt upon a low cushion at the open window and leaned her arms upon the sill to look out, and breathe, and think and pray. The morning was not unlike her. She was as fresh, and as grave, and as still; and there was a little flutter now and then too in her heart, that went with nothing worse than the song of the birds, though it stirred something more than the leaves of the branches. So Mr. Linden found her.

So she met them all at breakfast, with the same unready eyes and lips that Mr. Linden had seen before. It was odd how Faith seemed to have put off the full realization of Thursday till Thursday came. After breakfast she was making her escape, but was detained before she reached the staircase. What it was that Mr. Linden fastened in her dress, Faith could not have told; neither did his words tell her.

"You must not think me extravagant, Mignonette,—these are some old gems of mine which I want you to wear in this form." He gave her one grave kiss and let her go. Faith sped up stairs; and with a fluttering heart went to see what Mr. Linden had done.—Yes, they were gems,—clear, steadfast, as the eternal truth which they signified, the blue sapphires shone upon Faith's white dress.

Faith was alone; and she sat before the glass an odd long while, studying the brooch where Mr. Linden had placed it. Her head upon her hand, and with much the same sort of face with which she used long ago to study Pet's letters, or some lesson that Pet's brother had set her. From the sapphires Faith turned to her Bible. She was not, or would not be interrupted, till it was time to attend to business.

The first business was presented for her attention by Miss Linden, who came in, basket in hand. There was no need to ask what it was, such a breath of orange flowers and roses filled the room. She found Faith ready; her hair dressed as it always was; her mind too, to judge by appearances. Only Faith was a little more quiet than usual. With the very quietness of love and sympathy, Pet did her part; with the swiftest fingers, the most noiseless steps. Silent as Mrs. Derrick or Faith herself, only a sparkle of the eyes, a pretty flush on the cheeks, said that she viewed the matter from a greater distance. And yet hardly that, so far as one of the parties was concerned. Never putting her hand forward where Mrs. Derrick's liked to be, it was most efficient in other places. Both used their skill to put the soft muslin safely over Faith's smooth hair, but then Mrs. Derrick was left to fasten and adjust it—Pet applied herself to adjusting the flowers. How dainty they were: those tiny bunches! sprays of myrtle and orange flowers, or a white rose-bud and a more trailing stem of ivy geranium; the breast-knot just touched with purple heliotrope and one blush rose. Kneeling at her feet to put on the rosetted slippers, Pet looked up at her new sister with all her heart in her eyes. And Faith looked down at her—like a child.

She had been dressed in Pet's room—her own, as being larger and more commodious than the one where Faith had stowed herself lately; and when the dressing was done she sat down by the open window, and with the odd capriciousness of the mind at certain times, thought of the day when Mr. Linden had thrown her up the cowslip ball,—and in the same breath wondered who was going to take her down stairs!

But she sat quiet, looking as fair in her soft robe with its orange flowers as if they and she had been made for each other. Faith's hair, in its rich colour, was only dark enough to set off the tender tints of her flowers and dress; it wanted neither veil nor adornment. The very outlines of her figure betokened, as outlines are somewhat apt to do, the spirit within; without a harsh angle or line. And nothing could be too soft, or strong, or pure, to go with those eyes. She sat looking out into the orchard, where now the noonday of summer held its still reign—nothing there but the grass and the trees and the insects. The cowslips were gone; and Mr. Linden——

Pet finished all that had been left unfinished of her own dress, then in her rose-coloured summer silk, white gloves in her hand, white flowers on her breast, she came and stood by Faith. Mrs. Derrick had gone down stairs. It was close upon one o'clock now; the shadows were losing their directness and taking a slant line, the labourers were coming back to their work, standing about and taking off their coats, waiting for the clock to strike. Miss Linden stood drawing on her gloves. Faith gave her one swift glance, which rested for a second on her face with a look of loving gratitude. A flush rose to her cheek, as if it might have been the reflection of Miss Linden's dress; but it was not that, for it paled again.

One o'clock!

It would have seemed a less weird sort of thing if the clock had made a little more fuss,—twelve strokes, or even eleven, would have been something tangible; but that one clang—scarce heard before it was gone, dying away on the June breeze,—what a point of time it seemed! The waves of air were but just at rest, when Mrs. Derrick opened the door and came in; her black dress and white cap setting off a face and demeanour which, with all their wonted sweet placidness, and amid all the tender influences of the day, kept too their wonted energy.

"Come, pretty child!" she said.

Faith was ready, and followed her mother without a question. In the hall Mr. Linden stood waiting for her, and she was given into his care; though again Faith lost the look which passed between the two,—she saw only the startling white of Mr. Linden's gloves. He handed her down stairs, then gave her his arm and took her in; Mrs. Derrick going first, and Pet following.

There were but six or eight people there. On one side sat Mrs. Iredell in her rich dress; the rest were standing, except little Ency Stephens, who was in one of her perched-up positions by the window. Mr. Somers was lingering about his position, his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh were opposite to Mrs. Iredell. Reuben Taylor furthest back of all, in the shadow of Ency's window. Her little cry was the only sound as they came in, and that hardly louder than a sigh of delight.

Faith did not hear it nor look at anybody. Yet she did not look dismayed at all nor abashed. A piece of very timid gravity the person nearest her knew her to be; but hardly any person further off. A very lovely mingling of shy dignity and humility was in her face and air as she stood before Mr. Somers; those who saw it never forgot.

Except I must that same Mr. Somers! He saw only a pretty bride, whose orange flowers and roses were very sweet. He had seen many pretty brides before, and orange flowers were not new to him. And he pronounced his part of the service which followed, with gratification, certainly. Mr. Somers was always gracious, and to-day he was admiring; but yet with no more sense of what he was about than when a hundred times before he had pronounced it for—very different people!

However, there is a great system of compensations in this world; and on this occasion there was in other members of the party so much sense of what was doing, that it mattered little about Mr. Somers' want of it. It mattered nothing to Faith, how his words were spoken; nobody that heard them forgot how hers were—the sweet clear sounds of every syllable; only that once or twice she said "yes" where by established formula she should have said the more dignified "I do." Perhaps "yes" meant as much. Those who heard it thought it did.

For Mr. Linden, his senses not being troubled by shyness, just because his own heart was so thoroughly in what he was about he did perceive the want of heart in Mr. Somers. And, in the abstract, it did not suit his notions that even a man who had married five hundred other people should put such questions to Mignonette, or to him, in a commonplace way. So far his senses perceived, but Mr. Somers could reach no further. One touch of Faith's hand had banished the officiate to another planet; and the vow to love, cherish, and honour, was taken, word for word, deep in his own heart; the grave, deliberate accents of assent seeming to dwell upon each specification. Yes, he took her "for better for worse, in sickness or health, for richer for poorer," every word was like the counting over of gold to him, it was all "richer." Even the last words, the limit fixed, shone with light from another world. "Till death shall you part;" yes, but to them death would be but a short parting. And standing side by side there with the blessing of his earthly life, Mr. Linden thanked God in his heart for the future "life and immortality" to which He had called them both.

Mysterious is the way in which events are telegraphed from the inside of a house to the exterior thereof. Hardly were Mr. Somers' last words spoken, Faith was not yet out of Mr. Linden's hands, when there came a peal from the little white church as if the bell-ringing of two or three Sundays were concentrated in one. Much to the surprise of Mr. Somers; who, to speak truth, rather thought the bells were his personal property, and as such playing truant. But in two seconds the other bell chimed in; and all that could ever be known, was, that Phil Davids and Joe Deacon had been seen in closer attendance on the two churches than they were wont to be week days. Meantime the bells rang.

It was done; and those downcast eyes must be lifted up, if they could. But Faith was not unlike her usual manner. The slight air of timidity which sat with such grace upon her was not so very unusual; and that besides touched only or mainly one person. With blushing quietness she let her friends kiss and congratulate her. It was rather kiss and caress her; for they came about her, that little bevy of friends, with a warmth that might have thawed Mr. Somers. Mrs. Derrick and Pet glad and silent, Reuben Taylor very shy, the Stoutenburghs in a little furor of interest which yet did not break pretty bounds. And then Faith went up to Ency where she sat by the window, and gave her two kisses, very grave and sweet.

"How beautiful you are, ma'am!" was the child's truthful comment.

"Do you know who 'Miss Faith' is now, Ency?"—"Yes sir," the child said, then shy of speaking it out, "Stoop down and I'll tell you."

Mr. Linden bent his head to hear the whisper, giving her a kiss in return, and then carried Faith off to the next room; where presently too the little lame girl was perched up at such a table as she had never dreamed of before.

It was a pretty gathering, both on the table and around it. The party of friends, few enough to be choice, were good and different enough to be picturesque; and had among them a sufficient amount of personal advantages to be, as Ency said, "beautiful." The table itself was very plain with regard to china and silver; but fruit is beautiful, and there was an abundance of that. Coffee of course; and cream, yellow as gold, for coffee and fruit both. There were more substantial things, to serve as substitutes for dinner, attesting Mrs. Derrick's good housekeeping at once, and the loving remembrance of friends. There had been little need to do much in the house. Mrs. Iredell had taken the wedding cake into her charge, which Mrs. Stoutenburgh not knowing had taken it into hers, and into her hands as well; so Faith had both the bought cake, of the richest and best ornamented to a point, and the home-made; with plain icing indeed, but wherein every raisin had been put with a sweet thought.

"This is—ha!—a very agreeable occasion!" said Mr. Somers, smiling at the ornamented plum cake which was before him. "I—a—really, I don't see, Mrs. Derrick, how anything could be improved for the pleasure of the party. We have done a good thing, and to good people, and it's been well done;" (Mr. Somers vaunted himself), "and in a good time,—ha—this is the prettiest month in the year, Mr. Linden; and now we are all enjoying a pleasant sight, before us and around us, and I enjoy my coffee also very much, Mrs Derrick. The only bad thing about it is—ha—that it rather spoils one for the next occasion. I assure you I haven't seen anything like it in Pattaquasset, since I have lived here! I wasn't married here, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, take notice."

"I hope you don't mean to say you saw anything that was on the table the day you were married, Mr. Somers!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh irreverently.

"Let's hear what you mean by well done,—let's hear, Mr. Somers," said the Squire.

"He means securely," said Mrs. Somers.

"I feel sure," said Mr. Somers with exquisite significancy, "I feel sure that part of my audience were at no loss for the meaning of my words. Experience, somebody says, is the best commentary—hey, Mr. Linden? is it not so?"—"What, sir?"

Mr. Somers laughed, gently. "I see you coincide with me in opinion, sir."

"I coincide with him in the opinion that it was well done to ring the bells," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Reuben, I guess that was your doing."

"Never mind whose it was," said the Squire, "the bells were never put to a better use, week days, I'll venture. Mr. Linden, won't that lady by you let me give her another piece of chicken?"—"No, sir," came in a low voice that had a private chime of its own.

"Little bird," said Mr. Linden, softly, "do you know that all your compeers live by eating?"—"Crumbs" said Faith with equal softness.

"But of proportionate size!"—"Yes," said Faith.

"You know," he said in the same low voice, "to go back to our old maxim those bells may stand for the music, and we have certainly spoken a few sensible words; but if you do not look up how will you find the picture?"—She raised her eyes, but it was for a swift full glance up into his face; she looked nowhere else, and her eyes went back to her plate again. The involuntary, unconscious significance of the action made Mr. Linden smile.

"I have had mine now, Mignonette, and Ency spoke true."

"How long does it take people to get married," came in a good-humoured kind of a growl from the room they had left, the door to which was ajar. "Ain't it done yet?"

"There's Mr. Simlins, Endecott," whispered Faith, colouring.

"Come in and see," said Squire Stoutenburgh. "Who wants to know?" Wherewith the door was pushed open, and Mr. Simlins long figure presented itself, and stood still.

"What are you uneasy about, Mr. Simlins?" the Squire went on. "You may go and shake hands with Mr. Linden, but don't congratulate anybody else." The farmer's eye rested for a moment on Faith; then he went round and shook hands with the bridegroom.

"Is it done?" he asked again in the midst of this ceremony.—"Yes."

"Past all help, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Somers.

"I am glad, for one!" Mr. Simlins answered. "Mayn't I see this cretur here? I wish you'd stand up and let me look at you."

Faith rose up, he had edged along to her. He surveyed her profoundly. "Be you Faith Derrick?" he said.—"Yes, sir."

He shook her hand then, holding it fast. "It's the true, and not a counter," he remarked to Mr. Linden. "Now, if you'd only take Neanticut, I could die content, only for liking to live and see you. Where are you going to take her to?"—"I am not sure yet."

"I guess I don't want you at Neanticut," said the farmer, taking a cup of coffee which Faith gave him. "Last Sunday fixed that. But there'll a bushel of Neanticut nuts follow you every year as long as I'm a Simlins, if you go to the Antipathies. No, I don't want anythin' to eat—I've done my eatin' till supper-time."

The door-knocker warned the party that they must not tarry round the lunch-table, and before Mr. Simlins had a chance to say anything more he had on his mind, the principal personages of the day were receiving Judge Harrison and his daughter in the other room. Mr. Simlins looked on, somewhat grimly, but with inward delight and exultation deep and strong. Miss Sophy was affectionate, the judge very kind; the congratulations of both very hearty; though Judge Harrison complained that Mr. Linden was robbing Pattaquasset, and Sophy echoed the sorrow if not the complaint. In the midst of this came in Miss Essie de Staff, with a troop of brothers and sisters; and they had scarcely paid their compliments when they were obliged to stand aside to make room for some new comers. Miss Essie's eyes had full employment, and were rather earnest about it.

"She's beautifully dressed," she remarked to Mrs. Stoutenburgh, evidently meditating a good deal more than her words carried.

"Why, of course!" was Mrs. Stoutenburgh's quick response, "and so is he. Don't be partial in your examinations."

"Oh he, of course!" said Miss Essie, in the same manner.

"I never saw two people set each other off better," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.

"Set each other off?" repeated Miss Essie. "Why he'd set anybody off! I always admired him. Look at her! she hasn't an idea how to be ceremonious." Faith had been speaking to Mrs. Iredell. Just then a rosebud having detached itself from her dress, she went round the room to Ency by her window and gave it to her. Near this window Miss Linden had placed herself; the table before her covered with wedding cake and white ribbon, Reuben Taylor at her side to cut and fold, her little fingers daintily wrapping and tying up. Ency already held her piece of cake and white ribbon, and with the promise of other pieces to take home, watched Miss Linden's proceedings with interest. It was a busy table, for thither came everybody else after cake and white ribbon. Thither came Mrs. Stoutenburgh now, quitting Miss Essie.

"Faith, what do you think Mr. Stoutenburgh asked me Sunday?"—"I don't know. What?" asked Faith, with her half-shy, half free, very happy face.

"You should have heard him!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, laughing, but speaking in the softest of whispers. "You should have heard the dismal way in which he asked me if Mr. Somers would go anywhere else, if he could get a chance."

Faith smiled, but evidently to her the question whether Mr. Linden should stay in Pattaquasset had lost its interest.

"O I can find her, never fear!" said Miss Bezac, followed by Mr. Linden in Faith's direction. "Though I don't suppose you ever did fear anything. And I do suppose, if I've thought once I have fifty times how she'd look to-day, and I was right every time. Don't she look! I always told her she didn't know what she wanted—and I'm sure she don't now." With which Miss Bezac gave Faith as hearty a congratulation as she had yet received. "Well," she said, turning to Mr. Linden, "do you wonder I wanted to make it?"—"Not in the least."

"But what do I want, Miss Bezac?" said Faith laughing and looking affectionately at her old friend and fellow-work-woman.

"Why I should think nothing," said Miss Bezac. "So it seems to me. And talking of seams—didn't I do yours! Do you know I should have come before, but I never can see two people promise to love each other forever without crying—and crying always makes rusty needles—so I wouldn't come till now, when everybody's laughing." Faith was an exception, for her amusement grew demure. And Miss Essie approached.

Now Miss Essie's black eyes, although bright enough, were altogether gracious, and in a certain way even propitiatory. They were bent upon the gentleman of the group.

"Mr. Linden," said the lady with her most flattering manner, "I want to know if you have forgiven me all my dreadful speeches that I made once."

"Miss Essie, I never questioned your right to make them, therefore you see my forgiveness has no place." Miss Essie looked as if her "study" of Mr. Linden hadn't been thorough.

"That's very polite," she said; "too polite. But do you think Mrs. Linden will ever let me come into her house?"

"Why not? It cannot be worse than you imagined."

"Because," said Miss Essie, earnestly, "I want to come, and I am afraid she will not ask me. I go everywhere, and wherever you are I shall be sure to come there some time; and then I want to see you and see how you live, and see if my theory was mistaken. But I drew it from experience!"

"Did you ever hear of the ice palace the little brook built for himself?" said Mr. Linden.—"Lowell, oh yes!"

"Mrs. Linden thinks she would like to try that."

If ever black eyes were thoroughly puzzled, that were Miss Essie's. She glanced from Mr. Linden to Faith, who had fallen back towards another part of the room, but whose cheek gave token of her having heard and noticed. Miss Essie's eyes came back; she looked a little mortified.

"I see you have not forgiven me," she said. "But, Mr. Linden, I only spoke of what I had seen. I had been unfortunate; and I am sure I needn't confine myself to the past tense! I knew nothing, you know."

"Miss Essie," he said, smiling, "your frame for the picture may be correct, but the picture will be different. As you will see when you come."

"Then you will let me come?"—"I will let you come. Only if you hear that Faith is not at home, do not feel sure of the fact till you have looked in my study."

Miss Essie's face for a moment was notable. She was in a certain way satisfied, and yet it wore a sort of compound mortification inexplicable very likely, to the lady herself, and perhaps, that only an acute eye of another would have read.

Before this dialogue had reached so much of a culmination, Mr. Simlins, who had been standing looking at everything like a good-humoured bear, made his way across the room, and through the people to Faith, where she had shrunk back out of the way.

"I can't stay here all the afternoon!" said he, "and I s'pose it aint expected of me. Can't you step over yonder and let a man have a chance to say a word to you, before I go?"

Faith agreed to this proposition, not knowing that it was going to take her literally into a corner; but to one of the further corners of the room Mr. Simlins strode, and Faith went after him; and there he sat down and she was fain to do likewise. Then he wasn't ready.

"I had somethin' to say to you," said he, "but I don't know how to say it!"—"Try, Mr. Simlins," said Faith, smiling.

"How does the dominie manage to talk to you?" said he, looking at her. "I don't see how he can get on with it."

Faith grew crimson, and grave.

"Well," said the farmer, smiling a bit, "I s'pose I'll have to get it out somehow. You see, Faith, the thing is, in my mind, I want you to have something that'll make you—you and him too—think of Pattaquasset and me once in a while. Now I'm goin' to give you that black heifer. If you can, I hope you'll take her with you whereever you're goin'—if you can't, why you may turn her into cash; but I guess you can. She's a real Simlins—she'll run, if you don't keep a fence round her; but if you treat her right, she'll give you all your dairy'll want for some time to come; and the very plague you'll be at to keep her shut up, will make you think of me."

"Dear Mr. Simlins!" Faith said with her eyes full, "there is no danger about that!"—

"No!" said he rising; "and when you think of me I know you'll do something else for me. Good-bye, till you get back again." Off he went. Other people followed. The room had thinned a little, when Pet left her table in Reuben's charge and came to Faith's corner.

"Poor child," she said, "you must be tired. Faith, I shall defy ceremony, and put you in Aunt Iredell's chair; she is going to lie down. Oh! how did that man get here?—and George Alcott!" Pet faced round upon Faith, folding her hands with an air of dismayed resignation.

"What's the matter, Pet?"—"I thought I was safe here," said Miss Linden. "Faith, I did not suppose ubiquitous people found their way to Pattaquasset. You'll have to run the gauntlet of that man's compliments, child, however, Endy is a pretty good safeguard."

Before Faith could see much of what was going on, Mr. Linden was at her side. "Mrs. Linden—Mr. Motley," was all he said; and Faith found herself face to face with one of those two well-remembered strangers. So well remembered that a slight glance at him was arrested, by what at first she did not recognize, and unconsciously she gave Mr. Motley for a second a look sufficiently like what he had seen before to identify her. That second brought it all back. A blush of most rosy beauty came upon Faith's face, and her eyes fell as if no one was ever to see them again. Mr. Motley's eyes, on the contrary, expanded. But the whistle which rose politely to his lips, was held in polite check—by Mr. Linden's presence or some other consideration—and with no further sign than an under breath "Linden!" Mr. Motley gave the bride his hand, claiming that privilege in easy, musky words, on the score of old acquaintanceship with the bridegroom.

"I trust Mrs. Linden has been well since I last (and first!) had the pleasure of seeing her? Apart from the occasion—it seems to me that she is looking even better than then—though then I should not have believed that possible."

"It is a long time, sir," Faith said gravely.

"Linden," said Mr. Motley in a sort of aside, "even your symmetrical taste must be satisfied!"

"With what?" said Mr. Linden. Which rather shortly—put question brought Mr. Motley to a stand. Much as when one pushes on into daylight through the filmy finespun work of a spider, that respectable insect looks about, considering where he shall begin anew.

"It is so long," said Mr. Motley with soft emphasis, "that I could hardly have hoped to be remembered."

"If I recollect right," said Mr. Linden, "if you did not misstate the case, it was the charms of your conversation that made the impression."

"You are the most inconvenient person to talk to!" said Mr. Motley with a glance at the handsome face. "Like a quicksand—closing around one. Mrs. Linden, do you not find it so? Ah George!—talking to Miss Pet as usual. Permit me—Mrs. Linden, Mr. Alcott. George, you cannot have forgotten Mrs. Linden?" That George had not was very clear.

And that Faith had not forgotten, was very clear. She lifted her eyes once more, to see if the second was the second; and then stood with the most exquisite cheeks, though perfectly quiet. Her gloves had not been put on again since the lunch, and the hand that held them bore also the ring which had been the gentlemen's admiration.

"Now what do you think, George," said Mr. Motley, "of Linden's letting me tell Julius Harrison that whole story, and never giving the least hint that he knew the lady referred to? Except, yes once indeed, I do remember, Mrs. Linden, his face took a warm reflection of the subject, but I thought that was due to my powers as a colourist."

"You couldn't high-colour that picture," said Mr. Alcott, in a tone Faith remembered well. "Mrs. Linden, I hope we are to see you at Newport."

Faith felt in a tumult with all these "Mrs. Lindens." But all that seemed unquiet about her, besides her cheeks, was the flashing ring.

"Well, we must tear ourselves away from this place of fascination," said Mr. Motley. "I believe, Mrs. Linden, we ought to apologize for our intrusion, but it was an old saying among this gentleman's friends that he never would submit to 'bonds and imprisonments'—(there goes the Bible again!) and some of them had a long-standing permission to come and believe their eyes if such an event ever should take place. I can hardly, now!"

"Why do you, sir?" Faith asked simply.

"Really, madam, because I can't help it! One look at you, Mrs. Linden, is enough. In some circumstances all a man can do is to surrender!"

"He needn't till he's summoned," said George Alcott shortly. Though whether he had acted so wisely himself was a question, as Mr. Linden said amusedly after they were gone.

Faith turned away, feeling as if she had rather more than enough, and occupied herself with Reuben and Ency again. Then came in Farmer Davids and his wife, and Phil. Phil was forthwith in a state of "glamour;" but Faith brought him to the table and gave him cake and discoursed to him and Reuben; while Mrs. Davids talked to Mrs. Derrick in wonderful delighted admiration; and the farmer as usual fixed upon Mr. Linden.

"We had the uncommon pleasure of hearin' you speak last Sunday, sir," said Mr. Davids with great seriousness. "I sha'n't forget it, what you said. And you don't know where you're going to fix yourself, sir?"