As far as anybody could be a help to him, Faith was one. In a gentleness of spirit that was of no kin to weakness, she took to her heart the good that she had, and was quite as much of a sunbeam as ever. How it would be when Mr. Linden was gone, Faith did not know; but she did know that that was one of to-morrow's cares, with which she had no business to-day. If the thought ever came up in its strength, strong enough to bring down her heart and head,—if there were times when Faith shewed herself to herself—the revelation was made to no other person. And therefore it is probable that it was a view she did not often indulge in.

Dr. Harrison was not much at Pattaquasset these days He found it convenient to be away.

Dr. Harrison was a man who did not like to throw away his ammunition. He by no means absented himself because of any failing in his fancy for somebody in Pattaquasset; the working of cause and effect was on a precisely opposite principle. The truth was, the fancy had grown to a strength that would not well bear the doubtful kind of intercourse which had been kept up between the parties; yet doubtful it remained, and must remain for the present. With Mr. Linden there in the family; with the familiar habits that naturally grow up between hostess and guest, friend and friend, fellow inmates of the same house—it was very difficult for the doctor to judge whether those habits had any other and deeper groundwork. It was impossible, with his scanty and limited chances of observation. At the same time there was too great a possibility—his jealousy called it more,—for him to be willing to take any forward and undoubtful steps himself. He did not find sea-room to put in his oar. In this state of things, all that his pride and his prudence would suffer him to do, was to wait—wait till either by Mr. Linden's stay or departure the truth might be made known. But to abide in Pattaquasset and watch patiently the signs of things, was more than Dr. Harrison's feeling,—for it was far more than fancy,—could bear. Just now, in despair or disgust, he had taken a longer enterprise than usual; and was very far indeed from Pattaquasset when the news of Mr. Linden's going set all the country in a flame. So, greatly to Faith's satisfaction, he could not for some time be there to add any flame of his own.

The morning readings with Mr. Linden were great and chief treasures to her all these days. She was always ready for him before six o'clock. Not now in a firelit room, with curtains drawn against the cold; but in the early freshness of the spring and summer mornings, with windows open and sweet air coming in. Duly Faith noted every "ladder of verses"—till her Bible grew to be well dotted with marks of red ink. They looked lovely to her eyes. So they might; for they were records of many very deep and sweet draughts from that well of water which the word is to them that love it; draughts deeper and sweeter than Faith could have drawn by herself—or she thought so. No quarter of an hour in the day Faith loved so well. It was often more.

One morning the "ladder" began with the silver trumpets made for the service of God in the hands of the priests of Israel. Faith, looking quietly out of the window, went roving in thought over the times and occasions Mr. Linden read of, when their triumphal blast had proclaimed the name and the glory of God in the ears of the thousands of Israel; times of rejoicing, of hope, of promise and of victory. Scenes of glory in the old Jewish history floated before her—with the sublime faith of the actors in them, and the magnificent emblematic language in which they read the truth. Faith only came fairly back to New England and Pattaquasset at David's declaration—

"Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance."

The words thrilled her. She thought of the many who had never heard the sound at all; and entered into Isaiah's foresight of a day when "the great trumpet shall be blown, and they shall come that were ready to perish in the land of Assyria, and the outcasts in the land of Egypt."—

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good; that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!"

Then came Isaiah's own blast of the trumpet, and then the sweet enlargements and proclamations of the gospel, and the Lord's own invitation to all who are "weary and heavy laden." But also—

"How shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!"—

"And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."

Faith sat by the open window, no sound abroad but the stir in the leaves and the low music of birds. The very still peace without, rather seemed to heighten and swell the moving of thoughts within, which surged like the sea. Mr. Linden stopped reading and was silent; and so was she, with nothing of all this appearing otherwise than in the fixed, abstracted look which went out into Pattaquasset but also went far beyond. And when she spoke, it was earnestly and with the same clear quiet.

"Endy—I am glad to have you go, for the reason you are going for. I wouldn't have you be anything else than what you mean to be,—not for the pleasure of having you here."

Her voice did not tremble, though indeed it told of feelings that were less assured.

"Dear Faith!" Mr. Linden said, with a bright flash of pleasure at her words, which changed even while he spoke, "you do not know what a comfort it is to me to feel that! And do you realize, little Sunbeam, what joy it is, that however far apart we can still work together—in the same cause, for the same master? The work which I take upon me by name, belongs as really to you,—for the call should be given by every one that heareth to every one that is athirst."

"I know—" she said quietly. "How grand those words are you have been reading!"

"Faith," Mr. Linden said presently, "have you any special attachment to this particular little Bible?"

"I have my red notes in it," she said with a bright smile.

"I am not quite satisfied with the paper and type, for your eyes—by firelight and twilight. Shall I break up any train of old association if I send you another?"

She gave him a look of what Dr. Harrison might have called "compound interest"; but assured him at the same time with sedate earnestness that the one she had would do very well.

This was but a day or two before Mr. Linden's leaving Pattaquasset. He had paid his many farewell visits before the last week came, and before that, too, had given up his weekday scholars,—those last days were all given to Faith. Given to her in every possible way—out of doors and within; in that fair summer weather the open air was the best of all places for talking, and the least liable to intrusion. It was a great relief to get away from village sights and sounds to the still woods, or the fresh shore,—it was a great help towards cheerfulness. And the help was needed. Wherever Mr. Linden went, among people, he met nothing but sorrow for his going away,—wherever he went, to house or woods, he carried the deep-hidden double sorrow in his heart, which no one guessed of all who so loudly bewailed his departure. Faith herself perhaps hardly realized what his part of that sorrow was; but he knew hers, and bore it—as one bears the trials of the dearest friend one has on earth.

He was to go very early in the morning, but when the late evening talk had impinged upon the night as much as it could be allowed to do, he gave Faith the unexpected promise of coming down to read with her just as usual next day.

It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her—she did not know how,—she only knew how he talked.

But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words. And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.



CHAPTER XVII.



When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room.

It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in—the dancing flames in the chimney—her lessons by the side of that couch—her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;—all that and everything beside seemed to make its passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.

Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed. There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one—and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it.

MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE,

I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,—how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know you will find it, Faith—I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,—but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me—and all the days that followed,—and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,—it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time.

I must go back to our Bible verses!—Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'—In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,—I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!

Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then—from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.

My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!—I shall be drawn on too far and too long,—it is not far from daybreak now. Take the best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,' and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'!

Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am

Always your own—

ENDECOTT."

The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However, in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs. Derrick looking much like her wonted self.

She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness; only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that came to the house. One would have thought her—perhaps Mrs. Derrick even did—quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr. Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth.

The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the Bible in its place for prayer—when she stopped short. For a moment she stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr. Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation.

Her mother watched her,—sat and looked at her as she wrote, with eyes very glistening and tremulous in their fond admiration. Indeed that had been their character all day, though Mrs. Derrick had followed Faith in her busy work, with no attempt to check her, with no allusion to what they both thought of uninterruptedly. Now, however, that Faith's tears had made their own way, her mother's heart was easier; and she watched the pretty writer by the lamp with all sorts of sweet and tender thoughts.

A day or two passed, in great quiet and tender ministering to each other of the mother and daughter. Faith had taken deep hold of her studies again and every minute of the day was filled up as busily as ever. So the sitting-room wore in all things minus one its wonted aspect, when, the third evening, it received Dr. Harrison.

He came in looking remarkably well, in his light dainty summer dress, and with that gentle carelessness of movement and manner that suited the relaxing persuasions of a hot summer day. He came in, too, a little like a person who through long absences has forgotten how wonted he used to be in a certain place or how fond he was of what he found there. Nothing further from the truth!

He accosted both ladies after his usual gay fashion, and talked for a while about nothings and as if he cared about nothing. He could make nothing of Faith, except perhaps that she was a trifle shy of him. That did not mean evil necessarily; it was natural enough. He wouldn't disturb her shyness!

"I have a sympathetic feeling for you, Mrs. Derrick," he remarked. "I miss Mr. Linden so much in Pattaquasset, I can't think how you must do in the house."

"No, doctor, you can't," was Mrs. Derrick's quiet rejoinder.

"How do you?"

"Why I can't tell you, either," said Mrs. Derrick.

"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I shouldn't like to be a lawyer and have to examine you as a witness. Unless it wasn't August!"

"Well I suppose we should agree upon that, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know what August has to do with it."

"My dear madam, it would be too much trouble!—Apparently it isn't August everywhere!"—A very peremptory rap at the front door came in the train of footsteps that were loud and brisk as by authority, and that had quite survived the enervating effects referred to by the doctor.

"Miss Faith," said Cindy appearing at the parlour door, "here's a man's got something—and he won't give it to me without I'll take oath I'm you—which of course I dursn't. I'm free to confess, I can't even get sight of it. Shall I fetch him in—thing and all?"

Faith went to the door. It was nobody more terrific than an express-man, who seemed to recognize "Miss Faith Derrick" by instinct, for he asked no questions—only put a package into her hands, and then gave her his book to sign. Faith signed her name, eagerly, and then ran up stairs with her treasure and a beating heart, and struck a light.

There was no need to ask where it came from—the address was plain enough; nor much need to ask what it was—she knew that it must be her Bible. Yet that only heightened the pleasure and interest, as she took off one wrapping paper after another, till its own beautiful morocco covers appeared. Within was the perfection of type and paper, with here and there a fine coloured map; in size and shape just that medium which seems to combine the excellencies of all the rest. There was no letter in the package, but a slip of paper with a new "ladder of verses" marked the place where they began; and on the fly leaf, below the inscription, was written the first verse of the ninety-first psalm. This was the leading reference on the slip of paper.

Has any one—with any heart—ever received such a package? To such a one there is no need to tell the glow of pleasure, the rush of affection and joy, which filled Faith's heart and her face; to anybody else it's no use. She had to exercise some care to prevent certain witnesses of the eyes from staining the morocco or spotting the leaves. The paper of references she left, to be enjoyed more leisurely another time; and went on turning over the pages, catching glimpses of the loved words that she had never seen so fairly presented to the eye before; when after a good deal of this sort of delectation, through half of which she was writing a letter to Mr. Linden, Faith suddenly recollected Dr. Harrison! Softly the paper wrappers enfolded her treasure, and then Faith went down stairs with the high colour of pleasure in her cheeks. The doctor took several observations.

He had not been profiting by any opportunity to "examine" Mrs. Derrick. On the contrary, he had talked about everything else, somewhat August fashion, in manner, but yet so cleverly that even Mrs. Derrick confessed afterwards she had been entertained. Now, on Faith's reappearance, he went on with his subject until he came to a natural pause in the conversation; which he changed by remarking, in a simple tone of interest,

"I haven't learned yet satisfactorily what took Mr. Linden away?"

"His own business," said Mrs. Derrick. "You must have heard what he is about now, doctor?"

"I have heard—but one hears everything. It is true then?"

"O yes, it's true," said Mrs. Derrick with an even play of her knitting-needles.

"But then follows another very natural question," said the doctor.—"Why did he come here at all?"

"I dare say he'd tell you if he was here—as I wish he was," said Mrs. Derrick,—"Mr. Linden always seemed to have good reasons for what he did."

"I think that too," said the doctor. "I am not quite so sure of his telling them to me. But Pattaquasset has reason to be very sorry he is gone away! What sort of a preacher will he make, Mrs. Derrick?"

"He's a good one now—" said Mrs. Derrick with a smile that was even a little moved. "Don't you think so, doctor?"

"How dare you ask me that, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor with slow funny utterance. "But I will confess this,—I would rather have him preach to me than you."

"What sort of a bad reason have you got for that?" she said, looking at him.

"Miss Faith," said the doctor with the mock air of being in a dilemma,—"you are good at definitions, if I remember—what is the proper character of a bad reason!"

Faith looked up—he had never seen her look prettier, with a little hidden laughter both on and under her face and that colour she had brought down stairs with her. But her answer was demure enough.

"I suppose, sir, one that ought not to be a reason at all,—or one that is not reason enough."

"Do you consider it a bad reason for my not liking Mrs. Derrick's preaching, that I am afraid of her?"

"I shouldn't think it was reason enough," said Faith.

"Do you like preaching from people that you are afraid of?"

"Yes. At least I think I should. I don't know that I ever really was afraid of anybody."

These words, or the manner which went with them, quite obliterated the idea of Mrs. Derrick from the doctor's head. But his manner did not change. He only addressed his talk to Faith and altered the character of it. Nothing could be more cool and disembarrassed. He had chosen his tactics.

They were made to regulate likewise the length of his visit, though the short summer evening had near run its course before he (in parliamentary phrase) "was on his legs" not to speak but to go. Then strolling on to the front door, he there met Reuben Taylor; flush in the doorway. The boy stept back into the hall to let him cone out; whence, as the doctor saw through the open window,—he went at once to Faith's side. But either accidentally or of design, Reuben stood so directly before her, that Dr. Harrison could see neither face—indeed could scarce see her at all. The little business transaction that went on then—the letter which Reuben took from his pocket and then again from its outer enveloppe,—the simple respect and pleasure with which he gave it to Faith—though colouring a little too,—all this was invisible, except to Mrs. Derrick. Faith's face would have told the doctor the whole. The pretty colour—the dropped eyes—and the undertone of her grateful, "I am very much obliged to you, Reuben!"

Reuben made no verbal answer, and staid not a minute longer, but the pleasure of his new trust was wonderful!



CHAPTER XVIII.



Faith did not have as uninterrupted a time for studies as she had counted upon for the next few months. In the first place, letters took a great many hours. In the second place, her studies were pretty frequently broken up of an evening by Dr. Harrison.

He certainly came often; whether it was because of the strength of attraction in that particular house, or the failure of any attraction beside in all the coasts of Pattaquasset, was a problem which remained unsolved by anything in the doctor's manner. His manner was like what it had been the evening just recounted. He amused himself, after his nonchalant fashion, and amused his hearers; he did not in the mean time call upon them for any help at all. He discerned easily that Faith had a little shyness about her; that might mean one thing or it might mean another; and Dr. Harrison was far too wise to risk the one thing by endeavouring to find out whether it was the other. The doctor was no fisher had no favour for the sport; but if he had been, he might have thought that now he was going to give his fish a very long line indeed, and let it play to any extent of shyness or wilfulness; his hand on the reel all the time.

The talk that would do for Miss Essie would not please Faith. The doctor knew that long ago. He drew upon his better stores. His knowledge of the earth we live on; his familiarity with nature's and art's wonders; history and philosophy; literature and science; and a knowledge of the world which he used as a little piquant spice to flavour all the rest of his knowledge. Thrown in justly, with a nice hand, so as not to offend, it did rather serve to provoke a delicate palate; while it unmistakably gratified his own. It was the salt to the doctor's dish.

But everything wants breaking up with variety, and variety itself may come to be monotonous. He asked Faith one evening if she knew anything of chymistry; and proceeded upon her reply to give her sundry bits of detail and some further insight into the meaning and bearing of the science. It was not August then, but it might have been, for the leisurely manner in which the doctor "unwound his skein" of talk, as if he were talking to himself or for himself; and yet he was, and he knew it, filling Faith's ears with delight. He took up the same subject afterwards from time to time; beginning from any trifle of suggestion, he would go off into an exquisite chymical discussion, illustrated and pointed and ornamented, as no lecturer but one loving both his subject and his object could ever make it. After a while the doctor began to come with bits of metal and phials of acids, and delight Faith and astonish Mrs. Derrick by turning her sitting-room into an impromptu laboratory. Such fumes! such gaseous odours! such ominous "reports", were never known in and about Mrs. Derrick's quiet household; nor were her basins and tumblers ever put to such strange, and in her view hideous, uses. But Dr. Harrison rather seemed to enjoy what appeared at first sight inconveniences; triumphed over the imperfections of tools and instruments, and wrought wonders over which Faith bent with greater raptures than if the marvels of Aladdin's lamp had been shewn before her. The doctor began by slow degrees; he let all this grow up of itself; he asked only for a tumbler the first time. And insensibly they went on, from one thing to another; till instead of a tumbler, the doctor would sometimes be surrounded with a most extraordinary retinue and train of diversified crockery and china. An empty butter-tub came to do duty for a water-bath; bottles and jars and cups and glasses, of various shapes and dimensions, attended or waited upon the doctor's operations; and with a slight apology and assurance to Mrs. Derrick he on more than one or two occasions appropriated the clock-shade for his use and behoof as a receiver. Then siphons began to come in the doctor's pocket; and glass tubes, bent and straight, open and sealed, in the doctor's hand; and one of his evenings came to be "better than a play." A most beautiful and exquisite play to Faith. Yet Dr. Harrison never forgot his tactics; never let his fish feel the line; and to Faith's joyous "How shall I ever thank you, Dr. Harrison!"—would reply by a dry request that she would induce Mrs. Derrick to have muffins for tea some evening and let him come.

And what did Dr. Harrison gain by all this? He did gain some hours of pleasure—that would have been very exquisite pleasure, but for the doubt that haunted him, and respecting which he could get no data of decision. The shyness and reserve did pass away from Faith; she met him and talked with him as a pleasant intimate friend whose company she enjoyed and who had a sort of right to hers; the right of friendship and kindliness. But then he never did anything to try her shyness or to call up her reserve. He never asked anything of her that she could refuse. He never advanced a step where it could with decency be repressed. He knew it. But he bided his time. He did not know what thorough and full accounts of all his evenings went—through the post-office.

He knew, and it rather annoyed him, that Reuben Taylor was very freely admitted and very intimately regarded in the house. There was perhaps no very good reason why this should have annoyed the doctor. Yet somehow he always rather identified Reuben Taylor with another of his friends. He found out, too, that Reuben much preferred the times when he, the doctor, was not there; for after once or twice coming in upon sulphuric acid and clock shades (from which he retreated faster than if it had all been gun-powder) Reuben changed his hour; and the doctor had the satisfaction of wishing him good evening in the porch—or of passing him on the sidewalk—or of hearing the swing of the little gate and Reuben's quick bound up the steps when his own feet were well out in the common ground of the road.

Mrs. Derrick expressed unequivocally (to Faith, not the doctor) her dislike of all chymical "smells" whatever, and her abhorrence of all "reports" but those which went off after the doctor's departure; the preparation of which Mrs. Derrick beheld with a sort of vindictive satisfaction. Mr. Linden enjoyed his letters unqualifiedly, sometimes wrote chymical answers—now and then forestalling the doctor, but rarely saying much about him. Faith was in little danger of annoyance from anything with her mother sitting by, and for the rest Dr. Harrison was at his own risk. Letters were too precious—every inch of them—to be much taken up with discussing him. Other things were of more interest,—sometimes discussion, sometimes information, oftenest of all, talk; and now and then came with the letter some book to give Faith a new bit of reading. Above all, the letters told her—in a sort of indefinable, unconscious way, how much, how much her presence was missed and longed for; it seemed to her as if where one letter laid it down the next took it up—not in word but in atmosphere, and carried it further. In that one respect (though Faith never found it out) the chymical accounts gave pain.

Faith in her letters never spoke directly of this element of his; but she made many a gentle effort to meet it and soothe what could be soothed. To this end partly were her very full accounts of all the course of her quiet life. As fearlessly and simply as possible Faith talked, to him; quite willing to be found wrong and to be told so, wherever wrong was. It was rather by the fulness of what she gave him, than by any declaration of want on her own part, that Mr. Linden could tell from her letters how much she felt or missed in his absence. She rarely put any of that into words, and if it got in atmospherically it was by the subtlest of entrances. When she spoke it at all, it was generally a very frank and simple expression of strong truth.

Of out-door work, during all this time, she had a variety. For some time after Mr. Linden's going away, neither Mrs. Stoutenburgh nor the Squire had been near the house; but then they began to amuse themselves with taking her to drive, and whenever Faith could and would go she was sure of a pleasant hour or two out in the brisk autumn air, and with no danger of even hearing Mr. Linden's name mentioned. The silence indeed proved rather too much, but it was better than speech. Then she and Reuben had many excursions, short and long. Sometimes the flowers or eggs or tracts were sent by him alone, but often Faith chose to go too; and he was her ever ready, respectful, and efficient escort,—respect it was truly, of the deepest and most affectionate kind. And thus—on foot or with Jerry—the two went their rounds; but at such houses Faith must both hear and speak of Mr. Linden—there was always some question to answer, some story to hear.

It happened, among Dr. Harrison's other pleasures, that he several times met them on these expeditions; generally when he was driving, sometimes when they were too; but one late November afternoon—not late in the month but late in the day, fortune favoured him. Strolling along for an unwonted walk, the doctor beheld from a little hill Faith and Reuben in the valley below,—saw them go up to the door of a cottage, saw Faith go in, and Reuben sit down in the porch and take out his book. It was a fair picture,—the brown woodland, the soft sunlight, the little dark cottage, the pretty youthful figures with their quick steps and natural gestures, and the evening hue and tone of everything. But the doctor did not admire it—and went down the hill without even taking off his hat to the chickadees that bobbed their black caps at him from both sides of the road. By the porch the doctor suddenly slackened his pace, looked within, nodded to Reuben, and came to a halt.

"Have I accidentally found out where you live, Reuben?"

"I live down by the shore, sir," said Reuben standing up.

"I thought—" said the doctor, "I had got an impression that you were not a thorough-going Pattaquasseter—but you looked so much at home there.—Where do you live? whereabouts, I mean; for the shore stretches a long way."

Reuben gave the vernacular name of the little rocky coast point which was his home, but the point itself was too much out of the doctor's 'beat' to have the name familiar.

"How far off is that?"

"About four miles from here, sir."

"May I ask what you are studying so diligently four miles from home at this hour?"

Reuben coloured a good deal, but with not more than a moment's reluctance held out his book for the doctor's inspection. It was a Bible. The doctor's face changed, ever so little; but with what feeling, or combination of feelings, it would have taken a much wiser reader of men and faces than Reuben to tell. It was only a moment, and then he stood with the book in his hand gravely turning it over, but with his usual face.

"I once had the pleasure of asking you questions on some other matters," he remarked,—"and I remember you answered well. Can you pass as good an examination in this?"

"As to the words, sir? or the thoughts?—I don't quite know," said Reuben modestly.

"Words are the signs of thoughts, you know."

"Yes, sir—but nobody can know all the Bible thoughts—though some people have learned all the Bible words."

The doctor gave a little sort of commenting nod, rather approving than otherwise. "You are safe here," he paid as he handed the book back to Reuben; "for in this study I couldn't examine you. What are you pursuing the study for?—may I ask?"

"If you don't know!" was in the boy's full gaze for a moment. But he looked down again, answering steadily—"'Thy word have I hid in my heart, that I might not sin against thee!'—I love it, Dr. Harrison—and it shews me the way to serve God."

"Well," said the doctor rather kindly—"if I hadn't interrupted you, how much more study would you have accomplished before you thought it time to set oft for that four miles' walk home—to that unpronounceable place?"

"I don't know, sir—I am not obliged to be there by any particular time of night."

"No, I know you are not. But—excuse my curiosity!—are you so fond of the Bible that you stop on the way home to read it as you go along? or are you waiting for somebody?"

The words brought the colour back with a different tinge, but Reuben simply answered, "No, sir—I did not stop here to read. I am waiting."

"For Miss Derrick, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I dare say Miss Derrick will release you for this time, and allow me to attend her home, whither I am going myself."

"I must wait till she comes out, sir," Reuben said, with the respectful intractability which the doctor remembered.

"Of course!" he said. "Did you ever take lessons of anybody but Mr. Linden?—" But at this point the house door opened and Faith came out.

"Miss Faith," said the doctor, after his greeting which was thoroughly in character, "if you will tell your escort here—who I am sure is a staunch one—that you need him no longer, he will feel free to begin his long walk to the shore,—and I shall have the rare pleasure and honour of going home with you."

Faith turned frankly. "Do you want to go home, Reuben?"

"No, Miss Faith"—was the equally frank, low-spoken answer,—"not unless you want me to go." Reuben could but speak the truth—and he did try to speak it with as little offence as possible; though with an instinctive feeling that the time "when truth will be truth and not treason," had not yet arrived. "I mean, that I want to do just what you wish," he added looking up at her.

"I don't want you to go, then," said Faith laughing, "for I mean that you shall come home to tea with me. Dr. Harrison, I will invite you too," she said turning her bright face towards him. "I believe—there are muffins to-night."

"Miss Faith,"—said the doctor,—"you are an angel!"

"What is the connexion between that and muffins?" said Faith merrily, for Reuben was at her side and she felt free.

"You mistake the connexion," said the doctor gravely. "Angels are supposed to be impartial in their attentions to the human race, and not swayed by such curious—and of course arrogant—considerations as move the lower herd of mortals. To an immaterial creature, how can the height of a door be material!"

"But I think you are mistaken," said Faith gently. "I don't believe any creatures mind more what they find inside the door."

"What did you find inside that door?" said the doctor.

Faith hesitated. "Do you know to-morrow is Thanksgiving day, Dr. Harrison?"

"I am not quite sure that I ought to say I know it—though my father did read the proclamation. I suppose I know it now."

"I found inside of that door some people who could not make pumpkin pies—and Reuben and I have been carrying them one of mother's."

"What a day they will have of it!" said the doctor,—"if Mrs. Derrick's pies are made in the same place as her muffins. But can you find nothing better to do than running round the country to supply the people that haven't pies?"

"Not many things pleasanter,"—said Faith looking at him.

"I see I was right," said he smiling. "I have no doubt angels do that sort of thing. But it is a sort of pleasure of which I have no knowledge. All my life I have pleased only myself. Yet one would wish to have some share in it, too. I can't make pies! And if I could, I shouldn't know in the least where to bestow them. Do you think you could take this now," said he producing a gold eagle, "and turn it into pumpkins or anything else that you think will make people happy—and see that they get to the right places?—for me?"

"Do you mean it seriously, Dr. Harrison?"

"If you will have the condescension!"

"Oh thank you!" said Faith flushing with joy,—"oh thank you! I am very glad of this, and so will many others be. Dr. Harrison, I wish you could know the pleasure this will give!—the good it will do."

"I don't think a ten-dollar piece ever gave me so much pleasure," said he looking a little moved. "About the good I don't know; that's not so easy."

Faith left that point for him to consider, though with many a wish in her own heart. But the walk home brightened into a very pleasant one after that.



CHAPTER XIX.



The soft grey clouds which had hung about the setting sun only waited his departure to double their folds and spread them all over the sky. Then the wind rose, sweeping gustily through the bare branches, and heavy drops of rain fell scatteringly on the dead leaves. But when wind and rain had taken a little more counsel together, they joined forces in a wild stormy concert which swept on with increasing tumult. It did not disturb Faith and her mother, at their quiet work and reading,—it did not deter Cindy from going over night to spend Thanksgiving day with her friends,—but it was a wild storm nevertheless; and while the hours of the night rolled on over the sleepers in Mrs. Derrick's house, still wind and rain kept up their carousal, nor thought of being quiet even when the morning broke.

"But rather, giving of thanks."—That was the motto of the day—the one answer to the many vexed questions of life and care. Care was pressing, and life distracting, and everywhere was something that seemed to call for tears or complaints. To all of these the day answered—"But rather, giving of thanks."

It was dark enough when Faith awoke; and she sat up in bed a minute or two, listening to the wild blasts of wind and the heavy pattering of the rain,—hearing the screech of the locomotive as the train swept by in the distance, with a pang at the thought of its freight of homeward-bound and expected dear ones,—then taking the day's motto, and gently and quietly going about the day's work. But the first of its work for her, was to cancel the bit of work it had already done by itself; and for that Faith went to her Bible,—went first to the list of texts that had come with it; endeavouring to realize and make sure her ground on that verse of the 91st Psalm—then on from that to its following—

"For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion."

It was not a "time of trouble." Faith would not call it so. Never so bright a Thanksgiving day had risen upon her, spite of its clouds. But trouble might come; in the course of life-experience she knew it was pretty sure to come; and she sought to refuge herself beforehand in the promise of that pavilion of hiding. The driving wind and storm that emblematized another kind, gave emphasis also to the emblem of shelter. How Faith blessed her Bible!

The next verse enlarged a little.—

"Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues."

Then followed the joyful acceptance of that promise—

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."

Then its result—

"I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever."

"From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever; I will trust in the covert of thy wings."

What strong refuge! what riches of trust!—How very bright Faith's fire-lit room looked, with the wind whistling all about, and the red light on her open Bible. She turned on. And like the full burst of a chorus after that solo, she seemed to hear the whole Church Militant say,—

"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."

Her mind swept back to the martyr ages,—to times when the church's road has been in darkness and in light, and the long train of pilgrims have gone over it in light and in darkness, each with that staff in his hand. Faith looked long at those words, seeming to see the great "cloud of witnesses" pass in procession before her. How true the words were to Abraham, when he left his home. How true to Daniel when he was thrown to the lions. How true they were to Stephen when he uttered his dying cry!—how true to the little child whom she had seen go to be with Christ for ever!—"In all generations."

The prophets, true to their office, threw the light for ward.—

"He shall be for a sanctuary."

"Although I have cast them far off among the heathen, and although I have scattered them among the countries, yet will I be to them as a little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come."

"I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon."

The next words gave the whole description, the whole key of entrance.

"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in God. And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."

Here was the "Sanctuary" on earth,—the foreshewing image of the one on high.

"I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it."

How far Faith had got from the earthly Thanksgiving day—even to that finished and everlasting one on high! She had of course read and studied these passages all before—once; and then she had shut them up as a particular casket of treasures that she would not grow too familiar with suddenly, but would keep to enjoy their brightness another time. Something this Thanksgiving morning had made Faith want them. She now sat looking at the last words, feeling as if she wanted nothing.

The wind and the rain still raged without, drowning and merging any sounds there might be in the road, though truly few animate things were abroad at that hour in that weather. Mr. Skip had roused himself, indeed, for his day's pleasure, and after lighting the kitchen fire had gone forth—leaving it to take care of itself; but when the door closed after him, Faith and her fire looked at each other in the same stillness as before. Until she heard the front door open and shut,—that was the first sound, and the last,—no unwonted one, either; that door opened and shut twenty times a day. What intangible, well-recognized modification in its motions now, made Faith's heart bound and sink with sudden belief—with swift denial? Who was it? at that hour! Faith sprang to the parlour door, she did not know how, and was in the dark hall. A little gleam of firelight followed her—a little faint dawn came through the fanlight of the door: just enough to reveal to Faith those very outlines which at first sight she had pronounced "pleasant." One more spring Faith made; with no scream of delight, but with a low exclamation, very low, that for its many-folded sweetness was like the involutions of a rosebud.

"Faith!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch me till I get out of the rain!"—which prohibition Faith might consider useless, or might think that—shuttlecock fashion—it had got turned round in the air.

"The best place to get out of the rain is in here," she said trying to draw him along with her. "Oh Endy! how came you in it?"

"If you say three words to me, I shall give you the benefit of all the remaining raindrops," said Mr. Linden, disengaging himself to throw off his overcoat,—"how can one do anything, with you standing there? How came I in it?—I came in it! Precious child! how do you do?" And she was taken possession of, and carried off into the next room, like a rosebud as she was, to have the same question put a great many times in a different way. More words for her, just then, Mr. Linden did not seem to have. Nor Faith for him. She stood very still, her face in a glow of shy joy, but her eyes and even her lips grave and quiet; except when sometimes a very tiny indicatory smile broke half way upon them.

"When did you come?"

"I came in the night train. Mignonette—are you glad to see me?"

The smile shewed her teeth a little. They would bear shewing, but this was only a glimmer of the white enamel.

"Then you have been travelling all night?"

"Yes. How are you going to prove your position?"

"What position, Endy?"

"That you are glad to see me."

"I don't know,"—she said looking up at him.

"You cannot think of any proof to give me?"

"I can think of a great many."

"I am ready to take them!" said Mr. Linden demurely.

"Then if you will sit down and let me leave you for a few minutes, I will see what I can do."

"Thank you—the proofs that I mean would by no means take you further off. Suppose you see what you can do without going away."

She laid her head down for a minute, colouring too, even the cheek that was high-coloured before; but she looked up again.

"Stoop your high head, then, Endy!"—she said;—and she gave him two kisses, as full and earnest as they were soft. There was no doubt Faith had proved her position!

"Faith, darling," he said, "have you been growing thin?—or is it only that I have had to do with such substantial humanity of late. Look up here and let me see—are you anything but the essence of Mignonette?"

The face she shewed was aptly named; about as pure as that. With grave, loving intentness—not the less grave for its little companion smile—Mr. Linden studied her face for a minute,—pushing back her hair.

"Do you think,"—she said then in a light soft tone—a departure from the last words,—"do you think you won't want the essence of something else by and by, Endecott?"

"No,"—decidedly,—"I want nothing but you—so you may as well make up your mind to want nothing but me."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"Not necessarily in such a simple duet," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"people do not always realize their ideal. Mignonette, you are just as lovely as you can be!—and you need not bring Miss Reason to keep me in order. I suppose if she were in the house it would end in her wanting her breakfast."

"I don't like Miss Keason," said Faith, "and the only thing I am thinking of putting in order is the kitchen fire. Would you like to go there with me? Nobody's in the house—Cindy went yesterday to a wedding, and Mr. Skip is gone home to keep Thanksgiving."

"That is the best thing I ever heard of Cindy," said Mr. Linden. "Of course I will go!—and play Ferdinand again Faith, would the doctor call me an 'acid'—come to dissolve all his crystals?"

"Dr. Harrison gave me ten dollars yesterday for the poor people," said Faith as she led the way to the kitchen. Arrived there, she placed a chair for Mr. Linden and requested him to be seated; while she examined into the state of the fire. The chair was disregarded—the fire received double attention.

"Faith," he said laughingly, "I bear the curb about as well as Stranger. I have a great mind to tell you how that eagle stands in the doctor's memorandum book!"

Faith dropped her hands for the moment and looked at him, with grave eyes of wide-open attention. The look changed Mr. Linden's purpose,—he could not bear to take away all the pleasure the eagle had brought on his gold wings.

"I don't believe there is such a book in existence," he said lightly. "Miranda, what would you like to have me do for you now?—the fire is ready for anything."

"I haven't anything ready for it yet," said Faith, "but I will have—if you'll wait a bit."—She left him there, and ran off—coming back in a little while. And then Mr. Linden was initiated, if he never was before, in kitchen mysteries. Faith covered herself with a great apron, rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and with funny little glances at him between whiles, went round the room about various pieces of work. Almost noiselessly, with the utmost nicety of quick and clean work, she was busy in one thing after another and in two or three at the same time; while Mr. Linden stood or sat by the fire looking on. Two things he comprehended; the potatoes which were put over the fire to boil and the white shortcakes which finally stood cut out on the board ready for baking. The preliminary flour and cream and mixing in the bowl had been (culinary) Sanscrit to him. He had watched her somewhat silently of late, but none the less intently: indeed in all his watching there had been a silent thread woven in with its laughing and busy talk,—his eyes had followed her as one follows a veritable sunbeam, noting the bright gleams of colour here, and the soft light there, and thinking of the time when it must quit the room.

"Faith," he said as she cut out her cakes, "are these what you made for me the first night I came here?"

"I believe so!"

"What do you suppose you look like—going about the kitchen in this style?—you make me think irresistibly of something."

"I should like to know," said Faith with an amused laugh.

"I shall make you blush, if I tell you," said Mr. Linden.

That was enough to do it! Faith gave him one look, and went on with her shortcakes.

"You don't care about knowing, after all?" said Mr. Linden. "Well,—Faith, do you expect ever to make such things in my house?—because if you do, I think it will ensure my coming down stairs before breakfast."

How she flushed—over cheek and brow,—then remarked gravely that, "she was glad he liked it."

"Yes, and you have no idea what effects my liking will produce!" said Mr. Linden. "You see, Faith, it may happen to us now and then to be left without other hands than our own in the house (there is no reliance whatever to be placed upon cottages!) and then you will come down, as now, and I shall come too—taking the precaution to bring a book, that nobody may suspect what I come for. Then enter one of my parishioners—Faith, are you attending?"

Faith had stopped, and poising her rolling pin the reverse way on the board—that is, on end,—had leaned her arms upon it,—giving up shortcakes entirely for the time being.

"You will not be in that position," said Mr. Linden, "but going on properly with your cakes—as you should be now. Then enter one of my parishioners who lives six miles off, to ask me to come over to his house and instruct him in the best way of hanging his gate,—which I of course promise to do, notwithstanding your protestations that I know nothing of that—nor of anything else. Parishioner goes away and reports. One part of the people say how economical we are!—to make one fire do our cooking and studying. Another part have their suspicions that you keep me at hand to lift off the teakettle (much strengthened by report of your protest.) And the charitable part at once propose to raise my salary—so that we may have as many fires as we like. Faith—what should we do in the circumstances?"

Faith was biting her lips and rolling out cakes with the swiftest activity, not allowing Mr. Linden a sight of her face.

"If you hung the gate, I should think you would take the money"—she answered demurely.

"I said you would say I could not do it!" said Mr. Linden. "Which being duly reported and considered by certain other people, will cause them to shake their heads, and wish in half audible (but most telegraphic!) whispers, 'that Mr. Linden were half as smart as his wife'!"

Faith stopped again. "Oh Endy!"—she exclaimed between laughing and pleading.

"Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?"

But Faith went at her cakes and finished the few that were left.

"I think you must be very much in want of your breakfast," she said coming to the fire. "You have played Prince Ferdinand—do you think you would mind acting the part of King Alfred, for once?"

"My dear, I will play any part for you whatever!—in our duet. Shall I practise taking off the kettle to begin with?"

"I don't think you had better,"—Faith said with a kept down laugh,—"for it doesn't boil."

"Shall I take you off then? What are you going to do while I play Alfred?—I will not answer for my solo performances."

"I shall not be gone but a few minutes. Do you think you could take this little skillet from the fire if it did—boil?"

Mr. Linden might have got into a reverie after she ran away;—but certain it is that the skillet was in imminent danger of "boiling over" when Faith appeared at his side and with a laughing look at him gently lifted it off.

"You are an excellent Alfred!"

"What version of Alfred have you learned?" he said laughing, and catching it from her hand before it reached the hearth. "I thought hot water was his reward—not his work."

"I thought, Endy, you would like to go up to your room before breakfast. Mother will be down presently."

"And am I to find the perfection of a fire, as usual?" said Mr. Linden, taking both her hands in his and looking at her. "Little Sunbeam!—you should not have done that! Do you know what you deserve?"

She stood before him rather soberly, glancing up and down; but he little guessed what her quietness covered. Though the lines of her lip did give tiny indication that quietness was stirred somewhere. He drew her to him for a moment, with one or two unconnected words of deep affection, then turned and went away. Faith listened to hear the well known run up the stairs—the familiar closing of that door,—how strange it sounded! how gladsome, how sorrowful. She stood still just where Mr. Linden had left her, as if sorrow and joy both held her with detaining hands.

"Why child? Faith!"—said Mrs. Derrick coming into the kitchen, "what are you about? What made you get up so early, Faith? What's the matter?—breakfast ready at this time of day! Couldn't you sleep, pretty child?" she added tenderly.

"I didn't get up very much earlier than usual, mother. Don't you want breakfast?"

"Whenever you like, child," said her mother, taking hold in her turn,—"but what's made you in such a hurry? And what makes you look so, Faith?—You're not pale, neither,—how do you look?"

Faith came so close that her mother could not see, and kissed her. "Mother, Mr. Linden is here."

"Here!" said Mrs. Derrick with a little sympathetic start—it was not all surprise, nor all joy.—"Pretty child! how glad I am! But why didn't you call me, Faith?—and why don't you go and sit down and be quiet—now you've just been tiring yourself, and I could have done the whole! And of all things, how could he get here in such weather? No wonder you're in a hurry, child!"—and Mrs. Derrick began to work in earnest.

Faith gave her the word or two more that she could give, and went to the dairy. It was Faith's domain; she was alone, and her industry fell from her hands. Breakfast and all might wait. Faith set down her bowl and spoon, sat down herself on the low dairy shelf before the window, cold and November though it was, and let the tears come, of which she had a whole heartful in store; and for a little while they fell faster than the raindrops which beat and rattled against the panes. But this was a gentler shower, and cleared the sky. Faith rose up from the shelf entirely herself again.

So busy, skimming off the smooth cream, she felt the light touch of hands on her shoulders—felt more than that on her cheek. Had the tears left any trace there?—that Mr. Linden brought her face round into view. He asked no such question, however, unless with his eyes.

"Mignonette, what are you about?"

"King Alfred's breakfast. I forgot you knew the way to the dairy!"

"Or could find it if I did not. What shape does my breakfast take in these regions?"

"It takes the shape—Let us go back to the kitchen and we will see."

It was spry work in the kitchen now! How Faith's fingers went about. But Mr. Linden could make nothing of the form his breakfast was taking—nothing of Faith's mysterious bowl, in which the cream he had seen her skim went into compound with the potatoes he had seen boiling and with also certain butter and eggs. The mixture went into the oven, and then Faith went off to set the table in the parlour. As they were alone to-day the fire in the dining-room was not to be kindled.

The storm beat so differently upon the windows now!—now, when it was only a barrier against people who were not wanted to come in. Mr. Linden followed Faith in her motions, sometimes with eye and voice, sometimes with his own steps; confusing both her and her arrangements, making her laugh, and himself the cause of various irregularities in the table-setting, which he was very quick to point out.

"Mignonette," he said, "I think it is a perfect day! Do you hear how it storms?"

"And aren't you glad Cindy went to a wedding? And oh, Endy!—how many people will be coming after you to-day?" Faith stopped, knife in hand.

"Did you suppose that I would come here to see you, and then be obliged to see half Pattaquasset instead? I stopped at Patchaug station,—there Reuben met me, and we had as pleasant a four mile drive in the rain as I ever remember. As to the wedding—I think there can never be more than one other so felicitous."

Faith ran off.

And presently the breakfast came in, variously, in her hands and in Mrs. Derrick's. It was broad light now, and the curtains drawn back, but the red firelight still gave the hue of the room; and the breakfast-table and the three people round it wanted for no element or means of comfort. There were the shortcakes, which Mr. Linden might more readily recognize now in their light brown flakiness—his coffee was poured upon the richest of cream; the potatoes came out of the oven in the shape of a great puff-ball, of most tender consistency; and the remains of a cold chicken had been mystified into such a dish of delicacy as no hands but a Frenchwoman's—or Faith's—could concoct. It's a pleasant thing to be catered for by hands that love you. Mr. Linden had found that pleasure this morning before. But both Faith and he were undoubtedly ready for their breakfast!

After breakfast came the consideration of a basketful of things Mr. Linden had brought her. Very simple things they were, and unromantic enough to be useful; yet with sentiment enough about them,—if that name might be given to the tokens of a care that busied itself about all the ins and outs of her daily life, and sought out and remembered the various little things that she wanted and could not get; for the various papers of sugarplums in which the whole were packed, Mr. Linden declared them to be nothing but epithets and adjectives.

The weather held on its way into the afternoon; but what was most unexpected, the afternoon brought a visiter. Mr. Linden and Faith, deep in talk, heard the sound of a foot on the scraper and then of a knock at the door, which made them both start up. Faith went to the door. But before she could open it, Mrs. Derrick came up behind her with swift steps and remanded Faith to the parlour.

"I'll open it, child," she said,—"it's no use for you to run the risk of seeing anybody you don't want to." So Faith returned to Mr. Linden. But the first word set all fears at rest—it was only Reuben Taylor. He presented himself with many apologies, and would fain have told his errand to Mrs. Derrick, but as it was for Faith, the good lady opened the parlour door and bade Reuben go in,—which, as he could not help it, Reuben did. But the colour of his face as he came in!—Mr. Linden took the effect of it—Faith was partly occupied with her own; and Reuben, thinking the sooner the quicker—walked straight up to her.

"Miss Faith," he said, trying to speak as usual, "I beg your pardon—but I was sent here with this,"—and Reuben presented a moderately large round basket, without a handle.

"Reuben, come up to the fire," said Mr. Linden; while Faith took the basket and exclaimed, "This! Who in the world sent you, Reuben?—Yes, come to the fire."

"I am not cold, sir," Reuben said with a look towards where Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, as if his desire was to get out of the room—instead of further in, though he did follow Faith a step or two as she went that way. "I didn't mean to come here to-day, Mr. Linden, but—"

"Didn't mean to come here?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—"what have you been doing, to be afraid of me? Faith, has your postman been remiss?"

They were a pair, Reuben and Faith! though the colour of the one was varying, while Reuben's was steady. Faith nevertheless seized the boy's hand and drew him with gentle violence up to the fire.

"Who sent you with this, Reuben?"

"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. I was off on an errand after church, and one of his men came after me and told me to come to the house. And there I saw the doctor himself—and ho told me to bring you this basket, ma'am, and that he didn't like to trust it to any one else. And—" but there Reuben hesitated.

"And that you were the only person he knew who would go through fire and water for him?" said Mr. Linden.

"No, sir, but—I suppose I've got to say it, since he told me to,—Dr. Harrison said, Miss Faith, that—" the message seemed to stir both Reuben's shame and laughter—"that he had begged a cake of his sister, to go with your Thanksgiving pies—and that it was in the basket. And that I needn't tell anybody else about it."

"Reuben," said Mr. Linden laughing, "you needn't tell him that I shall eat half the cake."

"No, sir"—Reuben said,—and tried not to laugh, and couldn't help it.

The third member of the trio shewed no disposition at all to much laughter. She had put the basket down on the table and looked at it from a distance, as if it had contained the four and twenty live blackbirds—or a small powder magazine. The effect of his message Reuben did not stay to see. He went round to Mr. Linden to ask if the morning orders were unchanged, clasped hands with him—then bowed low to Faith and went out.

With very demure face Mr. Linden seated himself in one of the easy-chairs, and looked towards the table, with the air of one who expects—something! And not demurely but with grave consciousness, Faith stood looking in the same direction; then her eyes went to Mr. Linden. But his face did not relax in the least.

"Do you suppose that basket holds a kitten?" he said contemplatively.

Faith did not answer but walked over to the table and began the work of investigation. Mr. Linden came too. "If you are to make feline discoveries, I must stand by you, little bird," he said.

The basket was carefully tied with a network of strings over the top; then followed one paper after another, a silk paper at last,—and the cake was revealed. The low exclamation that burst from Faith might be characterized as one of mingled admiration and dismay.

Certainly Dr. Harrison had amused himself that Thanksgiving day! perhaps in terror of his old enemy, ennui. At least his basket looked so.

The cake lay upon a white paper in the basket, with a little space all around. It was a rather small loaf with a plain icing. But round the sides of it were trailed long sprays of ivy geranium, making a beautiful bordering. The centre was crowned with a white camellia in its perfection. From the tip edge of each outer petal depended a drop of gold, made to adhere there by some strong gum probably; and between the camellia and the ivy wreaths was a brilliant ring of gold spots, somewhat larger, set in the icing. Somebody, and it was probably the doctor, for want of better to do,—had carefully prepared the places to receive them, so that they were set in the white like a very neat inlay. It was presently seen that quarter eagles made the inlay, and that the camellia was dropped with gold dollars.

On the ivy lay a note. Faith looked at Mr. Linden as she took it up; broke the seal, and hastily running over the paper gave it to him—



"MY DEAR MISS FAITH,



My yesterday's speculation in pumpkins proved so successful, that like a true speculator it made me want to plunge deeper—into the pumpkin field! I find myself this morning dissatisfied with what I have done—and beg to send a cake to go along with the pies—to be apportioned of course as your judgment shall suggest. I begged the cake from Sophy, who I am sure would not have given it to me if she had known what I was going to do with it.

Your pleasure, personal and representative, last night, is a reproach to me whenever I think of it. Yet my unwonted hand knows neither how to cut up cake, nor what to do with it when it is cut—except—avaler! Am I wrong in hoping that you will do me the grace to make available what I should only—if I tried to do better with it—throw away? and that as a token of your forgiveness and grace you will on the next opportunity bestow a piece of pumpkin pie, such as you carried the other night, on



Your very respectful and most obedient servant,



JULIUS HARRISON."



PATTAQUASSET, Nov. 15, 18—.



Mr. Linden read the note more deliberately than Faith had done, but his face, the while, she could not read; though (fascinated by the difficulty) her glances changed to a steady gaze. It was quietly grave—that was all and not all,—and the note was given back to her with a smile that spoke both "thoughts" of the doctor, and pleasure for any pleasure Faith might have from his basket. But then some of the deeper feeling came out in his comments—and they were peculiar. He had stood still for a second after reading the note,—his eyes looking down at the cake—gravely; but then they came to her; and suddenly taking her in his arms Mr. Linden gave her—it would be hazardous to say, as many kisses as Dr. Harrison had gold pieces—but certainly as many as he had put in the basket, and more. Faith did not read them, either, at first,—till the repetition—or the way of it, told what they were; the glad saying that she was his, beyond any one's power to buy her,—more than all, an indemnification to himself for all the gold he could not lay at her feet! There needed no speech to tell her both.

A word or two had answered his demonstrations, first a wondering word, and then afterwards a low repetition of his name, in a tone of humble recognition and protest. Now she looked up at him with a child's clear face, full of the colour he had brought into it.

"Little darling," he said, "you will have your hands full of business!"

"Oh Endy—I am very sorry!"

"Sorry?" Mr. Linden said. "What about?"

"I'm sorry that basket has come here!"

"It gives you the means of making other people glad."

"Yes—but,"—Faith looked uncomfortably at the basket. Then brought her eyes back to Mr. Linden's face. "What ought I to do, Endecott?"

"The most good and the least harm you can in the circumstances."

"How shall I,—the last?"—she said with a manner like a beautiful child, truth struggling through embarrassment.

"If you could contrive to make yourself disenchanting!"

Faith passed that, and waited, her eyes making a grave appeal. Mr. Linden smiled.

"I am afraid you can only be yourself," he said. "And if Dr. Harrison will not remove himself to a safe distance, there is not much to be done, except with the money. Let him understand that you consent for once to be his almoner, merely because you know better than he where the need is,—that you take from him, as from anybody, a donation for your poor and sick neighbours."

"Must I write?"

"No."

"But, Endecott—is that all?"

"All that I need say. You never did encourage him, Faith,—it may be a long time before he gives you a chance to discourage. There is one thing I can do, if you wish."

She had stood with an awakened, sorrowful look, the colour burning all over face and brow. Now she startled and asked "What?"

"Something you do not wish. I can tell him that you belong to me." But that indeed Faith did not wish.

"Oh no, Endecott—I would rather manage it some other way. Now don't let us lose any more of our afternoon with it—but come and tell me what will be the best things to do with this money."

"It is hard to tell all at once," Mr. Linden said as they once more took their seats by the fire. "What have you thought of yourself?"

"I know where one or two blankets are wanting. And O, Endy! there is one place where I should like to send a rocking-chair—ever so common a one, you know."

"And if Ency Stephens had one of those little self-locomotive carriages, she could go about by herself all day long."

"How good that would be! as soon as the spring opens. You could send one up from New York, Endecott. Do they cost much?"

"I think not. And what do you say to taking a little portion of this for the beginning of a free library for the poor people? If the thing were once begun, Mr. Stoutenburgh would give you what you please to carry it on,—and Mr. Simlins would help,—and so would I."

"I was thinking of books!" said Faith, her eye dancing in an unknown "library";—"but these would be books to lend. I think a great many would like that, Endecott! O yes, we could get plenty of help. That is a delightful plan!—I don't think I ought to be sorry that basket came, after all," she added smiling. Mr. Linden smiled too—she was a pretty Lady Bountiful!

"Faith," he said, "suppose (it is a very presumptuous supposition, but one may suppose anything) suppose when my hands are free to take care of my Mignonette, that I should have the offer of two or three different gardens wherein to place her. How should I choose?"

She coloured and looked at him somewhat inquiringly, then turned away with a kept-in but very pretty smile. "I know," she said, "how you would choose—and you would not ask me."

"Yes I should, little unbeliever—I ask you now."

"You would go," she said gravely—"where your hands were most wanted."

"There spoke a true Sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. But perhaps the word—or something in the changing light of the afternoon—carried his thoughts on to the night train which was to bear him away; for he left Dr. Harrison, and baskets, and schemes, in the background; and drawing her closer to his side talked of her affairs—what she had been doing, what she meant to do, in various ways,—trying to leave as it were a sort of network of his care about her. Then came twilight, and Mrs. Derrick and tea; with Faith's light figure flitting to and fro in preparation; and then prayers. And then—how fast the clock ticked! how fast the minutes began to run away!

The storm did not rest,—it blew and beat and poured down as hard as ever, eddying round the house in gusts that made every word and every minute within doors seem quieter and sweeter. And the words were many, and the minutes too—yet they dropped away one by one, and the upper glass was empty!



CHAPTER XX.



Faith fortified herself with a triple wall of mental resolves against Dr. Harrison's advances. But when the doctor came again, a night or two after Thanksgiving, there did not seem to be much that she could do—or hinder. The doctor's lines of circumvallation were too skilfully drawn for an inexperienced warrior like Faith to know very well where to oppose him. He was not in a demonstrative mood at all; rather more quiet than usual. He had just pushed an advanced work in the shape of his golden cake; and he rested there for the present.

To Faith's great joy, midway in the evening the doctor's monopoly was broken by the entrance of Squire Stoutenburgh and a very round game of talk. Faith seized the opportunity to present her claim for a free library—answered with open hand on the spot. And when he was gone, she sat meditating a speech, but she was prevented. The doctor, as if unconsciously amusing himself, started a chymical question; and went on to give Faith a most exquisite analysis and illustration. It was impossible to listen coldly; it was impossible to maintain reserve. Faith must be herself, and delight shone in every feature. Now could Dr. Harrison enjoy this thoroughly and yet give no sign that he did so; his eye watched hers, while Faith thought he was looking into depths of science; his smile was a keen reflection of that on her lips, while she fancied it called forth only by his own skill, or success, or scientific power. He had produced the very effect he wanted; for the moment, he had her all to himself.

"Miss Faith," he said gently, as his demonstration came to an end,—"you may command me for that library."

Faith drew back and her mind returned to business again. The doctor saw it, and was instantly sorry he had started the subject.

"I was going to speak to you about that, Dr. Harrison. If you have no objection, I shall take a little of that money you entrusted to me, for it—the beginning of it. Only a little. The rest shall go as I suppose you meant it to go."

"I knew it was very sure to go right after it got into your hands. I don't think I followed it any further."

"It will make a great many people happy this winter, Dr. Harrison."

"I hope it will," said he very sincerely; for he knew that if it made them it would her.

"You have little notion how much," Faith went on gravely. "I will do the best I can with it,—and if you had patience to hear, I would let you know what, Dr. Harrison."

"You do me less than justice, Miss Faith. You can hear me rant about philosophical niceties,—and yet think that I would not have patience to listen to a lecture from you upon my neglected duties!"

"I didn't mean that, sir."

He gave her a genial, recognizing little smile, which was not exactly in his "part"—but came in spite of him.

"Do you know, I should like to hear it, Miss Faith. I always like lectures illustrated. What have you done already?"

"There is an almost bed-ridden woman two miles off, who will bless somebody all winter for the comfort of a rocking-chair—all her life, I may rather say;—a common wooden one, Dr. Harrison."

"That is a capital idea," said the doctor. "She will bless you, I hope."

"No, certainly! I shall tell her the money is not mine,—I am only laying it out for a kind somebody."

"Miss Faith," said the doctor,—"I am not kind!"

"I think you are,"—was her gentle, somewhat wistful answer. The doctor sprung up.

"Mrs. Derrick," said he with all his comicality alive,—"Miss Faith promised me a piece of pumpkin pie."

He had it, and taking his old place on the rug slowly demolished it, qualifying every morsel with such ridiculous correlative remarks, allusions, and propositions,—that it was beyond the power of either Mrs. Derrick or Faith to retain her gravity. But the moment the door closed upon him, Faith looked sober.

"Well, child?" said her mother.

"Well, mother—I haven't written my French."

And she sat down to write it, but studied something else. "Manage it some other way"—she had said she would; it was not easy! What was she going to do? the doctor asked nothing of her but ordinary civility; how could she refuse him that? It was a puzzle, and Faith found it so as the weeks went on. It seemed to be as Mr. Linden had said; that she could do little but be as she had been, herself. That did not satisfy Faith.

It was a great relief, when about the middle of December the family went to New York for a few weeks, and Dr. Harrison went with his family. Once more she breathed freely. Then Faith and Reuben made themselves very busy in preparing for the Christmas doings. Means enough were on hand now. Reuben was an invaluable auxiliary as a scout;—to find out where anything was pressingly wanted and what; and long lists were made, and many trains laid in readiness against Mr. Linden's arrival. And then he came!

It was for a good week's holiday this time, and how it was enjoyed two people knew—which was enough. Studies went on after the old fashion during that week, and dinners and teas out made some unavoidable interruptions, yet not on the whole unpleasant. And sleigh rides were taken, day and night; and walks and talks not to be mentioned. Then the Newyear's visiting—with such a budget of new varieties!—how pleasant it was to go that round again together; and it was hard to make short visits, for everybody wanted to see and hear so much of Mr. Linden. He stayed one extra day after that—to see Faith when he had done seeing everybody else, but then he went; and the coldness and quiet of winter set in, broken only by letters.

There was a break of another kind when Dr. Harrison came back, in the middle of January; such a break to Faith's quiet that the coldness was well nigh forgotten. She had doubly resolved she would have as little as possible to do with him; and found presently she was having quite as much as ever.

The plan of rendering him a grave account of what she had done or was doing with his money, so far as the plan regarded keeping him at a distance, was a signal failure. Very simply and honestly it was done, on her part; but it suited the doctor admirably; nothing could better serve his purposes. Dr. Harrison heard her communication about some relieved family or project of relief, with a pleasant sort of attention and intelligence; and had skill, although really and professedly unwonted in the like things, to take up her plans and make the most happy suggestions and additions—often growing a large scheme upon a small one, and edging in the additional means so insensibly, so quietly, that though Faith saw he did it she could not tell how to hinder and did not know that she ought. Mr. Linden had sent, as he promised, his help for the library,—indeed sent from time to time some new parcel; and without inquiring whether the money he had left for his poor people was exhausted, had sent her a fresh supply. But she had none too much, from all sources. It was a winter of great severity among the poorer portion of the community; work was hard to come by, and the intense weather made food and clothing and tiring doubly in demand. There were few starving poor people in Pattaquasset; but many that winter lacked comforts, and some would have wanted bread, without the diligent care of their better-off neighbours. And there as everywhere, those who gave such care were few. Faith and Reuben had plenty to do. But indeed not merely, nor chiefly, with the furnishing of food to the hungry and firing to the cold; neither were those the points where Dr. Harrison's assistance came most helpfully in.

Little Ency Stephens wanted a flower now and then, as well as a velocipede; and Dr. Harrison gave—not to Faith, but to Faith's hands for her—a nice little monthly rose-bush out of the greenhouse. How it smiled in the poor cottage and on the ailing child!—and what could Faith do but with a swelling heart to wish good to the giver. A smoky chimney was putting out the eyes of a poor seamstress. Dr. Harrison quietly gave Reuben orders to have a certain top put to the chimney and send the bill to him. He even seemed to be undertaking some things on his own account. Faith heard through Reuben that he had procured the office of post-mistress in Pattaquasset to be given to the distressed family she and Mr. Linden had visited at Neanticut; and that Mrs. Tuck and Mintie were settled at the post-office, in all comfort accordingly. But worst of all! there were some sick people; and one or two for whom Faith dared not refuse his offer to go with her to see them. Dared still less after the first time he had actually gone; so great and immediate she found the value, not of his medicines only, but of the word or two of hint and direction which he gave her towards their help and healing. Faith began to look forward to May with a breath of almost impatience. But a change came before that.



CHAPTER XXI.



The spring came, with all its genial influences. Not now with such expeditions as the last spring had seen, but with letters to take their place, and with walks of business and kindness instead of pleasure. Yes, of pleasure too; and Faith began to find her "knight" not only a help and safeguard, but good company. Reuben was so true, so simple and modest—was walking in such a swift path of improvement; was so devoted to Faith and her interests, besides the particular bond of sympathy between them, that she might have had many a brother and fared much worse. The intercourse had not changed its character outwardly—Reuben's simple ceremonial of respect and deference was as strict as ever; but the thorough liking of first acquaintanceship had deepened into very warm affection on both sides. With Dr. Harrison Reuben gained no ground—or the doctor did not with him. Though often working for him and with him, though invariably courteous with the most respectful propriety, Faith could see that Reuben's old feeling was rather on the increase.

With the spring thaw came a freshet. It came suddenly, at the end of the week; every river and stream rising into a full tide of insurrection with the melting snows of Saturday, and Saturday night bridges and mill dams went by the board. Among the rest, one of the railway bridges near Pattaquasset gave way, and a full train from the east set down its freight of passengers in Pattaquasset over Sunday. They amused themselves variously—as such freight in such circumstances is wont to do. Faith knew that the church was well filled that Sunday morning, but the fact or the cause concerned her little—did not disturb the quiet path of her thoughts and steps, until church was out and she coming home, alone that day, as it happened. Then she found the walk full and her walk hindered. Especially by two gentlemen—who as the others thinned off, right and left, still went straight on; not fast enough to get away from Faith nor slow enough for her to pass them. They were strangers, evidently, and town bred. One of them reminded Faith of Dr. Harrison, in dress and style—both belonged to a class of which she had seen few specimens. But she gave them little heed (save as they detained her,) nor cared at all for their discussion of the weather, or the place. Then suddenly her attention was caught and held.

"By the way!" said one—"this is the very place where Linden was so long."

"Who? Endecott Linden?" said Dr. Harrison's likeness. "What was he here for?"

"Teaching school."

"Teaching school!" echoed the other,—"Endecott Linden teaching school!—Pegasus in pound!—How did the rustics catch him?"

"Pegasus came of his own accord, if I remember."

"Pshaw, yes!—but Linden. For what conceivable reason did he let himself down to teach school?"

"He didn't—" said the other a little hotly. "He wouldn't let himself down if he turned street-sweeper."

"True—he has a sort of natural dais which he carries about with him,—I suppose he'd make the crossing the court end. But I say, what did he do this for?"

"Why—for money!" said the first speaker. "What an ado about nothing!"

"Inconceivable! Just imagine, George, a man who can sing as he does, teaching a, b, ab!"

"Well—imagine it," said George,—"and then you'll wish you were six years old to have him teach you."

"How cross you are," said his friend lazily. "And despotic. Was there nothing left of all that immense property? I've just come home, you know."

"Not much," said George. "A little—but Endecott wouldn't touch that—it was all put at interest for Miss Pet. He would have it so, and even supported her as long as she staid in the country. What he works so hard for now I don't understand."

"Works, does he? I thought he was studying for the church—going to bury himself again. It's a crying shame! why he might be member, minister, Secretary, President!"

"He!" cried George in hot disdain,—"he soil his fingers with politics! No—he's in the right place now,—there's no other pure enough for him."

"I didn't know you admired the church so much," said his friend ironically.

"I don't—only the place in it where he'll stand. That's grand."

"And so he's at work yet?"

"Yes indeed—and it puzzles me. That year here ought to have carried him through his studies."

"Why what can he do?—not teach school now,—he's no time for it."

"He can give lessons—and does. Makes the time, I suppose. You know he has learned about everything but Theology. Olyphant was telling me about it the other day."

"What a strange thing!" said the other musingly, "such a family, so swept overboard! What a house that was! You remember his mother, George?"

"I should think so!—and the way Endecott used to sing to her every night, no matter who was there."

"Yes," said the doctor's confrere—"and come to her to be kissed afterwards. I should have laughed at any other man—but it set well on him. So did her diamond ring in his hair, which she was so fond of handling. How did he make out to live when she died?"

"I don't know—" said George with a half drawn breath—a little reverently too: "I suppose he could tell you. But all that first year nobody saw him—unless somebody in need or sorrow: they could always find him. He looked as if he had taken leave of the world—except to work for it."

"How courted he used to be!"—said the other—"how petted—not spoiled, strange to say. Do you suppose he'll ever marry, George? will he ever find any one to suit his notions? He's had enough to choose from already—in Europe and here. What do they say of him off yonder—where he is now?"

"They say he's—rock crystal,—because ice will melt," said George. "So I suppose his notions are as high as ever."

"You used to admire Miss Linden, if I remember," said his friend. "What a ring that was!—I wonder if she's got it. George—I sha'n't walk any further in this mud—turn about."