"Not certainly."

"I would rather than half what I sell off the farm, that it was going to be where I could be within reach of you, sir! But wherever 'tis Phil, and I, we consulted how we could contrive to show our sense of this day; we're plain folks, Mr. Linden, and we didn't know how to fit; but if you'll let us know where you're goin' to be, Mrs. Davids she wants to send your wife a cheese, and there's some of Phil's apples, and I want you to have some Pattaquasset flour to make you think of us. And if you'll only think of us every year as long as they come, it's all I ask!" It was said with the most honest expression of struggling regard, and respect, that wanted to show itself.

Then Mr. Linden was claimed by a new comer. Sam Stoutenburgh, fresh from College, Quilipeak, and the tailor, presented himself. Now it was rather a warm day, and trains are not cool, and haste is not a refrigerator, nevertheless Sam's cheeks were high coloured! His greeting of Mr. Linden was far less off-hand and dashing than was usual with this new Junior; and when carried off to Mrs. Linden, Sam (to use an elegant word) was "flustered."

"Miss Faith," he began. "No I don't mean that! I beg your pardon, but I'm very glad to see you again, and I wish you were going to stay here always."

Faith laughed. "Will you stay here always yourself, Sam?"

"O I don't know," said Sam. "It's a while before I've got to do anything yet. But Miss Faith—I mean! since you will go, won't you please take this?" and Sam presented a tiny box containing a pretty gold set cornelian seal, engraved with a spirited Jehu chariot running away! "It'll remind you of a day I shall never forget," said Sam both honestly and sentimentally. If Mr. Linden could have helped Faith answer, he would!

Faith's face was in a quiver, between laughter and very much deeper and stronger feeling; but she shook Sam's hand again gratefully.—"I shall never forget it, Sam, nor what you did for me that day. And I hope you'll come and see me somewhere else, some time."

Then Mr. Linden spoke. "No one can owe you so much for that day's work as I, Sam; and since she is running away again you must do as you did then, and find her."

Sam was somewhat touched and overwhelmed, and went off to talk to Reuben about Miss Linden's dress. A little while longer and the room was cleared. The two collegians came last of all to say good-bye, Reuben lingering behind his friend.

"You know," said Mr. Linden, holding the boy's hand, "you are coming to study with me, Reuben, if I live; we will not call it good-bye. And I shall expect to see you before that in vacation."

"And you know, Reuben," said Faith, very low, "you have been a brother to me this great while."

Reuben looked down, trying for words. Then meeting Faith's eyes as he had done that very first time—what though his own were full—he said, "I am not sorry, ma'am, I am glad: so glad!" he repeated, looking from her face to Mr. Linden's. But his eyes fell then; and hastily clasping the hand she held out to him, he bent his face to Mr. Linden's and turned away. One quick step Mr. Linden took after him, and they left the room arm in arm, after the old fashion.

With Mr. Linden, when he came back, was an oldish gentleman, silver-haired, with a fresh ruddy face; not very tall, very pleasant-looking. Pet's exclamation was of joy, this time, and she ran forward to meet him. Then Mr. Linden brought him up to Faith. "Mignonette, this is my dear friend, Mr. Olyphant." And Mr. Olyphant took both her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, as if he meant to be her friend too: then looked at her without letting go. "Endecott!" he said, turning to Mr. Linden, "whatever you undertake you always do well!" And he shook Faith's hands again, and told her he could wish her joy with a clear conscience.

The timid little smile which this remark procured him, might have confirmed the old gentleman in his first-expressed opinion. Mr. Olyphant studied her a minute, not confusingly, but with a sort of touched kindliness.

"What do you call her, Endecott?" he said.—"Any sweet name I can think of," said Mr. Linden, smiling, "just now, Mignonette." Which remark had a merciless effect upon Faith's cheeks.

"It suits her, Mr. Olyphant," said Pet.

"So I see, Miss Pet. Do you think I have lost my eyes? Endecott, are you going to bring her to the White Mountains?"—"I think so, sir: that is my present inclination."

"How would you like it, Mrs. Linden?"—"I think I should like it, sir."

"Not afraid of the cold?"—Faith's smile clearly was not afraid of anything. So was her answer.

"You must have a house midway on the slope," said Mr. Olyphant; "half your parish above your heads, half at your feet: and you will have plenty of snow, and plenty of work, and not much else, but each other. Endecott's face says that is being very rich but he always was an unworldly sort of fellow, Mrs. Linden; I don't think he ever saw the real glitter of gold, yet."

Did her eyes? But they were unconsciously looking at riches of some kind; there was no poverty in them. "I like work, sir."

"Do you think she could bear the cold, Mr. Olyphant? how are the winters there? That is what I have thought of most."

"I am no more afraid of the cold than you are, Endecott." How gently the last word was spoken! But Faith clearly remembered her lesson.

Mr. Linden smiled. "She is a real little Sunbeam," he said. "You know they make light of cold weather."

"Light of it in two ways," said Mr. Olyphant. "No, I don't think you need fear the winters for her; we'd try and protect her."

"Do you see how much good the Sunbeam has done him, Mr. Olyphant?" said Pet.—"I see it, Miss Pet; it does me good. I meant to have been here to see you married, Endecott, and missed the train. I shall miss it again, now, if I am not careful. But you must come up and stay with us, and we'll arrange matters. Such neighbours may tempt me to winter in the mountains myself, and then I shall take charge of you, Miss Pet."

"I should like that," said Pet.

"I see, my dear Mrs. Linden," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling at her, "I see you follow one of the old Jewish laws."

"What is that, sir?"—"You know it was required of the Jews that they should bear the words of the law 'as frontlets between the eyes'. Now—if you will forgive me for saying so—in your eyes is written one of the proverbs."

"Look up, Mignonette, and let me see," said Mr. Linden. But oddly, Faith looked down first; then the eyes were lifted.

"Is truth a proverb?" said Pet laughing.—"O you see too many things there!" said Mr. Olyphant,—"this is what I see, Endecott—'The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.'"

A little veil of shyness and modesty suddenly fell around Faith. Even her head drooped. But Mr. Linden's lips touched the fair brow between those very fair eyes.

"I cannot praise your discernment, sir," he said. "It is not more true than evident."

"I cannot half congratulate either of you," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling, "so I'll go. Good-bye, Miss Pet—remember next winter. Mrs. Linden, we shall expect to see you long before that time. Let me have a word with you, Endecott." And Faith was again left alone, entirely this time, for Miss Linden went up stairs to attend Mrs. Iredell.

As they turned to go out, Faith turned the other way, and sat down, feeling overwhelmed. Everything was very still. Pet's light steps passed off in the distance; through the open windows came the song of kildeers and robins, the breath of roses, the muslin-veiled sunshine. Then she heard Mr. Olyphant's carriage drive off, and Mr. Linden came back. Faith started up, and very lovely she looked, with the timid grace of those still dyed cheeks and vailed brow.

"My poor little tired Mignonette!" he said as he came up to her. Then lifted her face, and looking at it a moment with a half smile, pressed his lips again where they had been so lately. But this time that did not satisfy him.

"Endy," she said presently, "please don't praise me before other people!"

"What dreadful thing did I say?" inquired Mr. Linden, laughing. "Do you know I have hardly seen my wife yet?"—To judge by Faith's face, neither had she.

"If I speak of her at all I must speak the truth. But Mr. Olyphant knows me of old; he will not take my words for more than they are worth."

A slight commentary of a smile passed, but Faith did not adventure any repartee.

"Are you very tired?"—"Oh no!"

"Little bird!" said Mr. Linden, holding her close. "What sort of a sweet spirit was it that said those words at my side this morning?"

There was no answer at first; and then, very quaint and soft the words—"Only Faith Derrick."

"'Only.'—Faith, did you hear my parting direction to Miss Essie?"—"Yes."

"Do you agree to it, Mrs. Linden?"

He had spoken that name a good many times that day, and to be sure her cheeks had more or less acknowledged it; but this time it brought such a rush of colour that she stooped her face to be out of sight.

"Do you want Miss Reason to answer that question, sir?"—"No, nor Miss anybody."

"Prudence would say, there are shortcakes," said Faith.

"Where?"—"In—hypothesis."

"If your shortcakes outweigh my study, Faith, they will be heavier than I ever saw them!"

"You wouldn't take Reason's answer," said Faith.

"What would it have been?"

She looked up, a swift little laughing glance into his face.

"Parlez, Madame, s'il vous plait."

Her look changed. "You know, Endy, I would rather be there than anywhere else in the world."

It moved him. The happiness to which his look bore witness was of a kind too deep for words.

"Do you know, love, if we had been going at once to our work in the mountains, I should have asked a great many people to come here to-day."

"Would you? why, Endy?"—"To let them see my wife. Now, I mean to take her to see them."

Faith was willing he should take her where he pleased, though she made no remark. Her timidity moved in a small circle, and touched principally him. Mingling with this, and in all she did, ever since half past one o'clock to-day, there had been a sort of dignity of grave happiness; very rare, very beautiful.

"I wonder if you know half how lovely and dear you are?" said Mr. Linden, studying the fair outlines of character, as well as of feature. But Faith's eye went all down the pattern of embroidery on her white robe, and never dared meet his. "Have you any idea, little Mignonette of sweetness, after what fashion that proverb is true?"

She looked up, uncertain what proverb he meant; but then immediately certain, bent her head again. Faith never thought of herself as Mr. Linden thought of her. Movings of humility and determination were in her heart now, but she knew he would not bear to hear her speak them, and her own voice was not just ready. So she was only silent still.

"What will make you speak?" said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I am like Ali Baba before the storehouse of hid treasure. Is this the 'Sesame' you are waiting for?" he added, raising her face and trying two or three persuasive kisses.

"There was nothing in the storehouse," said Faith laughingly. "No words I mean."—"I am willing to take thoughts."

"How?"—"Which way you like!"

"Then you will have to wait for them, Endy."

"Mignonette, I am of an impatient disposition."

"Yes I know it."

"Is it to be your first wifely undertaking to cure me?" he said, laughing.—"It takes time to put thoughts into action," said Faith, blushing.—"Not all thoughts, Mignonette."

She coloured beautifully; but anything more pure and sweet than those first wifely kisses of Faith could not be told. Did he know, had he felt, all the love and allegiance they had so silently and timidly spoken? She had reason to think so.



CHAPTER XLIV.



In a low whitewashed room, very clean though little and plain, where the breeze blew in fresh from the sea, Faith found herself established Friday afternoon. Mr. Linden had promised to show her the surf, and so had brought her down to a little village, long ago known to him, on the New England shore; where the people lived by farming and fishing, and no hotel attracted or held an influx of city life. It was rather late in the day, for the journey had been in part off the usual route of railway and steam, and therefore had been longer if not wearier. But when Faith had got rid of the dust, Mr. Linden came to her door to say that it would be half an hour to supper, and ask if she was too tired to walk down to the beach.

The shore was but a few hundred yards from the little farmhouse; green grass, with interrupting rocks, extending all the way. Faith hardly knew what she was corning to till she reached the brink. There the precipitous rocks rose sheer a hundred feet from the bottom, and at the bottom, down below her, a narrow strip of beach was bordered with the billowy crest and foam of the sea. Nothing but the dark ocean and the illimitable ocean line beyond; there was not even a sail in sight this evening; in full uninterrupted power and course, from the broad east, the swells of the sea rolled in and broke—broke, with their graceful, grand monotony.

The beach was narrow at height of tide; now the tide was out. Fishermen's boats were drawn up near to the rocks, and steep narrow pathways along and down the face of them allowed the fishermen to go from the top to the bottom.

"Can't we get down there?" said Faith, when she had stood a minute looking silently. Her face showed an eager readiness for action.

"Can you fly, little bird?"—"Yes—as well as the fishermen can!"

"If you cannot I can carry you," said Mr. Linden.—And doubtless he would have found some way to make his words good had there been need; as it was, he only guarded her down the steep rocky way, going before her and holding her hand in a grasp she would have been puzzled to get away from. But Faith was light and free of foot, and gave him no trouble. Once at the bottom, she went straight towards those in-coming big waves, and in front of them stood still. The sea-breeze blew in her face; the roar of the breakers made music in her ears. Faith folded one hand upon the other, and stood motionless. Now and then the wind caught the spray from some beaten rock and flung it in her face, and wave after wave rose up and donned its white crest; the upstanding green water touched with sunlight and shadow, and changing tints of amber and olive, down which the white foam came curling and rushing—sweeping in knots of seaweed, and leaving all the pebbles with wet faces. Mr. Linden let her look without the interruption of a word; but he presently put his arm round her, and drew her a little into shelter from the strong breeze. It was a while before she moved from her steady gaze at the water; then she looked up, the joy of her face breaking into a smile.

"Endecott, will you show me anything more grand than this?"

"You shall tell me when you have seen the uprising mists of Niagara," he answered, smiling, "or the ravines between snowcaps 'five thousand summers old.'"

Her eye went back to the sea. "It brings before me, somehow," she said slowly, "all time, and all eternity! I have been thinking here of myself as I was a little child, and as I shall be, and as I am," she added, with her inveterate exactness, and blushing. "I seem to see only the great scale of everything."

"Tell me a little more clearly what you see," said Mr. Linden.

"It isn't worth telling. I see everything here as belonging to God. The world seems his great work-place, and life his time for doing the work, and I—and you," she said, with a flash of light coming across her face, "his work-people. And those great breaking waves, somehow, seem to me like the resistless, sure, beautiful, doings of his providence." She spoke very quietly, because she was bidden, evidently.

"Do you know how many other things they are like?—or rather how many are likened to them in the Bible?"—"No! I don't know the Bible as you do."

"They seem to be a never-failing image—an illustration suiting very different things. 'The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest,' and then, 'O that thou hadst hearkened to me I then had thy peace been as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea.'"

"There is the endless struggle of human will and purpose against the divine—'The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.' 'Fear ye not me? saith the Lord: will ye not tremble at my presence, which have placed the sand for the bound of the sea by a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass it: and though the waves thereof toss themselves, yet can they not prevail: though they roar, yet can they not pass over it?' And so in another place the image is reversed, and God says, 'Behold I am against thee, O Tyrus, and will cause many nations to come up against thee, as the sea causeth his waves to come up.' Could anything be more forcible?"

A look was Faith's answer; it spoke the kindled thoughts at work.

"Then you know," Mr. Linden went on, "how often the troubles of God's children are compared to the ocean; as David says, 'All thy waves are gone over me.' But then the Lord answers to that, 'When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the floods, they shall not overwhelm thee;' and David himself in another place declares it to be true—'O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto thee? or to thy faithfulness round about thee? Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, thou stillest them.'—I suppose," he added, thoughtfully, taking both her hands in his, "this is one sense in which by-and-by 'there shall be no more sea'—except that 'sea of glass, upon which they stand who have gotten the victory!'"

Another look, a grave, full look, came to him from Faith; and grave and soft her eye went back to the sea. The sunbeams were all off it; it was dark and foamy. Speaking rather low, half to her half to himself, Mr. Linden went on,—"'And they overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony: and they loved not their lives unto the death.'"

Her look did not move. Mr. Linden's went with it for a minute or two, but then it came back to her differently.

"My darling, I am afraid to have you stay here any longer."

"We can come again!" said Faith gleefully, as she turned away. "I want to look at them a great deal."

"We will come again and try how far a 'ladder' can reach from this low sand."

She looked back for another glance as she began to mount the rocky way. The mounting was an easy matter, for Mr. Linden came close and took hold of her in such fashion that she was more than half carried up.

"Do you feel as if you had wings now?" he asked her, after a somewhat quick "flight" up half the way.

"Folded ones," said Faith, laughing and breathless. "I don't know what sort yours can be! I can go up by myself, Endecott."

"With folded wings, as you remark, Mrs. Linden. Do you remember that infallible way of recognizing 'earth's angels,' when they are not pluming themselves?"—"They never do plume themselves," said Faith, stopping to look at him.

"Not when they are carried!"

Faith's laugh rolled down the rocks; and then as they reached the top she grew timid and quiet, a mood which came over her whenever she remembered her new position and name in the world.

There is no room to tell all the seaside doings of those days; the surf bathing, and fishing beyond the surf. A week passed there, or rather more; then, Mr. Linden having business in New York, the "wooden horse" went that way. We cannot follow all its travels. But we must stay with it a day in the city.



CHAPTER XLV.



Everybody who has travelled on the great route from Pattaquasset to New York, knows that the scenery is not striking. Pleasant it is, and fresh, in fresh seasons of the year; cornfields and hayfields and sparkling little rivers always make up a fair prospect: but, until the towers of Quilipeak rise upon the sight, with their leafy setting of green, there is nothing to draw much notice. And less, afterwards. The train flies on, past numberless stopping-posts, over bridges, through towns; regaling its passengers with hay, salt water, bony fish, and (in the season) dust; until the matchless flats, marshes, pools, sights, and smells crowd thick about Haarlem river, and lure the traveller on through the sweet suburbs of New York. Hither, business demanded that the "wooden horse" should come for a day or two; here they were to be received by one of the many old friends who were claiming, all over the country, a visit from Mr. Linden and his bride. Through the dark tunnel the train puffed on, the passengers winking and breathing beneath the air-holes, dark and smothered where air-holes were not; then the cars ran out into the sunlight, and, in a minute more, two of the passengers were transferred to the easy rolling coach which was in waiting for them, and drove away. Past warm brick fronts and pavements; past radish boys and raspberry girls; past oranges, pineapples, vegetables, in every degree of freshness except fresh. Of all which, even the vegetables, Faith's eyes took most curious and intent notice—for one minute; then the Avenue and fruit stalls were left behind; the carriage had turned a corner, and, in another minute or two, drew up before an imposing front in Madison Square. And there, at the very steps, was a little raspberry girl. How Faith looked at her!

"Raspberries to-day, ma'am?" said the child, encouraged by the look, or the sweet face.—"No, dear, I don't want any."

Faith went gravely up the steps. It was her first introduction to New York. But Mr. Linden's face wore a smile. There was no time to remark on it, for the door opened and a second introduction awaited her. An introduction to another part of the world. A magnificent house, every square yard of which, perhaps, taken with its furniture and adornments, had cost as much as the whole of Faith's old home. A palace of luxury, where no want of any kind, material, could be known or fancied. In this house they were welcomed with a great welcome by a stately lady, Mr. Linden's old friend and his mother's; and by her family of sons and daughters, who were in another style, and whose vivacious kindness seemed disposed to take up Faith bodily and carry her off. It was a novel scene for Faith, and she was amused. Amused too with the overpowering curiosity which took the guise, or the veil, of so much kindness, and beset her, because—Mr. Linden had married her. Yet Faith did not see the hundredth part of their curiosity. Mr. Linden, whose eyes were more open, was proportionably amused, both with that and with Faith's simplicity, which half gratified and at least half baffled it. The young ladies at last took Faith up to her room; and, after lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her, and making various vain efforts to understand her, gave her the information that a good deal of company was expected to dinner, and left her, baffled and attracted almost in an equal degree.

They did not seem to have as puzzling an effect on Faith; for when Mr. Linden came out of his own dressing-room, he found her ready, and looking as fresh and cool as if she had just come up from the sands at Bankhead. She was dressed in a light muslin, but no more elaborately than she used to be at Pattaquasset; only that this time her ruffles were laces. She was a little more dainty for the dinner-party. Mr. Linden came with a knot of glowing geraniums—"Jewess," and "Perfection," and "Queen of the Fairies;" which, bound together as they were with white ribband, he first laid against her dress to try the effect (well deserving his smile of comment) then put in her hand to make fast. They set off all the quiet elegance of her figure after their own style, which was not quiet.

"Now, Mignonette," he said, "I suppose you know that I am to have the pleasure of introducing my wife to sundry people?"—"I heard they were coming," said Faith.

"If you will only stand by and look on, it will amuse you very much."

"It will amuse me anyway," said Faith, "if,"—and what a rose colour came up into her face—"if, Endy, you are satisfied."

Mr. Linden folded his arms and looked at her. "If you say anything against my wife, Mrs. Linden, her husband will not like it—neither will yours."

"That is all I care about, not pleasing those two gentlemen," said Faith, laughing.

"Is that all? I shall report your mind at rest. Come, it is time this little exotic should appear." Faith thought as she went with him, that she was anything but an exotic; she did not speak her thoughts.

There was a large dinner company gathered and gathering; and the "pleasure" Mr. Linden had spoken of—introducing his wife—was one enjoyed, by him or somebody, a great many times in the course of the evening. This was something very unlike Pattaquasset or anything to be found there; only in Judge Harrison's house little glimpses of this sort of society might be had; and these people seemed to Faith rather in the sphere of Dr. Harrison than of his father and sister. People who had rubbed off every particle of native simplicity that ever belonged to them, and who, if they were simple at all—as some of them were—had a different kind of simplicity, made after a most exquisite and refined worldly fashion. How it was made or worn, Faith could not tell; she had an instinctive feeling of the difference. If she had set on foot a comparison, she would soon have come to the conclusion that "Mr. Linden's wife" was of another pattern altogether. But Faith never thought of doing that. Her words were so true that she had spoken, she cared so singly to satisfy one person there, and had such an humble confidence of doing it, that other people gave her little concern. She had little need, for no word or glance fell upon Faith that did not show the eye or the speaker won or attracted. The words and glances were very many, but Faith never found out or suspected that it was to see her all this party of grand people had been gathered together. She thought they were curious about "Mr. Linden's wife;" and though their curiosity made her shy, and her sense of responsibility gave an exquisite tenderness to her manner, both effects only set a grace upon her usual free simplicity. That was not disturbed, though a good deal of the time Faith was far from Mr. Linden's kelp or protection. A stranger took her in to dinner, and among strangers she made her way most of the evening. But though she was shy, Faith was afraid never but of one person, nor much of him.

For him—among old acquaintances, beset with all manner of inquiries and congratulations—he yet heard her voice whenever it was possible, and knew by sight as well as hearing all the admiration she called forth. He might have said as at Kildeer river, that he found "a great deal of Mignonette." What he did tell her, when the evening was over, was that people were at a loss how to name the new exotic.

"How to name me, Endecott?"—"As an exotic."

"I don't wonder!" said Faith with her merry little laugh. "Don't philosophers sometimes get puzzled in that way, Endecott?"—"Scientific philosophers content themselves with the hardest names they can find, but in this case such will not suit. Though Dr. Campan may write you in his books as 'Lindenethia Pattaquassetensis—exotic, very rare. The flower is a double star—colour wonderful.'"

Faith stopped to laugh.

"What a blunder he will make if he does!" she said. "It will show, as Mr. Simlins says—that he don't understand common vegetables."

"Well translated, Mignonette. How will it show that, if you please?"—"He has mistaken one for a trumpet creeper."

"A scarlet runner, I suppose."

"Was I?" said Faith seriously.

"According to you. I am in Dr. Campan's predicament."

"I should think you needn't be," said Faith, simply. "Because you know, Endy I never knew even how to climb till you showed me."

Mr. Linden faced round upon her, the quick flashing eyes answering even more than his. "Faith! what do you mean?" But his lips played then in a rare little smile, as he said, very quietly, in his former position, "Imagine Mignonette, with its full sweetness—and more than its full colour—suddenly transplanted to the region where Monkeys and Geraniums grow—I like to think of the effect."

"I can't think of any effect at all," said Faith. "I should look at the Monkeys and Geraniums!"

"Of course—being Mignonette. And clearly that you are; but then how can Mignonette so twine itself round things?"

Faith thought it did not, and also thought of Pet's charge about "charming;" but she left both points.

"Most climbers," said Mr. Linden, with a glance at her, "have but one way of laying hold; but this exotic has all. There are the tendrils when it wants support, and the close twining that makes of two lives one, and the clasp of a hundred little stems that give a leaf or a flower wherever they touch."

"Endecott!" said Faith, with a look of astonished remonstrance and amusement in one.—"What?"

But the smile and blush with which Faith turned away bespoke her not very much displeased; and she knew better by experience than to do battle with Mr. Linden's words. She let him have it his own way.

The next day business claimed him. Faith was given up to the kindness and curiosity of her new friends. They made good use of their opportunity, and their opportunity was a good one; for it was not till late in the day, a little while before the late dinner hour, that Mr. Linden came home. He found Faith in her room; a superbly appointed chamber, as large as any three of those she had been accustomed to. She was standing at the window, thoughtfully looking out; but turned joyfully to meet Mr. Linden. Apparently he was glad too.

"My dear little Mignonette! I feel as if I had not seen you for a week."

"It has been a long day," said Faith; who looked rather, it may be remarked, as if the day had freshly begun.

"Mignonette, you are perfectly lovely! Do you think you will condescend to wear these flowers?" said Mr. Linden, drawing her to a seat by the table, and with one arm still round her beginning to arrange the flowers he had thrown down there as he came in.

Faith watched him, and then looked up.

"Endecott you shouldn't talk to me so. You wouldn't like me to believe you."

Mr. Linden finished setting two or three ruby carnations in the green and purple of heliotrope and sweet-scented verbena; then laid the bunch lightly upon her lips and gravely inquired if they were sweet.

"Yes," Faith said, laughing behind them. "You are not hungry?"

"Why? and what of it?"—"You don't seem to remember it is near dinner-time."

"Dinner time is a myth. My dear, I am sorry I give you so much uneasiness. I wish you could feel as composed about me as I do about you. What have I done with that white ribband!—don't stir—it is in some pocket or other." And the right one being found, Mr. Linden unwrapped the piece of ribband and cut off what he wanted, remarking that he could not get used to giving her anything but blue.

"Well, why do you then?" said Faith.—"I feel in a subdued state of mind, owing to reproofs," said Mr. Linden, with the white satin curling round his fingers. "I may not tell anybody what I think of my wife!"

Faith looked amused, and yet a soft glance left the charge and the "reproof" standing.

"I feel so composed about you," Mr. Linden went on, drawing his white bows—Faith did think the eyes flashed under the shading lashes—"so sure that you will never over-estimate me, much less speak of it. But then you know, Mignonette, I never did profess to follow Reason."

He was amused to see the little stir his words called up in Faith. He could see it in the changing colour and rest less eye, and in one look of great beauty which Faith favoured him with. Apparently the shy principle prevailed, or Faith's wit got the better of her simplicity; for she rose up gravely and laying her hand on the bunch of flowers asked if she should put them on.

"Unless you prefer my services."

She sat down again immediately, with a face that very plainly preferred them. Half smiling, with fingers that were in no haste about their work, Mr. Linden adjusted the carnations; glancing from them to her, trying them in different positions, playing over his dainty task as if he liked it. The flowers in place, his full smiling look met hers, and she was carried off to the glass "to see his wife." Hardly seen, after all, but by himself.

"She looks ready for dinner," said Faith.

"Your eyes are only to look at," said Mr. Linden with a laughing endorsement of his thoughts, and putting her back in the dormeuse. "Suppose you sit there, and tell me what efforts they have made in the way of seeing, to-day."

"Efforts to see all before them, which was more than they could," said Faith.

"What did they see? not me, nor I them, that I know."

"That was another sort of effort they made," said Faith smiling—"efforts to see what was not before them. I watched, whenever I thought there was a chance, but I couldn't see anything that looked like you. We must have gone half over the city, Endecott; Mrs. Pulteney took me all the morning, and her daughters and Mr. Pulteney all the afternoon."

"Know, O little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "that in New York it is 'morning' till those people who dine at six have had their dinner.

"Like the swell of some sweet tune Morning rises into noon,—

was written of country hours."

"I guess that is true of most of the other good things that ever were written," said Faith.

Mr. Linden looked amused. "What do you think of this?—

And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast— The quiet of that moment too is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps."

"I never saw the city when it was asleep," said Faith, smiling. "It didn't look to-day as if it could sleep. But, Endecott, I am sure all the pretty part of those words comes from where we have been."

"The images, yes. But connect any spot of earth with heaven, by any tie, and it must have a certain sort of grandeur. You have been working in brick and mortar to-day, Mignonette, to-morrow I must give you a bird's-eye view."

Faith was silent a minute; and then said, "It don't look a happy place to me, Endecott."

"No, it is too human. You want an elm tree or a patch of dandelions between every two houses."

"That wouldn't do," said Faith, "unless the people could be less ragged, and dirty, and uneasy; and their houses too. There's nothing like it in Pattaquasset."

"I have great confidence in the comforting and civilizing power of elm trees and green grass," said Mr. Linden. "But Carlyle says 'Man is not what you can call a happy animal, his appetite for sweet victual is so enormous;' and perhaps New York suffers as much from the fact that everybody wants more, as that some have too little and others too much."

"Do these people want more?" said Faith softly.

"Without doubt! So does everybody in New York but me."

"But why must people do that in New York, when they don't do it in Pattaquasset?" said Faith, who was very like mignonette at the moment.

"The appetite grows with indulgence, or the possibility of it. Besides, little bird, in Pattaquasset you take all this breeze of humanity winnowed through elm branches. There, you know, 'My soul into the boughs does glide.'"

"No," said Faith; "it is not that. When my soul glides nowhere, and there are no branches, either; in the Roscoms' house, Endecott—and poor Mrs. Dow's, and Sally Lowndes',—people don't look as they look here. I don't mean here, in Madison Square—though yes I do, too; there was that raspberry girl; and others, worse, I have seen even here. But I have been in other places—Mr. Pulteney and his sisters took me all the way to the great stone church, Endecott."

"Well, Sunbeam, it has been a bright day for every raspberry girl that has come in your way. What else did you see there."—"I saw the church."

"Not the invisible" said Mr. Linden, smiling, "remember that."

"Invisible! no," said Faith. "There was a great deal of this visible."

"What thoughts did it put in your head?"—"It was very—wonderfully beautiful," said Faith, thoughtfully.

"What else?"—"I cannot tell. You would laugh at me if I could. Endecott, it didn't seem so much like a church to me as the little white church at home."

"I agree with you there—the less show of the instrument the sweeter the music, to me. But the street in front of the church, so specially filled with beggars and cripples, I never go by there, Faith, without a feeling of joy; remembering the blind man who sat at the Beautiful gate of the temple; knowing well that there is as 'safe, expeditious, and easy a way' to heaven from that dusty side-walk, as from any other spot of earth. The triumph of grace!—how glorious it is! I cannot speak to all of them together, nor even one by one, but grace is free! 'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Faith, I have been thinking of that all day!"

She could see it in his face—in the flush on the cheek and the flash in the eye as he came and stood before her. She could see what had been all day before his eyes and mind; and how pain and sympathy and longing desire had laid hold of the promise and rested there—"Ask and ye shall receive." Unconsciously Faith folded her hands, and the least touch of a smile in the corners of her mouth was in no wise contradictory of her eyes' sweet gravity.

"I saw them too," she said, in a low tone. "Endecott, I would rather speak to them out there, under the open sky, if it wasn't a crowd—than in the church?"

"I should forget where I was, after I began to speak," said Mr. Linden; "though I do love 'that dome—most catholic and solemn,' better than all others."

"Mr. Pulteney asked me how I liked the church," said Faith.

"He did not understand your answer," said Mr. Linden smiling, "I know that beforehand. What was it?"—"I think he didn't like it," said Faith. "I told him it seemed to me a great temple that men had built for their own glory and pleasure, not for the glory and pleasure of God."

"Since when, you have been to Mr. Tom Pulteney like a fable in ancient Greek to one who has learned the modern language at school and forgotten it."

"He did not understand me," said Faith, laughing and blushing a little. "And I was worse off; for I asked him several questions he could not answer me. I wanted to go to the top, but he was certain I would be too tired if I did. But I heard the chime, Endecott! that was beautiful. Beautiful! I am very glad I was there."

"I'll take you to the top" said Mr. Linden, "it will not tire me. Faith, I have brought you another wedding present—talking of 'ancient' things."

"What is that, Endecott?" she said, with a bright amused face.—"Only a fern leaf. One that waved a few thousand years before the deluge, and was safely bedded in stone when the children of Israel passed through the Red Sea. I went to see an old antiquarian friend this morning, and out of his precious things he chose one for mine." And Mr. Linden laid in her hand the little rough stone; rough on one side, but on the other where the hammer had split it through, the brown face was smooth, and the black leaf lay marked out in all its delicate tracery.

"Endecott, what is this?" Faith exclaimed, in her low tones of delight.—"A fossil leaf."

"Of a fern? How beautiful! Where did it come from?" She had risen in her delight, and stood by Mr. Linden at the dressing-table.—"This one from Bohemia. Do you see the perfection of every leafet?"

"How wonderful! how beautiful!" Faith repeated, studying the fossil. "It brings up those words, Endecott:—'A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past; or as a watch in the night.'"

"Yes, and these—'The counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.' Compare this fern leaf with the mighty palaces of Babylon and Nineveh. Through untold ages this has kept its wavy fragile outline, they are marked only by 'the line of confusion and the stones of emptiness.'"

Faith looked up, with such an eye of intelligence and interest as again would have puzzled Mr. Pulteney.

"Did your old antiquary send this to me, Endecott?" she said looking down at it again.—"To you, darling."

"I have seen nothing so good to-day, Endy. I am very glad of it."

"Do you remember, Sunbeam, the time when I told you I liked stones? and you looked at me. I remember the look now!" So did Faith, by the conscious light and colour that came into her face, different from those of three minutes ago, and the grateful recognition her eyes gave to Mr. Linden.

"I don't know much more now," she said, in very lowliness, "about stones, but you can teach me, Endecott."

"Yes, I will leave no stone unturned for your amusement," he said, laughing. "Faith, if I were not so much afraid of you I should tell you what you are like. What else have you seen?"

"Tell me what I am like, Endecott."

"What sort of consistency is that—to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?"

"It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it."

"Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune.

"O wat ye wha that lo'es me, And has my heart in keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews o' summer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping; O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"If thou hast heard her talking, And thy attention's plighted, That ilka body talking But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted. O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"Did you see anybody like that in Broadway, Faith?"

Blushing how she blushed! but she would not say a word nor stir, to interrupt the singing; so she stood there, casting a shy look at him now and then till he had stopped, and then coming round behind him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. Mr. Linden laughed, caressing the pretty head in various ways.

"My dear little bird!" he said. Then presently—"Mignonette, I have been looking at fur cloaks."

"Don't do such a thing again, Endy."

"I shouldn't, if I could have quite suited myself to-day."

"I don't want it. I can bear the cold as well as you."

"Let it make up for something which you do want and haven't got, then; you must bear the cold Polar fashion. But at present, there is the dinner-bell."

They went down; but with the fossil and the fur, Faith was almost taken out of New York; and astonished Mr. Pulteney once or twice more in the course of the evening, to Mr. Linden's amusement.



CHAPTER XLVI.



The Hudson river railway, on a summer Saturday afternoon. Does everybody know it? If not, let me tell the people who have not tried it, or those more unfortunate ones who are tried by it, and driven into the depths of newspapers and brown literature by the steam pressure of mountains, clouds, and river, that it is glorious. Not on a dusty afternoon, but when there has been or is a shower. Not the locomotive, or the tender, or the cars, though the long chain has a sort of grandeur, as its links wind into the bays and round the promontories, express. But get a river-side seat, and keep your patience up the lumbered length of Tenth Avenue, and restrain your impatience as the train goes at half-stroke along that first bit of road where people are fond of getting on the track; watch the other shore, meantime, or the instructive market gardens on this; then feel the quickened speed, as the engine gets her "head;" then use your eyes. Open your windows boldly; people don't get cold from our North river air; never mind the sun; hold up a veil or a fan; only look. See how the shore rises into the Palisades, up which the March of Improvement finds such uncertain footing: how the rising points of hill are rounded with shadow and sunlight, and green from river to crown. See how the clouds roll softly up on the further side, giving showers here and there—how the white-winged vessels sail and careen and float. Look up the river from Peekskill, and see how the hills lock in and part. Think of the train of circumstances that rushed down Arnold's point that long ago morning, where a so different train now passes. Mark the rounding outlines of the green Highlands, and as you near Garrisons' let your eye follow the sunbeam that darts down the little mill creek just opposite the tunnel. Then on through those beloved hills, till they fall off right and left, and you are out upon Newburgh bay in the full glory of the sunset. After this (if you are tired looking) you may talk for a while, till the blue heads of the Catskill catch your eye and hold it.

The blue range was a dim outline—hardly that—when Faith reached her journey's end that night. She could hear the dash of the river, and see the brilliant stars, but all details waited for morning; and the morning was Sunday. Balmy, cloudless, the very air put Faith almost in Elysium; and between dreamy enjoyment, and a timid sense of her own new name and position, she would have liked for herself an oriole's nest on one of the high branches. Failing that, she seemed—as her hostess and again an old friend of Mr. Linden's told him—"like a very rosebud; as sweet, and as much shut up to herself."

Truth to tell, she kept something of the same manner and seeming next day. The house was very full, and of a very gay set of people; of whom Faith's friend, Mr. Motley, was one. Faith met their advances pleasantly, but she was daintily shy. And besides, the scene and the time were full of temptations to dream over the out-of-door beauty. The people amused her, but often she would rather have lost them in the hills or the sunset; and was for various reasons willing that others should talk while she looked.

So passed the first two days, and the third brought an excursion, which kept the whole party out till lunch-time. But towards the end of the day Mr. Linden was witness to a little drama which let him know something more of Faith than he had just seen before.

It was near the time of dressing for dinner. Mr. Linden was already dressed and had come to the library, where, in a deep recess on one side of the window, he was busy with a piece of study. The window was very large, and opened upon a green terrace; and on the terrace, in a garden chair, just outside the open window, sat Faith; quietly and intensely, he knew, enjoying the broad river and the mountain range that lay blue in the sunlight a few miles beyond; all in the soft still air of the summer day. She distracted Mr. Linden's thoughts from his study. He could see her perfectly, though he was quite out of her view. She was in one of the dainty little morning dresses he had sent her from the place of pretty things; nothing could be more simple, and it suited her; and she looked about as soft and still as the day. Meanwhile some gentlemen had entered the library, and drew near the window. Faith was just out of their range, and Mr. Linden was completely hid in his recess, or doubtless their remarks would have had a different bearing The remarks turned upon Faith, who was here as well as in New York an object of curiosity to those who had known Mr. Linden; and one of the speakers expressed himself as surprised that "Linden" should have married her.

"Wouldn't have thought it,—would you?" said Mr. Motley. "To be sure; he's able to do all the talking."

"She does very well for the outside," said another. "Might satisfy anybody. Uncommon eyes."

"Eyes!" said Mr. Motley. "Yes, she has eyes!—and a mouth. I suppose Linden gets some good of it—if nobody else does. And after all, to find a woman that is all eyes and no tongue, is, as you remark, uncommon."

"She's not quite stylish enough for him," said a third. "I thought Linden would have married a brilliant woman."

"He'll be a brilliant man, if you tell him that," said Mr. Motley. "Corruscations, and so forth. I never thought I should see him bewitched—even by a rose leaf monopoly."

The conversation was interrupted. It had not been one which Mr. Linden could very well break; all he could do was to watch Faith. He could see her slightly-bent head and still face, and the colour which grew very bright upon the cheek nearest him. She was motionless till the last words were broken off; then, with a shy movement of one hand to her cheek, covering it, she sprang away, as lightly as any bird she was ever named after.

Mr. Linden was detained in the library, where, as the dinner-hour drew near, other members of the family began to gather. A group of these were round the table, discussing an engraving; when Mr. Linden saw Faith come in. He was no longer in the dangerous recess; but Faith did not come near him; she joined the party at the table. Mr. Linden watched her. Faith's dressing was always a quiet affair; to-day somehow the effect was very lovely. She wore a soft muslin which flowed about her in full draperies; with a breast-knot of roses on its white folds. Faith rarely put on flowers that Mr. Linden had not given her. To-day was an exception; and her white robe with no setting off but those roses and her rich hair, was faultless. Not merely that; the effect was too striking to be absolutely quiet; all eyes were drawn to her.

The gentlemen whom she had heard speak were among the party; and no eyes were more approving. Mr. Linden watched, as he might, without being seen to watch. Faith joined not only the party, but the conversation; taking her place in it frankly; showing no unwillingness to give opinions or to discuss them, and no desire to avoid any subject that came up. She was taking a new stand among these strangers. Mr. Linden saw it, and he could guess the secret reason; no one else could guess that there was anything to give a reason for, so coolly, so naturally, it was done. But the stand was taken. Faith had not stepped in the least out of her own bounds; she had abated not a whit of her extreme modesty. She was never more herself, only it was as if she had laid down a self-indulgent shyness which she had permitted herself before, and allowed Mr. Linden's friends to become acquainted with Mr. Linden's wife. But with herself! Her manner to-day was exceedingly like her dress; the plainest simplicity, the purest quality, and the roses blushing over all. It fascinated the gentlemen, every one of them. They found that the little demure piece of gravity could talk; and talk with a truth and freshness of thought too, which was like the rest of her, uncommon and interesting, soft and free, at once. Faith went off to dinner on the arm of one of her maligners, and was very busy with company all the evening after, having little to do with Mr. Linden.

She had escaped to her room earlier than he, however; and when he came in she was sitting thoughtfully before the open window. She rose up directly, and came to him, with the usual smile, and with a little hidden triumph dancing in her eyes, and an odd wistful look besides of affection and humility. She only came close to him for a caress, without speaking. Mr. Linden took her face in both hands and looked at it—a beautiful smile mingling with the somewhat moved look of his own.

"What a child you are!"

The colour rushed all over Faith's cheeks.

"Why?—" she whispered. The answer to which, cheeks and brow, and lips, might spell out as best they could.

"Do you know why I did not come with your flowers, Mignonette?"—"Before dinner?—no. I got some for myself."

"I was on my way for them, and was entrapped and held fast. My little Mignonette! I never thought to have you put your hand to your cheek in that way again!"

"Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to conclusions.

"Who told me what, my beauty?"

Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly.

"I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How did you know, Endecott?"—"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard since," he added, smiling.

A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"—"If you are so anxious for me—" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable."

It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks.

"Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked presently, smiling.

"No. Yes—I will trust you but not him."

"Does that mean that you will trust me to go?"—"Not with him."

"But what shall I do?" said Faith, flushing after a different fashion—half laughing too—"I told him I would go, or that I thought I would go."

"Tell him that you think you will not."

Faith looked a little troubled: she foresaw a charge of questions she did not like to meet.

"Are you afraid of the horse, Endy?" she said, after a pause, a little timidly. "No, darling."

Faith was pretty just now, as she stood with her eyes cast down: like a generous tempered horse first feeling the bit; you can see that the creature will be as docile as possible, yet he is a little shy of your curb. Anything like control was absolutely new to her; and though her face was never more sweet, there was with that a touch of embarrassment which made an inexpressibly pretty mixture. Mr. Linden might well be amused and touched, and charmed too, all in one.

"Mr. Motley asked me to ride too," she said after a minute, blushing a little deeper, and speaking as if it were a supplement to her former words. "He wanted to show me the Belle Spring. I had better give them both the same answer."

"Has nobody else preferred his request? they are just the two people with whom I do not want you to ride," said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I shall have to ask you myself, or claim you. Mrs. Linden, may I have the honour?"—Faith gave him a very bright answer of a smile, but with a little secret wish in her heart that the other people had not asked her.

Her denial, however, was perfectly well taken by Mr. Motley; not indeed without a little bantering talk and raillery upon the excessive care Mr. Linden bestowed on her. But Mr. Middleton, she saw, was not pleased that she disappointed him. Within two or three days Faith had become unmistakeably the centre of attraction to all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. To walk with her, to talk to her, to attend upon her, were not a coveted honour merely, but a coveted pleasure. It was found wonderfully refreshing to talk to Faith: her eyes were something pleasant to look at, for more than George Alcott; and the truth of her enjoyment and gratitude made it a captivating thing to be the means of exciting them.

Mr. Middleton was one of those men who think very much indeed of the value of their approbation, and never bestow it but where they are sure the honour of their taste and judgment is like to be the gainer—one of those men who in ordinary keep their admiration for themselves, and bestow in that quarter a very large amount. Faith's refusal to ride with him touched him very disagreeably. It was impossible to be offended with her, but perhaps all the more he was offended with somebody; and it happened unluckily that some reported light words of Mr. Motley about Mr. Linden's care of his wife, and especial distrust of the gentlemen who had asked her to ride, reached Mr. Middleton's ear in a very exaggerated and opprobrious form. Mr. Middleton did not know Mr. Linden, nor know much of him; his bottled-up wrath resolved that Mr. Linden should not continue long in his reciprocal ignorance. And so it fell out, that as this week began with showing Mr. Linden something of Faith that he had not seen before, it did not end without giving her a new view of him.

It was a captivating summer morning when the cavalcade set forth from Rye House, on a picnic to Alderney, one of the show places in the neighbourhood. It seemed fairyland to Faith. The beautiful country over which they travelled, in summer's luxuriance of grass and grain; the river rolling below at a little distance, sometimes hidden only to burst upon the view again; and towering above all, unchanged beyond the changing lights and shades of the nearer landscape, the long mountain range. The air was perfection; the sounds of voice and laughter and horses' brisk feet helped the exhilaration, and the lively colours and fashion of caps and habits and feathers made pretty work for the eye. Faith's ears and eyes were charmed. At a cross road the party was joined by Mr. Middleton; whose good humour, at present in a loose-jointed state, was nowise improved at the sight of Faith. She rode then, at any rate; and she sat well and rode fearlessly, that he could see; and his eye keen for such things, noted too the neat appointments of her dress, and saw that they were all right, and fitted her, and she fitted them; and that her figure altogether was what no man might dislike to have beside him, even a man so careful of his appearance as Mr. Middleton. Not near Faith did he come; but having noted all these things with gathering ire, he sheered off to another part of the troop.

It was a pretty day to Faith, the whole first part of it. The ride, and the viewing the grounds they went to see. These were indeed naturally very noble; and to Faith's eyes every new form of natural beauty, of which her range had hitherto been so very small, was like a fresh draught of water to thirsty lips. It was a great draught she had this morning, and enjoyed almost to the forgetfulness of everything else. Then came the lunch. And that was picturesque, too, certainly; on such a bank, under such trees, with such a river and mountains in front; and Faith enjoyed it and them so far. But it was splendid too, and noisy; and her thoughts went at one time away very far, to Kildeer river, and remembered a better meal taken under the trees, with better talk, and only Bob Tuck to look at them. She stole a glance at Mr. Linden. He was doing his part, and making somebody very comfortable indeed—Faith half smiled to see it.

Mr. Middleton at another part of the assembled company, had been getting his temper up with wine and his ill humour with the various suggestions and remarks of some careless gossipers at his side. Finding that he winced under the mention of Mrs. Linden and the ride, they gave him that subject with as many variations as the Katydid polka,—the simple "She did"—(or rather "She didn't")—skilfully diversified and touched up,—which brought Mr. Middleton's heavy piece of displeasure, already primed, loaded, and at full cock, to the very point where his temper struck fire. He left the table and drew towards Mr. Linden, who was talking in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. Middleton knew which was he that was all.

"You, sir!" he said, like a surly bull-dog, which term describes both his mental and physical features, "my name's Middleton; I want you to take back what you've said about me."

Mr. Linden at the moment was in the full tide of German talk with one of his old fellow students from abroad; his excellent poise and play of conversation and manner setting off the gesticulations of the foreigner. With a look of more surprise than anything else he brought eyes and attention to bear upon Mr. Middleton.

"What, sir?" he said.

"Will you take back what you've said about me?" The dogged wrath of the man was beyond the use of many words, to which indeed he was never given.

"I have not said anything, sir, which requires that." And with a bend of the head, cool and courteous as his words, Mr. Linden dismissed the subject; and placing himself on the grass with his friend and some others, fell back into the German. Middleton followed fuming.

"I've come to speak to you!" he said, beginning with an execration, "and you must get up and answer me. Will you take back what you said?" Stooping down, he had thrown these words into Mr. Linden's ear in a way to leave no doubt whom they were meant for.

"I have answered you, sir."

"That is to tell you what I think of it!" said Middleton, dashing in his face the remains of a glass of wine which he had brought with him from the board on purpose.

He was on his feet then! with what a spring! as in the fairy tale the beautiful princess of a sudden became a sword. Just such eyes of fire Mr. Middleton had never been privileged to see. But Faith saw the hands drop and grasp each other, she saw the eyes fall, and the colour go and come and go again, with a rush and swiftness that was startling to see. Absolutely motionless, the very breath kept down, so he stood. And even his assailant gazed, in a sort of spell-bound wonder. The twittering birds overhead, how they carolled; how softly the leaves rustled, and the river sent up its little waves: and the sunshine and shadow crept on, measuring off the seconds. The pure peace and beauty of everything, the hush of human voices, were but the setting of the deep human struggle. The victory came.

With a face from which at last the colour had taken its permanent departure, Mr. Linden looked up and spoke; and something made the very low tones ring in the air.

"I have said nothing about you which needed apology, Mr. Middleton. You have been misinformed, sir." And with that same bend of dismissal Mr. Linden drew himself up and walked away, bareheaded as he was. The trees hid him in a moment.

Then there came a stir.

"What a coward!" cried George Alcott, pressing forward, "to do that to a man who you knew wouldn't knock you down!"

The young German had started up, sputtering strange things in his native tongue.

"Mr. Linden is an excellent commentator," said one young lady, who took the liberty of speech pretty freely. "How clear he makes it that 'The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass by a transgression.'"

"I really thought," said Mr. Motley, in a make-believe whisper, "when Middleton first came up, that he had been taking a glass too much, but now I see that he took just half a glass too little!"

"Sir," said Colonel Rye, stepping forward, a man of most noble character and presence both, "Mr. Linden is my guest and friend, you must answer this to me."

Before Mr. Middleton could make answer, Faith had come in between and laid hold of the Colonel's hand. She was white, and quiet, but she could not at once speak. All around stood still.

"Sir," she said, in words that were well heard for everybody held his breath, "Colonel Rye, this is Mr. Linden's affair."

"I beg your pardon, my dear young lady—it is mine."

"No, sir," said Faith he felt how eagerly her fingers grasped his, "it is in Mr. Linden's hands. He forgives Mr. Middleton entirely."

"I don't forgive him!" said the Colonel, shortly.

"Sir," said Faith, "Colonel Rye, this is not what Mr. Linden would wish. Endecott will tell you, sir, that he has passed it by. Don't undo what he has done! No true friend of Mr. Linden will make any more of this."

"I am willing to answer it to anybody," said Middleton, gruffly, but as if half ashamed of himself.

"There is nothing to answer to any one," said Faith, quitting the Colonel, and turning to him; her face was so white and gentle that it smote him, and those very steady sweet eyes had a power in them just now that broke his doggedness. "There is nothing to answer to any one, unless Mr. Middleton," (how soft her voice was), "unless you find you were wrong, and choose to tell Mr. Linden, which I dare say you will. Colonel Rye, will you see, for Mr. Linden's honour, that this goes to no harm?"—The extreme gentleness and the steady firmness of Faith ruled them all; and at her last appeal the Colonel's only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss her, an acknowledgment Faith would willingly have gone without. But it was good for a promise.

"Mr. Alcott," she said seeking him in the group, "you said we would go down the bank—." Faith did not finish her sentence, but he saw her wish to finish it by action.

She went with him till they were out of sight and away from everybody; then slipped her arm from his and begging him not to wait for her sat down on the grass. For a while she sat very still, whether her heart was fuller of petition or thanksgiving she hardly knew. She would have rejoined Mr. Alcott much sooner if she had guessed he was waiting for her—like an outpost among the trees; but all the time had not brought back Faith's colour. After a while, other steps came swiftly over the turf as she sat there, and before she had raised her head it was lifted up for her.

"My precious wife! what are you doing here?" Very low the tones were, very grave, very tender.

Faith sprang, and after an exploring glance into his face, knelt on the grass beside him and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek very close as if she would take off or share the affront that had been offered to his. That for a minute—and then changing characters—she raised her head and pushing the hair back from his brow with her soft hurried fingers, she covered that and his face with kisses—with a kind of eager tenderness that could not say enough nor put enough love and reverence into every touch. All this while she was still; she did not shed tears at all, as some women would have done; and she said not one word.

Perhaps surprise made him passive: perhaps the soothing of her caresses was too sweet and too much needed to be interrupted, even by a return. He let her have her way, nor even raised his eyes. One arm indeed was round her, but it left her free to do what she liked. If Faith needed any light on what the morning's work had been, it was furnished by those few minutes. Only at last, with a sudden motion Mr. Linden brought her lips to his, and gave her back principal and interest.

"You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"—"I should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady.

Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her, and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in general—living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy skill and interest, and—except that the lips never broke into a smile—with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of sympathy.

When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, and ladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again, Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr. Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily.

"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation—and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."

Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up.

"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr. Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed."

Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled. At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.

"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear, I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"

A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then—bright and stirred.

"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."

"You?—Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.—"No, sir; never!" said Faith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. The Colonel smiled at her.

"My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no, George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home."

And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had.



CHAPTER XLVII.



October's foliage had lost its distinct red and purple and brown, and had grown merely sunburnt; but the sky overhead still kept its wonderful blue. Down the ravines, over their deep shadow, October breathed softly; up the mountain road, past grey boulders and primeval trees and wonderful beds of moss, went the stage waggon. The travellers were going by a somewhat long and irregular route, first up one of the great highways, then across to that spur of the mountains where they were to live. Mrs. Derrick was to follow in a few weeks with Mr. Stoutenburgh.

It was late and dusky when the stage waggon transferred the travellers to Mr. Olyphant's carriage, which was waiting for them at a certain turn of the road. Mr. Olyphant himself was there, with extra wrappings for Faith; and muffled in them she sat leaning in the corner of the carriage, tired enough to make the rest pleasant, awake enough to hear the conversation; feeling more like a bird than ever, with that unwonted night air upon her face, and the wild smell of woods and evergreens and brooks floating about her.

At Mr. Olyphant's they were received with warm wood fires and excellent supper, the welcome spending itself in many other ways. But though Mr. Linden did take her to the door for one minute to hear a pouring mountain torrent, she could see nothing that night. The stars overhead were brilliant, the dark hill outline dim—the rushing of that stream—how it sounded! Faith's whisper was gleeful.

"Endy, I can't see much, but it feels lovely! I am so glad to be here!"

The morning was wonderful. Such a sunlight, such an air, such rejoicings of birds and brook and leaves. Mr. Olyphant's house stood on one side of a woody slope, rocks and trees crowned to the very top; in the ravine below, the brook Faith had heard. She could see it now, foaming along, quieting itself as it came into smoother circumstances. The most of its noise indeed seemed to be made in some place out of sight, higher up. This slope was not very high, other ridges before and beyond it looked down, not frowningly, in their October dress. Not much else could be seen, it was a mere leafy nest. A little faint line of smoke floated over the opposite ridge, glimpses of mountain paths here and there caught the sunlight, below Faith's window Mr. Linden stood, like some statue, with folded arms.

Faith hastily finished her dressing. As soon as that was done she knelt at her window again, to look and to pray. Those hills looked very near the sky; life-work there seemed almost to touch heaven. Nay, did it not? Heaven bent over the glorious earth and over the work to be done there, with the same clear, fair, balmy promise and truth. Faith could almost have joined the birds in their singing; her heart did; and her heart's singing was as pure and as grave as theirs. Not the careless glee that sees and wants nothing but roses in the way; but the deep love and gladness, both earthly and heavenly, that makes roses grow out of every soil. So she looked, when Mr. Linden first discerned her, venturing from the hall door and searching round for him.

"O little Sunbeam!" he said, "how you 'glint' upon everything! there is a general illumination when you come out of the door. How do you feel this morning?—rested?"—

"As if I never had been tired." And Faith might have said, as if she never would be tired again; but only her eye revelled in such soft boasting. "Where is our home now, Endecott?"

The ridge before them, on the other side of the ravine, rose up with swifter ascent into the blue air, and looked even more thick set with orange trees: but where it slanted down towards the more open country, a little break in the trees spoke of clearing and meadow and cultivation. The clearing was for the most part on the other side, but a bit of one green field, dotted with two or three dark objects, swept softly over the ridge line.

"Are you in the sight-seeing mood?" said Mr. Linden, with a look as gladsome as her own.—"Yes; and seeing sights too. But where is that, Endy?"

"I shall take you there by degrees; wait a moment," and he went in for the glass. "Now, Mignonette," he said, adjusting it for her, "I wish to ask your notice for a little black spot on that bit of clearing. But first, what does it look like to you, a hut or a summerhouse?"—"It's too far off; it looks like nothing but a black spot."

"Now, look," said Mr. Linden, smiling. O wondrous power of the glass! the black spot remained indeed a black spot still, but with the improvements of very decided horns, black tail, and four feet.

"Somebody lives there," said Faith. "It's a cow."—"Most true! What cow do you suppose it is, Mrs. Linden?"

Faith put down her glass to laugh at him. "It's no friend of mine," she said. "I have a few friends among cows, but not many."

"My dear Mrs. Linden, you always were rather quick at conclusions. If you look again, you will see that the cow has a surrounding fence of primeval roots, which will keep even her from running away."

Faith obeyed directions, carefully. "Endy," she said in an oddly changed tone, "is it my black heifer?"—"It is not mine," said Mr. Linden.

"But I didn't know she had come!" said Faith; then putting up her glass again to scan the far-off "black spot" and all around it, with an intenseness of feeling which showed itself in two very different spots on her cheeks.

"Put down your glass, Faith," said Mr. Linden, "and look up along the ridge to that faint blue wreath over the yellow treetops; that is your first welcome from my study."

She looked eagerly, and then a most delighted bright smile broke over her face as it turned to Mr. Linden.

"How do you know it is in your study, Endecott?—and who has lighted it?"—"Some one! We'll go over after breakfast and see."

At breakfast many things were discussed besides broiled chicken. And afterwards there came to the door two of the rugged, surefooted, mountain horses, saddled and bridled for the expedition. On the porch steps a great lunch basket told of Mrs. Olyphant's care; Faith was up stairs donning her habit. Mr. Linden ran up to meet her.

"Faith," he said, laughingly, "Malthus has just confided to me, that 'if Mrs. Endecott has any things to take over,' they would make the way wonderfully pleasant to him."

"Who is Malthus?"

The shy blush on Faith's cheek was pretty to see.

"He is an old servant of mine, who has been with Mr. Olyphant, and is coming to me again."

Faith thought it was good news, and as good for Malthus as anybody. An important little travelling-bag was committed to him, and the cavalcade set forth.

The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way—through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree.

"Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?"

"This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!"

The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect.

Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely his home he was looking at—it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold? or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,—the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before.

Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile.

"Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little.

Mr. Linden's eyes came to her instantly, with something of their former look, but very bright; and bending off his horse he put one arm round her, with as full and earnest a kiss as she had ever had from him. "That is what I was thinking of," he said, "I was thinking of my wife, Mignonette."

"Aren't you satisfied?" she said in her former tone.—"Perfectly."

The look made a very personal application.—Faith shook her head a little, and they rode on.

The cottage door was very near presently: Faith could see all the minor points of interest. Malthus, who had got there by a short cut, waited to take their horses; then a white cap and apron appeared in the doorway for a second and vanished again.

"You will find another of our old dependants here, Faith," said Mr. Linden.

"Who is that?" she said quickly.—"There were three women in our house," said Mr. Linden, "that Pet and I called respectively, 'Good,' 'Better,' and 'Best,' this is Best. Hers was a name in earnest, for we never called her anything else; and it was always the desire of her heart first to see my wife and then to live with her. And I was sure she would please you."

"What must I call her?—Mrs. Best?" said Faith. "No, you must call her nothing but 'Best.'"

"That's excellent!" said Faith gleefully. "I thought there was nobody here but one friend of yours, Endecott. Now I shall get in order directly."

"That is what you thought you were coming to," he said, coming to her side to lift her down. "How would you like to be taken right back to Mr. Olyphant's?"—"Not at all!"

In answer to which she was lightly jumped down from the saddle and carried off into the house; where Mr. Linden and Best shook hands after a prolonged fashion, and the old servant—not that she was very old neither—turned glad, and eager, and respectful eyes upon her new mistress, touching that little hand with great satisfaction of heart.

"It's warmer in the study, sir," she said, "and there's a fire in the kitchen, if Mrs. Endecott would like to see that. And shall I make one anywhere else, ma'am?"

Best's white cap and apron were very attractive, and so, on the other hand were Faith's blush and smile.

The hall in which they stood, rather a wide one, cut the house from front to back, with no break of stairway. Through the open back door Faith could see the dark cliff, and hear the brook. Mr. Linden asked where "she would go first?" Faith whispered, "To the study." He smiled, and opened the one door at her left hand, and led her in.

Not yet in perfect order, the bookshelves yet unfurnished, it looked a very abode of comfort; for there were basking sunbeams and a blazing fire, there were shelves and cupboards of various size and shape, there were windows, not very large, it is true, but giving such views of the fair country below, and the brook, and the ascent, and the distant blue peaks of the range. Warm-coloured curtains, and carpet, and couch had been put here under Mr. Olyphant's orders; and here were things of Mr. Linden's which Faith had never seen—his escritoire and study table among others. Her table, with a dainty easy-chair, at the prettiest of all the windows, she knew at a glance—unknown as it was before; but the desk which she had had long ago, stood on the study table, nearer his. Mr. Linden brought her up to the fire, and stood silent, with his arms wrapped about her for a minute; then he stooped and kissed her.

"How does it look, Sunbeam?"

Faith was grave, and her eye went silently from one thing to another even after he spoke, then turned its full sunny answer upon him. Faith certainly thought he did too much for her; but she spoke no such thought, leaving it as she had once meant to leave other thoughts, for action.

"You can put your books right in, and then it will be beautiful," she remarked. "And look down the mountain, out of that window, Endecott."

She was taken over to the window for a nearer view and placed in her easy-chair to take the good of it.

"Do you see that little red speck far down at the foot of the hill?" Mr. Linden said, "in that particularly rough steep place?"—"Yes."

"That is the best thing we can get for a church at present."

Faith thought it would be a very good sort of a "thing" when he was in it; but, as usual, she did not tell all her thoughts. They came back to her easy-chair and table, and from them to Mr. Linden's face, with a look which said "How could you?" But he only smiled, and asked her if she felt disposed to go over the rest of the house.

For a house that was not in order, this one was singularly put to rights. Boxes and packages and trunks there were in plenty; rolls of carpet and pieces of bedsteads, and chairs and tables, and everything else; but they were all snugly disposed by the wall, so that the rooms could be entered and the windows reached. The inside of the cottage was, like the outside, irregular, picturesque, and with sufficient capabilities of comfort. The kitchen was in a state of nicety to match that of Best; in a piece of ground behind the house, partly prepared for a garden, Malthus was at work as composedly as if they had all been settled in the White Mountains for the last ten years.

Lunch was taken somewhat informally; then the riding habit being changed for a working dress, Faith set about reducing the rebellion among boxes and furniture. Best had reason presently to be satisfied not only with the manners but the powers of her new mistress; though she also judged in her wisdom that the latter needed some restriction in their exercise. Gentleness was never more efficient. The sitting-room began to look like a sitting-room; tables and bookshelves and chairs marched into place. Meanwhile Faith had been getting into pleasant order one of the rooms up stairs, which, with what Mrs. Olyphant had done, was easy; enjoying the mountain air that came in through the window, and unpacking linen and china. Mr. Linden, on his part, had been as busy with some of the rougher and heavier work, opening boxes and unpacking books, and especially taking care of Faith; which last work was neither rough nor heavy. She was amused (edified too) at the new commentary on his former life which this day gave her: to call upon servants when they were present, seemed as natural as to do without them when they were absent. Faith mused and wondered a little over the old habit which showed itself so plainly, thinking too of his life in Pattaquasset.

The day had worn on and faded, and Faith was still busy in a hunt for some of her wedding presents which she wanted to have on the tea-table. But Mr. Linden for some time had missed her; and entering upon a tour of search, found her in a large closet near the kitchen, with a great deal chest on one side and a trunk on the other. Between them, on her knees, Faith was laying out package after package, and pile after pile of naperies lay on the floor around her; in the very height of rummaging, though with cheeks evidently paled since the morning. Mr. Linden took an expressive view of the subject.

"Mignonette, I want my tea."

"Yes!" said Faith eagerly, looking up and then at her work again, "just so soon as I find some things—"

"I don't want 'things,' I want tea."

"Yes; but you can't have tea without things."

"I will be content with six napkins and ten tablecloths—just for to-night, as we are in confusion."

"And no spoons?" said Faith. "Here they are."

"Yes; here they are," said Mr. Linden, "and here is everything else. Just look at the state of the floor, for me to walk over."

"Not at all," said Faith; "please keep out. I will have tea ready very soon, Endy."

"You shall not have anything ready," and Faith found herself lifted from her kneeling position, and placed in a not uncomfortable nest of things, "Now, Mrs. Linden, whatever of those packages your hands may touch, shall lie on the floor all night. But as you see, my hands have a different effect." And swiftly and surely the "things" began to find corner room in the closet.

"Endy," said Faith, catching his hands, "please don't! Just go away, and leave me here for three minutes."

"Not for one. I'll turn them all out again in the morning, after the most approved fashion."

Faith sat down, the swift colour in her cheeks testifying to a little rebellion. It was swift to go, however, as it had been to come; and she sat still, looking on at Mr. Linden's work, with a little soberness of brow. That broke too, when she met his eye, in a very frank and deep smile.

"Well?" he said, laughing and leaning back against the closet door.

"Will you let me go and get tea now?" she said, with the same look.—"You pretty child! No, I want Best to get tea—and you to be quiet."

"I'll come and be quiet in three minutes, Endy, after I get rid of the dust," she said, winningly.

"Genuine minutes? If Ariel 'put a girdle round the earth' in forty, you should be able to put one round your waist in three—I suppose that is included in a feminine 'getting rid of the dust.'"

Faith's face promised faithfulness, as she ran off towards the kitchen; where in less than three minutes she and Best had proved the (sometimes) excellence of women's business faculties. Meantime a strange man lifted the latch of the kitchen door, and carefully closing it after him, remained upon the scene of action.

"How d'ye do?" he said. "Is the new man come?"—"Everybody's new here," said Faith. "Whom do you mean?"—"Couldn't tell ye the first word! But I've been after him better'n three times, if he ain't," the man spoke as if it was "worse" instead of better.

"Whom do you mean?" said Faith more gravely; "the minister?"—"Now that's what I call hitting the nail," said her visitor. "Well if he's here, just tell him to come up the mounting, will ye?"—"When?"

"Moon sets close on to nine, and its lighter afore that."

"Where is the place?" said Faith, now very serious indeed; "and what do you want the minister for?"—"I don't want him, bless you!" said the man. "If I did, I shouldn't be standin' here. It's an old soul up our way. He's got to go up to the bridge and over the bridge and 'tother side of the bridge, and so on till he comes to it. And the bridge is slippy." With which summing up, the man turned to the door, rattling the latch in a sort of preparatory way, to give Faith a chance for remarks.

"But who wants him there and what for? you haven't told me."—"Why it's old Uncle Bias. Sen he's sick he's got something on his mind, never seemed to afore, and he's in a takin' to tell it. That's all." And he opened the door.

"Why won't to-morrow do as well as to-night?"—"Wal," said the man slowly, "s'pose it might. Nevertheless, to-morrow ain't worth much to him. Nobody'd give much for it."

"Why?"—"'Taint certain he'd get what he paid for."

"Is he very sick?"—"Very enough," said the man with a nod, and opening the door.

Faith sprang forward. "Stop a minute, will you, friend, and see Mr. Linden."

"That's his name, as sure as guns," said he of the "mounting." "No, thankee, I don't care about seein' him now, next time'll do just as well, and it's time he was off."

"Then wait and show him the way, will you? how is he to find it?"—"Do tell!" said the man slowly, "if he can't find his way round in the moonlight?"—"Better than most people," said Faith; "but I think he would like to see you."

The man however chose to defer that pleasure also to "next time," and went off. Faith went to the study. Coming up behind Mr. Linden where he was sitting, and laying both hands on his shoulders, she said in a very low and significant voice, "Endy, some one wants you."

"Only that you never assert your claims," he said, bringing the hands together, "I should suppose it must be the very person whom I want."

Her head stooped lower, till the soft cheek and hair lay against his. But she only whispered, "Endy, it is some one up the mountain."

"Is it?" he said, rousing up; but only turning his lips to her cheek. "Well, people up the mountain must have what they want. Is it now, Faith?"

"Endy—they say it's a dying man."

"Where? Is the messenger here?"—"I couldn't make him wait—he thought he had business somewhere else. The place is—I dare say Malthus knows—up the mountain, beyond the bridge—you are to go over the bridge and on till you come to the house. And he says the bridge is slippery." Only a fine ear could detect the little change in Faith's voice. But she knew it was noticed, from the smile on the lips that kissed her, two or three times. Then Mr. Linden disengaged himself and rose up.

"Faith," he said, "you are to wait tea for me, and in the mean time you must take one of Miss Bezac's cups of comfort and lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. Your eyes will be just as good guiding stars sleeping as waking."

She said not another word, but watched him go off and out into the half dark wilderness. The moon shone bright indeed, but only touched the tops of many a woody outline, and many a steep mountain side rose up and defied her. Faith smelled the wild sweet air, looked up and down at the gleams of light and bands of shadow; and then came back to the study where the fire blazed, and sat down on the floor in front of it; gazing into the red coals, and following in fancy Mr. Linden on his walk and errand. It took him away from her, and so many such an errand would, often; but to speak comfort to the dying and tell the truth to the ignorant.—Faith gloried in it. He was an ambassador of Christ; and not to have him by her side would Faith keep him from his work. That he might do his work well—that he might be blessed in it, both to others and himself, her very heart almost fused itself in prayer. So thinking, while every alternate thought was a petition for him, weariness and rest together at last put her to sleep; and she slept a dreamless sweet sleep with her head on Mr. Linden's chair.

She awoke before he got back, though the evening was long set in. Feeling refreshed, Faith thought herself at liberty to reverse orders and went to the forbidden closet again, and to further conjurations with Best. They could not have taken long; for when, some hour later, Mr. Linden was nearing the house on his return, he had a pretty view of her, standing all dressed before the fire in his study. The glow shone all over her—he could see her well, and her fresh neatness. He could see more. Faith Linden to-night was not just the Faith Derrick of old time; nor even of six months ago. The old foundations of character were all there, intact; but upon them sat a nameless grace, not simply of cultivation, nor of matured intelligence, nor even of happiness. A certain quiet elegance, a certain airy dignity—which had belonged to her only since she had been Mr. Linden's wife. She stood there, waiting now for him to come home.