So passed Friday and Saturday; and Sunday brought a lull. Faith thought so, and felt so. Her roast turkeys and chickens were reposing in spicy readiness; her boiled meats and bakeries were all accomplished and in waiting; and dismissing all but a little joyful background thought of them, Faith gave her whole heart and mind to the full Sabbath rest, to the full Sabbath rising; and looked, in her deep happiness, as if she were—what she was—enjoying the one and striving after the other. But the ways by which we are to find the good we must seek, are by no means always those of our own choosing.

It was a clear, cold, still, winter's day. Cold enough by the thermometer; but so still that the walking to church was pleasant. They had come home from the afternoon service—Faith had not taken off her things—when she was called into the kitchen to receive a message. The next minute she was in the sitting-room and stood by the side of Mr. Linden's chair.

"Mrs. Custers is dying—and has sent for me."

"For you, dear child?—Well—Are you able to go?"

"Oh yes."

He looked at her in silence, as if he were making up his own mind on the subject, then rose up and gently seating her on the sofa, told her to rest there till he was ready; but before he came back again Mrs. Derrick came to Faith's side with a smoking cup of chicken broth and a biscuit.

"You've got to eat it, pretty child," she said fondly,—"we're both agreed upon that point."

Which point mandate Faith did not try to dispute.

The town clock had struck four, all counted, when Jerry dashed off from the door with the little sleigh behind him. No other sleigh-bells were abroad, and his rang out noisily and alone over the great waste of stillness as soon as they were quit of the village. The air happily was very still and the cold had not increased; but low, low the sun was, and sent his slant beams coolly over the snow-white fields, glinting from fences and rocks and bare thickets with a gleam that threatened he would not look at them long. The hour was one of extreme beauty,—fair and still, with a steady strength in its stillness that made the beauty somewhat imposing. There was none of the yielding character of summer there; but a power that was doing its work and would do it straight through. "He giveth forth his ice like morsels; who can stand before his cold?"—thought Faith.

The sleighing was excellent; the roads in perfect condition.

"How long is it since you were here?" Mr. Linden said as the house came in sight, shewn only by its twinkling panes of glass.

"Not since before I went to Pequot—not since a day or two after that ride we took with Dr. Harrison, when you rode 'Stranger' the first time."

"How was she then?"

"Not much different from what she had been before—she didn't say much—she seemed to like to listen to me, or to see me, or both. That was all I could be sure of."

"Try not to let her spend her strength in examining the past state of her mind. Bid her lay hold of the promise now. A present hold will answer all her questions—and is all the oldest Christian can rest in."

"I wish you could speak to her instead of me," said Faith. "Perhaps she will let you."

"It is not you nor I, my child.—Fix your heart upon Christ, and let him speak,—fix your eyes upon him, and let his light shine."

"I know it. O I do!—" she said, looking up at him with an humble, moved face.

He lifted her out of the sleigh and led her up to the house, where they were presently admitted; into an outer room first, where Faith could lay off her furs.

"She's some brighter to-night," the woman in attendance said, in answer to Mr. Linden's questions. "I guess she'll be real glad to see you"—this was addressed to Faith.

Faith left Mr. Linden there, and went into the sick chamber alone; where she was always received as if she had brought an olive branch, or a palm branch, or both of them, in her hand. The spirit of both, no doubt, was in her; the gentle face looked the promise of both peace and victory, as only humility can look it.

Mrs. Custers on her part looked—as the other had said—glad; if so bright a word could be applied to a face that had lost all its own light, and where no reflected light as yet shone. Yet she was quieter than when Faith had first seen her, whether from mental relief or physical prostration, and was most eager for all Faith's words,—listening for the most part in silence, but with eyes that never said "enough." As some poor exhausted traveller takes the water which he has at last reached in the desert, nor knows yet whether its bright drops can avail to save his life, but lays him down by the fountain—there to live or die. And Faith, feeling that her hand was ministering those drops of life, lost every other thought,—except to wish for a hand that could do it better. Once she ventured a proposition.

"I have a friend here, Mrs. Custers, who can tell you about all these things much better than I can. Will you let him? May I ask him to come in and see you?"

"Better?" she said slowly—"I don't believe it. Who is he? your brother?"

"No—I haven't any brother. But that don't matter. He's somebody that is a great deal better than I am. May I let him come in? He's here," said Faith very quietly, along with her flushing cheek.

There was a poor little faint smile for a moment upon the sick woman's lips while Faith spoke, but it passed and she answered in the same tone—"I'll see him—to please you—before you go. I just want the words now—and I like you best."

Faith troubled her no more with unnecessary suggestions, and gave her "the words." Gave them with the fragrance of her own love about them, which certainly is the surest human vehicle for the love above human that is in them. As on that first occasion, Faith placed herself on the side of the bed; and holding one of Mrs. Custers' hands in her own, bending her soft quiet face towards the listening eyes and ears, she gave her one by one, like crumbs of life-giving food, the words of promise, of encouragement, of invitation, of example. No answer cheered or helped her; no token of pleasure or even of assent met her; only those fixed listening eyes bade her go on, and told that whether for life and refreshment or no, the words were eagerly taken in, each after the other, as she said them. There was something in the strong sympathy of the speaker—in her own feeling and joy of the truths she told—that might give them double power and life to the ears of another. Faith reported the words of her Master with such triumphant prizing of them and such leaning on their strength; she gave his invitations in such tones of affection; she told over the instances of others' prevailing faith with such an evident, clear, satisfying share in the same;—the living words this time lost nothing of their power by a dead utterance. Of her own words Faith ventured few; now and then the simplest addition to some thing she had repeated, to make it more plain, or to carry it further home; such words as she could not keep back; such words, very much, as she would have spoken to Johnny Fax; not very unlike what Johnny Fax might have spoken to her. But there was not a little physical exhaustion about all this after a while, and Faith found she must have some help to her memory. She went into the other room.

"I want a bible," she said looking round for it—"Is there one here?"

Yes there was one, but it was Mr. Linden's. That was quickly given her.

"I forgot it at the moment you went in," he said, "and then I did not like to disturb you. My dear Faith!—" and he held her hand and looked at her a little wistfully. She brought her other hand upon his, and looked down and looked up wistfully too; like one with a heart full.

"Can I help you? can I take your place?"

"She won't let you," said Faith shaking her head. "She says she will see you by and by—but she must take her own time for it."

And Faith went back to her ministrations. Of all bibles, she would have had that one in her hand then! And yet its companionship bowed down her heart with a sense of weakness;—but that was the very position for the next move; a spring beyond weakness to the only real and sufficient ground of strength.

The afternoon merged into the evening. A tallow candle had been brought by the attendant into the room in which Mr. Linden was waiting; and its dim smoky light would have made a dismal place of it if he had had no other to go by. He could sometimes hear the low tones of a word or two in the other room; more often the tones were so low that they failed to reach him. When this state of things had lasted a long time—as it seemed—there came an interruption in the form of quick steps on the snow; then the door was pushed open, and Dr. Harrison appeared.

"You here!" was his astonished salutation. "What upon earth has brought you?"

"I came to bring some one else."

"She isn't here?" said the doctor. "You don't mean that?"

His emphatic pronouns were a little smile-provoking, in spite of the grave thoughts upon which they intruded—or rather perhaps because of them; but if Mr. Linden's face felt that temptation, it was only for a moment,—he answered quietly,

"If you mean Miss Faith, she has been here a long time."

The doctor knew that! if she came when she was called. He had stopped to eat his dinner.

"I mean her, of course," he said with his tone a little subdued. "I shouldn't think her mother would have let her come—such a night!—" Which meant very plainly that Dr. Harrison would not have let her.—"Is she in there with the woman now?"

"Yes."

The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith, engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment—then came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression.

"You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,—"I'm not afraid of you to-night."

He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then without a word turned to Faith.

Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently.

"She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may have anything she fancies to have."

Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour, and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't somebody pray for me?"

Faith bent over until her lips almost touched the sufferer's cheek and her warm breath floated in the words, "I'll bring somebody—" then loosing her hold, she sprang from the bed and out into the other room. But when she had clasped Mr. Linden's hand, Faith bent down her head upon it, unable to speak. The strength it could, his hand gave her—and his voice.

"What, my dear child?"

Then Faith looked up. "She wants you to pray for her." And without waiting for the unnecessary answer, she led Mr. Linden to the door of the room, there dropped his hand and went in before him. Dr. Harrison was standing by the bedpost, and looked wordlessly upon the two as they entered.

Mrs. Custers scanned the stranger's face as he came to wards her, with an anxious, eager look, as if she wanted to know whether he could do anything for her; the look changing to one of satisfaction. But to his low-spoken question as he took her hand, she gave an answer that was almost startling in its slow earnestness.

"Pray that I may believe—and that he may—and that God would bless her forever!"

How was such a request to be met! then and there!—for a moment Mr. Linden's eyes fell. But then he knelt by her side, and met it most literally,—in tones very low and clear and distinct, in words that might have been angels' plumage for their soft bearing upward of the sufferer's thoughts. Faith could feel a slight trembling once or twice of the hand that held hers, but the bitterness of its grasp had relaxed. Dr. Harrison was behind her; whether he stood or knelt she did not know; but he knew that when the other two rose to their feet, one of them was exceedingly pale; and his move, made on the instant, was to get her a glass of water. Faith only tasted it and gave it him back, and mounted to her former place on the bed. And for a little all was still, until Mr. Linden spoke again in the same clear, guiding tones.

"'My God, within thy hand My helpless soul I trust! Thy love shall ever stand— Thy promise must!—'"

Then Mrs. Custers opened her eyes; and her first look was at Dr. Harrison. But whether the relaxed mental tension let the bodily weakness appear, or whether the tide was at that point where it ebbs most rapidly, her words were spoken with some trouble—yet spoken as if both to make amends and give information.

"You meant to be very kind—" she said—"and you have—But now I want to believe—even if it isn't any use."

Her eyes passed from him—rested for a minute on Mr. Linden—then came to Faith, and never wavered again. "Read"—was all she said.

With unnerved lip and quivering breath Faith began again her sweet utterance of some of those sweetest things. For a moment she longed to ask the other two listeners to go away and leave her alone; but reasons, different and strong, kept her mouth from speaking the wish; and then, once dismissed, it was forgotten. Her voice steadied and grew clear presently; its low, distinct words were not interrupted by so much as a breath in any part of the room. They steadied her; Faith rested on them and clung to them as she went along, with a sense of failing energy which needed a stay somewhere. But her words did not shew it, except perhaps that they came more slowly and deliberately. Mr. Linden had drawn back a little out of sight. Dr. Harrison kept his stand by the bedpost, leaning against it; and whatever that reading was to him, he was as motionless as that whereon he leaned.

Till some little length of time had passed in this way, and then he came to Faith's side and laid his hand on her open book.

"She does not hear you," he said softly.

Faith looked at him startled, and then bent forward over the woman whose face was turned a little from her.

"She is sleeping"—she said looking up again.

"She will not hear you any more," said the doctor.

"She breathes, regularly,—"

"Yes—so she will for perhaps some hours. But she will not waken again,—probably."

"Are you sure?" Faith said with another look at the calm face before her.

"Very sure!"—

Was it true? Faith looked still at the unconscious form,—then her bible fell from her hands and her head wearily sunk into them. The strain was over—broken short. She had done all she could,—and the everlasting answer was sealed up from her. Those heavy eyelids would not unclose again to give it; those parted lips through which the slow breath went and came, would never tell her. It seemed to Faith that her heart lay on the very ground with the burden of all that weight resting upon it.

She was not suffered to sit so long.

"May I take you away?"—Mr. Linden said,—"you must not stay any longer."

"Do you think it is no use?" said Faith looking up at him wearily.

"It is of no use," said Dr. Harrison. He had come near, and took her hand, looking at her with a moved face in which there was something very like tender reproach. But he only brought her hand gravely to his lips again and turned away. Mr. Linden's words were very low-spoken. "I think the doctor is right.—But let me take you home, and then I will come back and stay till morning if you like—or till there comes a change. You must not stay."

"I don't like to go,"—said Faith without moving. "She may want me again."

"There may be no change all night," said the doctor;—"and when it comes it will not probably be a conscious change. If she awakes at all, it will be to die. You could do nothing more."

Faith saw that Mr. Linden thought so, and she gave it up; with a lingering unwillingness got off the bed and wrapped her furs round her. Mr. Linden put her into the sleigh, keeping Jerry back to let the doctor precede them; and when he was fairly in front, Faith was doubly wrapped up—as she had been the night of the fire, and could take the refreshment of the cool air, and rest. Very wearily, for a while, mind and body both dropped. Faith was as still as if she had been asleep; but her eyes were gazing out upon the snow, following the distant speck of the doctor's sleigh, or looking up to the eternal changeless lights that keep watch over this little world and mock its changes. Yet not so! but that bear their quiet witness that there is something which is not "passing away;"—yea, that there is something which "endureth forever."

"He calleth them all by their names; for that he is strong in power, not one faileth." That was in Faith's mind along with other words—"The Lord knoweth them that are his." Her mind was in a passive state; things floated in and floated out. It was some time before Mr. Linden said anything—he let her be as silent and still as she would; but at last he bent over her and spoke.

"My Mignonette"—and the thought was not sweeter than the words—"are you asleep?"

"No—" she said in one of those etherial answering tones which curiously say a great many things.

"Are you resting?"

"Yes. I am rested."

"You must try not to bear the burden of your work after it is done. Now lay it off—and leave your poor friend in the hands where I trust she has left herself. Her senses are not closed to his voice."

"I do"—she said with a grateful look. "I know it is not my work—nor anybody's."

He drew the furs up about her silently, arranging and adjusting them so as to keep off the wind which had risen a little.

"We are not very far from home now,—we have come fast."

And as Jerry did not relax his pace, the little distance was soon travelled over. How fair the lights in their own windows looked then!—with their speech of blessing and comfort.

They all came together round the fire first, and then round the tea-table; Faith being specially watched over and waited on by both the others. Mrs. Derrick's half developed fear at their long stay, had given place to a sort of moved, untalkative mood when she heard the explanation, but a mood which relieved itself by trying every possible and impossible thing for Faith's refreshment. Every possible thing except refreshing talk—and that Mr. Linden gave her. Talk which without jarring in the least upon the evening's work, yet led her thoughts a little off from the painful part of it. Talk of the Christian's work—of the Christian's privilege,—of "Heaven and the way thither,"—of the gilding of the cross, of the glory of the crown. Faith heard and joined in it, but there was a point of pressure yet at her heart; and when they left the table and went into the other room, a slight thing gave indication where it lay. Faith took a little bench by Mrs. Derrick's side, drew her mother's arms round her close, and laid her head down on her lap.

How softly, how tenderly, did Mrs. Derrick answer the caress, as if she read it perfectly!—touching Faith's hands and brow and cheeks with fingers that were even trembling. And at last—whether her child's mute pleading was too much for her,—whether the pain which had never left her heart since the day of Faith's overturn had by degrees done its work,—she bent down her lips to Faith's cheek and whispered—"Yes, pretty child—I mean to try."

And so the door opened, and Cindy and Mr. Skip came in for prayers. Faith hid her face, but otherwise did not stir.

How sweet the service was to them all that night!—yes, to them all; there was not one who could help feeling its influence. And yet it was very simple, and not very long,—Mr. Linden read first a few Bible passages, and then Wesley's hymn of the New Year,—with its bugle note of action,—and then to prayer, for which, by that time, every heart was ready.

"Come let us anew our journey pursue, Roll round with the year, And never stand still till the Master appear. His adorable will let us gladly fulfil, And our talents improve, By the patience of hope and the labours of love.

"Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream, Glides swiftly away, And the fugitive moment refuses to stay. The arrow is flown—the moment is gone; The millennial year Rushes on to our view, and eternity's here.

"O that each, in the day of his coming, may say, I have fought my way through; I have finished the work thou didst give me to do. O that each from his Lord may receive the glad word, Well and faithfully done! Enter into my joy, and sit down on my throne."



CHAPTER VIII.



The first morning of the new year turned out as bright as could be desired for the great sleigh-riding expedition; the very day for it. And in the very mood for it were the people who were to go. Not but somewhat of last night's gravity hung about Faith's bright face; the one did no hurt to the other; for the best brightness is always sure to be grave, and the best gravity is almost sure to be bright, on some side. However there was nothing contemplative about the character of things this morning; there was too much action afoot. Such an army of meats and drinks, with all sorts of odd ends and varieties, from the shoes to the fishing-net, and such an array of apples and sugarplums!—to marshal and order them all in proper companies and ranks, wanted a general! But Faith was by no means a bad general, and up to the act of stowing the sleigh, at which point the things were made over to Mr. Linden and Mr. Skip, her part was well done. And Mr. Linden found in the course of his part of the business that Mrs. Derrick and Faith had followed a lead of their own.

There had been a pretty packing and tying up and labelling at the table, before the sleigh-packing began,—Faith's busy little fingers went in and out with great dexterity; and either Mr. Linden thought it was pleasant to her—or knew it was pleasant to him, to have them so engaged; for though he stood by and talked to her, and laughed at her, he let the said little fingers have their way; except when they touched some harsh bit of string, or rough bit of paper, or unmanageable package, and then his own interfered. It was a bright packing up—without a shadow, at least that could be called such. But once or twice, when with some quick movement of Faith's hand the diamonds flashed forth their weird light suddenly,—she did see that Mr. Linden's eyes went down, and that his mouth took a set which if not of pain, was at least sad. It never lasted long—and the next look was always one of most full pleasure at her. But the second time, Faith's heart could hardly bear it. She guessed at the why and the what; but words were too gross a medium to convey from spirit to spirit the touch that love could give and pain bear. She watched her chance; and when one of Mr. Linden's hands was for a moment resting on a package that the other was busied in arranging, suddenly laying the jewelled hand on his, Faith's lips kept it company.

"Faith!" he said. And then as if he saw it all, he did not say another word, only held her for a minute in a very, very close embrace. But then he whispered,

"Faith—you must give me that in another way."

Faith appeared to have exhausted her ammunition, for she only answered by hiding her face.

"Faith"—Mr. Linden repeated.

She looked up slowly, blushing all over; and her very doubtful face seemed to negative the whole proceeding. But then an irrepressible little laugh began to play.

"I wouldn't do it," she said unsteadily,—"at least, I don't know that I would—if I hadn't wished so very much to give you something to-day;—and I have nothing else!—"

And nerving herself desperately, Faith laid one hand on Mr. Linden's shoulder and slightly raising herself on her toes, did bestow on his lips as dainty a kiss as ever Santa Claus brought in his box of New Year curiosities. But she was overcome with confusion the moment she had done it, and would have rushed off if that had been possible.

"Let me go"—she said hastily—"let me go!"—

In answer to which, she was held as securely fast as she ever had been in her life. Covering and hiding all of her face that she could, Faith renewed her request, in a comical tone of humility—as if she didn't deserve it.

"I never felt less inclined to let you go!"

"There is all that work to be done," said Faith, by way of possibly useful suggestion.

"Mignonette, will you remember your new lesson?"

She whispered softly, "No.—It was only Santa Claus."

"Not Campaspe?"

"No—Certainly not!"

"You remember," said Mr. Linden, "that when—'Cupid and Campaspe played at cards for kisses, Cupid paid.'—I was unavoidably reminded of that. But you may go on with your work,—you know what happens when lessons are learned imperfectly." And liberty for her work she had; no more.

"Child," said her mother coming in, "are you ready for your lunch?"

"Why no, mother," said Faith with a little laugh,—"of course not! but I can take it as I go on. There's a good deal of 'sorting' to do yet. I hope the sleigh is big."

"Take it as you go on, indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick. "You've got to stop and eat, child,—you can't live till night with nothing but other folk's dinners."

Faith however declared she could not stop to eat; and she contrived to carry on both the rival occupations together; and even to make right sure that no one else should attempt to live upon anything more etherial than sandwiches and pumpkin pie. She drank her coffee in the intervals of tying packages and writing labels, and ran about with a sandwich in one hand and a basket in the other; filling Mr. Linden's cup and putting tempting platefuls in his way. But he was as busy as she,—spending much of his time at the barn, where Squire Stoutenburgh's pretty little box sleigh was in process of filling with cloaks, buffalo robes, and commodities! At last everything was in, and Mr. Linden came to announce that fact to Faith,—furs and hood were donned, and the sleigh was off with its whole load.

Bright, bright the snow was, and blue the shadows, and fair the white expanse of hill and meadow, all crisp and sparkling. Everybody was out—which was not wonderful; but so well had Mr. Linden disposed and covered up his packages, that all anybody could see was that he and Faith were taking a sleigh-ride,—which was not wonderful either. And before long they left the more frequented roads, and turned down the lane that led to the dwelling of Sally Lowndes. How different it looked now, from that summer evening when Faith had gone there alone. What a colouring then lay on all the ground that was now white with sunlight and blue with shade! And also, what a difference in the mental colouring. But Jerry, travelling faster than her feet had done, soon brought them to the house. Mr. Linden buckled the tie, and helped Faith to emerge from the buffalo robes; the winter wind blowing fresh from the sea, and sweeping over the down till Jerry shook his blanket in disapproval.

"Now my little counsellor," said Mr. Linden, "what does your wisdom say should go in here—besides this basket of substantiate? I think you know more of these people than I do?"—And the surf in its cold monotony, said—"Anything warm!"

"Mother has put in a shawl for Sally," said Faith, getting out the package;—(it was one that Mrs. Derrick found she could do without,)—"and a little paper of tea,—tea is Sally's greatest delight,—here it is!"

Sally's abode was in nothing different from the run of poor houses in the country; unpainted of course, outside and inside; a rag carpet on the floor, a gay patchwork coverlet on the bed. Sally herself was in the rocking-chair before a little wood fire. But there was not the look of even poor comfort which may sometimes be seen; want, that told of lack of means and that also went deeper, was visible in everything.

"I've come to wish you a happy new year, Sally," said Faith brightly.

"Laws! I wonder where it's to come from!" said Sally. "If wishin' I would fetch it—I've wished it to myself till I'm tired. Happy new years don't come to all folks. Aint that—How do you do, sir!—aint it the gentleman Jenny told of? that fell down at Mr. Simlins' door?"

"And got up again?" said Mr. Linden. "Yes, I presume I am the very person Jenny told of. I remember that Jenny was very kind to me, too. Where is she?"

"O she's to Mr. Simlinses all along! she's got a good place; she knows when she's comfortable. She don't think of me stayin' here all alone."

"But aren't you comfortable, Sally?" said Faith.

"I should like to know how I would be! Folks that is comfortable thinks all the world is like them! If they didn't they'd help."

"Well what is the first thing that would help to make you comfortable?" said Mr. Linden.

Sally looked at him, up and down.

"I'd like to see a speck o' somebody's face now and then. I mope and mope, till I wish I'd die to get rid of it! You see, sir, I aint as I used to was; and my family aint numerous now. There's no one lives in this house over my head but me and a girl what stays by me to do chores. Aint that a life for a spider?"

Faith had been stealthily unfolding the shawl and now put it round Sally's shoulders. "Will that help to make you comfortable?" she said gently.

"Laws!" said Sally—"aint that smart! That's good as far as it goes. Where did that come from?"

"Mother sent it to you, for New Year."

"It's real becoming of her!" said Sally in a mollified tone, feeling of the shawl. "Well I won't say this New Years haint brought me something."

"It brings you too much cold air at present," Mr. Linden said. "Do you know that window lets in about as much cold as it keeps out?"

"Well I reckon I do," said Sally. "I've nothin' to do all day but sit here and realize onto it. There aint no such a thing as buildin' a fire in the chimney that'll keep out the cold from that winter."

"I should think not!—the way is to attack the window itself," he said, looking at it as if he were studying the attack.

"We've brought you something else here, Sally, to help keep out the cold," said Faith. "May I put the things in your closet—so as to carry home my basket?"

"Yes, if you like. What have you got there, Faith?" said Miss Lowndes looking into the closet after her.

"There's a piece of beef, Sally, of mother's own curing—all ready cooked—so you'll have nothing to do but cook your potatoes—and mother thought you'd like a few of our potatoes, they're good this year. Then here is a little paper of tea she sent you, and I've brought you one of my own pumpkin pies—so you must say it is good, Sally."

"Well I'm beat!" said Sally. "Haint you got something else?"

She was like to be beat on all hands; for Mr. Linden who had been examining the window while Faith emptied her basket, now went out and presently brought back hammer and nails and strips of lath, that made Faith wonder whether he had brought a tool-chest along. But the noise of his hammer was much more cheerful than the rattling of the window, and when it had done its work outside as well as in, the wind might whistle for admission in vain. He came in and stood by the fire for a moment then, before they set off, and asked Faith softly what else was wanted? And Faith whispered in answer—

"'The Dairyman's Daughter?' but you must give it."

"Can't you get some comfort in reading your Bible, Sally?" said Faith while Mr. Linden went out to the sleigh with his hammer and nails.

"Laws!" said Sally—"what's the use! I haint got the heart to take the trouble to read, half the time."

"If you read one half the time, and pray too, Sally, you'll soon get heart for the other half."

"It's easy talkin'"—was Sally's encouraging view of the case.

"It's a great deal easier doing," said Faith. "If you try it, Sally, it'll make you so glad you'll never say you want comfort again."

"Well you've brought me a heap to-day anyhow," said Sally. "Just look at that winder! I declare!—I 'spect I'll make out to eat my dinner to-day without scolding."

Mr. Linden came back with the tract, but kept it in his hand for a minute.

"Do you know, Sally, how a house is built upon the bare ground?" he said. "The mason lays down one stone, and then another on that; and if he cannot have his choice of stones he takes just what come to hand—little and big, putting in plenty of mortar to bind all together. Now that's the way you must build up a happy year for yourself,—and in that way every one can." The words were spoken very brightly, without a touch of faultfinding.

"Well"—said Sally rocking herself back and forth in the rocking-chair—"I 'spect you know how."—Which might have been meant as a compliment, or as an excuse.

"I think you do," said Mr. Linden smiling; "and I am going to leave you a true story of how it was really done by somebody else. Will you read it?"

"Yes"—said Sally continuing to rock. "I'll do any thing you ask me to—after that winder. You've given me a good start—anyways. I'd as lieves hear you talk as most things."

There was not time for much more talk then, however. Mr. Linden and Faith went away, leaving the little book on the table. But when Sally went to take a nearer view of its words of golden example, there lay on it the first real little gold piece Sally had ever possessed.

"That was a good beginning," said Faith in a sort of quiet glee, after she had got into the sleigh again. "I knew, before, we were like a butcher and baker setting off on their travels; but I had no idea there was a carpenter stowed away anywhere!" And her laugh broke forth upon the air of those wild downs, as Jerry turned his head about.

"I must be something, you know," said Mr. Linden,—"and I don't choose to be the butcher—and certainly am not the baker."

They turned into the village again, and then down towards the shore; getting brilliant glimpses of the Sound now and then, and a pretty keen breeze. But the sun was strong in its modifying power, and bright and happy spirits did the rest. One little pause the sleigh made at the house where Faith had had her decisive interview with Squire Deacon, but they did not get out there; only gave a selection of comforts into the hands of one of the household, and jingled on their way shorewards. Not turning down to the bathing region, but taking a road that ran parallel with the Sound.

"Do you remember our first walk down here, Faith?" said Mr. Linden,—"when you said you had shewed me the shore?"

"Well I did," said Faith smiling,—"I shewed you what I knew; but you shewed me what I had never known before."

"I'm sure you shewed me some things I had never known before," he said laughing a little. "Do you know where we are going now?"—they had left the beaten road, and entered a by-way where only footsteps marked the snow, and no sleigh before their own had broken ground. It seemed to be a sort of coast-way,—leading right off towards the dashing Sound and its low points and inlets. The shore was marked with ice as well as foam; the water looked dark and cold, with the white gulls soaring and dipping, and the white line of Long Island in the distance.

"No, I don't know. Where are we going? O how beautiful! O how beautiful!" Faith exclaimed. "Hasn't every time its own pleasure! Where are we going, Endecott?"

"To see one who Dr. Harrison 'fancies' may have 'something in him.' Whatever made the doctor take such a dislike to Reuben?"

Faith did not answer, and instead looked forward with a sort of contemplative gravity upon her brow. Her cheeks were already so brilliant with riding in the fresh air that a little rise of colour could hardly have been noticed.

"Do you know?"

Faith presently replied that she supposed it was a dislike taken up without any sort of real ground.

"Well to tell you the truth, my little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "the doctor's twenty-five dollars gives me some trouble in that connexion. Reuben will take favours gladly from anybody that likes him, but towards people who do not (they are very few, indeed) he is as proud as if he had the Bank of England at his back. I might send him a dinner every day if I chose; but if Reuben were starving, his conscience would have a struggle with him before he would take bread from Dr. Harrison."

Faith listened very seriously and her conclusion was a very earnest "Oh, I am sorry!—But then," she went on thoughtfully,—"I don't know that Dr. Harrison dislikes Reuben.—He don't understand him, how should he?—and I know they have never seemed to get on well together.—"

"I chose to answer for him the other day," said Mr. Linden—"and I shall not let him refuse; but I have questioned whether I would tell him anything about the money till he is ready for the books. Then if he should meet the doctor, and the doctor should ask him!—"

Faith was silent a bit.

"But Reuben will do what you tell him," she said. "And besides, Reuben was doing everything he could for Dr. Harrison the other night—he can't refuse to let Dr. Harrison do something for him. I don't think he ought."

"He had no thought of reward. Still, he would not refuse, if he supposed any part of the 'doing' was out of care for him,—and you know I cannot tell him that I think it is. But I shall talk to him about it. Not to-day: I will not run the risk of spoiling his pleasure at the sight of us. There—do you see that little beaver-like hut on the next point?—that is where he lives."

Faith looked at it with curious interest. That little brown spot amidst the waste of snow and waters—that was where the fisherman's boy lived; and there he was preparing himself for college. And for what beside?

"Will Reuben or his father be hurt at all at anything we have brought them?" she said then.

"No, they will take it all simply for what it is,—a New Year's gift. And Reuben would not dream of being hurt by anything we could do,—he is as humble as he is proud. We are like enough to find him alone."

And so they found him. With an absorbed ignoring of sleigh-bells and curiosity—perhaps because the former rarely came for him,—Reuben had sat still at his work until his visiters knocked at the low door. But then he came with a step and face ready to find Mr. Linden—though not Faith; and his first flush of pleasure deepened with surprise and even a little embarrassment as he ushered her in. There was no false pride about it, but "Miss Faith" was looked upon by all the boys as a dainty thing; and Reuben placed a chair for her by the drift-wood fire, with as much feeling of the unfitness of surrounding circumstances, as if she had been the Queen. Something in the hand that was laid on his shoulder brushed that away; and then Reuben looked and spoke as usual.

Surrounding circumstances were not so bad, after all. Faith had noticed how carefully and neatly the snow was cleared from the door and down to the water's edge, and everything within bore the same tokens. The room was very tiny, the floor bare—but very clean; the blazing drift-wood the only adornment. Yet not so: for on an old sea chest which graced one side of the room, lay Reuben's work which they had interrupted. An open book, with one or two others beside it; and by them all, with mesh and netting-kneedle and twine, lay an old net which Reuben had been repairing. The drift-wood had stone supporters,—the winter wind swept in a sort of grasping way round the little hut; and the dashing of the Sound waters, and the sharp war of the floating ice, broke the stillness. But they were very glad eyes that Reuben lifted to Mr. Linden's face and a very glad alacrity brought forward a little box for Faith to rest her feet.

"Don't you mean to sit down, Mr. Linden?" he said.

"To be sure I do. But I haven't wished you a happy New Year yet." And the lips that Reuben most reverenced in the world, left their greeting on his forehead. It was well the boy found something to do—with the fire, and Faith's box, and Mr. Linden's chair! But then he stood silent and quiet as before.

"Don't you mean to sit down, Reuben?" said Faith.

Reuben smiled,—not as if he cared about a seat; but he brought forward another little box, not even the first cousin of Faith's, and sat down as she desired.

"Didn't you find it very cold, Miss Faith?" he said, as if he could not get used to seeing her there. "Are you getting warm now?"

Faith said she hadn't been cold; and would fast enough have entered into conversation with Reuben, but she thought he would rather hear words from other lips, and was sure that other lips could give them better.

"And have you got quite well, ma'm?" said Reuben.

"Don't I look well?" she said smiling at him. "What are you doing over there, Reuben?—making a net?"

"O I was mending it, Miss Faith."

"I can't afford to have you at that work just now," said Mr. Linden,—"you know we begin school again to-morrow. You must tell your father from me, Reuben, that he must please to use his new one for the present, and let you mend up that at your leisure. Will you?"

Reuben flushed—looking up and then down as he said, "Yes, sir,"—and then very softly, "O Mr. Linden, you needn't have done that!"

"Of course I need not—people never need please themselves, I suppose. But you know, Reuben, there is a great deal of Santa Glaus work going on at this time of year, and Miss Faith and I have had some of it put in our hands. I won't answer for what she'll do with you!—but you must try and bear it manfully."

Reuben laughed a little—half in sympathy with the bright words and smile, half as if the spirit of the time had laid hold of him.

"You know, Mr. Linden," said Faith laughing, but appealingly too,—"that Reuben will get worse handling from you than he will from me!—so let him have the worst first."

"I'll bring in your basket," was all he said,—and the basket came in accordingly; Reuben feeling too bewildered to even offer his services.

Faith found herself in a corner. She jumped up and placed herself in front of the basket so as to hide it. "Wait!"—she said. "Reuben, how much of a housekeeper are you?"

"I don't know, Miss Faith,—I don't believe I ever was tried."

"Do you know how to make mince pies, for instance?"

But Reuben shook his head, with a low-spoken, "No, Miss Faith,"—a little as if she were somehow transparent, and he was viewing the basket behind her.

"Never mind my questions," said Faith, "but tell me. Could you stuff a turkey, do you think, if you tried?"

"I suppose I could—somehow," Reuben said, colouring and laughing. "I never tried, Miss Faith."

"Then you couldn't!" said Faith, her laugh rolling round the little room, as softly as the curls of smoke went up the chimney. "You needn't think you could! But Reuben, since you can't, don't you think you would let me do it once for you?"

Reuben's words were not ready in answer. But a bashful look at Faith's face—and her hands,—one that reminded her of the clam-roasting,—was followed by a grateful, low-spoken—"I don't think you ought to do anything for me, Miss Faith."

"I have had so much pleasure in it, Reuben, you'll have to forgive me;"—Faith answered, withdrawing from the basket.

"You must look into that at your leisure, Reuben," Mr. Linden said, as he watched the play of feeling in the boy's face. "Miss Faith is in no hurry for her basket."

Reuben heard him silently, and as silently lifted the basket from where it stood and set it carefully on the table. But then he came close up to Faith and stood by her side. "You are very good, Miss Faith!" he said. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Reuben!" said Faith colouring—"you mustn't thank me at all. I've just had the pleasure of doing—but it is Mr. Linden that has brought the basket here, and me too."

"And he must take you away," Mr. Linden said. "Reuben, you may thank Miss Faith just as much as you please. If I had nothing else to do, I should invite my self here to dinner, but as it is I must be off. Are you ready?" he said to Faith, while in silence Reuben knelt down to put on again the moccasins which she had thrown off, and then she followed Mr. Linden. Reuben followed too,—partly to help their arrangements, partly at Mr. Linden's bidding to bring back the net. But when there was added thereto a little package which could only mean books, Reuben's cup of gravity, at least, was full; and words of good-bye he had none.

And for a few minutes after they drove away Faith too was silent with great pleasure. She hardly knew, though she felt, how bright the sun was on the snow, and how genial his midday winter beams; and with how crisp a gleam the light broke on ice points and crests of foam and glanced from the snow-banks. The riches of many days seemed crowded into the few hours of that morning. Were they not on a "shining" expedition! Had they not been leaving sunbeams of gladness in house after house, that would shine on, nobody knew how long! Faith was too glad for a little while not to feel very sober; those sunbeams came from so high a source, and were wrought in with others that so wrapped her own life about. So she looked at Jerry's ears and said nothing.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said suddenly, "I wish I could tell you what it is to me to be going these rounds with you!"

Faith shewed a quick, touched little smile. "I've been thinking just now,—what it means."

"I should like to have the explanation of those last three words."

"What it means?"—and the slight play of her lips did not at all hinder the deep, deep strength of her thought from being manifest.—"It means, all you have taught me and led me to!—"

"You don't intend to lead me to a very clear understanding," he said playfully, and yet with a tone that half acknowledged her meaning. "Do you ever remember what you have taught me?—They say one should at the end of the year, reckon up all the blessings it has brought,—but I know not where to begin, nor how to recount them. This year!—it has been like the shield in the old fable,—it seemed to me of iron to look forward to—so cold and dark,—and it has been all gold!"

"Did it look so?" she said with quick eyes of sympathy.

"Yes, little Sunbeam, it looked so; and there were enough earthly reasons why it should. But unbelief has had a rebuke for once;—if I know myself, I am ready now to go forward without a question!"

Over what Hill Difficulty did that future road lie?—He did not explain, and the next words came with a different tone,—one that almost put the other out of Faith's head. "My little Sunbeam, do you keep warm?"

"Yes"—she said with a somewhat wistful look that came from a sunbeam determined upon doing its very best of shining, for him. But she was silent again for a minute. "There are plenty of sunbeams abroad to-day, Endecott," she said then with rare sweetness of tone, that touched but did not press upon his tone of a few minutes ago.

"Dear Faith," he said looking at her, and answering the wistfulness and the smile and the voice all in one,—"do you know I can never find words that just suit me for you?—And do you know that I think there was never such a New Year's day heard of?—it is all sunshine! Just look how the light is breaking out there upon the ice, and touching the waves, and shining through that one little cloud,—and guess how I feel it in my heart. Do you know how much work of this sort, and of every sort, you and I shall have to do together, little child, if we live?"

It was a look of beauty that answered,—so full in its happiness, so blushing and shy; but Faith's words were as simple as they were earnest.

"I wish it. There can't be too much."

Their course now became rather irregular; crossing about from one spot to another, and through a part of the country where Faith had never been. Here was a sort of shore population,—people living upon rocks and sand rent free, or almost that; and supporting themselves otherwise as best they might. A scattered, loose-built hamlet, perching along the icy shore, and with its wild winds to rock the children to sleep, and the music of the waves for a lullaby. But the children throve with such nursing, if one might judge by the numbers that tumbled in the snow and clustered on the doorsteps; and the amusement they afforded Faith was not small. The houses were too many here to have time for a visit to each,—a pause at the door, and the leaving of some little token of kindness, was all that could be attempted; and the tokens were various. Faith's loaves of bread, and her pieces of meat, or papers from the stock of tea and sugar with which she had been furnished, or a bowl of broth jelly for some sick person,—a pair of woollen stockings, perhaps, or a flannel jacket, for some rheumatic old man or woman,—or a bible,—or a combination of different things where the need demanded. But Faith's special fun was with the children.

When they first entered the hamlet, Mr. Linden brought forward and set at her feet one basket of trifling juvenile treasures, and another filled more substantially with apples and cakes and sugarplums; and then as all the children were out of doors, he drove slowly and let her delight as many of them as she chose. What pleasure it was!—those little cold hands, so unwonted to cakes and that could hardly hold apples,—how eagerly, how shyly, they were stretched out!—with what flourishes of bare feet or old shoes the young ones scampered away, or stood gazing after Jerry's little dust-cloud of snow;—ever after to remember and tell of this day, as one wherein a beautiful lady dressed up like a pussy cat, gave them an apple, or a stick of candy, or a picture book! Faith was in a debate between smiles and tears by the time they were through the hamlet and dashing out again on the open snow, for Mr. Linden had left all that part of the business to her; though the children all seemed to know him—and he them—by heart.

And good note Faith took of that, and laid up the lesson. She had been a very good Santa Claus the while, and had acted the part of a sunbeam indifferent well; being just about so bright and so soft in all her dealings with those same little cold hands and quick spirits; giving them their apples and candy with a good envelope of gentle words and laughter. Seeing that she had it to do, she went into the game thoroughly. But once she made a private protest.

"Do you know, Endecott, these things would taste a great deal sweeter if your hand gave them?"

"I know nothing of the sort! Sweeter?—look at that urchin deep in peppermint candy,—could anything enhance the spice or the sweetness of that?"

"Yes," said Faith shaking her head—"and look at that little girl before him, who took the apple and looked at you all the while!"

"She has an eye for contrast," he said laughing, "and is probably wondering why all people can't look alike!"

Faith did not secretly blame her, but she left that subject.

It was to the furthest point of their round that they went now,—another fisherman's house—far, far off, on the shore. A little larger than Reuben's, but not so neatly kept; as indeed how could it be? with so many children,—or how could the house hold them, in those times of weather when they condescended to stay in! They were in pretty good order, to do their mother justice, and she in great delight at the sight of her visiters. There was no room for silence here—or at least no silence in the room, for Mrs. Ling was never at a loss for words. And there was no need of much circumlocution in presenting the turkey,—nothing but pleasure could come of it, let it enter on which foot it would; and the train of potatoes, and tea, and bread, and other things, fairly made Mrs. Ling's eyes shine,—though she talked away as fast as ever. The children were in spirits too great to be got rid of in any ordinary way, especially the youngest walking Ling; whose turn having not yet come for a pair of shoes from his father's pocket, was now to be fitted out of Mr. Linden's sleigh. And the shoes did fit—and little Japhet marked his sense of the obligation by at once requesting Faith to tie them. Which Faith did in a state of delight too great for words.

"Now what do you feel like?" she said, when Japhet was fairly shod and she still stooping at his feet.

"I feel like a king!" said Japhet promptly,—which had been the height of his unrepublican ambition for some time.

"Dear sakes!" said his mother, who had heard the child's request too late to interfere,—"I hope you'll not mind him, ma'am,—he oughter know better, but he don't. And poor things, when they gets pleased—it aint often, you see, ma'am, so I can't be hard upon 'em. Do you feel warm?—we do make out to keep warm, most times."

"I am quite warm, thank you; but I should think you'd feel the wind down here. Japhet,"—said Faith, who had brought in her basket of varieties and whose quiet eyes were fairly in a dance with fun and delight,—"which do you think kings like best—cookies or candy?"

To which Japhet with equal promptness replied,

"Candy—and cookies."

"Don't!"—his mother said again,—but the basket of varieties looked almost as wonderful to her eyes as to those of the children, who now gathered round as near as they dare come, while Mrs. Ling cautiously peeped over their heads.

"I see you feel like a king!" said Faith filling both Japhet's hands.—"There! now I hope you don't feel like Alexander."

"Alexander haint got nothin'!" said Japhet, looking towards his eldest brother.

Which did not overset Faith's gravity, because by this time she had none to speak of. Alexander's delight was found to be in red apples, and he thought a little common top a treasure such as neither Diogenes nor the real Alexander knew of between them! One little girl was made happy with a wonderful picture-book in which there were a dog, a cat, and a lion with a great mane just ready to eat a man up, with the stories thereto pertaining; and a neat little slate seemed a most desirable acquisition to the bright eyes of an older girl. They were all more satisfied than the conqueror of the world by the time Faith rose from the basket; and then she offered her tribute of gingerbread to Mrs. Ling. The little girl with the slate, once released from the spell of the basket, went up to Mr. Linden (who had stood looking on) and said,—"She's awake now, if you please, sir,"—and he turned and went into the next room, leaving Mrs. Ling to entertain Faith as best she might. For which Mrs. Ling was most ready.

"Ma always does want to see him"—she said. "You see, ma'am, she can't never get up now, so it's a play to hear somebody talk. And ma likes him special. Mr. Somers he's been kind too—and Mrs.—he come down when ma was first took, and since; but someways she don't just see into him much. I don' know but it's along of his bein' better than other folks—but after all, a person wants to have even good things talked to 'em so's they can understand. Now Mr. Linden,—my Mary there 'll listen to him for an hour, and never lose a word." And Mary's bright little eyes answered that readily, while Mrs. Ling's went back to the basket.

"I can't believe!" she said. "You don't know what you've done, ma'am! Why there aint one o' them children as ever see a real live turkey cooked, in their existence."

"You don't know what pleasure I had in doing it for them, Mrs. Ling. Mr. Linden told me there was a houseful of children."

"Well so there is!" said Mrs. Ling looking round the room,—"and it's no wonder he thinks so, for they tease him most out of his life sometimes when he's here,—or would if he wam't as good-natured as the day's long. But there aint one too many, after all said and done, for I've got nothing else,—so if it warn't for them I should be poorly off." With which reverse statement of the case, Mrs. Ling complacently smoothed down four or five heads, and tied as many aprons.

"Ma," said little Mary, "will Mr. Linden sing for us to-day?"

"I dare say—if you ask him pretty," said her mother. "No, I guess he's busy and won't be bothered."

"He never is bothered," said Mary persistently, while two or three of the others recovering from their apples and shyness, ventured up to Faith again and began to stroke her furs.

"What does he sing for you, Jenny?" said Faith, taking the little picture-book girl on her lap, and glad to put her own face down in a somewhat sheltered position.

"O he sings hymns—" said Jenny, gazing abstractedly at the lion and the cat by turns,—"and other things too, sometimes."

"Hymns are very interesting. And beautiful—don't you think so?" said Mary drawing nearer.

"Yes, indeed I do," said Faith stretching out her hand and pulling the little girl up to her. "What ones do you like best, Mary?"

But Mary's answer stayed, for Mr. Linden came back at that moment, and skilfully making his way up to Faith without running over any of the little throng, he told her he was ready. And Faith, though secretly wishing for the song as much as any of the children, set Jenny on the floor and rose up; while Mr. Linden laughingly shewed her "an excellent way of investing ten cents," by giving the children each one. Meanwhile Mrs. Ling had been emptying the basket. There was the cold turkey in the full splendour of its rich brown coat—a good large turkey too; but lest there should not be enough of it to go round to so many mouths, Mrs. Derrick and Faith had added a nice piece, ready boiled, of salt pork. Then there were potatoes, and some of Faith's bread,—and a paper of tea and another of sugar; and there was arrowroot, made and unmade, for the sick woman, with some broth jelly. It was one of those houses where a good deal was wanted, and the supply had been generous in proportion. Mrs. Ling was at her wits' end to dispose of it all; and the children watched her in a gale of excitement, till the last thing was carried off, and Mrs. Ling began to shake out the napkins and fold them up. But then they came round Mr. Linden with their petition, urging it with such humble pertinacity, that he was fain at last to comply. It was only a child's Christmas hymn, set to a simple, bright, quick tune, which at first kept some of the smallest feet in a greater state of unrest than the older children thought at all respectful.

"O little children, sing! Jesus, your Lord and King For you a child became: On that bright Christmas day He in a manger lay, Who hath the one Almighty name!

"Come children, love him now, Before the Saviour bow, Give him each little heart. His spotless nature see,— Then like him spotless be, And choose his service for your part.

"The joy of loving him Shall never fade nor dim,— While worldly joys fly fast:— Jesus to see and love, First here and then above, Such joy shall ever, ever last.

"I'll give myself away On this new Christmas day,— He gave his life for me! Jesus, my heart is thine, O make it humbly shine With ever-living love to thee!

"O Jesus, our Great Friend, Our Saviour, without end Thy praises we will bring! Glory to God's high throne! Peace now on earth is known, And we for joy may ever sing!"

"There"—Mr. Linden said, breaking the hush into which the children had subsided, and gently disengaging himself from them,—"now I have given you something to think of, and you must do it, and let me go." And he and Faith were presently on their way; Faith feeling that she had "something to think of" too.

The sun was westing fast as they turned, but now their way lay towards home, via sundry other places. The long sunbeams were passing lovely as they lay upon the snow, and the fantastic shadows of Jerry and the sleigh and all it held, were in odd harmony and contrast. The poverty-stricken house to which the two had walked that memorable night, had been already visited and passed, and several others with sick or poor inhabitants. Then Mr. Linden turned off down one of the scarce broken by-roads, and stopped before a little lonely brown house with an old buttonwood tree in front.

"There is a blanket to go in here, Faith," he said as he took her out, "and also my hammer!—for there is always something to do."

"Always something to do at this house?"

"Yes," he answered laughingly,—"so you must hold in check your aversion to carpenters."

"If you'll please have a charity for the butcher and baker, and tell me what I shall take in here? for my part."

"O we'll go in and find out,—these good people are never just suited unless they have the ordering of everything. They'll tell us what they want fast enough, but if we guessed at it beforehand, they would maybe find out that those were just the things they did not want. Only my hammer—I'm sure of that."

The "good people" in question, were an old man and his wife, living in one little room and with very little furniture. Very deaf the old man was, and both of them dimsighted, so that the old bible on the shelf was only a thing to look at,—if indeed it had ever been anything more, which some people doubted. This was one of the first things Mr. Linden took hold of after the kind greetings were passed, and he gave it to Faith; telling her that old Mr. Roscom always expected his visitors to read to him, and that if she would do that, he would mend Mrs. Roscom's spinning-wheel—which he saw was ready for him.

Faith threw back her hood and her furs, and took a seat close by the old man; and the first thing he heard was her sweet voice asking him where she should read, or if he liked to hear any part in particular.

"No," he said, "he liked to have it surprise him."

Faith pondered how she should best surprise him, but she had not much time to spare and no chance to ask counsel. So she read as her heart prompted her,—first the fifth chapter of II. Corinthians—with its joyful Christian profession and invitation to others; then she read the account of Jesus' healing the impotent man and bidding him "sin no more"; and then she turned over to the Psalms and gave Mr. Roscom the beautiful 103d psalm of thanksgiving,—which after those other two passages seemed particularly beautiful. This was work that Faith loved, and she read so.

How softly the hammer worked while she read, she might have noticed if her mind had not been full; but though she had no word from that quarter, Mr. Roscom's opinion was clear.

"That's good," he said,—"and strong;—and I'm obleeged to ye."

And then, the wheel being near done, there was a little skilful talk gone into; in the course of which Faith and Mr. Linden learned, that the old couple were "real tired of salt meat, some days"—and that rye bread "warnt thought wholesome by itself"—and that "if their tea should give out they didn't know what they should do!"—and that "times when the old man was a little poorly, nothing on airth would serve him but a roasted potato!" All of which was said just for the pleasure of talking to sympathizing faces,—without the least idea of what was at the door. The blanket was too old a want to be spoken of, but Faith needed only to look at the bed. And then she looked at Mr. Linden, in delighted watch to see what his next move would be; in the intervals of her chat with Mr. Roscom, which was very lively.

Mr. Linden had finished his work, and stood balancing his hammer and listening to the catalogue of wants with a smile both grave and bright.

"Are these just the things you wish for?" he said. "Well—'your Father knoweth that ye have need of them,'—and he has sent them by our hands to-day; so you see that you may trust him for the future."

He laid his hand on Faith's shoulder as an invitation to her to follow, and went out to the sleigh. She was at the side of it as soon as he, and in it the next minute, stopping to give him only with the eye one warm speech of sympathy and joy.

"You haven't put up a basket specially for these people, of course," she said,—"so we shall have to take the things from everywhere. There's a beautiful chicken in that basket, Endecott—I know; that's the largest one we have left; and bread—there aren't but two loaves here!—shall we give them both? Or do we want one somewhere else?"

"I think we may give them both. And Faith—don't you think a roasted apple might alternate usefully with the potato?"

Faith dived into the receptacle for apples and brought out a good quantity of the right kind. Potatoes were not in very large supply, but tea and sugar were—blessed things!—unfailing.

"And here is a pumpkin pie!" said Faith—"I am sure they'll like that—and as many cookies and cruller as you like. And what else, Endecott?—O here's a pair of those big socks mother knit—wouldn't they be good here?"

"Very good, dear child!—and this blanket must go—and some tracts,—that will furnish more reading. You run in with those, Faith—these other things are too heavy for you."

"I've strength enough to carry a blanket," said Faith laughing.

"Well, run off with that too, then," said Mr. Linden, "only if your strength gives out by the way, please to fall on the blanket."

Faith managed to reach the house safely and with a bright face deposited the blanket on a chair. "I got leave to bring this in to you, Mrs. Roscom," she said. "I suppose you know what Mr. Linden means you to do with it."

Perhaps they had seen no two people in the course of the day more thoroughly pleased than these two. The sources of pleasure were not many in that house, and the expectation of pleasure not strong; and the need of comforts had not died out with the supply; and old and alone as they were, the looking forward to possible cold and hunger was a trial. It was easy to see how that blanket warmed the room and promised a mild winter, and how the socks be came liniment,—and it seemed doubtful whether the old man would ever be sick enough for roast potatoes, with the potatoes really in the house. So with other things,—they took a childish pleasure even in the cakes and pie, and an order for wood was a real relief. And what a dinner they were already eating in imagination!

Mr. Linden had put Faith in the sleigh, with the last sunset rays playing about her; and he stood wrapping her up in all sorts of ways, and the old man and the old woman stood in the door to see. Then in a voice which he supposed to be a whisper, Mr. Roscom said,—

"Be she his wife?"

"He didn't say—and I don' know what he said," screamed Mrs. Roscom.

"Wal—she's handsome enough for it—and so's he," said the old man contemplatively. "I hope he'll get one as good!"

Very merrily Mr. Linden laughed as they drove away.

"I hope I shall!" he said. "Faith, what do you think of that? And which of us has the compliment?"

But Faith was engaged in pulling her furs and buffalo robes round her, and did not appear to consider compliments even a matter of moonshine; much less of sunshine. Her first words were to remark upon the exceeding beauty of the last touch the sunlight was giving to certain snowy heights and white cumuli floating above them; a touch so fair and calm as if heaven were setting its own seal on this bright day.

"Is your heart in the clouds?" Mr. Linden said, bending down to look at her with his laughing eyes. "How can you abstract your thoughts so suddenly from all sublunary affairs! Do you want any more wrapping up?"

A little flashing glance of most naive appeal, and Faith's eyes went down absolutely.

"You may as well laugh!" he said. "One cannot get through the world without occasionally hearing frightful suggestions."

Faith did laugh, and gave him another good little look, about which the only remarkable thing was that it was afraid to stay.

"What were your cloudy remarks just now?" said Mr. Linden.

"I wanted you to look at the beautiful light on them and those far-off ridges of hill—it is not gone yet."

"Yes, they are very beautiful. But I believe I am not in a meditative mood to-day,—or else the rival colours distract me. Faith, I mean to put you in the witness-box again."

"In the witness-box?"—she said with a mental jump to Neanticut, and a look to suit.

"Yes—but we are not on the banks of Kildeer river, and need not be afraid," he said with a smile. "Faith—what ever made you take such an aversion to Phil Davids?"

"I don't dislike him,"—she said softly.

"I did not mean to doubt your forgiving disposition! But what did he do to displease you?"

Did Mr. Linden know? or did he not know! Faith looked up to see. He was just disentangling one of the lines from Jerry's tail, but met her look with great composure.

"It's an old thing,"—said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up."

"But since I have brought it—won't you indulge me?"

The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,—if I told it to you.—Won't you let me let it alone?"

"I should like to hear you tell it."

"He made one or two rude speeches"—said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;—"that was all."

"That I knew before."

"Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?"

There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her mufflers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question.

"You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell me now?—and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?"

Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,—if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,—but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find.

"I want an answer to one of these questions,"—Mr. Linden said, in a playful sort of tone. "Dr. Harrison used to ask me if you lived upon roses—but do you think I can?"

Faith made an effort. "What do you want me to say?"

"What was it in Phil's words that troubled you so much?"

The crimson rush came back overwhelmingly. "Oh Endy—please don't ask me!"

"Not quite fair,"—he said smiling. "I'm sure I am willing to tell you anything. Though indeed I do not suppose you need much telling. But Faith—is that the system of tactics by which you intend always to have your own way? I shall have to be philosophical to any point!"

"That speech is so very zigzag," said Faith, "that I cannot follow it. How are you going to be philosophical, Mr. Linden?"

"Not by forgetting to exact your forfeit, Miss Derrick."

"That isn't fair," said Faith laughing. "I didn't for get!—I shouldn't think you had gone all day without eating anything!—and yet you must be starving."

"For what? little provider."

"For something to eat, I should think."

"Does that mean that you are suffering?—because if that be the case, I will refresh you (cautiously) with sugar-plums! A very superfluous thing, to be sure, but the most suitable I can think of."

Faith's laugh came clear now. "No indeed. Suffering! I never eat so many dinners in one day in my life. But I am hungry though, I believe. How many more places are we going to? I don't care how many," she said earnestly. "I like to be hungry."

"Well, keep up your spirits,—the next turn will bring us out of the woods, and a three-minute stay at one or two doors will end our work for this time. Meanwhile, do you want to hear a little bit of good poetry—on an entirely new subject?"

"Oh yes! if you please."

Demurely enough it was given.—

"'Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness, than all art Or inventions can impart. Thoughts too deep to be expressed, And too strong to be repressed.'"

She gave him a wistful look as he finished the lines; and then sat among her furs, as quiet again as a mouse.

"Do you like them, Mignonette?"

"Yes—very much."

"Would you like to tell me then why the hearing of them makes you sober?"

"Yes—if you wish"; she said gently. "I know—a little—I believe,—what you think of me; but what I seem to your eyes on the outside—and much more!—I want to be really, really—in the sight of the eye that tries the heart—and I am not now, Endy."

"My dear child—" he said,—and was silent a minute, speeding smoothly along through the starlight; then went on.

"Yes, dear Faith,—that is what I wish for you—and for myself. That is where we will most earnestly try to help each other." And presently, as eye and thoughts were caught and held by the wonderful constellation above in the clear sky, yet not drawn away from what they had been talking of, Mr. Linden said,—

"'Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,—that bringeth the shadow of death upon the day, and turneth the night into morning!'" And so, in the thought of that, they went home; Orion looking down upon them, and they leaving bits of brightness by the way at the two or three houses which yet remained. The box sleigh got home at last emptied of all its load but the two travellers.

Mrs. Derrick and supper were ready for them, and had been a good while; and by this time Mr. Linden and Faith were ready for supper. And much as Mrs. Derrick had to hear, she had something to tell. How Judge Harrison had come to make a visit and say good-bye, and how he had put in her hands another twenty-five dollars to be added to those his son had already bestowed on Reuben. Squire Stoutenburgh too had been there; but his errand was to declare that Jerry could never be received again into his service, but must henceforth remain in Mrs. Derrick's stable and possession. Altogether, the day even at home had been an exciting one.

A little time after supper Faith went into the sitting-room. Mr. Linden was there alone. Faith came up to the back of his chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, and bent her head into speaking neighbourhood. It may be remarked, that though Faith no longer said "Mr. Linden," yet that one other word of his name was never spoken just like her other words. There was always a little lowering or alteration of tone, a slight pause before—or after it, which set and marked it as bordered round with all the regards which by any phrase could be made known.

"Endecott"—she said very softly,—"do you know what you have been doing to-day?"

"Comprehensively speaking—I have been enjoying myself," he said with a bright smile at her.

"You have been giving me a lesson all the while, that I felt through and through."

"Through and through?" he repeated. "Come round here, little bird—you need not perch on the back of my chair. What are you singing about?"

"Of what you have taught me to-day."

"I must have fallen into a very unconscious habit of lesson-giving. What have I taught you?—suppose you teach me."

"How one should 'hold forth the word of life.'"

"Ah little bird!"—he said, with a look at her which said his day's lesson had been the same, yet on different grounds. "Well—if you can learn anything from so imperfect a teacher, I am glad. But do not rest there,—take up the olive leaf and bear it on!"



CHAPTER IX.



Mrs Derrick went to Pequot the next day, and found Miss Danforth as Faith had left her; or rather, somewhat more failing in everything but mind-strength. Mrs. Derrick was greatly welcomed by both ladies; but she had not been there three hours when Miss Dilly spoke out what was on her heart.

"Isn't Faith coming back to me again?"

For Faith's sake her mother hesitated, and yet it was for Faith's sake that she answered,—"Yes, if you want her."

"It won't be for long I shall want her,"—said Miss Dilly with a quietness very unlike her old self:—"but I would like to have her dear face and music about me once more—if she can let me."

Mrs. Derrick came back with Mr. Stoutenburgh to Pattaquasset that same evening; and Faith put up her books and made immediate preparations for going to Pequot in her stead.

"I must let you go, child," said her mother,—"I couldn't refuse."

"And I am so glad to-morrow is Wednesday, for I can take you over," said Mr. Linden.

Wednesday afternoon was very fair, and after dinner Faith and all her needful baggage were bestowed in the little sleigh, and the journey began. Not very much of a journey indeed, unless compared with the length of day-light; but as fair and bright and pleasant as a journey could be. Full of talk of all sorts,—gliding on through the fading day and the falling night, until

——"the floor of heaven Was thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."

Very bright the stars were, very dark the sky, when Jerry's bells began to mingle with a crowd of others in the streets of Pequot. Faith had insisted that Mr. Linden should come in and have a cup of tea or coffee before he went back again; and this being a not unreasonable request, besides a pleasant one, she had her way.

Miss Danforth was in her room and could not see Mr. Linden. Faith with a kiss and a word established the little Frenchwoman to talk to him, obtaining leave to do what she pleased; though Madame Danforth managed to have her share in the hospitality; got out cups and saucers for Faith and Mr. Linden both on a little table by the fire,—her rolls and her butter; talking all the while to him; and took a minute to run down into the kitchen and see that Faith and the coffee-pot were getting on properly. And it may be said in passing that the result did credit to both. The coffee served to Mr. Linden was faultless. Madame Danforth however had hardly presented him his cup, when she was called off and her guests were left alone.

"Faith," said Mr. Linden, "you must not forget that you have something to do for me as well as for other people while you are here."

"I don't forget it. But what do you mean, Endecott?"

"To put it in the most effective way—I mean that you must take care of me!" he said smiling.

"I will. As good care as you would take of yourself."

"That is a little ambiguous! But will you send me word very often of your success?"

Faith looked up and looked at him, a little startled.

"Do you mean—"

"I mean that there is a postoffice in Pattaquasset—and another in Pequot."

She coloured, and somewhat hastily busied herself with refilling Mr. Linden's cup. Then she folded her hands and sat looking into the fire with a face on which there was a touching expression of humbleness.

"My little Mignonette," he said, "what are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking of that,"—she said with a smile which did not change the expression. "Of what you want me to do—and about it."

"What about it? Are you inditing a letter to me on the spot?"

"No."

"What then?"

Faith would have liked to have her face out of sight, but she couldn't, conveniently.

"I am thinking, how I shall do it—and how you will not like it."

"You don't know"—said Mr. Linden. "Let me tell you how I shall like it. I shall read it, and love it, and answer it—will that satisfy you? or do you want me to hang it round my neck by a blue ribband?—because if you do, I will."

The laughing flash of Faith's eye contained nevertheless a protest.

"No, you will not like it, because it will not be fit for you to like; but you will have patience with it,"—she said with a smile which did in its loveliness bid good-bye to shadows.

Mr. Linden left the table, and standing before her as she had risen too, took her face softly in both hands and raised it up for his inspection.

"Do you know what a naughty child you are?"

A most quaint little "yes."

"Then why don't you behave better?" he said, enforcing his question but not releasing her.

"I suppose you will teach me, in time"—she said, blushing and sparkling under his hands. He seemed to like to study her face—or was thinking that he should not see it again for some time,—the expression on his own belonged to more than one thing.

"You must not make me wait for that letter, Faith," he said—"and I must not let you keep me any longer here! But if you want anything, of any sort, you must send to me."

"Yes!—to you or to mother."

"To me—if it is anything I can do," he said as he bade her good-bye. "And take care of yourself, dear child, for me." And releasing her at last, none too willingly, Mr. Linden went out alone into the starlight. He did not see—nor guess—how Faith stood before the fire where he had left her, looking down into it,—motionless and grave until Madame Danforth came back. Then all that part of her life was shut up within her, and Faith was again to other eyes what she had been before at Pequot. Yet not so entirely the same, nor was all that part of her life so entirely shut up to herself, that both her aunt and Madame Danforth did not have a thought and exchange a word on the subject.

"The sun has found the blossom!" said the little Frenchwoman knowingly one day; "they do not open so without that!"

"Nonsense!" said Miss Danforth. "I will ask her." But she never did.

And for a little while again Faith filled her old office. Miss Dilly had no troubles or darkness to clear away now; the Bible was plain sailing to her; but she could never spread her sails too soon or too full for that navigation. Early and late, as before, Faith read to her, with a joy and gladness all brightened from the contrast of that Sunday night's reading, and coming with a fuller spring since that one little word of her mother the same night. Indeed the last few days had seemed to make the Bible even greatly more precious to Faith than ever before. She clung more fast, she searched more eagerly, among its treasures of riches, to its pillars of strength; valuing them all, as it seemed to her, with a new value, with a fresh knowledge of what might be found and won there for others and herself. So with the very eagerness of love Faith read the Bible to Miss Dilly; and so as she had done before, many a time, early and late, in childlike simpleness prayed at her bedside and by her chair. And as before when she was at Pequot she won Madame Danforth's heart, she intrenched herself there now. She was all over the house, carrying a sunbeam with her; but Faith never thought it was her own. She was a most efficient maid of all work, for nursing and too much care had worn poor Madame Danforth not a little. Faith was upper servant and cook by turns; and sometimes went to market; made every meal pleasant with her gentle happy ways; and comforted the two old ladies to the very top of comfort.

Whether she wanted to be at home or not, Faith did not stop to ask herself. But those letters—those letters—they were written, and they were carried to the postoffice—and others were found at the postoffice in reply to them. And what had been such trial in the proposition, became, even in the first instance, the joy of Faith's life. She wrote hers how she could; generally at night, when she could be quite uninterrupted and alone. It was often very late at night, but it was always a time of rare pleasure and liberty of heart; for if the body were tired, the spirit was free. And Faith's was particularly free, for the manacles and fetters of pride which weigh so bitter heavy on many a mind and life, her gentle and true spirit had let fall. She knew—nobody better—that her letters were not like those letters of Mr. Linden's sister, Pet:—those exquisite letters, where every grace and every talent of a finely gifted and fully cultivated mind seemed playing together with all the rich stores of the past and realities of the present. She knew, that in very style and formalities of execution, her own letters were imperfect and unformed. But she was equally sure that in time what was wrong in this kind would be made right; and she was not afraid to be found wrong, at all, for her own sake. It was because of somebody else, that she had flinched from this writing proposal; because she felt that what was wrong in her touched him now. But there again, Faith wrote, trusting with an absolute trust in the heart and hand to which she sent her letters; willing to be found wrong if need be; sure to be set right truly and gently. And so, Faith wrote her own heart and life out, from day to day, giving Mr. Linden precisely what he wanted, and with a child's fearlessness. It was a great thing to go to the postoffice those days! Faith left it to nobody else to do for her. And how strange—how weird, almost, the signature of those letters and her own name on the outside looked to her, in the same free, graceful handwriting which she had read on that little card so long ago! And the letters themselves?—enough to say, that they made Faith think of the way she had been sheltered from the wind, and carried upstairs when her strength failed, and read to and talked to and instructed,—that they made her long to be home and yet content to be there; giving her all sorts of details, of things in Pattaquasset and things elsewhere—just as the writer would have talked them to her; with sometimes a word of counsel, or of caution, or of suggestion,—or some old German hymn which she might find of use in her ministrations, written out in full. It may be mentioned in passing, that the fair little face he had been looking at, or her evident fear of writing to him, made Mr. Linden write to her that very night; a little sugarplum of a letter, which Faith had for her dinner next day.

And Faith read these letters at all sorts of times, and thought of them at other times; and made them next to her Bible—as she should.



CHAPTER X.



Two weeks passed quietly, without much apparent change in Miss Danforth; and Faith was beginning to think of appointing a time to go home. But the necessity for that was suddenly superseded. The Friday following, Miss Dilly took a change for the worse, and Saturday she died. Faith sent off tidings immediately to Pattaquasset; but her letter could not reach there till Monday; and Monday came a very great fall of snow which made travelling impossible. Faith waited patiently, comforting Madame Danforth as she might, and endeavouring to win her to some notion of that joy in the things of the Bible in which Miss Dilly had lived and died. For no change had come over Miss Dilly's sky; and she had set sail from the shores of earth in the very sunlight.

It fell out, that Faith's letter of Saturday afternoon had been five minutes too late for the mail; and after lying in the office at Pequot over Sunday, had been again subjected to the delays of Monday's storm, which in its wild fury put a stop to everything else; and thus, when Mr. Linden went to the office Tuesday morning before school time, the mail had not yet got in. Not long after, however, Mr. Skip brought home the letters; and Mrs. Derrick reading hers, at once took Mr. Skip and Jerry and set off for Pequot; minding neither snowdrifts nor driving wind, when the road to Faith lay through them, and arriving there quite safe about the hour of midday.

The delayed funeral took place the same afternoon. And the next morning, in a brilliant cold day, snow all over the ground and the sky all blue, the mother and daughter set forth homewards. Madame Danforth was going to take another relation in, and live on still in the little house where she and her sister-in-law had made a happy home for so many years. Miss Danforth had left a few hundreds, three or four, to Faith. It was all she had owned in the world; her principal living having been an annuity settled upon her by her brother, which reverted to Madame Danforth.