Which the two did, suddenly. Both stepped aside out of Faith's way, in surprise—her light footfall had not made them lower their voices. But in that moment they could see that she was a lady; in acknowledgment of which fact the one gentleman bowed slightly, and the other lifted his hat. Faith had thrown back her veil to hear better what they were saying, not expecting so sudden an encounter; and as she passed, secure in being a stranger, gave them both a view of as soft a pair of eyes as they had either of them ever looked into, which also sought theirs with a curious intentness, borne out by the high bright tinge which excitement had brought into her cheeks. Both of them saw and remembered, for swift as it was, the look was not one to forget. But the glance added little to what Faith knew already about the strangers, and she went on her way feeling as if a stricture had been bound tight round her heart.

The words about Mr. Linden's fastidiousness she knew quite enough of him to verify; and in the light of these people's talk it almost seemed to Faith as if there had been some glamour about her—as if she should some day prove to be "magician's coin" after all. But though the old sense of unworthiness swept over her, Faith was not of a temper to dwell long or heavily upon such a doubt. Her heart had been strangely stirred besides by what was said of his mother, and his old way of life, and his changes. She knew about them of course before; yet as a trifle, the touching of a single ray, will often give a new view of an old scene,—those side words of strangers set all Mr. Linden's time of joy and sorrow with such vivid reality before her, that her heart was like to break with it. That effect too, more or less, passed away from her mind,—never entirely. Another thing staid.

"What he works so hard for now"—Then he was working hard! and doing his own studies and correcting her French exercises, and giving her lessons all the while, as well as to other people; and bringing her gifts with the fruit of his work! And not an atom of it all could Faith touch to change. She pondered it, and she knew it. She doubted whether she could with any good effect venture so much as a remonstrance; and the more Faith thought, the more this doubt resolved itself into certainty. And all the while, he was working hard! Round that fact her thoughts beat, like an alarmed bird round its nest; about as helplessly.

Mrs. Derrick thought Faith was more grave and abstracted than usual that day, and sometimes thought so afterwards; that was all Faith made known.

Dr. Harrison thought the same thing on the next occasion of his seeing her, and on the next; or rather he thought she held off from him more than usual; what the root of it might be he was uncertain. And circumstances were unfavourable to the exactness of his observations for some time thereafter.

It was yet early in March, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh took a very troublesome and tedious fever, which lasted several weeks. It was reckoned dangerous, part of the time, and Mrs. Derrick and Faith were in very constant attendance. Faith especially, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh liked no one else so well about her; and gratitude and regard made her eager to do all she might. So daily and nightly she was at Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedside, ministering to her in all the gentle offices of a nurse, and in that line besides where Mr. Linden had declared Dr. Harrison but half knew his profession. And there, and about this work, Dr. Harrison met her.

Their meetings were of necessity very often; but no lectures, nor discussions, nor much conversation, were now possible. Faith felt she had a vantage ground, and used it The doctor felt he had lost ground, or at the least was not gaining; and against some felt but unrecognized obstacle in his way his curiosity and passion chafed. He could see Faith nowhere else now; she contrived not to meet him at home. She was out with Reuben—or resting—or unavoidably busy, when he came there. And Dr. Harrison knew the resting times were needed, and could only fume against the business—in which he sometimes had some reason.

One day he found her at her post in the sick room, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh had fallen asleep. It was towards the end of the afternoon. An open Bible lay on the bed's side; and Faith sat there resting her head on her hand. She was thinking how hard Mr. Linden was working, and herself looking somewhat as if she were following his example.

"What are you doing?" said the doctor softly.

"I have been reading to Mrs. Stoutenburgh."

"Feverish—" whispered the doctor.

"No;—she has gone to sleep."

"Tired her!—"

"No," said Faith with a smile, "it's resting. The Bible never tired any one yet, that loved it—I think."

"Well people—" said the doctor.

"Sick people! You're mistaken, Dr. Harrison. Sick people most of all."

"Do you know that you will be sick next," said he gravely, "if you do not take more care?"

A fair little smile denied any fear or care on that subject, but did not satisfy the doctor.

"I do not approve of what you are doing," said he seriously.

"Reading this?"

"Even the same."

"But you are mistaken, Dr. Harrison," she said gently. "There is nothing so soothing, to those that love it. I wish you loved it! Don't you remember you confessed to me once that somebody had told you you had but half learned your profession?"

Faith trembled, for she had said those last words wittingly. She could not have spoken them, if the light in the room had not been such as to hide her change of colour; and even then she dared not speak the name she alluded to. But she had said it half as a matter of conscience.

It drew forth no answer from the doctor, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh just then stirred and awoke. And Faith little guessed the train she had touched. There were no indications of manner; and she could not, as Dr. Harrison went leisurely down the stairs, see the tremendous bound his mind made with the question,—

"Is it that book that stands in my way?—or HE!"



CHAPTER XXII.



Mrs. Stoutenburgh got well. And it was in Faith's mind then, by some means to see very little more of Dr. Harrison till Mr. Linden should be in Pattaquasset again. So much for human intentions. Faith fell sick herself; and instead of being kept at a distance Dr. Harrison saw her twice at least in the twenty-four hours.

It was a doubtful privilege to see those soft eyes lustrous with fever and a steady glow take place of the changing and flitting hues which were as much a part of Faith's language, at times, as the movements of a horse's ears are part of his. But as after a few days it became evident that there was nothing dangerous about Faith's attack, it is probable that the doctor rather enjoyed his position than otherwise. The freedom and authority of his office were a pleasant advance upon the formalities of ordinary intercourse; and to see Faith and speak to her and touch her hand without any ceremonial but that of friendship, was an advantage great enough to desire the prolonging thereof. Faith was a gentle patient; and Dr. Harrison's care was unbounded; though it was not alarming, even to Mrs. Derrick, as he assured her there was no cause.

For a week however Faith kept her bed, and even Dr. Harrison was glad when at the end of a week she was able to be up again. Especially perhaps as it was only in her wrapper and an easy chair; his office was not at an end; the fever, in a remittent or intermittent form, still hung about her and forbade her doing anything but taking care of herself.

Not precisely in this category of duty were the letters Faith had written all that week. She had written them, how was best known by an aching head and burning fingers and feverish vision. But an interruption of them would have drawn on Mr. Linden's knowing the reason; and then Faith knew that no considerations would keep him from coming to her. It was towards the end of the study term; he was working hard already; she could not endure that any further bar should be placed in his way. None should for her. And so, bit by bit when she could do but a bit at a time, the letters were written. Exercises had to be excused. And Faith was at heart very thankful when at the end of a sick week, she was able to get up and be dressed and sit in the easy-chair and see the diamonds sparkling against her brown wrapper again.

It was April now, and a soft springy day. A fire burned gently in the chimney, while a window open at a little distance let in Spring's whispers and fragrances; and the plain old-fashioned room looked cosy and pretty, as some rooms will look under undefinable influences. Nothing could be plainer. There was not even the quaint elegance of Mr. Linden's room; this one was wainscotted with light blue and whitewashed, and furnished with the simplest of chintz furniture. But its simplicity and purity were all in tone with the Spring air and the cheer of the wood fire; and not at all a bad setting for the figure that sat there in the great chintz chair before the fire; her soft hair in bright order, the quiet brown folds of the wrapper enveloping her, and the flash of the diamonds giving curious point and effect to the whole picture. Faith was alone and looking very happy.

It wanted but a few weeks now of Mr. Linden's coming home,—coming home for a longer rest and sight of her; and Faith had not seen him since January. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's illness and Faith's consequent fatigue had in part accounted to him for the short letters and missing French exercises, but she could see that such excuse would not long be made for her,—his last one or two letters had been more anxious, more special in their inquiries: how glad she was that he need have no further cause for either. Partly musing on all this, partly on what she had been reading, Faith sat that afternoon, when the well-known single soft knock at her door announced Reuben Taylor. He came in with a glad face—how sad it had lately been Faith had seen, sick as she was,—and with both hands full of pleasant things. One hand was literally full, of cowslips; and as he came up and gave her his other hand, it seemed to Faith as if a great spot of Spring gold was before her eyes.

"Dear Miss Faith," Reuben said, "I wonder if anybody can ever be thankful enough, to see you better! You feel stronger than yesterday, don't you, ma'am?"

"I can't be thankful enough, Reuben—I feel that to-day. How good you are to bring me those cowslips! O yes,—I am stronger than I was yesterday."

That Faith was not very strong was sufficiently shewn by the way her hands lay in her lap and on the arm of the chair, and by the lines of her pale quiet face. Bodily strength was not flourishing there. Reuben looked at her wistfully, with a half-choked sigh, then knelt down beside her chair, as he often did.

"I didn't bring them all, Miss Faith—I mean, I didn't pick them all. Charlie and Robbie saw me in the meadow, and nothing would do but they must help. I don't think they always knew which to pick—but I thought you wouldn't mind that," he said as he laid the cowslips on the table, their fair yellow faces shewing very fair in the sick room. Faith's face was bright before, but it brightened still.

"They look lovely to me—tell Charlie and Rob I will thank them when I can. I don't thank you, Reuben,"—she said turning from the flowers to him.

"No, ma'am, I should hope not," he said, answering her smile gratefully. "But that's not all, Miss Faith—for Ency Stephens sent you one of her rosebuds,"—and Reuben took a little parcel carefully from his pocket. "It's only wrapped up in brown paper, because I hadn't time to go home for white. And she told me to tell you, Miss Faith," he added, both eyes and cheek flushing—"that she prays every day for you to get well and for Mr. Linden to come home."

The smile died on Faith's face and her eyes fell. "He ought to have this," she said presently, with a little flush on her own cheek. "I don't feel as if it should come to me. Reuben, does she want anything?" It was very rare, even now, for Faith to speak directly to Reuben of Mr. Linden, though she was ready enough to hear Reuben speak of him.

"No, ma'am, I think not," he said in answer to net question. "You know—did you ever hear, Miss Faith?—that when Mr. Linden first went there she was kept in the house the whole time,—nobody knew how to take her out—or took the trouble; and Mr. Linden carried her half a mile down the lane that very first day. And you can guess how he talked to her, Miss Faith,—they said she looked like another child when she came back. But is there anything I can do for you, ma'am, before I go to the post-office?—it's almost time."

"If you'll fill that glass with water for me, Reuben—that I mayn't let my sweet cowslips fade—that's all. They'll do me good all to-morrow."

Reuben went off, his place presently supplied by Mrs. Stoutenburgh; who against all persuasion had insisted upon coming down to see Faith. And then Faith was left to the calm companionship of her cowslips till Reuben came back from the post-office.

He came up to Faith's chair, and taking out the letter broke the outer seal, (a ceremony he generally performed in her presence) and was just removing the envelope when the doctor came in for his evening visit. The doctor saw a tableau,—Faith, the cowslips, and Reuben,—Mrs. Derrick by the window he hardly saw, nor what the others were about. But that he had interrupted something was clear—the very atmosphere of the room was startled; and though Reuben's position hid both letter and hands, it was certain the hands were busy. What was in them, and what became of it, the doctor could not tell. Before he was fairly in the room the letter had retreated to Reuben's pocket, and Reuben stepped back and stood behind Faith's chair.

The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a "How do you do" as he passed; and accosted Faith with all the free kindliness which his office of physician permitted him to add to the friend. The doctor took all his advantage; he did not take more; and not Faith herself could see that there was any warmer feeling behind his pleasant and pleased eye and smile. But it is true Faith was a simpleton. She did not see that his pleasantness covered keen scrutiny. The scrutiny found nothing.

"How do you do?" he said.

"I don't suppose I need say a word to tell you," Faith answered smiling. "I am well enough to enjoy cowslips."

The doctor's eye fell slightingly upon them, which was not wonderful.

"I think you must be very well!" he said with some trifle of addenda from lip and eye. "You see you are mistaken. I shouldn't have known how well, except from your words."

"You are mistaken now, Dr. Harrison," said Faith in the slow quiet way in which she spoke to-day. "You think these are not splendid—but they are bits of spring!"

"They are not Spring's best bits, I hope," said the doctor.

"What do you think of that?"

The doctor took the rosebud and looked at it.

"If I were to tell you what I think of it," he said with a sort of grave candour, "you would dismiss me, and I should come here no more!"

"Reuben brought me that, Dr. Harrison, from the little lame girl you sent the rosebush to, in the winter. I wish you knew how much good that rosebush has done!"

"I sometimes wish," said the doctor, "that I had been born in a cottage!"

"Why, in the world?"

"It would be so pleasant to have people come and bring me rosebushes!"

"Or cowslips?" said Faith. "Then you would have a taste for cowslips."

"But then the people might get sick," said the doctor, waiving the "bits of spring;"—"so I am content. How are you to-day?" He took Faith's hand and felt it, and looked at her. The result did not seem to be unsatisfactory on the whole.

"You mustn't read too much in that book," said he, glancing over at it.

"Why not?"

"You must keep quiet."

"For how long?"

"It depends. There is a little enemy of fever hanging about your skirts, that I will oppose with something else; but all you can oppose to him is quietness."

Faith thought of the words—"The rock of my defence and my refuse"—what quietness was like that of their giving; but she said nothing to the doctor.

Dr. Harrison gave Mrs. Derrick her directions on various points; then taking his old-fashioned stand on the rug, surveyed the easy-chair and its occupant and Reuben still behind it.

"By the way, Mrs. Derrick," said he carelessly,—"I have heard a pretty story of your friend Mr. Linden." He noticed, but only that Faith had glanced at him and was to all appearance quietly looking down at her cowslips.

"I dare say, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick placidly. "I've heard a great many."

"Have you heard it?"

"Heard what?" said Mrs. Derrick. "It's an old pretty story that everybody loves him."

"I heard this only the other day," said the doctor. "It's not of that kind. But stories will be stories—and people will tell them."

How the colour flushed and paled in Reuben's cheek!—he stood resting his hands lightly on the back of Faith's chair, looking down. The colour on Faith's cheek did not change.

"Who told this?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"People that have known the family. They say, he has managed to run through a very large property, and that he leaves his sister now to live upon charity."

It was impossible to tell from the doctor's manner whether he put any faith in his story himself. It was as much like delivering a report as bringing a charge. It might have been either! He saw Reuben's colour become fixed and very high, but though the doctor could almost have sworn that there was a rush of hid tears under the boy's drooping eyelids, yet the lines about the mouth took the curl of an irrepressible smile. Mrs. Derrick picked up two stitches, made a third—then answered.

"So that's what you call a pretty story! It was hardly worth remembering to tell us, doctor,—you and I, and Reuben, and Faith, know better." Now could not the doctor tell for the life of him, whether the words were simply innocent, or—simply malicious! Mrs. Derrick was so imperturbable there, at her knitting! Neither did the doctor much care. It sounded to him just like Mrs. Derrick. He looked at Faith; and remarked lightly that "he didn't know anything!"

Faith was very quiet; he could not see that her colour had risen more than a little, and a little was not enough to judge by in her face. But in an instant more after he had spoken, she looked full and gravely up at him.

"Do you believe everything about everybody, Dr. Harrison?"

"On the contrary! I don't believe anything of anybody—Except you," he added with a little smile.

"Do you believe such a story?"

Her steady soft eyes, which did not move from him, gave him an uncomfortable feeling—perhaps of undefined remembrance. "I don't believe it," he said returning her gaze. "I don't do anything with it. Such things are said of everybody—and of almost everybody they are true. I take them as they come. But about this particular case," he said with one of his gentle looks, "I will do just what you say I must do."

Faith smiled.

"I don't say you must do anything. I am sorry for you, Dr. Harrison."

"I am glad you are sorry!" he said sitting down by her. "And there is reason enough; but what is this one?"

"You lose a great pleasure."

"What one?"—

"You don't know how to trust."

"Do I not?" said the doctor, looking at the rosebud still in his hand. "Well—you shall teach me!" And springing up he bowed to Mrs. Derrick and went off—rosebud and all.

Reuben stood still for about half a minute—then came round, and silently gave Faith her letter.

"Reuben Taylor!"—said Faith, as he was going after the doctor. "You have been standing so long—suppose you sit down for a minute?"

Whatever Reuben thought of the request, he said nothing, but obeyed her, bringing a foot cushion to her chair and bestowing himself upon it. Faith smiled at him as she spoke again, though there was an unwonted fire in her owe eyes; and the blood came fast now to her face.

"Reuben, I wanted to ask you what all that colour is in your cheeks for?"

Reuben hesitated—there seemed a stricture across his breast which made speaking hard work; but at last he said frankly, though in none of the clearest tones,

"Because I'm angry, Miss Faith—and hurt too."

Faith's next words fell like pearls—

"It isn't worth the while."

"No, Miss Faith," he answered without looking up.

"It's too much honour to something that doesn't deserve it,—and—Reuben—it's too little to something that does."

"O no, ma'am! it's not that!" Reuben said, raising his eyes to her face with the old earnest look. "But Miss Faith, there are some things he can't bear to hear said—and said so," he added a little lower, and looking down again. "And then—he's Dr. Harrison, and I'm only a poor boy and mayn't answer him—and that fretted me; and it isn't the first time, neither," Reuben said, as if he were making a clean breast of it. "Oh Miss Faith! I'd rather have had him knock me down, than speak such words!" Tears were getting the upper hand in the boy's voice.

"Dear Reuben," said Faith, very quietly, though her cheeks were two carnations,—"what I am most sorry for is Dr. Harrison."

Reuben drew a long breath, with his "Yes, ma'am—I'm sorry for him too, very often—when he talks about other things. But I don't believe even you know just—just how false that was." Reuben spoke as if the words choked him. "It's maybe never come in your way to know all he did here for everybody, and—for me."

There was a quick pulsation at that instant from Faith's heart to the hand that held her letter,—but she only said, "Tell me!"

"I couldn't begin to tell you all, ma'am," Reuben said, a smile coming over his face now,—"nobody could but himself—and he wouldn't remember. I couldn't even tell you all he's done for me; but one thing"—Reuben's eyes and voice fell and he spoke very low. "You know, Miss Faith, the rate of schooling here is fixed by the trustees. And the first day I came father told me to say he didn't know that he could find the money for more than one quarter, but he had so much all ready, and he wanted me to have so much. I thought it would be hard to ask, but it was so easy—of him," Reuben said with that same smile. "Mr. Linden didn't say much about it—only yes—but then he spoke to father (that very day we were at the shore Miss Faith) and told him I should come all the time—for the pleasure of teaching me." (Reuben thought the compliment went all to Mr. Linden, or he would not have told it.) "But father wouldn't do that,—he said Mr. Linden should have the money as fast as he could get it; and if he didn't take it I shouldn't come. And it was paid all the year, regularly. But then, Miss Faith——" there was a pause.

"What, Reuben?" she whispered.

"Then instead of keeping it for himself, he put it all in the bank for me.—And I never knew it till I opened the letter he gave me when he was going away."

The brightness of the hidden diamonds danced in Faith's face for a minute—half hidden too, but it was there.

"Reuben," she whispered, as he was starting up to go,—"what we have to do is to pray for Dr. Harrison."

"Miss Faith, how do people live who do not pray?"

"I don't know!"

But Faith's voice did not speak the thanksgiving which bounded in her heart to Reuben's words. She sat back in her chair looking tired, with her letter clasped fast in her hand. Reuben stepped forward and arranged the fire softly—then giving her another wistful look he bowed and went lightly out of the room. With gentle step Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, to kiss her and ask how she felt. Faith's eyelids unclosed.

"Very happy, mother,—and tired too. Don't you think I could have a light presently?"

"This minute, pretty child. But lie down on the couch, Faith, and I'll bring up the little table."

That was done, and then Faith read her letter, with first a rapid and then a slow enjoyment of it, making every word and sentence do more than double duty, and bring the very writer near. And then she lay with it clasped upon her bosom, thinking those flowing trains of half feverish thought which are so full of images, but which in her case flowed with a clear stream over smooth channels, nor ever met a rough break or jar. Even Dr. Harrison did not make an exception, for Faith's thought of him was constantly softened by her prayer for him. Her mother drew near when the letter was at last folded up, and watched her from the other side of the stand; but though mind and heart too were full enough, she rightly judged that Faith needed no more excitement; and so never mentioned Dr. Harrison's name, nor even asked how he came to carry off the rosebud.

Faith's trains of thought ended at last in a sleep which lasted till past her tea-time. Mrs. Derrick was still by her side when she awoke, and Faith opening her eyes as quietly as she had shut them, remarked,

"Mother!—letters are great things."

"Why child," said her mother smiling, "what have you been dreaming about?"

"Nothing.—That isn't a dream; it's a reality."

Blessing in her heart the sender of the reality which gave such pleasure, Mrs. Derrick answered, "Yes, child, it's real—and so's he."

Faith said nothing to that except by her smile. She only spoke the hope that she might be stronger the next day; a sentiment which though at first sight it might seem to have nothing to do with the former subject, was really in very close connexion with it.

But Faith was not stronger the next day. The fever was not driven away and strength was in the grip of it yet. The doctor gave her no new directions, but insisted very much on quietness and care. There was nothing to be apprehended of the fever but tediousness, and the further and prolonged loss of strength; but that was quite enough to have to avoid. For that she must take all sorts of care. He also said that the case might go on without his oversight for a day or two, and that for that space of time in the middle of the week he should be absent from Pattaquasset, having a very urgent call of business elsewhere.

And whether for that reason or needing no fresh one, the doctor having stated so much went on to tell about other things, and made a long visit. The talk came upon the Bible again, Faith didn't know how, and grew very animated. Dr. Harrison had brought with him this morning one of his pleasantest moods, or manners; he thought yesterday that Faith's eyes had given him a reproof for slander, and he had no intent to offend in the like way again. He was grave, gentle, candid, seemingly—willing to listen, but that he always was to Faith; and talked sense or feeling in a most sensible and simple way. Yet the conversation ended with giving Faith great pain. He had asked her to read something confirmatory or illustrative of the statement she was making, out of the Bible; and Faith had complied with his wish. That was nothing strange. She had often done it. To-day the reading had been followed by a little observation, acutely put, which Faith felt raised a barrier between him and the truth she had been pressing. She felt it, and yet she could not answer him. She knew it was false; she could see that his objection was foundationless—stood on air; but she did not see the path by which she might bring the doctor up to her standing-point where he might see it too. It was as if she were at the top of a mountain and he at the bottom; her eye commanded a full wide view of the whole country, while his could see but a most imperfect portion. But to bring him up to her, Faith knew not. It is hard, when feet are unwilling to climb! And unskilled in the subtleties of controversy, most innocent of the duplicities of unbelief, Faith saw her neighbour entangled, as it seemed, in a mesh of his own weaving and had not power to untie the knot. It distressed her. Other knots of skepticism or ignorance that he had presented to her she had cut easily with the sword of truth if she could not untie; he had offered her one to-day that she could cut indeed as easily for herself,—but not for him. To do that called for not better wits, but for far greater controversial acumen and logical practice than Faith knew. He did not press his point, not even for victory; he gave the objection to her and left it there; but while to her it was mere rottenness of reasoning, she knew that for him it stood. It grieved her deeply; and Mrs. Derrick saw her worn and feverish all the day, without knowing what special reason there had been. She tried to stop Faith's working; but though not fit for it, Faith would not be stopped. She dared not trust Mr. Linden with any more excuses or put-offs; and a feverish cheek and hand that day and the next went over her exercise and letter. And enjoyed both, in spite of fever. But when they were done, late in the next day, Faith lay down wearily on the couch and consoled herself with the thoughts of the letter to come; it was the evening for one.

It was the evening for one and yet one came not. Other letters came—the great leather bag was tossed out on the station-house steps, and thence borne off to the post-office, where five minutes later Reuben Taylor came to wait for his share of the contents. But when with the assurance which has never yet known disappointment, Reuben applied at the window, Mintie gave him a rather coquettish—

"No, Mr. Taylor—you're not in luck to-day,—there's nothing for you."

In his surprise Reuben tried every means to make himself and her believe that she was mistaken; and urged a new examination of all the letters, till Mintie made—or feigned to make—it, with the same success.

Reuben turned away from the office in real sorrow of heart. He had not now to learn what store was set by those letters—especially now, when Faith was sick,—he had noticed her holding of that very last one which had come. And then, not merely to lose the pleasure, but to have the disappointment!—Then too, what had hindered the letter? One sometimes came out of time, but the expected one had never yet failed. Was Mr. Linden sick?—and what would Miss Faith think?—the letter might fail from other causes (hardly, Reuben thought) but what would she think?—herself so far from well. And then, should he go at once and tell her—or let her find it out from his non-appearance?

That last idea was promptly rejected,—she should at least not be in suspense, and Reuben was soon at her door, as soon admitted. But he came in very quietly, without that spring of step which had so often brought a letter, and standing by her chair said gently,—

"Miss Faith, I didn't find anything to-night—but I thought I'd come and tell you, for fear you'd be expecting."

"Not find anything!"—said Faith raising herself half up, with the start of colour into her pale cheeks.

"No, ma'am,—they said at the office there was nothing. Maybe it will come to-morrow."

It hurt him to see the little patient droop of each feature as Faith laid herself down again.

"Thank you, Reuben," she said. "O yes, maybe it will."

Words of consolation Reuben did not presume to offer, but there was a great deal in his face and quiet low-spoken "Can I do anything to-night, Miss Faith?"

"No," she said cheerfully. "There's nothing. Isn't it time Mr. and Mrs. Roscom had some fresh eggs, Reuben? Mother will give you them."

Reuben only said he would stop there and see them.

The letter did not come next day. Reuben came, as usual, in the afternoon, but only to tell his bad success. He had not the heart to bring cowslips again, and ventured no words to Faith but about some of her poor people. That subject Faith went into fully. After Reuben was gone she lay quiet a while; and took her indemnification in the evening by getting Mrs. Derrick to read to her one or two of those strings of passages which Faith called ladders. Whether she could mount by them or not just then, her mother might; and hearing them Faith went to sleep. She said nothing about her letters, except to tell Mrs. Derrick they had not come.

That day and the next were quiet days, being the days of Dr. Harrison's absence. And if some accident had befallen Wednesday's letter, there was good hope of one Friday. And as Friday wore away, Faith did not know that she was counting the hours, and yet could at any time have answered any question as to the time of day. It was one of those calm days, within doors and without, which ebb away so noiselessly, that only the clock tells their progress. Faith's little clock—(Mr. Linden had amused himself with sending her one about as big as a good-sized watch on a stand)—ticked musically on the table, suggesting a good many things. Not merely the flight of time—not merely that the train would soon be in, not merely that she might soon have a letter; nor even that it, the clock, had seen Mr. Linden since she had. All these thoughts mingled, but with them something else. They would tick on, those minutes, relentlessly, no matter what they were to bring or take away,—steady, unalterable, unchecked,—like the old idea of Fate. She tried to be steady too—tried to have that fixedness of heart which says confidently, "I will sing and give praise." But she was weak yet, with the effect and even the presence of fever, and through all her thoughts she seemed to feel those minutes tracking with light steps across her breast. She lay with her hands clasped there, to still them.

The sun began to slant his beams in at the window, and then with one long screeching "Whew!"—the afternoon train flew through Pattaquasset, tossing out the letter bag on its way. Then Faith waited—watching intently for Reuben's step on the stairs.

Reuben on his part had watched the letter-bag from the moment it was thrown out, had followed it to the office, and there posted himself near the window to have the first chance. But his prize was a blank.

Sick at heart, Reuben drew back a little, giving way before Mintie's rather sharp "I tell you no, Mr. Taylor," and other people's earnest pressing forward to the window. But when the last one had gone—those happy people, who had got their letters!—Reuben again presented himself, and braved Mintie's displeasure by further inquiries; which produced nothing but an increase of the displeasure. He turned and walked slowly away. It might have been any weather—he might have met anybody or heard anything; but when Reuben reached Mrs. Derrick's the whole walk was a blank to him. What was the matter—how would Miss Faith bear it—these two questions lay on his heart. In vain he tried to lay them down,—for the very words which told him that "the Lord doth not afflict willingly," said also that he doth afflict; and Reuben's heart sank. He stood for a moment in the porch, realizing "how people live who do pray"—then went in and straight upstairs, walked up to Faith's couch when admitted, and without giving himself much time to think, told his news.

"Dear Miss Faith, you must wait a little longer yet. May I write by to-night's mail and ask why the letter hasn't come?—it may have been lost."

Faith started up, with first a flush and then a great sinking of colour, and steadying herself with one hand on the back of the couch looked into her messenger's face as if there she could track the missing letter or discern the cause that kept it from her. But Reuben's face discovered nothing but his sorrow and sympathy; and Faith sank back on her pillow again with a face robbed of colour beyond all the power of fever's wasting to do.

"Yes—write!" she said.

Reuben stood still, his hands lightly clasped, his heart full of thoughts he had perhaps no right to utter, if he could have found words.

"I wish you'd write, Reuben," she repeated after a moment.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I will. Only—dear Miss Faith! you know 'the darkness and the light are both alike to Him.'" Reuben was gone.

Faith lay for a few minutes as he had left her, and then slipped off the couch and kneeled beside it; for she felt as if the burden of the time could be borne only so. She laid her head and heart down together, and for a long time was very still; "setting her foot on the lowest step" of some of those ladders, if she could not mount by them. A foot-hold is something.

She was there yet, she had not stirred, when another foot-step in the passage and other fingers at the door made her know the approach of Dr. Harrison. Faith started up and met him standing. The doctor looked at her as he came up. So pale, so very quiet, so purely gentle, and yet with such soft strength in her eye,—he had not seen her look just so, nor anybody else, before.

"How do you do?" he said reverentially as he took her hand.

"I am—well,"—said Faith.

"Are you?" said the doctor gravely, eyeing the mark of unconquered fever and its wasting effects even on her then.—"I am very glad to hear it, indeed!"

"I mean, that I feel—well," said Faith correcting herself.

"You will feel better if you will take a more resting position," said the doctor putting her into the chair. And then he stood and looked at her; and Faith looked at her little clock, with her foot on that step of her "ladder."—"He knoweth thy walking through this great wilderness."

"What have you been doing to yourself these two days?" said the doctor.

"Nothing—" she said;—"more than usual."

He laid her appearance all to the account of the fever, she was so quiet; and proceeded to a new examination of the state of her hand, and to give her various professional orders.

"Miss Faith, can you do anything in the way of eating?"

Her very face as well as her tongue seemed to answer him, "Not much."

"Do you think of anything you could fancy?"

"No."—

"I brought some birds home with me that I believe I can answer for. Try to demolish the pinion of one of them—will you? It is a duty you owe to society."

"I will try,"—she said gravely.

The doctor wondered whether she had laid up against him any of his former conversation.

"What do you think," he said with a kind of gentle insinuation,—"of that argument I ventured to advance the other day, on the matter we were speaking of?"

"I don't like to think of it at all, Dr. Harrison."

"May I know why not?"

"Because I know it is false, and yet I cannot make you see it."

"Can you make yourself see it?"

"I don't need to take any pains for that. I see it very well."

"Perhaps you will find the way to make me see it," said the doctor pleasantly.

"That would be easy," said Faith, "if—"

"If what? May I not know the difficulty?"

"If you really cared about it."

"I do care about it. You mistake me when you think that. But you must not think about anything now. Did you know I carried off your rosebud the other night?"

"Yes."

It was impossible to tell from the doctor's accent how he viewed the transaction, and equally impossible from Faith's answer to tell what she thought of it. Extremes meet—as Mr. Linden had once remarked.

"I'll endeavour to atone for that presumption to-morrow," said he rising, for Mrs. Derrick now entered the room. To her Dr. Harrison repeated his orders and counsels, and to Faith's relief took himself away. Her mother came up to the easy-chair with a smothered sigh on her lips, and laid her gentle hand on Faith's forehead and wrist.

"Child," she said, "has that man talked you into a fever again? I've a great mind not to let him come any more—I guess I could cure you better myself. If you'd send word to somebody else, Faith, we'd have you well in no time."

"I haven't heard from him to-night, mother." Faith felt the little start of her mother's hand.

"Maybe he's coming then," said Mrs. Derrick,—"he might have meant to come yesterday and been hindered." Faith did not think that.

"We shall know," she said to her mother. "We have only to wait and be quiet." And she carried out both parts of her stated duty to perfection.

There is a strange sort of strength in a certain degree of weakness—or it may be that weakness runs sooner to its refuge, while strength stands outside to do battle with the evil felt or feared. Faith's gentle and firm temper was never apt for struggling, with either pain or fear; it would stand, or yield, as the case called for; and now, whether that her mind had been living in such a peaceful and loving atmosphere, both earthly and heavenly, that it could settle upon none but peaceful views of things, or that bodily weakness made her unable to bear any other, she did mount upon one of those "ladders" and left her burden on the ground. She thought she did. She was as quiet outwardly as before; she told Mrs. Derrick, who looked at her in misery,—and told her with a steady cheerful little smile, that "she dared say the letter would come to-morrow." But it is true that Faith had no power to eat that night nor the next day; and that she did not know the hidden slow fever—not of disease—which was running through all her veins and making the other fever do its work again, bright in her cheek and eye and beating at her temples and wrist. But she was as still and quiet through it all—quiet in voice and brow—as if letters had been full and plenty.



CHAPTER XXIII.



It was about midday of Saturday, when Reuben Taylor, proceeding up the main street of Pattaquasset on some business errand for his father, was joined by Phil Davids—no wonted or favourite associate or companion. But Phil now walked up the street alongside of the basket which had come "into town" with fish.

"I say, Reuben," said Phil after some unimportant remarks had been made and answered,—"does Mr. Linden ever write to you?"

Reuben started—as if that touched some under current of his thoughts, and answered "yes."

"I wish he'd write to me," said Phil. "I know I'd like it. I say, Taylor, what does he send you such thick letters about?"

"Such thick letters!" Reuben repeated, with a quick look at his companion. "People put a great many things in a letter, Phil."

"I guess likely. That's what I say. What does he write to you about?"

"Maybe I'll bring up one of 'em for you to read," said Reuben. "You've heard him talk, Phil—he writes just so."

"Does he? I guess you wouldn't like to miss one of his letters then, Reuben,—would you?"

"No."

"I s'pose it would be a worse job yet to miss two of 'em—wouldn't it?" said Phil with a perfectly grave face.

"Phil Davids!" Reuben exclaimed, facing round upon him, with such a flash of joy and hope and surprise and eagerness, as made Phil wonder. "What do you mean?" he added checking himself. "Just turn your pockets inside out, Phil, before we go any further."

"When were you at the post-office?"

"Last night—and this morning." Reuben forced himself to be quiet.

"Well look here,—when you go there, don't you ask for letters?"

"Ask!—I've asked till they were all out of patience."

"Suppose you come to the right shop next time!" said Phil, importantly producing the missing papers.

"Phil! Phil!—" was all Reuben said. He caught the letters—and stood looking at them with a face that made Phil look. "Mr. Linden will love you all his life for this. But how in the world did you get them?"

"That's exactly what I'd like somebody to tell me!" said Phil. "I know who put the monkey's paw in the fire—but how the chestnuts got there, I'm beat!"

"What do you know?" said Reuben,—"where did you get these? Oh Phil! I never can thank you enough!"

"It was because they were his letters I did it," said Phil bluntly. "I wasn't going to let Mintie Tuck have 'em. But I say, Reuben! what have you done to spite her? or has she a spite against Mr. Linden? or who has she a spite against?"

"I don't know. Did she give 'em to you, Phil?"

"Not by a precious sight nor to anybody else. Dromy saw 'em in her drawer, and for all the gumph he is, he knew the writing; and I made him get 'em for me this morning while they were at breakfast. Now Taylor," said Phil settling his hands further down in his pockets as they rapidly walked along,—"what bird's on that nest?"

Reuben listened—with an intentness that spoke of more than wonder. "In her drawer?" he repeated,—"what, down in the office?"

"Not a bit of it! Stowed away with her earrings and ribbands upstairs somewhere."

"Phil," said Reuben when he had pondered this strange information in silence for a minute, "will you be in the office when the mail comes in for a night or two?—and don't tell this to any one till Mr. Linden sends word what should be done."

"You expect more letters?" said Phil, with a not stupid glance at his fellow.

"Yes," Reuben said, too frankly to increase suspicion; "and if one should come it's very important that I should get it. And of course I can't watch."

"She sha'n't get it!" said Phil. "I'll be there. I'll be Sinbad's old man of the mountain for Mintie. I won't sit on her shoulders, but I'll sit on the counter; and if there's a scratch of Mr. Linden's in the mail-bag, I'll engage I'll see it as fast as she will. I know his seal too."

"Could she have done it to tease me?" Reuben said,—"I've never had the least thing to do with her but through that post-office window."

"What did you ever give her through the post-office window?" Phil asked half laughingly.

"Questions enough—" Reuben said, his thoughts too busy to notice any underhand meaning,—"and lately she's given me rather cross answers. That's all."

"Well what do you suppose she stole your letters for?"

"I don't know enough about her to guess," Reuben said frankly.

"Well," said Phil, "I guess Dr. Harrison won't appoint the postmaster of Pattaquasset when I am President. I rather think he won't."

"I wish you'd make haste and be President," Reuben said. "But if he didn't know anything about Mrs. Tuck, Phil, other people did—and thought she was honest at least. And you know she's postmaster, by right."

"She—is the female of Dromy!" said Phil with intense expression. "But Mintie aint a fool, and it's she's post-master—anyhow Dromy says it's she that's Dr. Harrison's friend;—so that makes it. But that don't tell why she wants the letters."

"Dr. Harrison's friend?" said Reuben,—"what does she have to do with him?"

"I aint a friend of either of 'em, so I don't know," said Phil. "But girls with pretty faces will make friends with anybody!"

A very high degree of masculine charity and correctness of judgment was expressed in Phil's voice and words. Reuben made no reply—his charity, of any sort, was not in a talkative mood, and the two parted kindly at Phil's cross road.

Not home to dinner now, for Reuben! The minutes of talk had seemed long to his impatience; he had borne them, partly to get information, partly to keep down suspicion. But now with Phil out of sight, he turned short about and took the way to Mrs. Derrick's with almost flying steps. True, he was not dressed for "Miss Faith's" room—but Reuben Taylor was always neat and in order, and she must not wait. He hurried into Mrs. Roscom's—there to leave his basket and every removable trace of his work,—then on!

Faith had spent the early morning upon her couch;—no need to ask if she felt stronger than yesterday,—every line and feature shewed prostration—and patience. Breakfast had been passed over nominally. What Mrs. Derrick could do for her was done; what she could not, lay heavy on the hearts of both as the one went down to make the days arrangements, and the other lay still to endure. Reuben had not come after the morning train—there was nothing even to expect till night, and Faith lay listening to her little clock and watching the passage of the April sunbeams through her room.

Suddenly a loud startling rap at the front door. But she was powerless to go and see, and after that one sound the house seemed to sink into perfect stillness. Then the door of her room opened, and Mrs. Derrick came in bearing a large basket. A heavy one too, but Mrs. Derrick would have spent her last atom of strength before she would have let any one else bring it up. Her face looked quite radiant.

"Pretty child!" she said, "here's something for you!"

It was needless to ask questions,—Mrs. Derrick's face could have but one meaning. Faith neither asked nor answered, except by the sudden start of the blood into cheeks which were pale enough before. Slipping from the couch she was on her knees by the basket, pulling out the ends of the knots by which it was tied, with just a tiny beautiful smile at work on her changed lips. Her mother went softly away (she thought the first sight of anything in that line belonged to Faith alone) and the April sunbeams took a new view of things.

The knots gave way, and the basket cover swung round, and the white wrapping paper came off; and within lay something for her truly!—most appropriate! A great stem of bananas and another of plantains, thick set with fruit, displayed their smooth green and red coats in very excellent contrast, and below and around and doing duty as mere packing, were sunny Havana oranges, of extra size, and of extra flavour—to judge by the perfume. But better than all, to Faith's eye, was a little slip of blackmarked white paper, tucked under a red banana—it had only these words—

'Sweets to the sweet.'

"Faith, I should put in more, but the basket refuses. It is the measure of only one part of the proverb—do you understand?"

Faith knew oranges, she had never seen bananas or plantains before. It was all one; for the time being they were not bananas or oranges but hieroglyphics; and the one fruit looked as much like Mr. Linden's handwriting as the other. She sat with her arm resting on the couch supporting her head, and looking at them. Not the finest picture that Goethe ever viewed, or bade his friends view as part of their "duty," was so beautiful as that basket of red and yellow fruit to Faith's eye. And all the more for that foreign look they were like Mr. Linden; for the common things which they said, it was like him to say uncommonly. How very sweet was the smell of those oranges! and how delicious the soft feeling of peace which settled down on all Faith's senses. Very different from the sort of quiet she was in a quarter of an hour ago. She did not trouble herself now about the missing letters. This told that Mr. Linden was well, or he could hardly have been out to buy fruit and pack it and pack it off to her. So Mrs. Derrick found her—reading not words, but oranges and bananas; with a face it was a pity Mr. Linden could not see.

It may be remarked in passing that the face was not lost upon the one who did see it. Mrs. Derrick came and stooped down by Faith and her basket in great admiration and joy and silence for a moment—the sight almost put everything else out of her head; but then she exclaimed, "Child, the doctor's coming!—I saw him driving up to the door."

Faith put the cover on the basket, and while Mrs. Derrick set it out of sight, she received the doctor as yesterday, standing. But with a nice little colour in her cheeks to-day, in place of yesterday's sad want of it. Dr. Harrison came up with one hand full of a most rare and elegant bunch of hothouse flowers.

"My amends-making—" he said as he presented it.

It was not in Faith's nature not to look pleasure and admiration at such bits of kindred nature. They were very exquisite, they were some of them new to her, they were all most lovely, and Faith's eyes looked love at them. Dr. Harrison was satisfied, for in those eyes there was to-day no shadow at all. Their gravity he was accustomed to, and thought he liked.

"How do you do?" he said.

"I am—a great deal better. O mother—may I have a glass of water for these?"

"You said yesterday you were well, Miss Faith."

"You saw I wasn't," said Faith as she put her flowers in the glass.

"That is very true. And I see also that your statement to-day is not of much juster correctness. How came you to say that?"

"I said, it without knowing—what I said," Faith answered simply. "What is this, Dr. Harrison?"

The doctor puzzled over her answer and could make nothing of it.

"That is a Fuchsia—and that is another."

"How beautiful!—how beautiful. They are not sweet?"

"You cannot always have sweetness in connexion with everything else," he said with a slight emphasis. Faith's mind was too far away from the subject to catch his innuendo; unless other lips had spoken it.

"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I should like as a professional man, to know what portion of the wing of a robin this lady can manage for her breakfast?"

"Some days more and some days less," said Mrs. Derrick. "She was not very hungry this morning." (A mild statement of the case.)

"Some days less than the wing of a robin!" said the doctor. "The robin himself is a better feeder. Mrs. Derrick, what fancies does this bird live upon?"

The allusion drew a smile to Faith's face, which Mrs Derrick did not understand.

"She don't tell all her fancies,—she has seemed to live on tea and toast, for eatables."

The doctor smiled, and went back to Faith who was busy with the flowers; or as Mrs. Derrick said, seemed to be busy with them.

"Are those better than cowslips?" he asked lightly.

"They are more wonderfully beautiful—they are not better in their place."

"How is that?"

"I told you cowslips were bits of spring," said Faith smiling. "These are not that. I think everything in the world—I mean, the natural world—has its place, that it fills."

"Better than any other would?"

"I suppose so. Yes."

"That is admirable philosophy," said the doctor. "Excellent to keep one contented. Three feet of snow is then as good as May zephyrs! Daisies and dandelions are fair substitutes for geraniums and cacti! And these barren granite fields, where the skeleton rock has hardly covered itself skin deep with soil, are better than flowery prairies of rolling land, and fertile wildernesses of roses!"

"Well," said Faith; "you needn't laugh. I think they are."

"By what transmutation of philosophy?"

Faith's philosophy was put to the test by certain sounds which just then came to her ear; the hall door opened and shut quick though softly, and Reuben came lightly upstairs—two stairs at a time!—but his knock at Faith's door was almost as quiet as usual. Whatever spirit of energy was at work in him, however, calmed itself down at sight of Dr. Harrison—whom he did not then stay to greet, but coming up with a swift steady step to Faith's chair, knelt down there and gave her his hand with, "Miss Faith, are you better to-day?"

If a rosebud yesterday shut up in the cold had opened all its beams to the sun,—that was Faith to-day, as she took Reuben's hand and held it.

"That is a very devoted servant of yours, Miss Faith," said the doctor pointedly. "I notice he gives you homage in true chivalric style. Does the transmuting philosophy extend thus far also?"

Faith turned the light of her face upon him as she answered, "I shouldn't be worthy of one of those knights or of this, Dr. Harrison, if I would change one for the other."

Reuben had risen to his feet as the doctor spoke, and as he quitted Faith's hand laid his own, with the slightest possible gesture, upon the left breast of his coat; which did not mean (as it would with Sam Stoutenburgh) that there was his heart—but that there were the letters! Then stepping back with a bow acknowledging Dr. Harrison's presence, Reuben went over to the window to speak to Mrs. Derrick. The doctor had seen him before that morning from the window, as with some ordered fish Reuben entered Judge Harrison's gate, and his dress was the same now as then,—how the different offices could be so different and so reconciled—or what this office was, were matters of study. But clearly Faith was as strong for her knight as her knight was for her.

"I didn't understand the transmuting philosophy in the former case," the doctor remarked.

"It is not that," said Faith with rising colour, for she had seen Reuben's hand gesture. "It is just taking things as they are."

"That is a philosophy deeper than that of transmutation!" said the doctor. "I give it up. But what is the philosophy in this case?—" and he nodded slightly towards Reuben.

"If you ever know him, you'll know, Dr. Harrison," Faith said softly.

"Is he so trustworthy?" said the doctor thoughtfully looking at him; but then he gave his attention to Faith, and talked of herself and what she was to do for herself; until seeing no prospect of the doctor's being out of his way, Reuben was again passing them on his way out. The doctor arrested him by a slight but pleasant gesture.

"What are you doing now, Taylor?"

"Nothing new, sir,—a little for my father and a little for myself."

"I saw you doing something for your father, I think to-day. Doesn't that hinder your studies?"

"Mr. Linden used to say that one duty never really hinders another, sir."

"Pleasant doctrine!" said the doctor. "I am tempted to try it now. If you bestow a little time upon me, it will not perhaps interfere with your going to dinner afterwards. Does Mr. Linden continue to hold some of his supervision over you? Do you hear from him sometimes?"

"Yes sir—both,"—was Reuben's prompt answer.

"Then you have something to do with the post-office occasionally?"

"Yes sir."

"And know pretty well what everybody in Pattaquasset says of every other body,—don't you?"

"I don't need to go to the post office for that, sir," Reuben said quietly.

"No—I mean by virtue of another office—that which you exercise for your father. But it is true, isn't it?"

"Not quite, sir. Some people do not talk to me—and some I never stop to hear."

The doctor smiled a little, along with an acute look of approving intelligence.

"Well—do you happen to know what is said or thought of the people I was the means of putting into the post-office, half a year ago?"

"Not very well, sir. I haven't heard much said about them."

"As far as your knowledge goes, they seem to be doing their duty?"

"I make no complaint, sir."

Dr. Harrison glanced at Faith with a not pleased expression, and back again. "Does that mean that you have none to make, or that you will make none? I am asking, you surely must know, not officially nor judicially; but to gain private information which it is desirable I should have; and which I ask, and expect to receive, confidentially."

"Sir," Reuben said gravely, though with a manner perfectly respectful, "why do you ask me? The gentlemen of Pattaquasset should know more about their own post-office, than the poor fishers of Quapaw. There is a clannishness among poor people, sir,—if I had heard anything, I should not like to tell you."

The doctor got up and took his old position on the carpet rug, a very slight air of haughty displeasure mixing with his habitual indolent gracefulness.

"This is your knight, Miss Derrick! Apparently the proverb of 'friends' friends' does not hold good with him. When you are a little older, sir, you will know—if you grow correspondingly wiser—that the fishers of Quapaw or of any other point are precisely the people to know in such a matter what the gentlemen whom it more nearly concerns, cannot get at; and you have yourself given the reason."

Faith looked at Reuben with a little inquiring wonder. But he made no answer, either to her look or the doctor's words; indeed perhaps did not see the former, for his own eyes were cast down. He stood there, the fingers of both hands lightly interlaced, his face quiet to the last degree of immovability. The doctor's first words, to Faith, had brought a moment's flush to his cheeks, but it had passed with the moment; gravity and steadiness and truth were all that remained. The doctor recognized them all, but all as adverse or opposition forces.

"I will not detain you longer, sir!—I told you, Miss Faith," he said sitting down and changing his tone, "that I did not know how to cut up cake—still less how to administer it. I found this family—very poor—over at Neanticut, on some of my excursions;—and somewhat carelessly thought they could perform the duty of taking papers out of a bag, as well as wiser people. There is a girl too, the daughter, who seemed clever enough. But I have had reason to doubt my own wisdom in the proceeding, after all."

Faith heard the door close after Reuben with the first of the doctor's words to her. She listened to the rest with a divided interest. Her mind had gone off to her basket of bananas, and was besides occupied with a little lurking wonder at Reuben's impracticability. But with nothing strongly, the feeling of weakness and lassitude was so taking the upper hand of every other. The relaxing now began to tell of the great tension she had borne for a day or two; the relaxing was entire, for what the basket had begun Reuben's appearance had finished. Faith was sure he had a letter for her, and so sat and looked at the doctor like one whose senses were floating away in a dream—one of those pleasant dreams that they do not wish to break.

"You are faint!" said the doctor suddenly. "Mrs. Derrick, have you any wine in the house? I should like some here."

But Mrs. Derrick's first step (it seemed but that) was to Faith—taking her out of the easy-chair and putting her on the couch before any one had time to say ay or no. There she left her while she opened the closet and got out the wine; bringing it then to Faith and setting the doctor aside most unceremoniously. Faith had not quite reached the fainting point, though she was near it from mere inanition. She drank the wine, and smiled at them both like one who had a secret wine of her own that she was taking privately.

"What will she eat, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor in real concern. "Tea and toast won't do!"

"I will take something presently," Faith said with another of those childlike satisfied looks. They made Dr. Harrison very unlike himself, always. He stood so now.

"Doctor," said Mrs. Derrick, in her odd, free, rather blunt and yet kindly way, "you are a very good doctor, I dare say, but you're not much of a nurse. Now I am—and I'll find her something to eat,—you needn't be uneasy."

He looked at her with one of the best smiles that ever came over his face; bright, free and kindly; then turned to Faith.

"What made your knight so cross with me?" he said as he bent over her to take her hand.

"I don't know—" said Faith. "I am sure he had some good reason."

"Reason to be cross!"—

"He didn't mean to be cross. You don't know Reuben Taylor."

The doctor was inclined to be of a different opinion, for his brows knit as soon as he had closed her door.

"Now mother!" said Faith half raising herself,—"please let me have my basket. I am going to try one of those queer things. That is what I want."

"Do you know what I want?" said Mrs. Derrick as she brought up the basket. "Just to have Dr. Harrison find Mr. Linden here some day!" Which severe sentence was so much softened down by the weight of the basket, that it sounded quite harmless.

Faith was too eager to get the cover off to pay present attention to this speech. There they were again! the red and yellow strange, beautiful, foreign-looking things which she was to eat; too handsome to disturb. But finally a red plump banana was cut from the stem, and Faith looked at it in her fingers, uncertain how to begin the attack. Looking back to the little empty space where it had been, Faith became "ware" of an end of blue ribband beneath said space. Down went the banana and down went Faith. The loop of ribband being pulled gently suggested that it was not able to contend with an unknown weight of bananas; but when Faith partly held these up, the ribband yielded to persuasion, and tugged after it into the daylight a tiny package—which being unwrapped revealed a tiny oval case; wherein lay, last of all, a delicate silver knife. Faith's face of overflowing delight it was good to see.

"O mother!—how just like him!—Mother!" exclaimed Faith,—"this is to eat those with!"

Could anything more be wanting to give bananas a flavour? They happened moreover to hit the fancy the doctor had been so anxious to suit. Faith liked her first one very much, and pronounced it very nearly the best of all fruits. But being persuaded to try one, Mrs. Derrick avowed that she could not eat it and wondered how Faith could; declaring that in her judgment if a thing was sweet at all, it ought to be sweeter.

If Dr. Harrison could have seen the atmosphere of peace and delight his knit brows had left behind them!

As soon as he was gone, Reuben brought up the letters. And with sunshine all round her, Faith read them and went to sleep, which she did with the little case that held her knife clasped in her hand. Sleep claimed her while fever took its turn and passed away for the day. Faith woke up towards evening, weak and weary in body, unable to make much lively shew of the "merry heart" which "doeth good like a medicine".

"My studies don't get on very fast at this rate, mother," she remarked as she sat in the easy-chair at her tea, unable to hold her head up.

"This has been a hard day," her mother said sadly as she looked at her. "Faith, I won't let Dr. Harrison pay any more such long visits! he tires you to death."

"It wasn't that. Mother—I think I'll have one of those things out of my basket—I wish Mr. Linden had told me what to call them."

Mrs. Derrick brought the basket and looked on intently.

"When is he coming, child?" she said.

Faith did not certainly know. Under the influence of a plantain and the silver knife she revived a little.

"Mother—what made you wish Dr. Harrison might meet Mr. Linden here?"

"It would save him a world of trouble," said Mrs. Derrick kindly. "And besides, child, I'm tired seeing him buzz round you, myself. Faith, Mr. Linden would say that he ought to be told you're sick."

"I can judge for him once in a while," Faith said with a little bit of a triumphing smile.

"Well—" said her mother,—"you'll see what he'll say. I guess he'd rather you'd judge for him about something else."

From that time letters went and came through the Patchaug post-office.



CHAPTER XXIV.



Faith rallied somewhat from the prostration that succeeded those days of anxiety; but then the fever again asserted its empire, and strength, little by little but daily, lost ground rather than gained it. Though not ever very high, the fever came back with persevering regularity; it would not be baffled; and such always recurring assaults are trying to flesh and blood and to spirit too, be they of what they may. Faith's patience and happy quiet never left her; as the weeks went on it did happen that the quiet grew more quiet, and was even a little bordering on depression. One or two things helped this uncomfortably.

The sense of the extreme unpleasantness of such a meeting as her mother had wished for, perhaps startled Faith to a fresh sense of what she had to do in the premises. She resolved to be as grave and cool as it was possible to be, in Dr. Harrison's presence. She would keep him at such a distance as should wean him from any thoughts of her. Faith tried faithfully to do what she had purposed. But it was very difficult to keep at a distance a person who did not pretend to be near, or only pretended it in a line where he could not be repulsed. He must see her every day as her physician. He must be allowed the kindly expression of kind feelings; he could not be forbidden to bring to his patient, as her friend and physician, such things as he thought her strength, or weakness, needed. These instances of thoughtfulness and care for her were many. Birds, old wine from his father's cellar, flowers from the greenhouse, and fruit from nobody knows where, came often; and the manner of offering them, the quiet, unobtrusive, unexacting kindness and attention, it was scarce possible to reject without something that would have seemed churlishness. Faith took them as gravely as she could without being unkind. Her illness helped her, and also hindered the effect she wished to produce. Feeling weak and weary and unable for any sort of exertion, it was the easier for her to be silent, abstracted, unresponsive to anything that was said or done. And also her being so signified the less and testified the less of her real purpose. Faith knew it and could not help it. She could not besides be anything but natural; and she felt kindly towards Dr. Harrison; with a grave kindness, that yet was more earnest in its good wishes for him than any other perhaps that existed for Dr. Harrison in the world. Faith could not hide that, careful as she was in her manner of shewing it. And there was one subject upon which she dared not be unresponsive or abstracted when the doctor brought it up. He brought it up now very often.

She did not know how it was, she was far from knowing why it was; but the pleasant talk with which the doctor sought to amuse her, and which was most skilfully pleasant as to the rest, was very apt to glance upon Bible subjects; and as it touched, to brush them with the wing of doubt—or difficulty or—uneasiness. Dr. Harrison did not see things as she did—that was of old; but he contrived to let her see that he doubted she did not see them right, and somehow contrived also to make her hear his reasons. It was done with the art of a master and the steady aim of a general who has a great field to win. Faith did not want to hear his suggestions of doubt and cavil. She remembered Mr. Linden's advice long ago given; repeated it to herself every day; and sought to meet Dr. Harrison only with the sling stone of truth and let his weapons of artificial warfare alone. Truly she "had not proved these," and "could not go with them." But whatever effect her sling might have upon him, which she knew not, his arrows were so cunningly thrown that they wounded her. Not in her belief; she never failed for a moment to be aware that they were arrows from a false quiver, that the sword of truth would break with a blow. And yet, in her weak state of body and consequent weak state of mind, the sight of such poisoned arrows flying about distressed her; the mere knowledge that they did fly and bore death with them; a knowledge which once she happily had not. All this would have pained her if she had been well; in the feverish depression of illness it weighed upon her like a mountain of cloud. Faith's shield caught the darts and kept them from herself; but in her increasing nervous weakness her hand at last grew weary; and it seemed to Faith then as if she could see nothing but those arrows flying through the air. But there was one human form before which, she knew, this mental array of enemies would incontinently take flight and disappear; she knew they would not stand the first sound of Mr. Linden's voice; and her longing grew intense for his coming. How did she ever keep it out of her letters! Yet it hardly got in there, for she watched it well. Sometimes the subdued "I want to see you very much,"—at the close of a letter, said, more than Faith knew it did; and she could not be aware how much was told by the tone of her writing. That had changed, though that too was guarded, so far as she could. She could not pour out a light, free, and joyous account of all that was going on within and about her, when she was suffering alternately from fever and weakness, and through both from depression and nervous fancies. Most unlike Faith! and she tried to seem her usual self then when she came most near it, in writing to him. But it was a nice matter to write letters for so many weeks out of a sick room and not let Mr. Linden find out that she herself was there all the while. His letters however were both a help and a spur; Faith talked a good deal of things not at Pattaquasset; and through all weakness and ailing sent her exercises prepared with utmost care, regularly as usual. It hurt her; but Faith would not be stopped. Her sickness she knew after all was but a light matter; and nothing could persuade her to break in upon Mr. Linden's term of study with any more interruptions for her. And even to Mrs. Derrick she did not tell the keen heart-longing, which daily grew more urgent, for that term to come to an end.

Mrs. Derrick did sometimes connect the cause of her weariness with Dr. Harrison, and was indignant in proportion. Faith looked at him with different eyes, and her feeling was of very gentle and deep sorrow for him. It was by the appeal to that side of her character that Dr. Harrison gained all his advantage.

Faith's shield caught his arrows of unbelieving suggestion and threw them off from her own heart; she could not put that shield between them and the doctor, and that was her grief. It grieved her more than he thought. And yet, it was with a half conscious, half instinctive availing himself of this feeling that he aimed and managed his attacks with such consummate tact and skill. Faith would not have entered into controversy; she would not have taken up a gauntlet of challenge; did he know that? His hints and questions were brought into the subject, Faith knew not how; but the point of view in which they always presented themselves was as troublers of his own mind—difficulties he would willingly have solved—questions he would like to see answered. And Faith's words, few or many, for she was sometimes drawn on, were said in the humble yearning desire to let him know what she rejoiced in and save him from an abyss of false fathomless depth. It was more than she could do. Dr. Harrison's subtle difficulties and propositions had been contrived in a school of which she knew nothing; and were far too subtle and complicate in their false wit for Faith's true wit to answer. Not at all for lack of wit, but for lack of skill in fencing and of experience in the windings of duplicity. So she heard things that grieved her and that she could not shew up to the doctor for what she knew them to be.

"I am no better than this little knife!" she thought bitterly one day, as she was looking at her favourite silver banana-carver;—"it can go through soft fruit well enough, but it isn't strong enough or sharp enough to deal with anything harder!—"

Faith did herself injustice. It takes sometimes little less than Ithuriel's spear to make the low, insidious, unobtrusive forms of evil stand up and shew themselves what they are—the very Devil!

"Reuben," said Faith one time when they were alone together,—"did you ever hear any of the mischievous talk against the Bible, of people who don't love it?"

"Yes, Miss Faith,—I never heard a great deal at a time—only little bits now and then. And I've felt some times from a word or two what other words the people had in their hearts."

"Don't ever let people talk it to you, Reuben, unless God makes it your duty to hear it," she said wearily. Reuben looked at her.

"Do you think he ever makes it our duty, Miss Faith?"

"I don't know!" said Faith, a little as if the question startled her. "But you might be where you could not help it, Reuben."

He was silent, looking rather thoughtfully into the fire.

"Miss Faith," he said, "you remember when Christian was going through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the fiends came and whispered to him all sorts of dreadful things which he would not have thought of for the world. 'But,' as Mr. Bunyan says, 'he had not the discretion either to stop his ears, or to know from whence those blasphemies came.'" Reuben blushed a little at his own advice-giving, but made no other apology.

There was much love and respect and delight in Faith's swift look at him. Her words glanced. "Reuben, I am glad you are going to be a minister!"—She added with the sorrowful look stealing over her face, "I wish the world was full of ministers!—if they were good ones."

His face was very bright and grateful, and humble too. "Miss Faith," he said, taking up her words, "don't you love to think of that other definition of minister?—you know—'ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure.'"

"In that way the world is full now," said Faith; "in all things except men. But by and by 'the great trumpet will be blown' and 'they that were ready to perish' shall come, from everywhere. It's good to know that."

"It's such a beautiful thing to know, just by believing!" Reuben said,—"don't you think so, Miss Faith? And then whatever people say or do, and if we can't find a word to answer them, we know down in our hearts, that the Bible is true. And so 'by faith we stand.'"

"But we ought to find words to answer them, Reuben—or else, though we stand, they fall!"

"Yes, ma'am—sometimes," Reuben said rather hesitatingly. "Only—I've heard Mr. Linden say that a Christian must take care of his own standing first, and do nothing to shake that; or else he may have his own light blown out while he's trying to light other people's. You know, Miss Faith, the five wise virgins would not give their oil to the others. I've heard Mr. Linden talk about it very often," Reuben added softly, as if he wanted to screen himself from the charge of presumption.

If Faith was bringing charges, it was against herself, for she sat very silent and thoughtful, and weary also; for when for the fifth or sixth time Reuben brought his eyes from the fire to her face he saw that she had fallen asleep.

Mr. Linden's letters about this time told two or three things, among the rest that he might soon be looked for instead of letters. Moreover that he felt sure he was wanted—and further, that Faith's letters had changed. These two last things were not said in words, but Faith read them none the less surely—read thus first that her letters really were different. Just what cause Mr. Linden assigned to himself, she did not know, nor whether he had fixed upon any; but it was clear that nothing but the fact that his freedom was so close at hand, kept him from freeing himself at once and coming to Pattaquasset. And second only to Faith did Mrs. Derrick long for his appearance.

She had heard bits of the doctor's talk from time to time, but for a while with some doubt of their meaning,—as whether he was reporting what other people said, or whether she had heard him correctly. But when by degrees the goodness of her hearing attested itself, then Mrs. Derrick's indignation began to follow suit. The doctor's object she did not at first guess (perhaps made it, if possible, worse than it was) but that made little difference.

On this particular afternoon, when Faith woke up she found Reuben gone and her mother keeping watch. The fair look that always greeted Mrs. Derrick was given her, but otherwise the face she was studying was not satisfactory. The roundness of the cheek was much lessened, the colour was gone, and the lines of expression were weary though she had slept. Or rather perhaps they were too gravely drawn.

"Faith," said her mother decisively, "you want your tea. Can you eat a broiled pigeon, if I broil it myself?"

"I can eat a piece of one, if you'll take the rest, mother," she said with a smile at her. "I eat a whole banana just before I went to sleep."

"Well this ain't the doctor's pigeon, so I guess it will be good," said Mrs. Derrick. "Sam Stoutenburgh brought it.—And I'm going to cook it here, pretty child, because I want to be here myself. I suppose the smoke won't trouble you if it goes up chimney?"

"I'd like it, smoke and all, mother," said Faith, changing the resting-place for her head. "But you needn't slight the doctor's birds—they were as fine birds as could be—when I could eat them."

"'Birds of a feather'"—said Mrs. Derrick laconically. And she drew out some of the glowing and winking embers, and set thereon the tiny gridiron with its purplish plump pigeon. "Sam's home now, Faith, and you'd think he'd been through every degree of everything. But the first thing he did was to go off and shoot pigeons for you."

Faith was inclined to think he had not got above one degree. She sat in her easy-chair and watched the play cookery with amused pleased eyes.

"I should like to be in the kitchen again, mother—doing something for you."

"You shall do something for me presently," said her mother, as the pigeon began to send out little puffs of steam and jets of juice, which the coals resented. "This one's fat, anyway—and there's a half dozen more. The fun of it is, child, that Sam was afraid there weren't enough!—he wanted to know if I was sure they'd last till to-morrow!—so I guess he's not in a fainting away state. I told him we'd roast beef in the house, for you to fall back upon, child," she added with a little laugh, as she turned the pigeon. But her face was very grave the next moment, with the sorrowful reality. "Pretty child," she said tenderly, "do you feel as if you could eat a muffin or a biscuit best?"

"Mother, that pigeon is making me hungry, it smells so nice. I am sure I can eat anything."

"Well I made muffins," said Mrs. Derrick, bustling softly about with the little table and the tea-things. "Faith, I'm afraid to have Mr. Linden come home and find your cheeks so thin."

"I'm not," said Faith quietly.

"My!" said her mother, "you never were afraid of anything he'd a mind to do, child. But for all I know, he may carry you off to Europe in the next steamer. He's up to 'most anything," said Mrs. Derrick stooping down by the pigeon, and giving it the persuasion of a few more coals.

Faith said languidly that she did not think there was much danger, and Mrs. Derrick for the present concentrated her attention upon the tea preparations. Cindy came up with a little teakettle, and Mrs. Derrick made the tea, and then went down stairs to superintend the first baking of the muffins, leaving the teakettle to sing Faith into a very quiet state of mind. Then presently reappearing, with a smoking plate of cakes in her hand, Mrs. Derrick took up the pigeon, with due applications of butter and salt and pepper, and the tea was ready. It was early; the sunbeams were lingering yet in the room, the air wafted in through the window the sweet dewy breath of flowers and buds and springing grass over the pigeon and muffins; and by Faith's plate stood the freshest of watercresses in a little white bowl. These Reuben brought her every day, wet from the clear stream where they grew, shining with the drops of bright water, and generally sprinkled too with some of the spring flowers. To-day the plate on which the bowl stood had a perfect wreath or crown of mouse-ear,—the pale pink blossoms saying all sorts of sweet things. The room was well off for flowers in other respects. Dr. Harrison's hothouse foreigners looked dainty and splendid, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh's periwinkle and crocuses and daffodils looked springlike and fresh; while in another glass a rich assortment of dandelions spoke a prettier message yet, from Charles twelfth and his little compeers.

"And the mouse-ear is come!" said Faith as she applied herself to the refreshment of salt and watercresses. "I wonder whether Reuben does this because he loves flowers him self, or because he knows I do. I guess it's both. How lovely they are! How my dairy must want me, mother." Which was said with a little recollective patient sigh.

"I guess it can wait," said her mother cheerfully. "And I guess it'll have to. You needn't think you'll be let do anything for one while, Faith."

"I guess I shall, mother. I am sure I am stronger to-day,—and Dr. Harrison said I had less fever. And your pigeon is good. Besides, I must,—if I can,"—said Faith, with an anticipative glance this time.

"It's my belief, child," said her mother, "that if Dr. Harrison had staid away altogether—or never staid here more than five minutes at a time, you'd have been better long ago. But I think you are better—in spite of him."

Of the two subjects Faith preferred the pigeon to Dr. Harrison, and discussed it quite to her mother's satisfaction. But if silent, she thought never the less. Both Reuben Taylor's words and her mother's words quickened her to thinking, and thinking seemed of very little use. The next day when the doctor came she was as grave and still and unresponsive as she could be. And it had no effect on him whatever. He was just as usual, he talked just as usual; and Faith could but be grieved, and be silent. It did not enter her gentle imagination that the very things which so troubled her were spoken on purpose to trouble her. How could it? when they made their way into the conversation and into her hearing as followers of something else, as harpies that worried or had worried somebody else, as shapes that a cloud might take and be a cloud again—only she could not forget that shape. It was near now the time for Mr. Linden to come home, and Faith looked for his coming with an hourly breath of longing. It seemed to her that his very being there would at once break the mesh Dr. Harrison was so busy weaving and in which she had no power to stop him.

But the doctor's opportunity for playing this game was nearing an end, and he knew it. He did not know that Mr. Linden was coming; he did know that Faith was getting well.

A day or two after the talk with Reuben it happened that Mrs. Derrick was detained down stairs when the doctor came up to see Faith. The room was full of a May warmth and sweetness from the open windows; and Faith herself in a white dress instead of the brown wrapper, looked May-like enough. Not so jocund and blooming certainly; she was more like a snowdrop than a crocus. Her cheeks were pale and thin, but their colour was fresh; and her eye had the light of returning health,—or of returning something else!

"You are getting well!" said the doctor. "I shall lose my work—and forgive me, my pleasure!"

"I will give you some better work to do, Dr. Harrison."

"What is that? Anything for you!—"

"It is not for me. That little lame child to whom you sent the rose-tree, Dr. Harrison,—she is very sick. Would you go and see her?"

"Did you think I would not?" he said rather gravely.

"I want to see her very much myself," Faith went on;—"but I suppose I could not take so long a ride yet. Could I?"

The doctor looked at her.

"I think the mother of the Gracchi must have been something such a woman!" he said with an indescribable grave comic mien;—"and the other Roman mother that saved Rome and lost her son! Or that lady of Sparta who made the affectionate request to her son about coming home from the battle on his shield! I thought the race had died out."

Faith could not help laughing. He had not been sure that she would understand his allusions, but his watchful eye saw that she did.

"Were you educated in Pattaquasset?" he said. "Pardon me!"—

All Faith's gravity returned, and all her colour too. "No, sir," she said, "I have never been educated. I am studying now."

"Studying!" said he gently. "You have little need to study."

"Why, sir?"

"There are minds and natures so rich by their original constitution, that their own free growth is a fuller and better harvest than all the schoolmasters in the world can bring out of other people."

Again Faith's cheek was dyed. "I was poor enough," she said bowing her head for a moment. "I am poor now,—but I am studying."

In which last words lay perhaps the tiniest evidence of an intention not to be poor always. A suspicious glance of thought shot from the doctor's mind. But as it had happened more than once before, the simplicity of Faith's frankness misled him, and he dismissed suspicion.

"If you want an illustration of my meaning," he went on without change of manner, "permit me to remind you that your paragon of character,—the Rhododendron—does no studying. My conclusion is plain!"

"The Rhododendron does all it can."

"Well—" said the doctor,—"it is impossible to trace the limits of the influences of mignonette."

Faith looked grave. She was thinking how very powerless her influences had been.

"Don't you see that I have made out my position?"

"No."

"What sort of studying—may I ask it?—do you favour most?" he said with a smile.