"I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith. "Endy"—and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,—"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?"

He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence,

"Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"—But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield.

"Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?"

She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott—tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by."

"My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!—What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?"

Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile.

"I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late—or less,—and I wanted to know which it was."

"Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?—and in what way did I grow less?"

"I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if it was sense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so—so I wanted to know."

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that Englishman Madame D'Arblay tells about,—who to the end of his life declared that his wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you know I think he will have a successor?"

Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was?

"She was an English woman, an authoress, a maid of honour to the Queen. Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?"

One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said.

"You know enough already?—or too much? Faith—are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?"

"I don't know,—but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it—Monsieur?"

"Eh bien—Mademoiselle," he said gravely but holding her fast,—"suppose you do!"

"Then we should have it."

"Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle! Vous avez raison."

"And what have you?" said Faith laughing.

"I have you!—Love and Reason did meet once, you know."

"Did they?" said Faith looking up. "How should I know?"

"You never found it out in your own personal experience?"

"You say it's a fact," said Faith. "I thought you referred to it as a former fact."

"Like tea—" said Mr. Linden.

"Like tea, Endecott!—what are you talking of?"

"Former facts."—

"I wonder what I shall get you to-night, Endecott"—she said merrily twisting round to look at him,—"you must want something! Is a thing properly said to be former, as long as it is still present?"

"What is present?"

"Tea isn't past"—said Faith with another little flash of her eye.

"If you are going to set up for Reason," said Mr. Linden, "there is no more to be done; but as for me, I may as well submit to my fate. Shakspeare says, 'To love, and to be wise, exceeds man's might.'"

"I don't think I set up for reason," said Faith,—"only for tea; and you obliged me to take reason instead. I guess—Shakspeare was right."

"Unquestionably!" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Faith, did you ever hear of 'Love in a Cottage'?"

"I believe I have."

"I hope you don't think that includes tea?"

"I never thought it included much good," said Faith. "I always thought it was something foolish."

"There spoke Reason!" said Mr. Linden,—"and I shall not dare to speak again for ten minutes. Faith, you will have time to meditate." And his eyes went to the fire and staid there. Faith meditated—or waited upon his meditations; for her eyes now and then sought his face somewhat wistfully to see if she could read what he was thinking of—which yet she could not read. But her exploring looks in that direction were too frequent to leave room for the supposition that Reason made much progress.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, suddenly intercepting one of these looks, "now let us compare results—before we meditate any further. What have you to shew?"

"Nothing"—said Faith frankly.

"I on my part have made a great discovery, which will perhaps answer for us both. It is very simple, as most great discoveries are, being merely this: that I prefer other things than reproofs from the lips of Reason. Will you have an illustration?"

"Can't I understand without?" said Faith laughing, but with also a little rising colour. And very smilingly she had her answer—the only answer she could expect.

"I believe you are principled against saying yes!" said Mr. Linden. "The most encouraging thing you ever said to me was 'Oh no!'"

What swift recollection, what quick sympathy with that time, spoke in the crimson of Faith's cheeks! It was something to see "the eloquent blood." Eyes were not to be seen. Mr. Linden smiled, touching his hand softly to her cheeks.

"O Mignonette!" he said—"or I should rather say, O Roses! or O Carnation! Is there anything beyond that in your Flora?"

In the emergency Faith took possession of the hand that invaded her carnations and turning the full display upon him asked if he would not like to have something more substantial. Apparently "the display" was approved, though there were no words to that effect.

"I suppose I must let you go," he said, "because if we are to study all the evening after tea, it will not do to talk away the whole evening before. You shall choose your own time for hearing my story, dear child—only let me know when the time comes."

There was no shadow upon the tea hour, on Faith's part, nor on the hours of study that followed. The wind swept round the house, March fashion, but the fire and the open books laughed at him. There seemed even a little more than usual of happy gayety in Faith's way of going through her work; she and the fire played at which should get ahead of the other; and between whiles she was obliged to use a little caution to obviate Mr. Linden's surprise at finding how far she was getting ahead of herself. For Faith's early morning studies were not now by any means confined to the lessons he set for her and expected her to do; her object and endeavour was to prevent his requirements, and so prepare the ground before his teachings that without finding out how it came to be so ready, he should simply occupy more of it and cultivate higher. It was rather a nice matter! not to let him see that she had done too much, and yet to make him know that he might take what harvests he pleased off the ground; with such keen eyes too, that knew so well all the relative forces of soil and cultivation and could estimate so surely the fruits of both. Faith managed by not managing at all and by keeping very quiet, as far as possible shewing him nothing he did not directly or indirectly call for; but sometimes she felt she was grazing the edge of discovery, which the least lifting of the veil of Mr. Linden's unsuspiciousness would secure. She felt it to-night, and the fire and she had one or two odd little consultations. Just what Mr. Linden was consulting with himself about at those times, she did not know; but she half fancied it was something. Once the fire called her off at the end of a lesson, and when she came back to the table he had the next book open; but it was not till this set of questions and answers and explanations was half through, that Faith discovered he had opened the book at a different place from the one where it had been closed the day before,—then it suddenly flashed upon her; but whether it had been by accident, or of intent, she did not know.

One last consultation Faith held with the fire while Mrs. Derrick was gathering her work together to go to bed. Then she brought a low seat to Mr. Linden's feet. "Now, Endy,—I am ready." A little smile—a soft, lingering touch upon her forehead, came with his words.

"My little Mignonette, what do you suppose I came to Pattaquasset for?"

She looked rather wondering at him, and then said, "I supposed—to teach the school."

"Yes, but to what end?—I mean in my intent. I know now what I came for, in one sense," he said, securing one of her hands.

"Why—Endecott, do you want me to tell you?"

"If you know or guess."

"I don't know nor guess anything. I supposed merely that you did that as other people do other things—and for the same reason."

"It was for a very commonplace reason," Mr. Linden said, watching her face with two or three things at work in his own: "it was to get money to finish my studies for your favourite profession."

"My favourite profession!—Which do you mean?"

"Have you forgotten Miss Essie's question? I have not—nor the dear child who was so unwilling to answer it."

Faith's mind went back to Miss Essie, the question and answer,—and took the round of the subject,—and even as she did so her face changed, a sort of grave light coming into it,

"Do you mean that, Endy?" she said half under her breath.

"I mean that, and no other."

The light brightened and deepened—her colour flushed like a morning sky,—till at last the first sunbeam struck athwart her face, in the shape of a smile. It was not a lip smile—it was on eye and brow and lip and cheek together. Mr. Linden bent down by her, lifting her face to meet his eyes, which through all their intentness smiled too.

"Faith, I want to hear every word of that."

"Of what?"

"Of all that is in your mind and face just now."

Her two little answering sentences evidently only gave the key of very deep tones.

"I think it is good, Endy. I am glad."

"I thought you would be. But that does not satisfy me, dear Faith—I want you to say to me all the different things that your thoughts were saying to you. You are not afraid of me at this time of day?" he said bringing her face closer.

"I have nothing to say I need be afraid to say," Faith answered slowly,—"but it is hard to disentangle so many thoughts. I was thinking it is such great and high work—such happy work—and such honour—and then that you will do it right, Endecott—" she hesitated.—"How could I help but be glad?"

"Do you like your new prospective position, little Sunbeam?"

A deep colour came over her face, and the eyes fell Yet Faith folded her hands and spoke.

"I was glad to think—" She got so far, but the sentence was never finished.

"Glad to think what, dear child?"

Faith glanced up. She did not want to answer. Then she said with the greatest simplicity, "I am glad if I may do something."

"Glad that I should realize my ideal?" Mr. Linden said with a smile, and softly bringing her face round again. "Faith, do you know what a dear little 'minister's wife' you will make?—Mignonette is so suitable for a parsonage!—so well calculated to impress the people with a notion of the extreme grave propriety which reigns there! For is not Mignonette always sweet, demure, and never—by any chance!—high coloured?"

She would not let her face be held up. It went down upon her lap—into her hands, which she pressed close to hide it.

"Oh Endecott!—" she said desperately.—"You'll have to call me something else."

"O Faith!" was his smiling reply,—"I will, just so soon as I can. Don't you want to come over to the sofa and hear the rest of my story?"

"Your story! Oh yes!"—

And first having a sympathizing interview with the fire, Faith went over to the sofa and sat down; but hid her face no more. Much as he had done before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,—with the same sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of purpose,—his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing—her eyes had not been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing of nothing else.

"It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the jewelled hand in his,—"when I used to see them not more busy among things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature describes and taste shrinks from!—But I used to think," he said speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick moving, as when it was at work for me."

Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone.

"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again—almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before.

"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,—living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors—or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together—by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe—and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented—very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes."

She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.

"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.

He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.

"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"

"Yes."

"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."

She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.

"It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?"

"Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there."

"And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared.

"I came for a year, dear Faith—and I ought not to stay much beyond that."

Faith mentally counted the months, in haste, with a pang; but the silence did not last long this time. Her head left its resting place and bending forward she looked up into Mr. Linden's face, with a sunny clear look that met his full. It was not a look that could by any means be mistaken to indicate a want of other feeling, however. One might as soon judge from the sunshine gilding on the slope of a mountain that the mountain is made of tinsel.

"Endecott—is that what has been the matter with you?"

She needed no answer but his look, though that was a clear as her own.

"I could easier bear it if I could bear the whole," he said. "But you can understand that Dr. Harrison's proposal tried, though it did not tempt me."

She scarce gave a thought to that.

"There is one thing more I wanted to ask. Will there be—" she paused, and went on,—"no time at all that you can be here?"

"Dear Faith!" he said kissing her, "do you think I could bear that? How often I shall be able to come I cannot quite tell, but come I shall—from time to time, if I live. And in the meanwhile we must make letters do a great deal."

Her face brightened. She sat quietly looking at him.

"Will that shadow come any more,—now that you have told me?"

"I will give you leave to scold me, if you see it," Mr. Linden said, answering her smile,—"I ought not to be in shadow for a minute—with such a sunbeam in my possession. Although, although!—do you know, little bright one, that the connexion between sunbeams and shadows is very intimate? and very hard to get rid of?"

"Shall I talk to you about 'nonsense' again?"—she said half lightly, resting her hand on his arm and looking at him. Yet behind her light tone there was a great tenderness.

"You may—and I will plead guilty. But in which of the old classes of 'uncanny' folk will you put me?—with those who were known by their having no shadow, or with those who went always with two?"

"So I suppose one must have a little shadow, to keep from being uncanny!"

"You and I will not go upon that understanding, dear Faith."

Faith did not look like one who had felt no shadow; rather perhaps she looked like one who had borne a blow; a look that in the midst of the talk more than once brought to Mr. Linden's mind a shadowy remembrance of her as she was after they got home that terrible evening; but her face had a gentle brightness now that then was wanting.

"I don't know"—she said wistfully in answer to his last words.—"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame for me to remind you of anything—but don't you know, Endecott—'all things are ours'? both 'things present and things to come?'" And her eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile.

Bear it alone?—yes, he could have done that—as he had borne other things,—it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that look come back—to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both points. And he knew—almost better than she did—how much she depended on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave submission as Faith had never seen him wear.

"My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear Faith,—and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than that each has sufficient good—if it be only sought out. There cannot much darkness live in the light of those words."

"How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,—"to find the good of these days?"

"You are quick at conclusions"—said Mr. Linden,—"how far do you think it is between us at present?"

"Endecott"—she said gravely—"it will never be further!"

He laughed a little—with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good measurement."

"You know," she said, "you have told me two things to-night, Endecott; and if one makes me sorry, the other makes me glad."

"I was sure of that!—And it is such great, great pleasure to think of the times of coming back—and of leaving you work to do, and of writing to you about it,—and then of finding out how well it is done! You must keep my books for me, Mignonette—mine, I say!—they are as much yours as mine—and more."

"Your books?"—she said with a flush.

"Yes—there are but a few of these that I shall want with me,—the most of my study books I did not bring here."

"But won't you want these with you?"

"As far from that as possible. Do you think you could make up your mind to let me tell Reuben a secret?—and give him a reason for being even more devoted to you than he is now?"

She coloured very brightly again. "I am willing—if you wish it. Why, Endecott?"

"The chief reason is, that I do not wish to lose any of your letters, nor have you lose any of mine. And small postoffices are not so safe as large ones, nor are their managers proverbially silent. I should like to make Reuben a sort of intermediate office."

"And send your letters to him?"

"Yes. Would you mind that?"

"And my letters?"

"And yours in like manner, little Mignonette. He could either enclose them to me, or put them in some neighbouring office,—I think Reuben would enjoy an eight miles walk a day, taken for me. Or you could hide your envelope with another, and let him direct that. You need not be afraid of Reuben,"—Mr. Linden said smiling,—"you might give him forty letters without his once daring to look at you."

"But I thought—you said—he was going to college next summer?"

"That was talked of, but I think he will stay another year at home, and then enter a higher class. It will save expense, and he will be longer with his father. Reuben and I hope to be brother ministers, one day, Faith."

"Do you! Does he!"—said Faith astonished. "That is good! I am glad of it. But what will he do for money, Endecott?"

"We shall see—part of the way is clear, so we may hope the rest will be. Perhaps I may let him do some of his studying with me. Do you think you would object to that?"

"Object to it! How could I? What do you mean, Endecott?"

"O little Mignonette!" he said smiling, "how sweet you are!—and what joy it would be to see you wear the only title I can give you! Don't you know, pretty child, that if I gave Reuben Hebrew you might be called upon to give him—tea!"

Faith's eyes went down and her colour mounted, and mounted. But her next remark was extremely collected. "How good it was Dr. Harrison's money came!"—

"I believe you stipulated that we were to have tea ourselves," said Mr. Linden, "but the question remains whether you would dispense it to any one else."

Faith was only restrained from covering her face again by the feeling that it would be foolish; and withal a little laughter could not be prevented. She did shield one side of her face with her hand, and leaning upon it looked into the fire for suggestions. Finally answered sedately, "I should think you and he might have it together!"

"Have it—yes, if we could get it; but I am ignorant of any but the chemical properties of milk and sugar."

"I thought you said you knew cream when you saw it!" said Faith from behind her shield.

"That is knowing its appearance—not its properties, Miss Reason."

"What does reason want to know more, for a cup of tea?"

"But you have declared once to-night that I am not Reason," said Mr. Linden laughing. "For instance—I once made the sudden acquaintance of a particular person, who made as sudden an impression on my mind,—after those three minutes I should have known her by sight (like cream) to the end of my life. But I went on trying experiments—(as one might taste successive drops of cream) finding out more and more sweetness each time; until (like cream again) I discovered that she was perfectly indispensable to my cup of tea!"

Faith bowed her glad little head, laughing, though feeling much deeper was at work.

"After this," she said, "I shall always be greatly at a loss what you are thinking of when you are looking at me."

"Will your reflections be carried on with such a face?" said Mr. Linden. "Do you remember that afternoon, Faith?—when I so nearly laid hold of you—and you wanted to laugh, and did not dare?"

"What afternoon?"—

"The one wherein I first had the pleasure of seeing you. How demurely you eyed me!—and wondered in your little sensible heart what sort of a person I could possibly be!"

"How did you know I wondered?" said Faith colouring.

"By your very gentle, modest, and fearful examinations, your evident musings over my words, and the bright look now and then that told of progress."

Faith laughed.

"You made me begin to think and wish immediately," she said.—"It was no wonder I wondered."

"Yes, and how I longed to give you your wish, so far as I could,—and how afraid I was to offer my services,—and how you would persist in thanking me for pleasing myself, do you remember, little Sunbeam?—and your fright when I asked about Prescott?"

She looked up with the prettiest, rosiest remembrance of it all; and then her face suddenly changed, and turning from him she shielded it again with her hand, but not to hide the rosy colour this time. Mr. Linden drew her close to him, resting his face upon her other cheek at first without words.

"Dear child!" he said,—"my own little Mignonette!—you must not forget what you said to me,—and you must not forget that I hope to come home quite often. There was a time, when I thought I might have to go away and never have the right to come and see you again. And you must think to yourself—though you will not speak of it to me—that after this bit of time, all our life will be spent together. You need not expect me to wait for anything—not even the cottage you like so much."

She did not answer immediately, as was natural, his last suggestions not being very word-provoking with her. But when she did speak, it was in a clear, cheerful tone.

"I'll bear my part, Endy—I should be very ungrateful if I couldn't. And you can bear your part—I am glad to think of that!—for you are working for a Master that always gives full pay."

"We can always bear God's will," he said, a little gravely,—"it is only our own that points the trial and makes it unbearable."



CHAPTER XIV.



Faith had no chance to think that night. She went to sleep conscientiously. And a chance the next morning was out of the question. She dared not come down as early as usual, if her own strength would have let her. The few minutes before breakfast were busy ones; and the few hours after breakfast. Faith went about with the consciousness of something on her heart to be looked at; but it had to bide its time. Her household duties done, her preparations for Mr. Linden being already in advance, she had leisure to attend to this other thing. And alone Faith sat down and looked at it.

It was the first real steady trial her life had known. Her father's death had come when she was too young to feel deeply any want that her mother could not fill. To be away from anything she much loved was a sorrow Faith hardly knew by experience. But a two years' separation was a very, very heavy and sharp pain to think of; and Faith had an inward assurance that the reality would be heavier and sharper than her thoughts beforehand could make it. Perhaps it was too great a pain to be struggled with; for Faith did not struggle—or not long. She sat down and looked at it,—what she had not dared to do the night before;—measured it and weighed it; and then bowed her heart and head to it in utter submission. With it came such a crowd of glad and good things, things indeed that made the trial and were bound up with it,—that Faith locked the one and the other up in her heart together. And remembering too the sunshine of joy in which she had lately lived, she humbly confessed that some check might be needed to remind her and make her know that earth has not the best sunshine, and that any gain would be loss that turned her eyes away from that best, or lessened her sense of its brightness.

So there came no shadow over her at all, either that day or afterwards. The clear light of her face was not clouded, and her voice rung to the same tune. There was no shadow, nor shade of a shadow. There was a little subdued air; a little additional gravity, a trifle more of tenderness in her looks and ways, which told of the simpleness of heart with which she had quietly taken what God gave and was content with it.

To Mr. Linden the trial was not new, and to sorrow of various kinds he was wonted; but it was new to him to see her tried, and to that he found it hard to accustom himself. Yet he carried out his words,—Faith could feel a sort of atmosphere of bright strength about her all the time. How tenderly she was watched and watched over she could partly see, but pain or anxiety Mr. Linden kept to himself. He set himself to work to make her enjoy every minute. Yet he never shunned the subject of his going away,—he let her become used to the sound of the words, and to every little particular connected with it—they were all told her by degrees; but told with such bright words of hope and trust, that Faith took the pain as it were diluted.

Before all this had gone far—indeed not many days after the first telling of his story, Faith had come down as usual one early morning to her work. She had been down about an hour, when she heard the door open and Mr. Linden came in. He had two seconds' view of the picture before she rose up to meet him. There was no lamp yet burning in the room. A fire of good hard wood threw its light over everything, reflected back from the red curtains which fell over the windows. In the very centre of the glow, Faith sat on a low cushion, with her book on a chair. She was dressed exactly, for nicety, as if she might have been going to Judge Harrison's to tea. And on the open pages, and on Faith's bright hair, edging her ruffles, and warming up her brown dress, was the soft red fall of the firelight. She rose up immediately with her usual glad look, behind which lay a doubtful surmising as to his errand. It was on her lips to ask what had brought him down so early, but she was prudently silent. He came forward quick and quietly, according to his wont, not at all as if she were about anything unusual, and giving her one of those greetings which did sometimes betray the grave feeling he kept so well in hand, he brought her back to the fire.

"Little bird," he said, "what straws are you weaving in at present?"

"I don't know. Not any—unless thoughts."

"Will it please you to state what you are doing?"

"I was reading. I had just got to the end of the story of Moses blessing Israel. I was thinking of these words—" and she took up her book and shewed him. "Happy art thou, O Israel, saved of the Lord, the shield of thy help, and who is the sword of thy excellency."

"Did you ever look out any of the answering passages in other parts of the Bible?"

"Not often. I don't know them. Once in a while I think of one. And then they are so beautiful!"

Mr. Linden took the book from her hand, turning from place to place and reading to her.

"'Happy is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God: which made heaven, and earth, the sea, and all that therein is: which keepeth truth forever.' That is what David said,—then hear how Isaiah answers—'Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid: for the LORD JEHOVAH is my strength and my song; he also is become my salvation.'—And again—'Israel shall be saved in the Lord with an everlasting salvation: ye shall not be ashamed nor confounded, world without end.'"

Faith drew a little quick breath.

"Doesn't it seem," she said, "as if words were heaped on words to prevent our being afraid?"

"I think it really is so; till we have a shield of promises as well as protection. After Abraham had gone out of his own country, 'not knowing whither he went', 'the word of the Lord came to him, saying, Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and thy exceeding great reward.' Then David takes that up and expatiates upon it,—finding in it 'both things present and things to come,' dear Faith."

"'For the Lord God is a sun and a shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.'"

She looked down at the words, then up at him with a glad, sunshiny light in her eyes. Her comment on the whole was heartfelt, and comprehensive. "How good it was you came down this morning!"

"Would you like to have me come every morning?"

"Oh how much!—But that's no use, Endecott."

"Why not?"

"I mustn't get to depending upon you too much," she said with a smile.

"What had you been musing about—to make you so glad this morning?" he said looking at her.

"Nothing!—but those passages as you read them one after the other were so beautiful, and felt so strong.—It was a great pleasure to hear you read them,"—she said dropping her voice a little in confession.

"It shall be as you like, darling, about my coming again. But dear Faith, of this other morning work you must let me say a word."

"What, Endecott?"

"You are doing too much."

"No. What makes you think so?"

Significantly Mr. Linden laid his hand on the pile of study books.

"Well?"

"Well.—For the future please to let these gentry rest in peaceful seclusion until after breakfast."

"Oh no, Endy!"

"My dear, I shall have you turning into a moonbeam. Just imagine what it would cost me to call you 'pale Cynthia'!"

"You needn't imagine it, Endecott."

"Only so far as to prevent the reality. Do you know I have been afraid of this for some time."

"Of what?"

"Afraid that you were disregarding the bounds I have laid down for study and the sun for sleep."

"I didn't know you had laid down any bounds," she said gaily again—"and I never did mind the sun."

"Well won't you mind me?" said he smiling. "I have a right to expect that in study matters, you know."

"Don't try me—" said Faith, very winningly, much more than she knew. He stood looking at her, with the sweet unbent expression which was her special right.

"Faith, don't you mean to love to have me take care of you?"

That brought a change of look, and it was curious to see the ineffectual forces gather to veil what in spite of them wreathed in her smile and laid an additional roseleaf upon each cheek. The shy eyes retreated from view; then they were raised again as she touched his arm and said, with a demure softness, "What must I do, Endy?"

"Be content with the old study hours, my dear child. They are long enough, and many enough."

"Oh Endy!—not for me."

"For thee."

Faith looked down and looked disturbed.

"Then, Endecott, I sha'n't be as wise as I want to be,—nor as you want to have me."

"Then you will be just as wise as I want you to be," he said with a smile. "As to the rest, pretty child,—do you mean that my wife shall deprive me of my scholar?"

Faith turned away and said rather quickly, "Endy, how did you know?"

"From some lesson evidence. And I always hear you come down—and whiles I see a face at breakfast which has not lately come from rest."

Faith's secret thought was that it was better than rest. But after folding her hands with a grave face, she looked up at Mr. Linden with a smile which yielded the whole question.

"To prove to you what a naughty child you have been," said Mr. Linden, "I shall give you an increase of outdoor lessons, and take you off on an expedition the first mild day. On which occasion you may study me—if you have any of Miss Essie's curiosity."

"Don't I?" said Faith. "And I am going to do it more. What expedition are you going on, Endecott?"

"Up to Kildeer river—I have business there. Will you trust yourself to me in a boat—if I will let you steer?"

"I'll do anything to go," said Faith. "And I suppose if I steered wrong, the helm would come about pretty quick!" And so ended her last early morning studies.

It was in the afternoon of the same day that Faith put in practice what she had been thinking of when she avowed her determination of further studying Mr. Linden. He had come home from school, and it was the dusky hour again; the pleasant interregnum between day and night when even busy folk take a little time to think and rest. Mr. Linden was indulging in both apparently; he was in one of those quiet times of doing nothing which Faith chose for making any of her very gentle attacks upon him. One seemed to be in meditation now. She stole up behind him and leaned down on the back of his chair, after her wont.

"Endecott"—she said softly.

Faith's voice was in ordinary a pleasant thing to hear; but this name from her lips was always a concretion of sweetness, flavoured differently as the case might be. Sometimes with mere gladness, sometimes with the spirit of fun, often enough with a little timidity, and sometimes with a rose-drop from the very bottom of her heart's well; with various compounds of the same. But this time it was more than timidity; Faith's one word was spoken as from lips that were positively afraid to follow it with others.

"That note," said Mr. Linden smiling, "seems to come from the top of a primeval pine tree—with a hawk in sight! Little bird, will you please come down into the lower regions of air?—where you can be (comparatively) safe."

Faith laughed; but the hawk remained in sight—of her words.

"You said this morning I never asked you any but impossible things."

"Most sorrowfully true!—have you another one ready?"

"If I ask you something possible, what will you do?" she said, softly touching the side of his head with her hand. It was Faith's utmost freedom; a sort of gentle admiring touch of her fingers which the thick locks of hair felt hardly more than a spider's feet.

"That depends so much upon the thing!" he said, half turning to give her the look which belonged to his words. "There are such a variety of ways in which I might deal with it—and with you."

"I am not going to ask you anything but what would be right."

"You do not doubt that my answer will be conformable?"

"Yes I do. It will be your 'right,' but it may not be my 'right,' you know."

"If you get what is not your right, you ought to be contented," said Mr. Linden.

"Now you have turned me and my meaning round! Endecott—you know Aunt Dilly gave me something?—mayn't I—won't you let me lend it to you?"

Very low and doubtfully the words came out! But if Faith had any more to say, she had little chance for a while. One quick look round at her Mr. Linden gave, but then he sprang up and came to where she stood, lifting her face and giving her her "right" in one sense at least. Other answer he made none.

"Endy—have I asked a possible thing this time?" she said under breath.

"My precious child!—Do you think it possible?"

"It ought to be possible, Endecott." And if ever an humble suggestion of a possibility was made, Faith made it then.

"I shall have to go back to my first answer," said Mr. Linden,—"I have no words for any other. Faith, dearest—don't you know that it is not needful? Will that content you, little sweet one?"

A soft "no."

"Why not?" he said, making good his threat. "What do you want me to have more than I need?"

"I fear the ways you will take to make that true. I should think you might, Endecott!"—The ellipsis was not hard to supply.

"I shall not take any unlawful means—nor any unwise ones, I hope," he said lightly. "What are you afraid I shall do?"

"Get up early in the morning," she whispered.

"But that is so pleasant! Do you suppose I get up late now, little bird?"

"Not late, with breakfast at seven. How early do you?"

"Philosophically early! Do you know you have not had your poem to-day?—what shall it be? sunrise or sunset?"

"Which you please," she said gently, with the tone of a mind upon something else. Mr. Linden looked down at her in silence for a minute.

"Dear Faith," he said, "I told you truly that there is no need. This year's work has done quite as much as I thought it would. What are you afraid of?"

"I am not afraid of much," she said, looking up at him now with a clear brow. "But Endy, I have changed my mind about something. Could you easily come down and read with me a little while every morning?—or are you busy?"

"I am never too busy to spend time with you, my child,—that is one piece of pleasure I shall always allow myself. At what hour shall I come?"

"At six o'clock, can you?" said Faith. "If you gave me a quarter of an hour then, I should still have time enough for breakfast work. This morning I was afraid—but I was foolish. This evening I want all I can get. And when you read me a ladder of verses again," she said smiling, "I shall mark them in my Bible, and then I shall have them by and by—when you are gone."

"Yes, and I can send you more. It is good to go up a ladder of Bible verses when one is afraid—or foolish," he said gently and answering her smile. "One end of it always rests on earth, within reach of the weakest and weariest."

"That is just it! Oh Endy," she said, clasping her hands sadly and wishfully before her and her eyes tilling as she spoke—"I wish there were more people to tell people the truth!"



CHAPTER XV.



It was a fair, fair May morning when Mr. Linden and Faith set forth on their expedition to Kildeer river. After their early rising and early breakfast, they took their way down to the shore of the Mong, where the little sail-boat lay rocking on the incoming tide, her ropes and streamers just answering to the morning breeze. The soft spring sunlight glinted on every tree and hillside. The "Balm of a Thousand Flowers"—true and not spurious—was sprinkled through the air, under the influence of which unseen nectar the birds became almost intoxicated with joy; pouring out their songs with a sort of spendthrift recklessness,—the very fish caught the infection, and flashed and sparkled in the blue water by shoals at a time.

In the sailboat now stood baskets and shawls, a book or two, an empty basket for wild flowers, and by the tiller sat Faith—invested with her new dignity but not yet instructed therein. Mr. Linden stood on the shore, with the boat's detaining rope in his hand, looking about him as if he had a mind to take the good of things as he went along. Up the hill from the shore, trotted Jerry and Mr. Skip.

"Endecott," said Faith joyously,—"Goethe would have more than enough if he was here."

She was not a bad part of the picture herself; fair and glad as she looked, as fair as the May morning and the birds and the sunlight.—

"Isn't this air sweet?"

"Very! But Goethe would choose my point of view. So much depends, in a picture, upon the principal light!"

"I wonder which is the principal light to-day!" said Faith laughing. "How it sparkles all over the river, and then on the young leaves and buds;—and then soft shining on the clouds. And they are all May! Look at those tiny specks of white cloud scattered along the horizon, up there towards Neanticut."

"The principal light to-day," said Mr. Linden, "is one particular sunbeam, which as it were leads off the rest. It's a fair train, altogether!" and he threw the rope into the little vessel, and jumped in himself; then lifting Faith a little from her place, and arranging and disposing of her daintily among shawls and cushions, and putting her unwonted fingers upon the tiller.

"Now Miss Derrick," he said, "before we go any further, I should like to know your estimate and understanding of the power at present in your hands."

"I know what a rudder is good for," said Faith merrily. "I know that this ship, 'though it be so great, and driven of fierce winds, yet is it turned about with a very small helm whithersoever the governor listeth.' That is what you may call theoretical knowledge."

"Clearly your estimate covers the ground! But you perceive, that while you take upon yourself the guiding of the boat—(if I might venture to suggest!—our course lies up the Mong, and not out to sea)—I, with my sail, control the motive power."

"You mean that if I don't go right, you'll drop the sail?"—

"Not at all!—I shall navigate, not drift. Do you suppose I shall surrender at the first summons?"

"What would you consider a 'summons'?" said Faith with a funny look. "I don't think your sail can do much against my rudder."

"My sail regulates the boat's headway—which in its turn affects the rudder. (If we run down those fishermen the damages may be heavy.) But you see I have this advantage,—I know beforehand your system of navigation—you don't know mine. Let me inform your unpractised eyes, Miss Derrick, that the dark object just ahead of us is a snag."

"My eyes don't see any better for that information," said Faith; with great attention however managing to guide their little craft clear of both snag and fishermen, and almost too engaged in the double duty to have leisure for laughing. But practice is the road to excellence and ease; Faith learned presently the correspondence between the rudder and her hand, and in the course of a quarter of an hour could keep the north track with tolerable steadiness. The wind was fair for a straight run up the Mong. The river stretching north in a diminishing blue current (pretty broad however at Pattaquasset and for some miles up) shewed its low banks in the tenderest grading of colour; very softly brown in the distance, and near the eye opening into the delicate hues of the young leaf. The river rolled its bright blue, and the overarching sky was like one of summer's. Yet the air was not so,—spicy from young buds; and the light was Springy; not Summer's ardour nor Summer's glare, but that loveliest promise of what is coming and oblivion of what is past. So the little boat sailed up the Mong. Mr. Linden's sail was steady, Faith's rudder was still.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said suddenly, "have you made up your mind to my letter plan?"

"About Reuben? O yes. I am willing."

"You know you are to send me every possible question that comes up in the course of your studies, and every French exercise, and every doubt or discomfort of any kind—if any should come. I shall not be easy unless I think that."

"But you won't have time for my French exercises!"

"Try me. And you are to take plenty of fresh air, and not a bit of fatigue; and in general are to suppose yourself a rare little plant belonging to me, which I have left in your charge for the time being. Do you understand, Mignonette?"

Her blush and smile, of touched pleasure, shewed abundance of understanding.

"But I want you to tell me, Endecott, all the things in particular you would like to have me do or attend to while you are away—besides my studies. I have been thinking to ask you, and waiting for a good time."

"'All the things'?—of what sort, dear child?"

"Aren't there some of your poor people you would like to have particularly attended to? I could get Reuben to go with me, you know, where it was too far for me to go alone—or mother."

"Yes, there are some things you might do," said Mr. Linden, "for me and for them, though more in the way of sending than going; the places are too far off. But I should like to know that Mrs. Ling's mother had a bunch of garden flowers now and then, and that another went to that little lame girl on the Monongatesak road; and once in a great while (not often, or they will lose their charm) you may send the Roscoms two fresh eggs!—not more, on any account. Reuben will go for you, anywhere—and the Roscoms are old protegees of his."

"I didn't mean to forget the Roscoms," said Faith. "But must one manage with them so carefully?"

"In matter of favours, yes. And even in matter of visits, to a certain degree,—their life is so monotonous that novelty has a great charm. Reuben used to go and read to them almost every day on his way from school, but I found it best to make my coming an event."

"Can I do anything for Reuben?"

"Nothing new that I know of, at present—you are doing something for him all the while,—and it will be a wonderful delight to him to bring you letters. Then if you are ever driving down that Monongatesak road, with nothing to hinder, take the little lame child with you for a mile or two,—she so pines to be out of the house and moving. Would it be disagreeable to you?—there is nothing but what is pleasant in her appearance."

"What if there were?" she said with a wistful look at him. "Do you mind disagreeablenesses? and do you want to have me mind them?"

"No, dear child, but you must get wonted by degrees,—and some temperaments can never bear what others can. What if we were to overhaul those fishermen?"

"What do you want?" said Faith, as she carefully set the boat's head that way. "A fish for dinner?"

"No"—said Mr. Linden,—"I have too much respect for that basket at my feet. But you know, Faith, we are having a sort of preliminary play-practice at seeking our fortune, to-day—we must carry it out. Just imagine, my dear, that we are adrift in this boat, with nothing at all for dinner, and supper a wild idea!—not the eastern fisherman who for four fish received from the Sultan four hundred pieces of gold, would then appear so interesting as these."

"If you wanted dinner from them—but you say you don't," said Faith laughing. "Endecott, I don't understand in the least! And besides, you said you wouldn't 'drift' but navigate!"

And her soft notes rolled over the water, too soft to reach the yet somewhat distant fishermen.

"And so because I turn navigator you turn Siren!" said Mr. Linden. "But I have you safe in my boat—I need not stop to listen."

"But what did you mean?"

"By what?"

"All that."

"Short and comprehensive!" said Mr. Linden—"come up on the other side, Faith, the current is less strong. All about seeking our fortune, do you mean? Did you never hear of any other extraordinary prince and princess who did the same?"

"If I am not adrift in the boat, I am in my wits!" said Faith,—"and with no sail nor rudder either. Why are those fishermen interesting, Endecott?"

"Why my child," he said, "in the supposititious case which I put, they were interesting as having fish, while we had none. But in the reality—they were picturesque in the distance,—what they are near by we will see," he added with a smile at her, as the sail came round and the little boat shot up alongside of her rough-looking relation. "Well friends, what cheer?—besides a May morning and a fair wind?"

The fishermen slowly dragging their net, hoarsely speculating on its probable weight of fish, paused both their oars and tongues and looked at him. One of the men had the oars; the other at the end of the boat was hauling in, hand over hand.

"That's about all the cheer you want, I guess,—aint it?" said this man. It was said freely enough, but with no incivility.

"Not all I want," said Mr. Linden,—while the oarsman, rolling his tobacco in his mouth, came out with—

"Shouldn't wonder, now, if 'twan't much in your line o' business!—guess likely you be one o' the mighty smart folks that don't do nothin'."

"I've no objection to being 'mighty smart'," said Mr. Linden, belaying his rope with a light hand, "but I shouldn't like to pay such a price for it. Smartness will have to come down before I'm a purchaser."

The man looked at him with a queer little gleam crossing his face—

"Shouldn't wonder if you hadn't took it when it was down!" he said.

"It's a great thing to know the state of the market," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you find that with your fish."

"Gen'lly do, when we take 'em,"—said the man at the net, who never took his eye off the overhauling boat and its crew. He was not a young man, but a jovial-looking fellow. "What fish be you arter, stranger?"

"Somewhat of a variety," Mr. Linden said with a smile. "What makes the fish come into your net?"

"Haven't an idee!" said the man—"without it bees that fish is very onintelligent creturs. I don't suppose fish has much brains, sir. And so they goes further and fares worse." Which statement of the case he appeared to think amusing.

"But then why do they sometimes stay out?" said Mr. Linden,—"because I have read of men who 'toiled all the night and caught nothing'."

"Wall, you see," said the fisher, "they goes in shoals or flocks like, and they's notional. Some of 'em won't come at one time o' tide, and some won't come at another—and they has their favourite places too. Then if a man sets his nets where the fish aint, all creation might work and catch nothin'. This side the river is better now than over there."

"These men that I was talking of," said Mr. Linden, "once found a difference even between the two sides of their ship. But the other time, when they had caught nothing all the night, in the morning they caught so many that their net broke and both their ships began to sink."

"What kind o' folks was them?" said the oarsman a little scornfully.

"Why they were fishermen," said Mr. Linden. "They followed your calling first, and then they followed mine."

"What's yourn?" said the other, in his tone of good-humoured interest. "Guess you're a speaker o' some sort—aint ye?"

"Yes—" Mr. Linden said, with a little demure gesture of the head,—"I am—'of some sort,' as you say. But I've got an account of these men in my pocket—don't you want to hear it?—it's more interesting than any account you could have of me."

"Like to hear it well enough—" said the man at the net, setting himself astride the gunwale to listen, with the net hanging from his hand.

"I wouldn't mind knowing how they worked it—" said the other man, while Mr. Linden threw a rope round one of the thole-pins of the fishing boat and gave the other end to Faith, and then took out his book. And Faith was amused at the men's submissive attention, and the next minute did not wonder at all!—as she noted the charm that held them—the grace of mingled ease, kindliness, and power, in Mr. Linden's manner and presence. Nothing could have greater simplicity, and it was not new to Faith, yet she looked at him as if she had never seen him before.

"A great many years ago," he said, "when the Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, was in this world, he went about healing sick people, and teaching every one the way to heaven; and the people came in great numbers to hear him.

"'And it came to pass, that, as the people pressed upon him to hear the word of God, he stood by the lake of Gennesareth, and saw two ships standing by the lake; but the fishermen were gone out of them, and were washing their nets.'"

"We wash our'n by pullin' 'em through the water," said the net man.

"The Lord entered one of the ships, which belonged to a man named Simon, and asked him to push out a little from the shore. 'And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship. Now, when he had left speaking, he unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught. And Simon answering, said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word I will let down the net.'"

"In course! whether 'twas any use or not,"—the man with the net said approvingly. "So he had oughter."

"Yes, and he knew it would be of use in some way, for God never gives a command without a reason. And when they had let down the net, 'they enclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake. And they beckoned unto their partners, which were in the other ship, that they should come and help them. And they came, and filled both the ships, so that they began to sink.'"

"That was a bigger haul than ever I see, yet," remarked the man.

"Neither had Simon ever seen anything like it—he knew that it was brought about by the direct power of God.

"When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus' knees, saying, 'Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.' For he was astonished, and all they that were with him, at the draught of the fishes which they had taken."

"Can't see what he said that fur," said the oarsman.

"No more don't I!" said the other. "He had got a good haul o' fish, anyway—if he was ever so!—and we aint none of us white lilies."

"But then Peter knew that he ought to be a white lily—and such a new view of God's power and greatness made him feel it more than ever. So that he was both afraid and ashamed,—he thought himself unworthy to have the Lord in his ship, and was afraid to have him stay there."

"I wouldn't have asked him to go out, if he had been in mine,—I don't think!"—said the elder fisher slowly. "I don't see as that chap need to ha' been afeard—he hadn't done nothin' but good to him."

"But it's what we do ourselves that makes us afraid," said Mr. Linden. "So it was with Adam and Eve in the garden, you know—God had talked to them a great many times, and they were never afraid till they disobeyed him—then the moment he spoke they ran and hid themselves."

The oarsman was silent, the other man gave a sort of grunt that betokened interest.

"What shines had this feller been cuttin' up?"

"Why!" said Mr. Linden, starting up and taking his stand by the mast, as the little boat curtseyed softly over the waves, "if you tell one of your boys always to walk in one particular road, and you find him always walking in another—I don't think it matters much what he's doing there, to him or to you."

"Wall?"—said the man, with a face of curiosity for what was to come next, mingled with a certain degree of intelligence that would not confess itself.

"Well—Peter knew he was not in the way wherein the Lord commands us all to walk."

"I guess every feller's got to pick out his own road for himself!" said the fisher, pulling up a foot or two of his net carelessly.

"That's what Peter had thought,—and so he had lived, just as he chose. But when he saw more of the glory of God, then he was afraid and confessed his sin. And what do you suppose the Lord said to him then?"

"What did Peter own up to?"

"The account gives only the general confession—that he was a sinful man, not worthy to have the Lord look upon him except in anger. You see he falls down at his feet and prays him to depart—he could not believe that the Lord would stay there to speak good to him."

"Well—what did he say to him?"

"'He said unto him, Fear not'. And no one need fear, who humbly confesses his sins at the feet of Jesus, 'for if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Then the Lord bade Simon and all his companions to follow him—and they obeyed. And now I want to tell you what this following means."

He put one arm round the mast, half leaning against it, and gave them what Faith would have called a 'ladder'—passing from the 'Follow me,' spoken to Peter,—to the young man who being bid to follow, 'went away sorrowful',—to the description of the way given in the tenth chapter of John,—to the place whither the flock follow Christ—

"'And I looked, and lo, a Lamb stood on the mount Zion, and with him an hundred forty and four thousand, having his Father's name written in their foreheads.' 'These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth.'"—

The men listened, open-mouthed and with intent eyes;—partly to the speaker, it was evident, and partly to what the speaker said. And that his words took hold, it was also evident. When he ceased, the man at the net dropped his eyes for a moment, a curious look of meditation covering his face.

"It's easy to talk of follerin'," he said with a half laugh which was not of carelessness,—"and one might like to,—but it's plaguey hard to know where to start!—"

"It's easy for God to teach you and easy to ask him to do it. If it was anything else you wanted to do, you would not stop trying till you found out," said Mr. Linden—"and that is just the way here. Now I am going to give you a copy of all this," he said, throwing his own little Bible softly into Faith's lap and stepping forward to the prow of the boat (which she thought held only lunch baskets)—"and I shall turn down a leaf at the story of the net full of good fishes—and another at a place that tells of a net full 'of every kind, both bad and good.' And I want you to read them, and think about them, and find out how to follow Christ—and then come on!" He took his seat once more in the stern of the boat, and held out the Bible to the fisherman. The other man, slowly dipping his oars in and out, met his look too, but made no answer.

The man at the net took the book and turned over the leaves with a wondering, considering air.

"What do you reckon this here's worth?" he said somewhat awkwardly, without raising his eyes from it.

"Worth daily reading and study—worth all you have in the world, if you will use it right," said Mr. Linden. "You need not think about any other value—I had it in trust to give away."

"I'm much obleeged to you,—I'll take a look at it now and then. Do you live along here, anywheres?"

"In Pattaquasset, just now," Mr. Linden said, as he prepared to make sail again. "I don't very often come to this part of the river."

"Well hold on!" said the man, beginning to pull in his net with great vivacity,—"I'm bound to give you a fish—if I've got one here. Bear a hand, Dick! Haint you got a place on board there that you can stow it, without skeerin' the lady?"—

"I'll try to find one!" said Mr. Linden, answering the proposal just as it was meant. "If the lady is scared she shall turn her face the other way."

"She'll turn it which way you say?—" ventured the fisher insinuatingly.

Faith did not seem afraid of the fish, by the way she leaned over the stern of the boat and eyed the up-coming nets which the men were drawing in. She had listened to the foregoing talk, to the full as intently as those for whom it was meant, and with a multitude of interests at work in her mind and heart of which they had never dreamed. And now her eye was bent on the net; but her thoughts were on that other kind of fishing of which she had just seen an example—the first she had ever seen of Mr. Linden's!—and her full heart was longingly thinking, among other thoughts, of the few there were to draw those nets, and the multitude to be drawn! What Faith saw in the meshes the man's hands were slowly pulling up!—

But the fisherman only saw—what pleased him greatly, some very fine fish; shad they were for the greater part; from which he selected a noble specimen and cast it over into Mr. Linden's boat. Then standing up in his own he wiped his hands on the sleeves of his coat.

"Hope you'll come along again some day," said he. "And" (waggishly) "don't come without the lady!"—

The rope was drawn in and the little skiff shot ahead smoothly and silently from the great brown fishing boat and her equally brown owners. Gliding on—watched for a little by the fishers, then their attention was claimed by the flapping shad in the net, and the sail boat set her canvas towards Kildeer river. Mr. Linden went forward and bestowed his prisoner a little more out of sight and sound in some place of safety, and then sitting down in the prow dipped his hands in the blue water and took a survey of Faith, as she sat in the stern—the tiller in her hand, the shadow of the sail falling partly across; the spring zephyrs playing all about her.

"Little bird," he said, "why don't you sing?"

A smile of much and deep meaning went back from the stern to the prow; but she presently made the somewhat obvious remark that "birds do not always sing."

"A melancholy fact in natural history! the truth of which I am just now experiencing. What shall be done with them at these times—are they to be coaxed—or chidden or fed with sponge cake? Have you got any in your basket?"

"Are you hungry?" said Faith.

"Only for words—or songs—or some other commodity of like origin," Mr. Linden said, coming back to his old place. "What shall I have?—if I cannot get the two first?"

"You might have a little patience?—"

"'Patience', my dear, 'is a good root'—but nothing akin to sugar canes."

"There's no need of it, either," said Faith laughing,—"for you can sing if I can't."

"No, there is no need of it, and therefore—Now, little bird, will you please not to fly past the outlet of Kildeer river?"

Laughing, colouring, Faith nevertheless bent a very earnest attention upon this difficult piece of navigation. For the opening of Kildeer river was as yet but slightly to be discerned;—a little break in the smooth shore line,—a very little atmospheric change in the soft leafy hues of the nearer and further point. Faith watched, as only a young steersman does, for the time and place where her rudder should begin to take cognizance of the approaching change of course. A little wider the break in the shore line grew,—more plain the mark of a break in the trees,—and almost suddenly the little stream unfolded its pretty reach of water and woodland, stretching in alluringly with picturesque turns of its mimic channel. Faith needed a little help now, for the river was not everywhere navigable; but after a few minutes of pretty sailing among care-requiring rocks and sand-banks, where the loss of wind made their progress slow, the little skiff was safely brought to land at a nice piece of gravelly shore. It was wonderful pretty! The trees with their various young verdure came down to the water's edge, with many a dainty tint; here one covered with soft catkins of flower,—there one ruddy with not yet opened buds. The winding banks of the stream on one hand; and on the other the little piece of it they had passed over, with the breadth of the Mong beyond. Through all, May's air and Spring's perfume, and the stillness of noonday.

"Inverted in the tide Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw. And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below."

So Mr. Linden told Faith, as he was putting his sail in trim repose, and then—telling her that the guiding power was still in her hands, requested to know what they should do next.

"Why," said Faith merrily, "I thought you had business to attend to?"

"I had—" said Mr. Linden,—"but I reflected that you would probably give me full occupation, and so got rid of the business first."

"Then you have nothing to do here?"

"A great deal, I suppose; but I know not what."

Faith fairly sat down to laugh at him.

"What do you think of having lunch, and then going after flowers?"

"I consider that to be a prudent, bird-like suggestion. Do you expect me to cook this fish for you? or will you be content to take it home to your mother, and let us feast upon—

"'Herbs, and such like country messes, Which neat-handed Phyllis dresses'?"

"Have you all the books in the world in your head?"—said Faith, laughing her own little laugh roundly. "How plain it is Mr. Linden has nothing to do to-day!—Would you like to help me to gather some sticks for a fire, sir? I think you had better have something on your hands."

"Do you?" he said lifting her out of the boat in his curiously quick, strong, light way,—"that was something on my hands—not much. What next?—do you say we are to play Ferdinand and Miranda?"

Faith's eye for an instant looked its old look, of grave, intelligent, doubtful questioning: but then she came back to Kildeer river.

"I haven't played that play yet," she said gaily; "but if you'll help me find some dry sticks—your reward shall be that you shall not have what you don't like! I can make a fire nicely here, Endecott; on this rock."

"Then it was not about them you were reading in that focus of sunbeams?"

"What?—" she said, looking.

"Once upon a time—" Mr. Linden said smiling,—"when you and Shakspeare got lost in the sunlight, and wandered about without in the least knowing where you were."

"When, Endecott?"

"Leave that point," he said,—"I want to tell you about the story. Ferdinand, whom I represent, was a prince cast away upon a desert shore—which shore was inhabited by the princess Miranda, whom you represent. Naturally enough, in the course of time, they came to think of each other much as we do—perhaps 'a little more so' on the part of Miranda. But then Miranda's father set Ferdinand to carrying wood,—as you—acting conscientiously for Mrs. Derrick—do me."

"I wonder if I ever shall understand you!" exclaimed Faith desperately, as her laugh again broke upon the sweet air that floated in from the Mong. "What has my conscience, or Mrs. Derrick, to do with our lunch fire? Why was the other prince set to carrying wood?"

"For the same reason that I am!" said Mr. Linden raising his eyebrows. "To prove his affection for Miranda."

How Faith laughed.

"You are mistaken—O how mistaken you are!" she exclaimed. "It shews that though you know books, you don't know everything."

And running away with her own armful of sticks and leaves, back to the rock spoken of near where the vessel lay, Faith was stopped and relieved of her load, with such an earnest—

"'No, precious creature, I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo'—"

that she could do nothing but laugh, till the sticks were fairly on the rock. Then Faith went to laying them daintily together.

"I hope you've no objection to my making the fire," she said; "because I like it. Only, Endecott! the matches are in the basket. Could you get them for me? Indeed I shall want the basket too out of the boat."

Whereupon Mr. Linden—

"'The very instant I saw you, did My heart fly to your service: there reside, To make me slave to it; and for your sake, Am I this patient log man'!—"

But anything less like those two last words than the way in which he sprang into the boat, and brought the basket, and got out what she called for, could hardly be.

"How many matches do you want?" he said, looking demurely at her as he gave her one.

"All of them,—basket and all, Endecott. You are so patient that you do not hear."

"And you so impatient that you do not see—'basket and all' are at your side, fair princess.—Stand back,—it may be very well for the winds to 'blow, and crack their cheeks,' but I think it should be confined to them." And she was laughingly held back, where she could only use her eyes about the fire.

"That's my province," said Faith. "I think any effort to make a princess of me, will—fail. Did Miranda pick up any wood herself?"

"You can't help being a princess if I am a prince," said Mr. Linden.

"I don't see how it follows," said Faith. "Only let me get at that fire, and the fancy will pass away. Endecott!—it is absolutely necessary that some wood should be put on; and I don't believe princes know how."

"Princes," said Mr. Linden, holding her a little off with one hand, while with the other he replenished the fire, "are especially famed for their power of doing impossible things in desert places. And the princess will follow—whether you can see it or not. Is that blaze aspiring enough for you?"

"Yes, but it needs to be kept up—I want a good bed of coals."

A fine fire was on its way at last, and while waiting for it to burn down to the desired bed of coals, the temporary prince and princess sat down on the rock to feast their eyes in the mean time. A little past midday, it was not the picturesque hour for another season; but now, in the freshness of Spring, the delicate beauties of colour and light could bear the full meridian sun and not ask for shadows to set them off; other than the tender shade under the half-leaved trees. It was a warm enough day too, and those same leaves were making a great spring towards their full unfolding. Birds were twittering all around, and they only filled up the silence.

"Isn't it worth coming for!—" said Faith, when they had taken it all in for a few minutes without interrupting the birds.

"More than that—and the 'it' is very plural. Faith, do you see that butterfly?"—A primrose-winged rover was meandering about in the soft air before them, flitting over the buttercups with a listless sort of admiration.

"Poor thing, he has come out too soon," said Faith. "He will have some frost yet, for so summery as it is to-day." But Faith gave a graver look at the butterfly than his yellow wings altogether warranted.

"Among the ancients," said Mr. Linden, "the word for a butterfly and the word for the soul were the same,—they thought the first was a good emblem of the lightness and airiness of the last. So they held, that when a man died a butterfly might be seen flitting above his head. I was thinking how well this one little thing shews the exceeding lowness of heathen ideas."

"Did they think the butterfly was his very spirit, in that form?"

"I suppose so—or thought they did. But look at that creature's wavering, unsteady flight; his aimless wanderings, anywhere or nowhere; and compare it with the 'mounting up with wings as eagles', which a Christian soul may know, even in this life,—compare it with the swift 'return to God who gave it'—with the being 'caught up to meet the Lord' which it shall surely know at death."

"And the butterfly isn't further from that," said Faith clasping her hands together,—"than many a real, living soul in many a living person!"—

"No, not further; and so what the old Greeks made an emblem of the immortal soul, gives name, with us, to those persons who are most tied down to mortality. What were you thinking of, a minute ago, when I shewed you the butterfly?"

"I was thinking of somebody that I am afraid a butterfly will always remind me of,"—Faith answered with a slight colour;—"and of the time he got the name."

"He got it by favour of his office, you know—not otherwise."

"I know—"

But with that, Faith jumped up to see to the state of the fire; and then after some conjuration in her basket produced a suspicious-looking tin vessel, for which the proper bed of coals was found. Leaving it and the fire to agree together, Faith came back to the rock and Mr. Linden and stood a little while silently looking and breathing the sweetness.

"I always did love everything in the world, that my eyes could see," she said gravely. "But I love them so much more now!—now that the hand that made them is not such a strange far-off hand to me. It makes a kind of new world to me, Endecott."

"Yes—and you can understand how—even without physical changes—when we 'shall know as we are known,' the 'heavens and earth wherein dwelleth righteousness' may be preeminently 'new'."

Faith stood without reply a few minutes longer, then ran back to her fire; and after a short space called to Mr. Linden to ask if he would like to come and see what the prince had been picking up wood for?

To which the prince responded with very un-royal alacrity, bringing a well-put-together knot of buttercups to adorn one side of Miranda's head; which he declared looked better than gold beads, if they didn't cost as much.

A napkin was spread on the rock, conveniently near to the fire; on which plates and bread and a bottle of cream and a dainty looking pasty were irregularly bestowed. Mr. Linden threw himself down on the moss; and Faith had got a cup and saucer out of her basket and was just sugaring and creaming the prince's reward before applying to her dish on the fire for the crowning coffee; when her eye was caught by a spectator lately come upon the scene. No other than a somewhat ragged little boy, who eyeing them from the bank had been irresistibly lured nearer and nearer, by the grace of the preparations and the steam of the hot coffee perhaps, till he now stood by the trunk of the nearest tree.

"What are you doin'?" he said.

"What are you?" said Mr. Linden, turning to look at the boy—not just as he looked at the coffee, but very much as the coffee looked at him. "Did you never see people eat dinner?"

The boy stood his ground with, "What you got?"

"When was the last time?" said Mr. Linden. ("Princess—this may turn out to be a subject!")

"Last time what?" said the "subject" stoutly.

"The last time you saw people eating dinner," said Mr. Linden. "Did you ever go to the Museum?"

"I've went to Pettibaug!"—

"When is the last time you saw people eating dinner?" said Faith.

"We haint got none to our house."

"What's the matter?"

"Mintie said there warn't nothin' to eat and I might go a blackberryin'."

"You've come to the right place," said Mr. Linden,—"I don't believe they're ripe anywhere else. Who is 'Mintie'? and who stays with her while you're after blackberries?"

"Mintie's sissy. There aint nobody stayin' with her—she's stayin' along o' mother—when she's up."

"Where is she?—I mean where does she live—and you, and Mintie. Where is your house?"

"Round there—'Taint fur. What you got?"

Faith set down her cup and looked at Mr. Linden.

"What is the matter with your mother?"

"She's sick."

"Well if I give you a basket, and this lady puts some dinner in it for your mother and Mintie and you, do you think you can carry it home?"

"Is your sister sick too?" said Faith.

"She's got the fever nagur."

"Endecott," said Faith softly,—"shall we go and see them?"

"Yes, of course. What's your name, child?"

"My name's Bob Tuck."

Mr. Linden looked at him.

"How comes it that you and Dromy are no more alike?" he said.

"Mother says Dromy aint like nothin' I be."

"Well Bob Tuck," said Mr. Linden smiling, "have you got a broom at home?"

"There's two old ones."

"Then if you will go home and sweep the floor as well as you can, with the two old brooms, and set the table, I'll bring this lady to see you and we'll carry the basket—(which means, Princess, that I will!)—and you can let the blackberries hang on till they get ripe. Do you understand?"

"If I'll sweep the floor, you'll fetch the basket?" said Bob.

"Yes. And you can wash your hands nicely and be ready to help me take the things out of it."

Bob started. "How soon 'll you come?"

"As soon as I finish my dinner."

"How good it is I brought the whole pie!" said Faith, as she poured the delayed coffee upon the cream and sugar. "And there's your shad, Endecott! unless you prefer to take that home, and we'll send something else.—Now you see what you picked up sticks for?"

"I see—" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "And you see, Princess, what royalty is apt to meet if it will go wandering round the world."

"What?"

"Bob Tuck!—"

"Well—it's a good thing for Bob Tuck to meet with royalty,"—said Faith, looking at the pie Mr. Linden was cutting.

"Princess," said Mr. Linden, "have you any 'Queen Anne' in your basket?"

Faith looked, her merry, puzzled, grave look of inquiry,—and then there was nothing for it but a ringing laugh again.

"I would rather have that at a venture, if I were the sick one," said Mr. Linden. "But the specific most prized by that class of the population who have 'fever nagur', is called in their vernacular 'Queen Anne'—anglice, quinine. Faith, you have no idea how those buttercups are beautified!"

"Flowers always are, that you handle," said Faith.

"You see how appropriate they are to my Sunbeam—for

'The buttercup catches the sun in his chalice'."

"What is a chalice?"

"A sort of cup—a church service cup, generally. Did you admire so much the head of clover I gave you once down at the shore?"

Faith gave him a curious glance of recollection; but though there was a half smile on her face too, she remained silent.

"Well, little bird?" he said smiling. "Of what is that look compounded?"

"Various things, I suppose. Let me have your cup, Endecott?"

"Do you know," he said, "that for a scholar, you are—remarkably—unready to answer questions?"

"I didn't know it."

"Are you not aware of any class of recollective remarks or inquiries which now and then break forth, and which you invariably smother with a thick blanket of silence?"

There was another quick glance and smile, and then Faith said as she handed him his cup,—

"What do you want to know, Endecott?"

"I want to know where there was ever just such another princess. And by the way, speaking of the shore—I have something that belongs to her."

"To me?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"May I know what?"

"You may, yet not just now. You may guess what it is."

But Faith gave up guessing in despair at one of Mr. Linden's puzzles.

The basket was repacked when the lunch was done; and they set out on their walk. The way, following Bob's direction, led along the bank under the trees, turning a little before the Mong was reached. The house was soon found; standing alone, in an enclosed garden ground where no spade had been struck that season; and at the end of a farm road that shewed no marks of travel.

Bob had not only swept the room, but his tidings had roused apparently his sister to prepare herself also; for Mintie met them as they came in. She was a handsome girl, with a feverish colour in her cheeks that made her appearance only more striking. There was pride and poverty here, clearly. Faith's simple words neither assumed the one nor attacked the other. The girl looked curiously at her and at the other visiter.

"Who be you?"

"We do not live in this neighbourhood," said Faith. "We came up to Kildeer river to-day, and met your little brother down by the shore."

"What did he say to you?"

"He told us you were sick and in want of help."

Another look laid the girl's jealousy asleep. She told her story—her father had died six months ago; she and her mother and brother lived there alone. It was an "unlikely place to get to," and no neighbours very near. Her mother had been sick abed for a number of weeks; and she had had all to do, and now for a week past had been unable to do anything, go to Pettibaug or anywhere else, to get what they wanted. And so they "had got out of 'most everything." Dromy Tuck, Mr. Linden's scholar, lived at Farmer Davids' in the capacity of farm-boy; Mrs. Davids being a far-off connexion.

So much was all pride permitted to be told. Without much questioning, her visiters contrived to find out what they could do for her. Faith put the coffee-pot on the fire, declaring that it would do Mintie good like medicine; and served it to her when it was hot, with some bread and chicken, as if it had been indeed medicine and Faith a doctor. Then while Bob and she were dining, Faith went in to see the sick woman. She was much more communicative, and half avowed that she believed what she wanted now was "nourishing things"—"but with me lyin' here on my back," she said, "'taint so easy to find 'em." Faith gave her a cup of coffee too and some bread; she had hardly drunk any herself at lunch; and leaving her patient much inspirited, came back to Mr. Linden in the other room. Apparently his words and deeds had been acceptable too,—Bob's face was shining, not only with dinner but with the previous cold water applications which Mr. Linden had insisted on, and Mintie's mind was evidently at work upon various things. The basket was soon emptied of all but its dishes, and the prince and princess went on their way down the hill.

"Faith," said Mr. Linden, "shall we go and sit in the boat for half an hour, considering various things, and then have our wild flower hunt? Or would you prefer that first?"

"O no! I would rather have the half hour in the boat."

It was good time yet in the afternoon, and though the little boat now lay partly shadowed by the hill, it was none the worse resting place for that. Again Faith was seated there in all the style that shawls and cushions furnished, and just tired enough to feel luxurious in the soft atmosphere. Mr. Linden arranged and established her to his liking; then he took out of his pocket a letter.

It was one which had been opened and read; but as he unfolded it, there appeared another—unopened, unread; its dainty seal unbroken, and on the back in fair tracery, the words, "Miss Faith Derrick." As Faith read them and saw the hand, her eye glanced first up at Mr. Linden with its mute burden of surprise, and then the roses bloomed out over her cheeks and even threw their flush upon her brow. Her eye was cast down now and fixed on the unopened letter, with the softest fall of its eyelid.

"Shall I read you a part of mine first?"

"If you please. I wish you would."

"Only a little bit," he said smiling—thinking perhaps that she did not know to what she gave her assent so readily,—"you shall read the whole of it another time." The "little bit" began rather abruptly.



"'I have written to your darling, Endy—Not much, tell her; because what I have in my heart for her cannot be told. I know how precious any one must be whom you love so much. But make her love me a little before she reads my letter—and don't let her call me anything but Pet—and then I shall feel as if I had a sister already. And so I have, as you say. What a glad word!—I could cry again with the very writing of it.

'Endy—I did cry a little over your letter, but only for joy: if it had been for sorrow I should have cried long ago; for I knew well enough what was coming. Only I want more than ever to be at home,—and to see you, and to see Faith—don't let her think I am like you!

'My letter wouldn't hold much, as I told you. But I give you any number of (unspeakable!) messages for her, John Endy. I suppose you will take charge of them? I may feel sure they have all reached their destination?'"



Long before the reading was finished, Faith's head had sunk—almost to the cushions beside her. The reader's voice and intonation had given every word a sort of ring in her heart, though the tone was low. One hand came round her when she put her head down, taking possession of her hand which lay so still, with the unopened letter in its clasp. But now she was gently raised up.

"Precious child," Mr. Linden said, "what are you drooping your head for?"

"For the same reason she had, I suppose,—" said Faith half laughing, though witnesses of another kind were in her eyes.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Your sister."

"Why don't you begin to practise your lesson?"

Perhaps Faith thought that she was. She looked at nothing but her letter.

"Will you wait for your messages till we get home?—this place not being absolute seclusion."

"Shall I read this now?" said Faith rather hastily.

"I should think there would be no danger in that."

With somewhat unsteady fingers, that yet tried to be quiet, Faith broke the seal; and masking her glowing face with one hand, she bent over the letter to read it.



"My very dear, and most unknown, and most well-known little sister! I have had a picture sent me of you—as you appeared one night, when you sat for your portrait, hearing Portia; and with it a notice of several events which occurred just before that time. And both picture and events have gone down into my heart, and abide there. Endecott says you are a Sunbeam—and I feel as if a little of the light had come over the water to me,—ever since his letter came I have been in a state of absolute reflection!

"I thought my love would not be the first to 'find out the way'—even then when I wrote it! Faith—do you know that there is nobody in the world just like him? because if you do not—you will find it out!—I mean! like Endecott—not like Love. My dear, I beg pardon for my pronoun! But just how I have loved you all these months, for making him so happy, I cannot tell you.

"And I cannot write to-day—about anything,—my thoughts are in too uneven a flow to find their way to the end of my pen, and take all possible flights instead. Dear Faith, you must wait for a letter till the next steamer. And you cannot miss it—nor anything else, with Endecott there,—it seems to me that to be even in the same country with him is happiness.

"You must love me too, Faith, and not think me a stranger,—and let me be your (because I am Endy's)

"PET."



Faith took a great deal more time than was necessary for the reading of this letter. Very much indeed she would have liked to do as her correspondent confessed she had done, and cry—but there was no sign of such an inclination. She only sat perfectly moveless, bending over her letter. At last suddenly looked up and gave it to Mr. Linden.

"Well?" he said with a smile at her as he took it.

"You'll see—" she said, a little breathlessly. And still holding her hand fast, Mr. Linden read the letter, quicker than she had done, and without comment—unless when his look shewed that it touched him.

"You will love her, Faith!" he said as he folded the letter up again,—"in spite of all your inclinations to the contrary!"

"Do you think that is in the future tense? But I am afraid," added Faith,—"she thinks too much of me now."

"She does not think as much of you as I do," Mr. Linden said, with a look and smile that covered all the ground of present or future fear. "And after all it is a danger which you will share with me. It is one of Pet's loveable feelings to think too much of some people whom she loves just enough."

Humility is not a fearful thing. Whatever had been in Faith's speech, her look, bright, wistful, and happy, had no fear, truly bumble though it was. "There is no danger of my loving this letter too much"—she said as she carefully restored it to its envelope; said with a secret utterance of great gratification.

The promised half hour was much more than up, and the broadening shadow on Kildeer river said that the time which could be given to wild flowers was fast running away. Perhaps, too, Mr. Linden thought Faith had mused and been excited enough, for he made a move. Everything in the boat was put up in close order, and then the two went ashore again, flower basket in hand.

The long shadows heightened the beauty of the woods now, falling soft and brown upon the yet browner carpet of dry leaves, and the young leaves and buds overhead shewed every tint, from yellow to green. Under the trees were various low shrubs in flower,—shad-blossom, with its fleecy stems, and azalia in rosy pink; and the real wild flowers—the dainty things as wild in growth as in name, were sprinkled everywhere. Wind flowers and columbine; orchis sweet as any hyacinth; tall Solomon's seal; spotless bloodroot; and violets—white, yellow, and purple. The dogwood stretched its white arms athwart hemlock and service; the creeping partridge berry carried its perfumed white stars over rocks and moss in the deep shade below. Yellow bellwort hung its fair flowers on every ridge; where the ground grew wet were dog's-tooth violet and chick wintergreen. There the red maples stood, with bunches of crimson keys,—at the edge of the higher ground their humbler growing sister the striped bark, waved her green tresses. There seemed to be no end to the flowers—nor to the variety—nor to the pleasure of picking.

"Faith—" said Mr. Linden.

Faith looked up from a bunch of Sanguinaria beside which she was crouching.

"I find so much Mignonette!—do you?"

Faith's eye flashed, and taking one of those little white stars she threw it towards Mr. Linden. It went in a graceful parabolic curve and fell harmlessly, like her courage, at his feet.

"What has become of the princess?"

"You ought rather to ask after the prince!" said Mr. Linden, picking up the Sanguinaria with great devotion. "Is this the Star of the Order of Merit?"

"I am not Queen Flora. I don't know."

"As what then was it bestowed?"

"It might be Mignonette's shield, which she used as a weapon because she hadn't any other! Endy, look at those green Maple flowers! You can reach them."

He gathered some of the hanging clusters, and then came and sat down where she was at work and began to put them into her basket, arranging and dressing the other flowers the while dextrously.

"Do you know, my little Sunbeam," he said, "that your namesakes are retreating?"

"I know it, Endy," she said hastening her last gatherings—"and I am ready."

They began their homeward way to the boat, wandering a little still, for flowers, and stopping to pick them, so that the sun was quite low before Kildeer river was reached. There Mr. Linden stood a moment looking about.

"Do you see the place where we sat, Faith?" he said,—"over on the other bank?"

She looked, and looked at him and smiled—very different from her look then! A glance comprehensive and satisfactory enough without words, so without any more words they went on their way along the shore of the river. As they neared their boat, the rays of the setting sun were darted into Kildeer river and gilded the embayed little vessel and all the surrounding shores. Rocks and trees and bits of land glowed or glistened in splendour wherever a point or a spray could catch the sun; the water in both rivers shone with a long strip of gold. They had had nothing so brilliant all day.

In the full glow and brightness Faith sat down in the boat with her flowers near her, and Mr. Linden loosened the sail. How pretty the bank looked as they were leaving it! the ashes of their fire on the rock, and the places where they had sat or wandered, and talked—such happy words!

"I shall always love Kildeer river," said Faith with little long breath, "because I read my letter here."

"And so shall I," said Mr. Linden,—"but my love for it dates back to the first piece of reading I ever did in its company." He looked back for a minute or two—at the one shore and the other—the sunlight, the trees, the flowery hillside, and it was well then that his face was not seen by Faith—there fell on it such a shadow of pain. But he presently turned to her again with just the former look.

"Now," he said, "do you think you can steer home in the twilight?"

"I don't know. Can I? I can follow directions."

"And I can give them."

And with that arrangement they ran out from the clean woody shores of Kildeer river, and set their sail for Pattaquasset. How fair, at that point of weather and day! a little quieter than the morning spring-tide of everything, but what was less gay was more peaceful; and against a soft south wind the little boat began to beat her way down, favoured however by the tide. These tacks made Mr. Linden's counsels more especially needed, but the short swift runs back and forth across the river were even more inspiriting than a steady run before the wind, and the constant attention which helm and sail required made talk and action lively enough.

"This is good, Endecott!" said Faith as the little boat came about for the fifth or sixth time.

"Faith," he said, smiling at her, "you look just as fresh as a rose!—the day does not seem to have tired you one bit."

"Tired!" she said,—"yes, I am a little bit tired—or hungry—but was there ever such a day as we have had?—since the first of January!"

"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said—but if it was a "message" Faith had then, it came from somewhere nearer than across the water. "If you are tired, dear child, give up the rudder to me, and lay down your head and rest. Do you see after what a sleep-inviting fashion the lights are twinkling all down the shore?"

"I'm not sleepy a bit;" said Faith,—"nor tired, except just enough; and I like this small portion of power you have put in my hands. How beautiful those lights look!—and the lights overhead, Endy. How beautiful every thing is!"—

"Yes," said Mr. Linden, "when there is light within.—

'He that hath light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day.'"

"That's beautiful!" said Faith after a pause.

And now the brush and stir of "coming about" again claimed their attention, and in a minute more they were stretching away on a new tack, with another set of constellations opposite to them in the sky. The breeze was fresh, though as mild as May; the boat made good speed; and in spite of beating down the river the mouth of the Mong was neared fast. Pattaquasset lights, a little cluster of them, appeared unmistakably; for down by the point there was a little knot of houses, variously concerned in trade or fisheries. Mr. Linden had to put his hand upon the tiller sometimes then, till they got in. Mr. Skip and Jerry were in waiting; had been, "a sight o' half hours," the former stated. Baskets and shad and passengers were transferred to the wagon, and within a moderate time thereafter welcomed (the latter) by Mrs. Derrick and supper—wherein, after a little delay therefor, the shad played a conspicuous and most satisfactory part.

Now there are no shad like the shad that come out of the Mong.



CHAPTER XVI.



So passed the days. Not indeed all at Kildeer river, but all in sweet, peaceful, bright occupations, whether of work or play. The trustees had received their notice, with much dismay; a little alleviated by the fact that Mr. Linden was willing to stay at his post for a few weeks after the end of the year.

It was almost a wonder, as the weeks went on, that Mr. Linden kept down the shadows as well as he did,—to leave Faith in the morning, and go to his devoted set of scholars—every one of whom had some particular as well as general hold on him and love for him; and then to get away by the hardest from their words and looks of sorrow and regret, and come back to the presence of her brave little face—Mr. Linden was between two fires. And they wrought a sort of deepening of everything about him which was lovely or loveable—which did not make it easier for Pattaquasset to let him go.