It was about mid-afternoon when they reached home, and of course the house held no one but Cindy; except indeed that sort of invisible presence which books and other inanimate things make known; and Cindy had to tell of two or three visiters, but otherwise nothing. Very fair it all looked to Faith,—very sweet to her ear was the sound of the village clock, although as yet it was only striking three. She did not say much about the matter. A gleeful announcement that she was glad to be at home, she made to Mrs. Derrick; but after that she expressed herself in action. One of her first moves was to the kitchen, determined that there should be a double consciousness of her being at home when supper-time came. Then books were got out, and fires put in wonderful order. Mr. Linden might guess, from the state in which he found his room, that it had come under its old rule. No such fire had greeted him there for weeks; no such brushed-up clean hearth; no such delicate arrangement of table and chairs and curtains and couch. But the fire burned quietly and told no tales, otherwise than by its very orderly snapping and sparkling.

And indeed it so happened, that Mr. Linden went first into the sitting-room,—partly to see if any one was there, partly because the day was cold, and under Cindy's management there was small reason to suppose that his room was warm. And once there, the easy-chair reminded him so strongly that he was tired, that he even sat down in it before going upstairs,—which combination a long walk through the snowdrifts since school, made very acceptable. Five minutes after, Faith having got rid of her kitchen apron, opened softly the door of the sitting-room. She stopped an instant, and then came forward, her gladness not at all veiled by a very rosy veil of shy modesty. There was no stay in his step to meet her,—he had sprung up with the first sound of her foot on the threshold; and how much she had been missed and longed for Faith might guess, from the glad silence in which she was held fast and for a minute not allowed to speak herself. So very glad!—she could see it and feel it exceedingly as he brought her forward to the fire, and lifted up her face, and looked at it with eyes that were not easily satisfied.

"My little Sunbeam," he said, "how lovely you are!"

She had been laughing and flushing with a joy almost as frankly shewn as his own; but that brought a change over her face. The eyes fell, and the line of the lips was unbent after a different fashion.

"I don't know what it is like to see you again," Mr. Linden said as his own touched them once more,—"like any amount of balm and rest and refreshment! How long have you been here, dear child? and how do you do?—and have you any idea how glad I am to have you home?"

She answered partly in dumb show, clasping one hand upon his shoulder and laying down her head upon it. Her words were very quiet and low-spoken.

"We came home a while ago—and I am very well." Mr. Linden rested his face lightly upon her shining hair, and was silent—till Faith wondered; little guessing what thoughts the absence and the meeting and above all her mute expression, had stirred; nor what bitterness was wrapped in those sweet minutes. But he put it aside, and then took the sweetness pure and unmixed; giving her about as much sunshine as he said she gave him.

"How do you like writing to me, Faith?" he said. "Am I, on the whole, any more terrific at a distance than near by?"

"I didn't know you could be so good at a distance,"—she said expressively.

"Did you find out what reception your letters met?"

"I didn't want to find out."

"Do you call that an answer?" he said smiling. "Why didn't you want to find out?—and did you?"

"Why!"—said Faith,—"I didn't want to find out because it wasn't necessary. I did find out that I liked to write. But you wouldn't have liked it if you had known what time of night it was, often."

"What do you think of taking up a new study?" said Mr. Linden. "It strikes me that it would do you good to stand in the witness-box half an hour every day,—just for practice. Faith—did you find out what reception your letters met?"

"I knew before—" she said, meeting his eyes.

"Did you!—then what made you assure me I should not like them?"

"I don't think you did, Endecott—the parts of them that you oughtn't to have liked."

"Truly I think not!" he said laughing. "You are on safe ground there, little Mignonette. But speaking of letters—do you want more tidings from Italy?"

"O yes I if you please. Are they good? And has all been good here with you and the school since I have been away?"

"Yes, they are good,—my sister—and yours—is enjoying herself reasonably. And the boys have been good,—and I—have wanted my Mignonette."

One word in that speech brought a soft play of colour to Faith's face, but her words did not touch that point.

The days went on very quietly after that, and the weeks followed,—quietly, regularly, full of business and pleasure. Quick steps were made in many things during those weeks, little interrupted by the rest of Pattaquasset, some of the most stirring people of that town being away. An occasional tea-drinking did steal an evening now and then, but also furnished the before and after walk or ride, and so on the whole did little mischief; and as Faith was now sometimes taken on Mr. Linden's visits to another range of society, she saw more of him than ever; and daily learned more and more—not only of him, but of his care for her. His voice—never indeed harsh to any one—took its gentlest tones to her; his eye its softest and deepest lustre: no matter how tired he came home—the first sight of her seemed to banish all thought of fatigue. Faith could feel that she was the very delight of his life. Indeed, by degrees, she began to understand that she had long been so—only there had once been a qualification,—now, the sunshine of his happiness had nothing to check its expression, or its endeavour to make her life as bright. That he took "continual comfort" in her, Faith could see.

And—child!—he did not see what this consciousness spurred her to do; how the strength of her heart spent itself—yet was never spent—in efforts to grow and become more worthy of him and more fit for him to take comfort in. The days were short, and Faith's household duties not few, especially in the severe weather, when she could not let her mother be tried with efforts which in summer-time might be easy and pleasant enough. A good piece of every day was of necessity spent by Faith about house and in the kitchen, and faithfully given to its work. But her heart spurred her on to get knowledge. The times when Mr. Linden was out of school could rarely be study times, except of study with him; and to be prepared for him Faith was eager. She took times that were hers all alone. Nobody heard her noiseless footfall in the early morning down the stair. Long before it was light,—hours before the sun thought of shewing his face to the white Mong and the snowy houseroofs of Pattaquasset, Faith lighted her fire in the sitting-room, and her lamp on the table; and after what in the first place was often a good while with her Bible, she bent herself to the deep earnest absorbed pressing into the studies she was pursuing with Mr. Linden—or such of them as the morning had time for. Faith could not lengthen the day at the other end; to prevent the sun was her only chance; and day after day and week after week, through the short days of February, she had done solid work and a deal of it before anybody in the house saw her face in the kitchen or at breakfast. They saw it then as bright as ever. Mr. Linden only knew that his scholar made very swift and smooth progress. He would have known more, for Faith would have shewn the effects of her early hours of work in her looks and life the rest of the day, but happiness is strong; and a mind absolutely at peace with God and the world has a great rest! Friction is said to be one of the notable hindering powers in the world of matter—it is equally true, perhaps, of the world of spirit. Without it, in either sphere, how softly and with how little wear and tear, everything moves! And Faith's life knew none.



CHAPTER XI.



It was near the end of February,—rather late in the afternoon of a by no means balmy day, in the course of which Dr. Harrison had arrived to look after his repairs. But the workmen had stopped work and gone home to supper, and the doctor and his late dinner sat together. Luxuriously enough, on the doctor's part, for the dinner was good and well cooked, the bottles of wine irreproachable (as wine) in their silver stands, the little group of different coloured glasses shining in the firelight. The doctor's fingerbowl and napkin stood at hand, (at this stage of the proceeding) his half-pared apple was clearly worth the trouble, and he himself—between the fire and his easy-chair—might be said to be "in the lap of comfort." Comfort rarely did much for him but take him on her lap, however—he seldom stayed there; and on the present occasion the doctor's eyes were very wide open and his thoughts at work. It might be presumed that neither process was cut short, when the old black man opened the door and announced Mr. Linden.

But if Mr. Linden could have seen the doctor's face just before, he might have supposed that his entrance had produced rather a sedative effect. For the brow smoothed itself down, the eye took its light play and the mouth its light smile, and the doctor's advance to meet his friend was marked with all its graceful and easy unconcern. He did not even seem energetic enough to be very glad; for grace and carelessness still blended in his welcome and in his hospitable attentions, nothing of which however was failing. He had presently made Mr. Linden as comfortable as himself, so far as possible outward appliances could be effectual; established him at a good side of the table; Burnished him with fruit and pressed him with wine; and then sitting at ease at his own corner, sipped his claret daintily, eyeing Mr. Linden good humouredly between sips; but apparently too happily on good terms with comfort to be in any wise eager or anxious as to what Mr. Linden's business might be, or whether he had any.

"Has the news of my arrival flown over Pattaquasset already?" said he. "I thought I had seen nothing but frieze jackets, and friezes of broken plaster—and I have certainly felt so much of another kind of freeze that I should hardly think even news could have stirred."

Mr. Linden's reception of the doctor's hospitality had been merely nominal—except so far as face and voice had the receiving, and he answered quietly—

"I don't know. I happened to want you, doctor, and so I found out that you were here."

"Want me? I am very glad to be wanted by you—so that it be not for you. What is it, my dear Linden?"

"No—you will not be glad," said Mr. Linden,—"though it is both for me and not for me. I want you to go with me to see one of my little scholars who is sick."

"Who is he?"

"One whom you have seen but will not remember,—Johnny Fax."

"Fax—" said the doctor—"I remember the name, but no particular owner of it. What's the matter with him?"

"I want you to come and see."

"Now?"—

"As near that as may be."

"Now it shall be, then; though with such a February night on one side, it takes all your power on the other to draw me out of this chair. You don't look much like Comedy, and I am very little like the great buskin-wearer—but I would as lieve Tragedy had me by the other shoulder as February, when his fingers have been so very long away from the fire. Did you ever read Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence,' Linden?"

"Not to much purpose—the name is all I remember."

"Stupid book,"—said the doctor;—"but a delightful place!"

The luxury of broadcloth and furs in which the doctor was presently involved might have rendered him reasonably independent, one would think, of February or any other of Jack Frost's band. Jerry was at the door, and involving themselves still further in buffalo robes the two gentle men drove to the somewhat distant farm settlement which called Jonathan Fax master. Mr. Fax was a well-to-do member of the Pattaquasset community, as far as means went; there was very little knowledge in his house how to make use of means. Nor many people to make use of the knowledge. The one feminine member of the family had lately married and gone off to take care of her own concerns, and Jonathan and his one other child lived on as best they might; the child being dependant upon the maid of all work for his clothes and breakfast, for his Sunday lessons upon Faith, for the weekday teaching and comfort of his little life upon Mr. Linden. Living along in this somewhat divided way, the child had suddenly taken sick—no one just knew how; nor just what to do with him—except to send Mr. Linden word by one of the other boys, which had been done that afternoon. And thus it was, that Dr. Harrison had been looked for, found, and drawn out into the February night with only the slight protection of furs and broadcloth.

Thus it was that after a short and rather silent drive, the two gentlemen went together into the last-century sort of a house, received the angular welcome of Jonathan Fax, and stood side by side by the bed where the sick child lay. Side by side—with what different faces! A difference which Johnny was quick to recognize. He lay on the bed, wrapped in a little old plaid cloak, and with cheeks which rivalled its one remaining bright colour; and half unclosing his heavy eyes to see the doctor, he stretched out his arms to Mr. Linden, clasping them round his neck as his friend sat down on the bedside and gently lifted him up, and receiving the kiss on his flushed cheek with a little parting of the lips which said how glad he was. But then he lay quite still in Mr. Linden's arms.

Whatever attractions the Castle of Indolence might have for Dr. Harrison upon occasion, he never seemed so much as to look that way when he was at his work. Now, it made no difference that he was no friend of Johnny's; he gave his attention thoroughly and with all his skill to the condition and wants of his little patient.

"Is there nobody to take care of him?" he asked in French, for Jonathan Fax with his square and by no means delicate and tender physiognomy stood at the other side of the bed heavily looking on.

"I shall, to-night," said Mr. Linden. "You may give me your directions."

The doctor proceeded to do this; but added, "He wants care and good nursing; and he'll suffer if he don't have it. He is a sick child."

"He shall have it," was all the answer; and when the doctor had finished his work for the time, Mr. Linden laid the child on the bed again, giving him a whispered promise to come back and stay with him all night; upon the strength of which promise Johnny fell into a deep sleep.

"Has the creature nobody to take care of him?" said the doctor as they went out.

"Nobody at home."

"I shall be here a day or two, Linden—I'll see him early in the morning again."

Mr. Linden's next move through the biting air was to drive home. At the door of the sitting-room Faith met him.

"Endecott—how is he?"

"Less well than I expected to find him, dear Faith. I found Dr. Harrison and took him there with me."

"And what did Dr. Harrison say of him?"

"That he wanted good care and nursing."

"And who is there to give it to him, Endy?" she said with a very saddened and earnest face.

"Why I shall give it to him to-night, my child, and we'll see about to-morrow. The doctor promised to go there again in the morning."

She stood a moment silent, and then said, "I'll go with you."

"Not to-night, dear—it is not needful. He will not want more than one watcher."

"But he might want something else—something to be done that a woman about the house might be wanted for—let me go too!—"

"No indeed! you must go to sleep. And he will hardly want anything but what I can give him to-night. I know well what your little hands are in a sick room," he said taking them in his own,—"I know well!—but they are not made of iron—nor are you."

Faith looked ill satisfied.

"Well, you'll not hinder my taking your place by him to-morrow, Endy?"

"If I can," Mr. Linden said, "I shall come home to breakfast, and then I may know what you had better do; but if I should be detained there, and so not get here till midday, wait for me—I should not like to have you go without seeing me again; and I can leave Reuben there for the morning if need be."

"Oh Endecott!—" she said with a heart full; but she said no more and ran away. She came back soon to call Mr. Linden to tea, which had waited; and after tea when he was about going she put a basket in his hand.

"I hope Mr. Fax has wood in his house, so that you can keep a fire,—but you are not likely to find anything else there. You'll want everything that is in this, Endy—please remember."

"I will not forget," he said, as he gave her his thanks. "But what did that exclamation mean, before tea?"

"What exclamation?—Oh—" said Faith, smiling somewhat but looking down, "I suppose it meant that I was disappointed."

"My dear little child—you must try not to feel disappointed, because I am quite sure you ought not to go; and that must content both you and me. So good night."—

Faith tried to be contented, but her little scholar lay on her heart. And it lay on her heart too, that Mr. Linden would be watching all night and teaching all day. He did not know how much he had disappointed, for she had laid a fine plan to go by starlight in the morning to take his place and send him home for a little rest before breakfast and school. Faith studied only one book that night, and that was her Bible.

It was a night of steady watching,—broken by many other things, but not by sleep. There was constantly some little thing to do for the sick child,—ranging from giving him a drink of water, to giving him "talk," or rocking and—it might be—singing him to sleep. But the restless little requests never had to wait for their answer, and with the whole house sunk in stillness or sleep, Mr. Linden played the part of a most gentle and efficient nurse—and thought of Faith, and her disappointment. And so the night wore away, and the morning star came up, and then the red flushes of sunrise.

"Who turneth the night into day"—Mr. Linden thought, with a grave look from the window to the little face beside him—and then the words came,—

"In the morning, children, in the morning; We'll all rise together in the morning!"

It was very early indeed, earlier even than usual, when Faith came down and kindled her fire. And then leaving it to burn, she opened the curtains of the window and looked out into the starlight. It was long before the red flush of the morning; it was even before the time when Faith would have gone to relieve the guard in that sick room; her thoughts sped away to the distant watcher there and the sick child. Faith could guess what sort of a watching it had been, and it was a comfort to think that Johnny had it. But then as she looked out into the clear still starlight, something brought up the question, what if Johnny should die?—It was overwhelming to Faith for a minute; her little scholar's loveliness had got fast hold of her heart; and she loved him for deep and far-back associations too. She could not bear to think that it might be. Yet she asked herself if this was a reasonable feeling? Why should she be sorry—if it were so—that this little blossom of Heaven should have an early transplanting thither? Ah, the fragrance of such Heaven-flowers is too sweet to be missed, and Earth wants them. As Faith looked sadly out into the night, watched the eternal procession of bright stars, and heard the low sweep of the wind, the words came to her,—separated from their context and from everything else as it seemed,—"I, the Lord, do all these things." Her mind as instantly gave a glad assent and rested itself in them. Not seen by her or by mortal the place or fitting of any change or turn of earthly things, in the great plan,—every one such turn and change had its place, as sure as the post of each star in the sky—as true to its commission as that wind, which came from no one knew where to go no one knew whither. Faith looked and listened, and took the lesson deep down in her heart.

Mr. Linden's little basket had stood him well in stead that long night,—for Faith had said truth; nothing was for him in Mr. Fax's house. Mr. Fax was well enough satisfied that Johnny's teacher should take the trouble of nursing the child, had no idea that such trouble would necessarily involve much loss of sleep, and still further no notion of the fact that a watcher at night needs food as much as fire. Fire Mr. Linden had, but he would have been worse off without the stores he found in his basket. In truth the supply generally was sufficient to have kept him from starving even if he had been obliged to go without his breakfast; but Dr. Harrison concerned himself about his little patient, and was better than Mr. Linden's hopes. He came, though in the cold short February morning, a good while before eight o'clock. He gave Mr. Linden a pleasant clasp of the hand; and then made his observations in silence.

"Is this one of your favourites?" he said at length.

A grave "yes."

"I am sorry for it."

Mr. Linden was silent at first, looking down at the child with a sort of expression the doctor had not often seen, and when he spoke it was without raising his eyes.

"Tell me more particularly."

"I don't know myself,"—said the doctor with a frankness startling in one of his profession; but Dr. Harrison's characteristic carelessness nowhere made itself more apparent than in his words and about what people might think of them.—"I don't say anything certainly—but I do not like appearances."

"What is the matter?"

"It's an indefinite sort of attack—all the worse for that!—the root of which is hid from me. All you can do is to watch and wait. Have you been here through the night?"

"Yes," Mr. Linden answered—and put the further question, "Do you think there is any danger of contagion?"

"O no!—the fever, what there is, comes from some inward cause—a complicated one, I judge. I can guess, and that's all. Are there no women about the house?"

"None that are good for much." And looking at his watch, Mr. Linden laid the child—who had fallen asleep again—out of his arms among the pillows, arranging them softly and dextrously as if he were used to the business.

"Reuben Taylor will stay with him for the present," he said as he turned to Dr. Harrison.

"I'll come again by and by," the doctor said. "Meanwhile all that can be done is to let him have this, as I told you."

The directions were given to Reuben, the doctor drove off, and Mr. Linden set out on his quick walk home; after the confinement of the night, the cold morning air and exercise were rather resting than otherwise. It was a very thoughtful half hour—very sorrowful at first; but before he reached home, thought, and almost feeling, had got beyond "the narrow bounds of time," and were resting peacefully—even joyfully—"where bright celestial ages roll."

He entered the house with a light step, and went first upstairs to change his dress; but when he came down and entered the sitting-room, there was the tone of the whole walk upon his face still. Faith put her question softly, as if she expected no glad answer. And yet it was partly that, though given in very gentle, grave tones.

"There is more to fear than to hope, dear Faith,—and there is everything to hope, and nothing to fear!"

She turned away to the breakfast-table; and said little more till the meal was over. Then she rose when he did.

"I am going now, Endy!"—The tone was of very earnest determination, that yet waited for sanction.

"Yes," he answered—"Dr. Harrison says the fever is not contagious, I waited to know that. If I can I shall get free before midday, so I may meet you there. And can you prepare and take with you two or three things?"—he told her what.

Faith set about them; and when they were done, Mr. Skip had finished his breakfast and got Jerry ready. Some other preparations Faith had made beforehand; and with no delay now she was on her swift way to little Johnny's bedside. She came in like a vision of comfort upon the sick room, with all sorts of freshness about her; grasped Reuben's hand, and throwing back her hood, stooped her lips to Johnny's cheek. And Johnny gave her his usual little fair smile—and then his eyes went off to the doorway, as if he half expected to see some one else behind her. But it was from no want of love to her, as she knew from the way the eyes came back to her face and rested there, and took a sort of pleased survey of her hood and, her fur and her dress.

"Dear Johnny!—Can you speak to me?" said Faith tenderly touching her cheek again to his.

"Oh yes, ma'am," he said, in a quiet voice and with the same bit of a smile. That was what Faith wanted. Then she looked up.

"Are you going to school now, Reuben?"

"I didn't expect to this morning, Miss Faith," Reuben said with a sober glance at his little comrade.

"Then you can wait here a bit for me."

Leaving Reuben once more in charge, Faith went on a rummaging expedition over the house to find some woman inmate. Not too easily or speedily she was found at last, the housekeeper and all-work woman deep in all work as she really seemed, and in an outer kitchen of remote business, whither Faith had traced her by an exercise of determinate patience and skill. Having got so fur, Faith was not balked in the rest; and obtaining from her some of Johnny's clean linen which she persuaded her to go in search of, she returned to the room where she had left Reuben; and set about making the sick child as comfortable as in his sickness he could be.

It was a day or two already since Johnny had lain there and had had little effectual attention from anybody, till Mr. Linden came last night. The child might well look at his new nurse, for her neat dress and gentle face and soft movements were alone a balm for any sick place. And in her quiet way, Faith set about changing the look of this one. There was plenty of wood, and she made a glorious fire. Then tenderly and dextrously she managed to get a fresh nightgown on Johnny without disturbing him more than pleasantly with her soft manipulations; and wrapping him in a nice little old doublegown which she had brought with her and which had been a friend of her own childish days, Faith gave him to Reuben to hold while she made up the bed and changed the clothes, the means for which she had also won from the housekeeper. Then having let down the chintz curtains to shield off the intense glare of the sunny snow, Faith assumed Johnny into her own arms. She had brought vinegar from home, and with it bathed the little boy's face and hands and brushed his hair, till the refreshed little head lay upon her breast in soothed rest and comfort.

"There, Johnny!"—she whispered as her lips touched his brow,—"Mr. Linden may come as soon as he pleases—we are ready for him!"

The child half unclosed his eyes at the words, and then sunk again into one of his fits of feverish sleep, the colour rising in his cheeks a little, the breath coming quick. Reuben knelt down at Faith's side and watched him.

"I used to wonder, Miss Faith," he said softly, "what would become of him if Mr. Linden ever went away"—and the quiet pause told what provision Reuben thought was fast coming for any such contingency.

"You can't think what Mr. Linden's been to Johnny, Miss Faith," he went on in the same low voice,—"and to all of us," he added lower still. "But he's taken such care of him, in school and out. It was only last week Johnny told me he liked coming to school in the winter, because then Mr. Linden always went home with him. And whenever he could get in Mr. Linden's lap he was perfectly happy. And Mr. Linden would let him, sometimes, even in school, because Johnny was so little and not very strong,—and he'd let him sit in his lap and go to sleep for a little while when he got tired, and then Johnny would go back to his lessons as bright as a bee. That was the way he did the very first day school was opened, for Johnny was frightened at first, and a mind to cry—he'd never had anybody to take much care of him. And Mr. Linden just called him and took him up and spoke to him—and Johnny laid his head right down and went to sleep; and he's loved Mr. Linden with all his heart ever since. I know we all laughed—and he smiled himself, but it made all the rest of us love him too."

Reuben had gone on talking, softly, as if he felt sure of sympathy in all he might say on the subject. But that "first day school was opened!"—how Faith's thoughts sprang back there,—with what strange, mixed memories the vision of it came up before her! That day and time when so many new threads were introduced into her life, which were now shewing their colours and working out their various patterns. It was only a spring there and back again, however, that her thoughts took; or rather the vision was a sort of background to Reuben's delineations, and her eye was upon these; with what kind of sympathy she did not care to let him see. Her cheek was bent down to the sick child's head and Faith's face was half hidden. Until a moment later, when the door opened and Johnny's father came in to see what was become of him; and then Mr. Fax had no clue to the lustrous softness of the eyes that looked up at him. He could make nothing of it.

"What!" said he. "Why who's Johnny got to look after him now?"

"I am his teacher, sir."

"His teacher, be you? Seems to me he's a lot of 'em. One teacher stayed with him last night. How many has he got, among you?"

"Only two—" said Faith, rejoicing that she was one. "I am his Sunday school teacher."

"Well what's your name, now?"

"Faith Derrick."

"That's who you be!" said Mr. Fax in surprise. "Don't say! Well Johnny's got into good hands, aint he? How's he gettin' along?"

Faith's eye went down to the little boy, and her hand passed slowly and tenderly over his hair; she was at a loss how to answer, and Reuben spoke for her.

"He's been sleeping a good deal this morning."

The father stooped towards the child, but his look went from him to Faith, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness as he spoke.

"Sleepin', is he?—Then I guess he's gettin' along first-rate—aint he?"

Again Faith's look astonished the man, both because of its intent soft beauty and the trembling set of her lip. But how to answer him she did not know. Her head sunk over the child's brow as she exclaimed,

"His dear Master knows what to do with him!"

Jonathan Fax stood up straight and looked at Reuben.

"What does she mean!"

"She means that he is in God's hands, and that we don't know yet what He will do," Reuben answered with clear simplicity.

Yet it was a strange view of the subject to Mr. Fax; and he stood stiff and angular and square, looking down at Faith and her charge, feeling startled and strange. Her face was bent so that he could not see that quiver of her lip now; but he did see one or two drops fall from the lowered eyelids on Johnny's hair. Perhaps he would have asked more questions, but he did not; something kept them back. He stood fixed, with gathering soberness growing over his features. Little he guessed that those tears had been half wrung from Faith's eyes by the contrast between his happy little child and him. It was with something like a groan at last that he turned away, merely bidding Reuben Taylor to call for anything that was wanted.

The morning wore on softly, for Johnny still slept. Reuben went quietly about, giving attention where it was needed; to the fire, or to the curtains—drawn back now as the sun got round—or bringing Faith a footstool, or trying some other little thing for her comfort; and when he was not wanted remaining in absolute stillness. As it neared midday, however, he took his stand by the window, and after a short watch there suddenly turned and left the room. And a moment after Mr. Linden came in.

Faith met him with a look of grave, sweet quiet; in which was mingled a certain joy at being where she was. She waited for him to speak. But something in her face, or her office, moved him,—the gravity of his own look deepened as he came forward—his words were not ready. He sat down by her, resting his arm on the back of her chair and giving her and Johnny the same salutation—the last too softly to rouse him.

"Has the doctor been here?" he said first.

"No."

He was silent again for a minute, but then Johnny suddenly started up—waking perhaps out of some fever dream; for he seemed frightened and bewildered, and almost ready to cry; turning his head uneasily away from everything and everybody as it seemed, until his eyes were fairly open, and then giving almost a spring out of Faith's arms into those of Mr. Linden; holding him round the neck and breathing little sobbing breaths on his shoulder, till the resting-place had done its work,—till Mr. Linden's soft whispered words had given him comfort. But it was a little wearily then that he said, "Sing."

Was it wearily that the song was given? Faith could not tell,—she could not name those different notes in the voice, she could only feel that the octave reached from earth to heaven.

"'How kind is Jesus, Lord of all! To hear my little feeble call. How kind is Jesus, thus to be Physician, Saviour, all to me!

'How much he loves me he doth shew; How much he loves I cannot know. I'm glad my life is his to keep, Then he will watch and I may sleep.

'Jesus on earth, while here I lie; Jesus in heaven, if I die: I'm safe and happy in his care, His love will keep me, here or there.

'An angel he may send for me, And then an angel I shall be. Lord Jesus, through thy love divine, Thy little child is ever thine.'"

Faith had drawn her chair a little back and with her head leaning on the back of Mr. Linden's chair, listened—in a spirit not very different from Johnny's own. She looked up then when it was done, with almost as childlike a brow. It had quieted him, as with a charm, and the little smile he gave Faith was almost wondering why she looked grave.

"You've been here a good while," he said, as if the mere announcement of the fact spoke his thanks.

"Has she?" Mr. Linden said. "What has Miss Faith done with you, Johnny, if she has been here a good while?"

"All sorts of things," Johnny answered, with another comprehensive expression of gratitude.

"I thought so!" said Mr. Linden. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if she had dressed you up in something she used to wear herself."

"She wasn't ever so little," the child said softly.

Faith had been preparing for him a cup of some light nourishment which he was to take from time to time, and now coming to Mr. Linden's side kneeled down there before Johnny to give it to him. The child took the delicate spoonfuls as she gave them, turning his fair eyes from her to Mr. Linden as if he felt in a very sweet atmosphere of love and care; and when she went away with the cup he said in his slow fashion,

"I love her very much."

And Faith heard the answer—

"And so do I."

Coming up behind Mr. Linden she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Endecott—where are you going to take dinner and rest to-day?"

"O I will take rest by the way," he answered lightly, and with a smile at her. "There is dinner enough in my supper basket—I have not much time for it, neither."

"School again this afternoon?"

"Yes I must be there for awhile."

Faith moved away, remarking in a different tone, "Your supper basket is at home, sir!"—and busied her energies about serving him as she had just served Johnny. With something more substantial however. Faith had brought a lunch basket, and in five minutes had made Mr. Linden a cup of home tea.

"Now how shall we manage?" she said;—"for Johnny must have you every minute while you are here—and there is no such thing as a little table. I shall have to be table and dumb waiter for you—if you won't mind."

And so Faith pulled up her chair again and sat down, with the basket open on her lap and Mr. Linden's cup in her hand.

"I only hope," she said, "that Dr. Harrison will not choose this particular minute to come in! If he does, catch the cup of tea, Endecott!—for I won't answer for anything."

"I don't know whether I should be most sorry or proud, in case of such event," said Mr. Linden,—"however, I do not wish the doctor anything so disagreeable. But I will promise to catch the cup of tea—and everything else, down to his displeasure. Only you must not be a dumb waiter; for that will not suit me at all."

It was one of those pretty bits of sunshine that sometimes shew themselves in the midst of a very unpromising day, the time when they sat there with the lunch basket between them. The refreshment of talk and of lunch (for lunch is refreshing when it is needed) brightened both faces and voices; and Mr. Linden's little charge, in one of his turns of happy rest and ease, watched them—amused and interested—till he fell asleep. By that time Mr. Linden's spare minutes were about over. As he was laying Johnny gently down on the bed, Faith seized her chance.

"You'll let me stay here to-night—won't you, Endecott?"

"It would not be good for you, dear child,—if you stay until night it will be quite as much as you ought to do. But I will see you again by that time."

"I am strong, Endecott."

"Yes, you are strong, little Sunbeam," he said, turning now to her and taking both her hands,—"and yet it is a sort of strength I must guard. Even sunbeams must not be always on duty. But we'll see about it when I come back."

Mr. Linden went off to his other sphere of action, and soon after Reuben came softly in, just to let Faith know that he was at hand if she wanted anything, and to offer to take her place.

"Reuben!" said Faith suddenly, "have you had any dinner?"

"O yes, ma'am—enough," Reuben said with a smile. "I brought something with me this morning."

Faith put her lunch basket into his hand, but her words were cut short; for she saw Dr. Harrison just coming to the house. She moved away and stood gravely by the fire.

The doctor came in pulling off his glove. He gave his hand to Faith with evident pleasure, but with a frank free pleasure, that had nothing embarrassing about the manner of it; except the indication of its depth. After a few words given with as easy an intonation as if the thermometer were not just a few degrees above zero outside where he had come from, the doctor's eye went over to the other person in the room; and then the doctor himself crossed over and offered his hand.

"I shall never see you, Reuben,"—said he with a very pleasant recollective play of eye and lip,—"without thinking of a friend."

The doctor had a more full view of Reuben's eyes, thereupon, than he had ever before been favoured with,—for one moment their clear, true, earnest expression met his. But whatever the boy read—or tried to read—or did not read, he answered simply, as he looked away again,

"You have been that to me, sir."

"I don't know—" said the doctor lightly. "I am afraid not according to your friend. Mr. Linden's definition. But reckon me such a one as I can be, will you?"—He turned away without waiting for the answer and went back to Faith.

"Do you know," he said, "I expected to find you here?"

"Very naturally," said Faith quietly.

"Yes—it is according to my experience. Now how is this child?"—

He turned to see, and so did Faith. He looked at the child, while Faith's eye went from Johnny to him. Both faces were grave, but Faith's grew more grave as she looked.

"How is this child?" she repeated.

"He is not worse," said the doctor; "except that not to be better is to be worse. Are you particularly interested in him?"

Faith looked down at the sweet pure little face, and for a minute or two was very still. She did not even think of answering the doctor, nor dare speak words at all. Her first movement was to push away softly a lock of hair from Johnny's forehead.

"What can I do for him, Dr. Harrison?"

"Not much just now—go on as you have been doing. I will be here to-night again, and then perhaps I shall know more."

He gave her a new medicine for him however; and having said all that was needful on that score, came back with her to the fire and stood a little while talking—just so long as it would do for him to stay with any chance of its being acceptable; talking in a tone that did not jar with the place or the time, gravely and pleasantly, of some matters of interest; and then he went. And Faith sat down by the bedside, and forgot Dr. Harrison; and thought of the Sunday school in the woods that evening in October, and the hymn, "I want to be an angel"; and looked at Johnny with a very full heart.

Not a very long time had passed, when Faith heard sleigh bells again, and a person very different from the doctor came softly in; even Mrs. Derrick. She smiled at Reuben and Faith, and going close up to the bed folded her hands quietly together and stood looking at the sick child; the smile vanishing from her face, her lips taking a tender, pitiful set—her eyes in their experience gravely reading the signs. She looked for a few minutes in silence, then with a little sorrowful sigh she turned to Faith.

"Pretty child," she said, "can't you take a little rest? I'll sit by him now."

"O mother I'm not tired—much. I have not been very busy."

Mrs. Derrick however took the matter into her own hands, and did not content herself till she had Faith on a low seat at her side, and Faith's head on her lap; which was a rest, to mind and body both. Reuben replenished the fire and went out, and the two sat alone.

"Faith," her mother said softly, "don't you think he'd be content with me to-night? I can't bear to have Mr. Linden sit up."

"I want to stay myself, mother, if he would let me."

"I don't believe he'll do that, Faith—and I guess he's right But you must make him go home to tea, child, and he might rest a little then; and I'll stay till he comes back, at least."

There was not much more to be said then, for Johnny woke up and wanted to be taken on Faith's lap, and talked to, and petted; answering all her efforts with a sort of grateful little smile and way; but moving himself about in her arms as if he felt restless and uneasy. It went to her heart. Presently, in the low tones which were music of themselves, she carried his thoughts off to the time when Jesus was a little child; and began to give him, in the simplicity of very graphic detail, part of the story of Christ's life upon earth. It was a name that Johnny loved to hear; and Faith went from point to point of his words, and wonders, and healing power and comforting love. Not dwelling too long, but telling Johnny very much as if she had seen it, each gentle story of the sick and the weary and the troubled, who came in their various ways to ask pity of Jesus, and found it; and reporting to Johnny as if she had heard them the words of promise and love that a little child could understand. Mrs. Derrick listened; she had never heard just such a talk in her life. The peculiarity of it was in the vivid faith and love which took hold of the things as if Faith had had them by eyesight and hearing, and in the simplicity of representation with which she gave them, as a child to a child. And all the while she let Johnny constantly be changing his position, as restlessness prompted; from sitting to kneeling and lying in her arms; sometimes brushing his hair, which once in a while he had a fancy for, and sometimes combing it off from his forehead with her own fingers dipped in the vinegar and water which he liked to smell. Nothing could be more winning—nothing more skilful, in its way, than Faith's talk to the sick child that half hour or more. And Johnny told its effect, in the way he would bid her "talk," if she paused for a minute. So by degrees the restless fit passed off for the time, and he lay still in her arms, with drooping heavy eyelids now.

Everything was subsiding;—the sun sank down softly behind the wavy horizon line, the clouds floated silently away to some other harbour, and the blasts of wind came fainter and fainter, like the music of a retreating army. Swiftly the daylight ebbed away, and still Faith rocked softly back and forth, and her mother watched her. Once in a while Reuben came silently in to bring wood or fresh water,—otherwise they had no interruption. Then Mr. Linden came, and sitting down by Faith as he had done before, asked about the child and about the doctor.

"He came very soon after you went away," said Faith. "He said that he was no better, and that to be no better was to be worse." It was plain that she thought more than she said. Faith had little experience, but there is an intuitive skill in some eyes to know what they have never known before.

Mr. Linden bent down over the child, laying cheek to cheek softly and silently, until Johnny rousing up a little held up his lips to be kissed,—and he did not raise his head then.

"Have you been asleep, Johnny?" he said.

"I don't know," the child said dreamily.

"Has Miss Faith taken care of you ever since I went?"

"Yes," Johnny said, with a little faint smile—"and we've had talk."

"I wish I had been here to hear it," said Mr. Linden. "What was it about?—all sorts of sweet things?"

"Yes," Johnny said again, his face brightening—"out of the Bible."

"Well they are the sweetest things I know of," said Mr. Linden. "Now if you will come on my lap, I am sure Miss Faith will get you something to eat—she can do it a great deal better than I can."

Faith had soon done that, and brought the cup to Johnny, of something that he liked, and fed him as she had done at noon. It seemed to refresh him, for he fell into a quieter sleep than he had had for some time, and was oftly laid on the bed.

"Now dear Faith," Mr. Linden said coming back to her, "it is time for you to go home and rest."

"Do you mean to send me?" she said wistfully.

"Or take you—" he said, with a soft touch of his fingers on her hair. "I don't know but I could be spared long enough for that."

It was arranged so, Mrs. Derrick undertaking to supply all deficiencies so far as she could, until Mr. Linden should get back again. The fast drive home through the still cold air was refreshing to both parties; it was a still drive too. Then leaving Mr. Linden to get a little rest on the sofa, Faith prepared tea. But Mr. Linden would not stay long after that, for rest or anything.

"I am coming very early to-morrow, Endecott," Faith said then.

"You may, dear child—if you will promise to sleep to-night. But you must not rouse yourself too early. You know to-morrow is Saturday—so I shall not be called off by other duties."

He went, and Mrs. Derrick came; but Faith, though weary enough certainly, spent the evening in study.



CHAPTER XII.



There is no knowing what Mr. Linden would have considered "too early," and Faith had prudently omitted to enquire. She studied nothing but her Bible that morning and spent the rest of the time in getting ready what she was to take with her; for Mr. Linden would not come home to breakfast. And it was but fair day, the sun had not risen, when she was on her way. She wondered, as she went, what they would have done that winter without Jerry; and looked at the colouring clouds in the east with a strange quick appreciation of the rising of that other day told of in the Bible. Little Johnny brought the two near; the type and the antitype. It was a pretty ride; cold, bright, still, shadowless; till the sun got above the horizon, and then the long yellow faint beams threw themselves across the snow that was all a white level before. They reached Faith's heart, as the commissioned earnest of that other Sun that will fill the world with his glory and that will make heaven a place where "there shall be no night."

The room where little Johnny was,—lay like the chamber called Peace, in the Pilgrim's Progress—towards the sunrising; but to reach it Faith had first to pass through another on the darker side of the house. The door between the two stood open, perhaps for fresher air, and as Faith came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;—the windows with chintz shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean, long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window.

The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life that had made progress—progress which though but yet begun, was to go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity!

Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of the two,—Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,—not the mother whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head gentler rest. Nay, not so good,—unless she could have given the little heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well that road to the unseen land—who had studied it; and now as the child went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if the river were already in sight,—as if somewhat of

"that strange, unearthly grace Which crowns but once the children of our race—"

already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now.

Faith stood still one minute—and another; then pulling off her hood, she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr. Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group. She had a smile for Johnny too, but it was a smile that had quite left the things of the world behind it and met the child on his own ground; and her kiss was sweet accordingly. A look and a clasp of the hand to Mr. Linden; then she rose up and went round to the window to take the hand of Mr. Fax, who had found his feet.

"I'm very much beholden to ye!" said he in somewhat astonished wise. "You're takin' a sight o' trouble among ye."

"It's no trouble, sir."

Mr. Fax looked bewildered. He advanced to Mr. Linden. "Now this girl's here," said he, "don't you think you hadn't better come into another room and try to drop off? I guess he can get along without you for a spell—can't he?"

"I am not quite ready to leave him," Mr. Linden said,—"and I am not at all sleepy, Mr. Fax. Perhaps I will come by and by."

"We'll have breakfast, I conclude, some time this forenoon. I'll go and see if it's ever comin'. Maybe you'll take that first."

He went away; and Faith, rid of her wrappers, came up again behind Johnny, passing her fingers through his hair and bending down her face to his; she did not speak. Only her eye went to Mr. Linden for intelligence, as the eye will, even when it has seen for itself!

"Dr. Harrison is coming this morning," was all he said. She did not need to ask any more.

"May Johnny have anything now?"

"O yes—and he will like it," Mr. Linden said in a different tone, and half addressing the child. "He asked me some time ago when you were coming—but not for that."

Faith brought something freshly prepared for Johnny and served him tenderly. Meanwhile her own coffee had been on the fire; and after making two or three simple arrangements of things she came back to them.

"Will you sit with me now, Johnny, and let Mr. Linden have some breakfast?"

"In here?" the child said. But being reassured on that point, he came to Faith's arms very willingly, or rather let Mr. Linden place him there, when she had drawn her chair up nearer the table so that he could look on. And with her arms wrapped tenderly round him, but a face of as clear quiet as the morning sky when there are no clouds before the sunrise, she sat there, and she and Johnny matched Mr. Linden's breakfast. There was no need to talk, for Johnny had a simple pleasure in what was going on, and in everything his friend did. And if the little face before him hindered Mr. Linden's enjoyment of breakfast, that was suffered to appear as little as possible. Breakfast was even rather prolonged and played with, because it seemed to amuse him; and the word and the smile were always ready, either to call forth or to answer one from the child. Nor from him alone, for by degrees even Faith was drawn out of her silence.

Mr. Linden had not yet changed his place, when on the walk that led up to the house Faith saw the approach of Dr. Harrison. The doctor as he came in gave a comprehensive glance at the table, Mr. Linden who had risen, and Faith with Johnny in her lap; shook hands with Mr. Linden, and taking the chair he had quitted sat down in front of Faith and Johnny. A question and answer first passed about her own well-being.

"You've not been here all night?" said he.

"No, sir. I came a while ago."

The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him, with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned, judged, and passed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to Mr. Linden.

"There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would stay—but I know that it would be in vain. She ought not to be here."

For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,—the second fell upon a heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort—as to the probable length of time there would be to do anything.

"He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor—"such as he has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am sorry I cannot stay longer with you—but it does not matter—you can do as well as I now."

He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be taken care of. You were here yesterday—there is no necessity for you to be here to-day."

"I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison."

"I know!" said he shaking his head,—"your will is strong! but it ought not to have full play. You are not wanted here."

Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then suddenly she said,

"Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott—now."

"I do not feel the need of it—" he said. "I had some snatches of sleep last night."

She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural heaviness, Faith said,—and the tone seemed to come from very stillness of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,—

"The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott."

"How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very precious too, is the love of his will!"—and he repeated softly, as if half thinking it out—

"'I worship thee, sweet will of God! And all thy ways adore! And every day I live, I seem To love thee more and more.'"

An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a child's lip in its humbleness.

"It was very hard for me to give him up at first—" Mr. Linden went on softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions. 'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month.'"—

Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms—and was silent.

"Reuben was telling me yesterday—" she said after a few minutes,—"what you have been to him."

But her words touched sweet and bitter things—Mr. Linden did not immediately answer,—his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention.

The quiet rest of the little sleeper was passing off,—changing into an unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr. Linden, with the words, "Walk—like last night."

And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles—from the words which by degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words was, "Sing."—Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word.

"Jesus loves me—this I know, For the Bible tells me so: Little ones to him belong,— They are weak, but he is strong.

"Jesus loves me,—he who died Heaven's gate to open wide; He will wash away my sin, Let his little child come in.

"Jesus loves me—loves me still, Though I'm very weak and ill; From his shining throne on high Comes to watch me where I lie.

"Jesus loves me,—he will stay Close beside me all the way. Then his little child will take Up to heaven for his dear sake."

There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright cheerful way—meant for her as well as the child—that Johnny wanted her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then, after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden watched her, with grave eyes.

"Now you must go and lie down," he said.

"Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time—or didn't take time—to eat my breakfast before I came away from home—that is all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"—she added gently.

She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she came and sat down.

"Won't you go?" she said softly.

"I would rather stay here."

Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful.

Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he said, laying his cheek against the child's,—

"Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the minute you want me."

The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might be the wiser,—when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and looked down at his child and her with a curious look—that half recognized what it would not see.

"You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!—" said Jonathan, in a voice not clear.

"So he does—" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words had shaken her.

"How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child.

Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted her face and looked up—looked full into his eyes.

"Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way but well?"

The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening himself instantly as if he had received a blow.

"Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' to die?"

It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever heard from her voice—as unfearful—

"Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him."

"Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter.

Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too—but clear and cheery.

"Yes, darling—and we'll be with him there by and by."

"Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to nobody and went out. Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired little spirit.

Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat, leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer room,—Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs. Somers, were all there with offers of assistance; but Mr. Linden knew well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various tones of different voices—which made their way once in a while—the two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat. Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now passing on before them.

"We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in death as in life."

Much of the time the child slumbered—or lay in a half stupor, though often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly, asking for singing or reading or talk,—letting Faith smooth his hair, or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the mortal began to give way before the immortal.

In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said,

"Read about heaven—what you used to."

Mr. Linden took his little Bible—remembering but too readily what that "used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation—

"'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.—And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'"

The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were silent—thinking of "the city that hath foundations."

"That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if his mind had gone back to the morning hymn.

"Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled, and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever—and where dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by."

The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet sleep, but with the smile yet left.

It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pass beyond it,—when the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith wiped away tears—and looked—and brushed them away again; but for a long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be quietly,—

"Endecott—it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!"

He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through all its deep human feeling,—

"'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people and nation'!"

"And," said Faith presently, lower still,—"can't you, as Bunyan says, hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!—"

Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succumbed gently, and the restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers. There was little "talk" called for after that time—hardly any, though never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful, pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious have no worse resting-place—would let every faint waking minute find the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."

Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid long—never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own. Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said nothing. He seemed bewildered—or astounded. "I never knowed," he said once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at night—but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors—and their word's about as good one side as 'tother."

At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh.

"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr. Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."

"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."

"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"—she said with a determinate quietness.

"How can I let you stay?—you ought not to watch here all night—unless there were something for you to do."

"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.

"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,—"Faith—it is near the dawning!—and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."

"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.

"I know—" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,—"but I think you ought not."

"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,—"that you wish me to go?"

It was hard for him to say yes—but he did.

She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled—but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.

If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness—thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there—of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then—looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.

"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."

Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again.

"I'll wait an hour yet."

"Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?"

"Send?—O no, mother!"

Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home to-night, dear."

"Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she kissed her mother and they went up stairs together.

No, he did not come home,—and well assured that he would not, Faith ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their way. The night was very still—the endless train of stars sweeping on in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up, in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost breathless for more tidings—waiting, as if by the least noise or stir she might lose something.

It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in—even as she sat so listening,—heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again, except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up stairs—and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;—and then gave way—rare for her—to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that was quieting, if it was stirring.

Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn, yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast—for rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day when Christ broke the bars of death and rose.

Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare when it was over.

"You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room.

"O yes! I can go.—I must go"—she added softly.

"I have not much to tell you,"—he said in the same tone,—"nothing, but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me by and by?"

"Yes.—After church?"

"After church in the afternoon would give us most time."

The Sunday classes were first met—how was not likely to be forgotten by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As soon as she was where nobody need know what she did, Faith felt unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come.

After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive—it was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,—the afternoon was well on its way.

The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr. Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he passed through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside. They stood there and looked—as one might look at a ray of eternal sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time.

The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills at neck and wrists,—on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!"

With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady, Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,—then knelt together, and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might themselves be found faithful.

"You shouldn't say we"—said Faith when they had risen and were standing there again. "It was you—to him and me both." And bending forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much as he ever learned from me!"

But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more.

They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know—she could only guess.

There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,—not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,—since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,—some sturdy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field.

The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little classmates—Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners—Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone—

"Through a dark stormy night, To a calm land of light!"—

"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again, Though now we part in pain! His people all Together Christ shall call, Hallelujah!"

"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word against him again. Faith, he's beautiful!"



CHAPTER XIII.



It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away—or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. She was not the cloud—that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter could be increased, then were they now,—every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him—lived even in her presence,—nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,—what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson—she felt if she did not see them,—even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,—what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,—so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,—Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.

He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire—never more wanted—burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired—but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.

"Endecott"—she said in some of her most winning tones,—"may I ask you something?"

He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?"

"I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me—unless you have a mind!"

"Do you suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!"

"No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?"

"You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!—of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?—to challenge Dr. Harrison?—or to run for President?"

"Would you like to do either of those two things?"

"I was only putting myself at your disposal—as I have done before."

"Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly.

"I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird—why do you keep on the wing?"