"I like all kinds—every kind!"

"I believe that. I know you have a love for chymistry, and Shakspeare, and natural history. But I should like to know Mignonette's favourite atmosphere."

"The study I like best of all is the one you like least, Dr. Harrison."

"What may that be, Miss Faith?"

"The study of the Bible."

"The Bible! Surely you know that already," he said in an interested voice.

"Did you think so?" said Faith quickly and with secret humbleness. "You made a great mistake, Dr. Harrison. But there is nothing I take such deep lessons in;—nor such pleasant ones."

"You mistake me too, Miss Faith. I do like it. You are strong enough for it to-day—I wish you would give me one of those lessons you speak of?"

"If you loved it, sir, you would not ask me. You would find them for yourself."

"Another mistake!" said the doctor. "I might love them, and yet ask you. Won't you give me one?"

She lifted to his a look so gentle and grave that he could not think she was displeased, or harsh, or even unkind. But she answered him, "No."

"Don't you feel strong enough for it?" he said with a shade of concern.

"Yes."

"You think you have given me one lesson already," he said smiling, "which I am not attending to. I will go and see your little sick child immediately. But I don't know the way! I wish you were well enough to pilot me. I can't find her by the sign of the rosebush?"

"Reuben Taylor will take you there, Dr. Harrison, if you will let him. He goes there often."

"If I will let him! Say, if he will let me! Your knight does not smile upon me, Miss Faith."

"Why not?"

"I'm sure I'm not qualified to give evidence," said the doctor half laughing at having the tables turned upon him. "Unless his chivalric devotion to you is jealous of every other approach—even mine. But you say he will guide me to the rosebush?"

"I am sure he will with great pleasure, Dr. Harrison."

"And I will go with great pleasure—for you."

He was standing before her, looking down. There was something in the look that made Faith's colour come again. She answered seriously, "No sir—not for me."

"Why not?"

"I can't reward you," said Faith; trembling, for she felt she was speaking to the point. "Do it for a better reason."

"Will you shew me a better?"

She answered instantly with a bright little smile, "'Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, pressed down, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into your bosom.'"

"In another world!—" said the doctor.

"No—in this. The promise stands for it."

"It's your part of this world—not mine; and unless you shew me the way, Miss Faith, I shall never get into it."—Then more gently, taking her hand and kissing it, he added, "Are you tired of trying to help me?"

Faith met his keen eye, reddened, and drooped her head; for indeed she felt weak. And her words were low and scarce steady. "I will not be tired of praying for you, Dr Harrison."

What swift electric current along the chain of association moved the doctor's next question. He was silent a minute before he spoke it; then spoke in a clear even voice. "May I ask you—is it impertinent—what first led you to this way of thinking?—Sophy says you were not always so."

The colour deepened on Faith's cheek, he saw that, and deepened more.

"The teaching is always of heaven, sir. But it came to me through the hands of the friend who was so long in our house—last year."

"And has that adventurer counselled you to trust no friend that isn't of his way of thinking?" the doctor said with some haughtiness of accent.

Faith raised her eyes and looked at him, the steady grave look that the doctor never liked to meet from those soft eyes. It fixed his, till her eyes fell with a sudden motion, and the doctor's followed them—whither? To that gloved forefinger which he had often noticed was kept covered. Faith was slowly drawing the covering off; and something in her manner or her look kept his eyes rivetted there. Slowly, deliberately, Faith uncovered the finger, and in full view the brilliants sparkled; danced and leapt, as it seemed to Faith, whose eyes saw nothing else. She did not dare look up, nor could, for a double reason. She sat like a fair statue, looking still and only at the diamond sign, while the blood in her cheeks that bore witness to it seemed the only moving thing about her. That rose and deepened, from crimson to scarlet, and from her cheeks to the rim of her hair.

She never saw the changes in her neighbour's face, nor what struggles the paleness and the returning flush bore witness to. She never looked up. She had revealed all; she was willing he should conceal all,—that he could. It was but a minute or two, though Faith's measurement made it a more indefinite time; and Dr. Harrison took her hand again, precisely in his usual manner, remarked that it was possible he might be obliged to go south in a day or two for a day or two, but that he rather thought he had cured her; and so went off, with no difference of tone that any stranger could have told, and Faith never raised her eyes to see how he looked.



CHAPTER XXV.



Dr. Harrison sent away his curricle and walked home,—slowly, with his hands behind him, as if the May air had made him lazy. To any one that met him, he wore as disengaged an air as usual; his eye was as coolly cognizant of all upon which it fell, and his brow never looked less thoughtful. While his head never had been more busy. He kept the secret of his pride—he had kept and would keep it, well; no one should guess what he bore; but he bore a writhing brain and a passion that was heaving with disappointment. To no end—except to expose himself—he had worked at his mining operations all these months; nothing could be more absolute than the silence of Faith's answer; nothing could be more certain than the fixedness of her position. Against the very impassableness of the barrier the doctor's will chafed, even while his hope gave way. He ruthlessly called himself a fool for it too, at the minute. But he was unused to be baffled; and no man pursues long with such deliberate energy a purpose upon which he has set his heart, without having all the cords of his will and his passion knit at last into a cable of strength and tenacity. The doctor's walk grew slower, and his eyes fell on the ground. How lovely Faith had looked—even then, when she was putting him and herself to pain; how speakingly the crimson hues had chased each other all over her face, and neck; how shyly her eyelashes had kept their place on her cheek; with how exquisite grace her still attitude had been maintained. And withal what a piece of simplicity she was! What a contrast those superb diamonds had made with the almost quaint unadornedness of her figure in its white wrapper. A contrast that somehow was not inharmonious, and with which the doctor's artistic taste confessed itself bewitched, though Faith's only other remotest ornament was that very womanly one of her rich brown hair. A piece of simplicity? Could she be beyond his reach? With duty between,—yes; otherwise,—no! as all the doctor's experience told him. And he walked leisurely past his own door, past the houses of the village, on almost to the entrance of the woody road; then turned and came with a brisker pace back. He still called himself a fool, secretly; but he went into the library and wrote a letter. Which in course of time was received and read by Mr. Linden between two of his pieces of work.

It appeared the next day that Dr. Harrison had changed his mind, or his plans, about going south; for he came as usual to see Faith. In every sense as usual; to her astonishment no traces remained of the yesterday's conversation. The ease and kindliness of his manner had suffered no abatement, although a little touch of regretfulness, just allowed to appear, forbade her to doubt that she had been understood. Spite of herself, she could not help being presently again almost at ease with him. Nevertheless Faith wished he had gone south.

She did not feel sure that Mr. Linden would be pleased with the state of matters, as days went on, and she was sure she was not pleased herself. There was something she did not understand. The doctor's manner was not presuming, in a way; neither did he obtrude even his sorrow upon her; yet he took the place of a privileged person—she felt that—and she was obliged to see his pain in the very silence and in the play of words or of face which she thought assumed to conceal it. She was very sorry for him, and in the same breath thought she must have been wrong in something, though she could not see how, or things would never have come to such a point.

She could not guess—how could she!—that the doctor was playing a desperate game and had thrown his last stake on the chance of a flaw in Mr. Linden's confidence towards her or in hers towards him, or of a flaw in the temper of either of them, or a flaw in their pride, or affection! There are flaws in so many characters! Did but either of them lack moral courage, or truth, or trust, or common sense, like a great many of the rest of the world—and the doctor had gained his ground! For Dr. Harrison had determined that Faith's religious opinions should not stand in his way; she should think as he did, or—he would think with her!

Of all this Faith knew nothing. She had only an intuitive sense that something was not right; and doubt and annoyance kept her strength back. She lost ground again. All summed itself up in a longing for Mr. Linden to come.

Meanwhile Mr. Linden had received and read the following despatch, and studied and taught before and after it as best he might.



Pattaquasset, April, 18—.



"MY DEAR LINDEN,



I do not know what impulse prompts me to write this letter to you—A very strong one, probably, that makes fools of men—Yet even with my eyes open to this, I go on.

I have unwittingly become your rival. Not in fact, indeed, but in character. I have been so unfortunate as to love a person you are somehow concerned in—and before I knew that you had any concern of the kind. That is a very simple story, and only one to be smothered—not to be brought to open air,—were it all. But the course of the months past, which has too late brought me this knowledge of myself, has also made me believe that—had I a fair field—were there no contrary ties or fetters of conscience—I should not love in vain. What those ties are I know nothing—I have not asked—but the existence of some obligation I have been given to understand. With certain natures of truth and duty, that is a barrier impassable. You would be safe, were I to act out of honour.

I am a fool, I believe; but I am not yet such a fool as not to know that there is but one man in the world to whom I could write such a confession. Nothing better prompts it than pure selfishness, I am aware—but with me that is strong. I have that notion of you that you would not care to keep what you held only by priority of claim. I may be wrong in the supposition upon which I am going—yet it is my chance for life and I cannot yield it up. That were the lady free—in conscience as well as in fact—she might be induced to look favourably on me. I ought to add, that I believe such a consciousness has never shaped itself to her mind—the innocence with which she may at first have entered into some sort of obligation, would not lessen or alter its truth or stringency to her pure mind. The game is in your own hands, Linden—so is



Your unworthy friend



JULIUS HARRISON.



P.S.—One thing further I ought to add—that a somewhat delicate state of nerves and health, over which I have been for some time watching, would make any rash broaching of this subject very inexpedient and unsafe. I need not enforce this hint."



CHAPTER XXVI.



The spring opened from day to day, and the apple blossoms were bursting. Mr. Linden might soon be looked for, and one warm May afternoon Faith went in to make his room ready. It was the first day she had been fit for it, and she was yet so little strong that she must take care of her movements. With slow and unable fingers she did her pleasant work, and then very tired, sat down in her old reading window-seat and went into a long dream-meditation. It was pleasant for a while, in harmony with the summer air and the robins in the maple; it got round at last into the train of the last weeks. A fruitless reverie ended in Faith's getting very weary; and she went back to her own room to put herself on the couch cushions and go to sleep.

Sleep held on its way after a peaceful fashion, yet not so but that Faith's face shewed traces of her thoughts. Mrs. Derrick came softly and watched her, and the spring air blew back the curtains and fanned her, and brushed her hair with its perfumed wings; and one or two honey bees buzzed in and sought honey from the doctor's flowers, and forsook them again for the fields.

Up there at last, following Mrs. Derrick, came Mr. Linden. With few reasons asked or told of his sudden appearance; with little said even of Faith's illness but the mere fact, he went up to the sunlit room and there staid. Not restingly in Faith's easy-chair, but standing by the low fire-place, just where he could have the fullest view of her. Mrs. Derrick came and went,—he never stirred. The sunbeams came and went—wrapped Faith in their bright folds and lay at his feet, then began to withdraw altogether. They had shewed him the unwontedly pale and worn face, and lit up the weary lines in which the lips lay asleep; and just when the sunbeams had left it all, Mr. Linden became aware that two dark eyes had softly opened and were gazing at him as if he were a figure in a dream. So perhaps for a minute he seemed, touched with the light as he was, which made a glorification in the brown locks of his hair and gleamed about "pleasant outlines" standing as fixed and still as a statue. But they were not statue eyes which looked into hers, and Faith's dreamlike gaze was only for a moment. Then every line of her face changed with joy—and she sprang up to hide it in Mr. Linden's arms. He stood still, holding her as one holds some rescued thing. For Faith was too weak to be just herself, and weariness and gladness had found their own very unusual expression in an outflow of nervous tears.

Something seemed to have taken away Mr. Linden's power of words. He did place her among the cushions again, but if every one of her tears had been balm to him he could not have let them flow more unchecked. Perhaps the recollection that they were tears came suddenly; for with very sudden sweet peremptoriness he said,

"Faith, hush!—Are you so glad to see me?"

She was instantly still. No answer.

"What then?" The intonation was most tender,—so, rather than by any playfulness, cancelling his own question. She raised her head, she had dismissed her tears, yet the smile with which her glance favoured him was a sort of rainbow smile, born of clouds.

"That is a very struggling and misty sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. "Is that why I was kept out of its range so long?"

Faith's head drooped. Her forehead lay lightly against him; he could not see what sort of a smile she wore.

"Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and kiss me—how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?"

He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and strong,—as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon.

"Endy—I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet."

"It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?"

"O—a good while ago."

"'A good while,'"—Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see you?"

Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a tremulous, quiet and tender,

"I don't think it would."

"Then wherefore was I not permitted?"

"I didn't want you to come then."

"And again, wherefore?"

"Why you know, Endy. I couldn't want you till you were ready to come."

"I should have been most emphatically ready! What sort of medical attendance have you had?"

"Good, you know. I had Dr. Harrison."

"And he did his duty faithfully?"

"I guess he always does—his medical duty," said Faith somewhat quietly.

"Duty is a sort of whole-souled thing, to my mind," said Mr. Linden. "Do you think all his ministrations did you good?"

There was pain and wonder, and even some fear in Faith's eyes as she looked at Mr. Linden.

"They ought not to have done me any harm"—she said meekly.

"Did they, Faith? I thought—" Very softly and thoughtfully his fingers came about her hair, his eyes looking at her, Faith could hardly tell how. The pain of those weeks stung her again—the sorrow and the shame and the needlessness. Faith's head sunk again upon Mr. Linden's breast, for the tears came bitterly; though he could not know that. He only knew that they came. Holding her with a strong arm—as if against some one else; soothing her with grave kisses, not with words, Mr. Linden waited for her to speak.

"Child," he said at last, "you will do yourself harm. Has he brought on this state of the nerves that he talks about? And in what possible way?"

"Don't talk about it, Endy!—" said Faith struggling for self-command—"I am foolish—and wrong—and weak. I'll tell you another time."—But Faith's head kept its position.

"Do you think I can wait, to know what has made my coming home such a tearful affair?"

"Yes. Because it's all over now."

"What is over?"

"All—that you wouldn't like."

"Faith, you talk in perfect riddles!—It is well that what I can see of this very pale little face is less puzzling. Did you tell Dr. Harrison of your claim upon me?"

"What?—" she said looking up.

"Well.—You know what that claim is. Did you tell him, Faith?"

Her eyes fell again. "Yes—at least—I shewed him my ring."

"In answer to his suit, Faith?"

"No.—He was talking as I did not like, one day."—Faith's cheeks were growing beautifully rosy.

"Was it to protect yourself, or me?" said Mr. Linden watching her. Faith's glance up and down, was inexpressibly pretty.

"Myself, I think."

"You have a strange power of exciting and keeping down my temper, at one and the same time!" said Mr. Linden. "What did he dare say to you?"

"Nothing about me. It was something—about you—which I did not choose to have him say."

Mr. Linden smiled, and called her a little crusader, but the grave look came back. Dr. Harrison had known, then, just what ties he was trying to break,—had felt sure—must have felt sure—that they were bonds of very deep love and confidence; and thereupon, had coolly set himself to sow mistrust! Mr. Linden was very silent,—the keen words of indignation that rose to his lips ever driven back and turned aside by Faith's face, which told so plainly that she could bear no excitement. He spoke at last with great deliberation.

"You may as well shew it to all Pattaquasset, Mignonette!—for all Pattaquasset shall know before I have been here much longer."

"What?—why?" she said startling.

"For what you will, love. I think you need the protection of my name."

Faith could not deny it; howsoever she looked quaintly grave upon the proposition.

"Do you know how you will have to scour the country now, and make yourself as much as possible like cowslips and buttercups and primroses and mouse-ear?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "One day you may be a Spring beauty, and the next Meadow-sweet, and when I see you a wild pink I shall feel comparatively happy."

Faith with a very little laugh remarked that she did not feel as if she ever should be anything wild.

"What is your definition of wild?"

"Not tame."

"Does that meek adjective express the kind of pink you intend to be?"

"I didn't say what I should be—I only spoke of what I am."

"Shall I tell you the future tense of this very indicative mood?" he said touching her cheeks.

"If you know it!"

"If I know it!—You will be (some months later) a Linden flower!—whether wild or tame remains to be been."

Unless Linden flowers can be sometimes found a good deal deeper-coloured than pinks, there was at least very little present resemblance. The only notice Faith took of this prophecy was an involuntary one. The door softly opened at this point, and Mrs. Derrick came in to announce tea. She stood still a moment surveying them both.

"How do you think she looks, Mr. Linden?"

His eyes went back to Faith, giving a quick reply which he did not mean they should. "She looks like a dear child—as she is, Mrs. Derrick. I cannot say much more for her. But I shall take her down to tea."

Mrs. Derrick went joyfully off for shawls and wrappers. Mr. Linden was silent; his eyes had not stirred. But he amused himself with taking some of the violets from the table near by and fastening them in her belt and hair; the very touch of his fingers telling some things he did not.

"Sunbeam, do you feel as if you could bear transportation?"

"Not as a sunbeam. I could walk down, I think," said Faith. Mr. Linden remarked that the truth of that proposition would never be known; and then she was muffled in a large soft shawl, and carried down stairs and laid on the sofa in the sitting-room. The windows were open for the May wind, but there was a dainty little fire still—everything looked strangely familiar; even Mr. Linden; though his face wore not just its most wonted expression. He had laid her down among the cushions and loosened her wrapping shawl, and paid a little attention to the fire; and now stood in Dr. Harrison's favourite place, looking at her,—perhaps trying to see whether she looked more like herself down stairs than she had done above. He could not find that she did. Faith felt as if a great cloud had rolled over and rolled off from her; yet in her very happiness she had a great desire to cry; her weakness of body helped that. Her head lay still upon the cushions with fingers pressed upon her brow. She hardly dared look at Mr. Linden; her eye wandered over less dangerous things; yet it saw him not the less. How sweetly the wind blew.

Mr. Linden went off to the window and picked three or four of the May roses that grew there, and then coming to sit down by Faith's sofa softly pushed one of the buds in between her fingers, and made the rest into a breast knot which he laid on the white folds of her dress. He put other roses in her cheeks then, but it was all done with a curious quietness that covered less quiet things. Faith took the flowers and played with them, venturing scarce a look of answer. With the wasted cheek, the delicate flush on it, and all the stirred fountain of feeling which she was not so able as usual to control, Faith was very lovely; to which effect the roses and violets scattered over her lent a help of their own. Mr. Linden looked at her,—giving now and then a little arranging touch to flowers or hair—with an unbending face, which ended at last in a very full bright smile; though just why it rouged her cheeks so instantly Faith did not feel quite sure. She felt the rouge.

"I am glad you feel like yourself again," she remarked.

"How do you know that I do?"

"I think you look so."

"Quite a mistake. I am only bewitched. That is somewhat like myself, I must own."

Faith's face made a remonstrance, not at all calculated to be successful.

"Please don't bewitch me then!" said Mr. Linden answering the look. "You know I cannot help it—and on the whole you don't wish I could. What do you think of her now, Mrs. Derrick?" he added, getting up to roll the tea-table close to the sofa. The folding of Mrs. Derrick's hands was significant.

"Yes, but you must not look at her so," said Mr. Linden demurely arranging the table and sofa angles in harmonious relation. "You should look with cool unconcern—as I do."

"You!" said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I should like to see that for once."

Faith laughed again, and was ready for her supper after a new fashion from what she had known for many a day past. There is no doubt but cresses and broiled pigeon were good that night!



CHAPTER XXVII.



What a twitter of birds was in Faith's ears as she awoke next morning! Perhaps they were not really more noisy than usual, but she seemed to hear them more; and then it was a soft balmy morning, with a joyous spring sunshine and a dancing spring air, which gave full effect to all the bird voices. Faith listened to the chorus, the choir, the concert, the solos, with a charmed ear. The minute's hush; the low twitter—answered softly from bush and tree; the soft chiming in of other notes; the swelling, quickening, increasing song—till every sparrow and kildeer in all Pattaquasset drew his bow and clattered his castanets with the speed and the eagerness of twenty fiddlers. Only in this orchestra the heads turned gracefully on swelling throats, and for the angular play of elbows there was the lifting flutter of joyous wings; and the audience of opening leaves "clapped their little hands" for an encore.

Such were the sounds that came to Faith from without;—within her room, Mrs. Derrick moved silently about, lighting the fire, arranging the window curtains, the table and couch, laying out Faith's dressing gown to air, but not saying a word to her yet, lest she might be asleep. Faith could see the relief and gladness in every step her mother took—and well knew why. On the white spread before her lay a glowing little bunch of spring flowers, the last night's dew yet hiding in the depths of the violets, and sprinkling the leaves of the May roses, and making the windflowers look at her with wet eyes. Faith grasped these and held a considerably long conversation with them; then found it in her heart to speak otherwise.

"Mother," said she, with a little smile upon the contented languor of convalescence,—"you feel better!"

Mrs. Derrick came quick to her side, and kissed her and stroked her face. "Pretty child," she said, "so do you."

Which fact Faith confirmed by setting about the business of dressing with more energy and good will than she had for many a day brought to it. The pale cheeks were not quite so pale this morning. The white dress was tied round the waist with that blue ribband of long ago—never yet spoiled with wearing; and in it the roses and violets made a spot of warmer colour. When at last she was ready, and had stepped out into the hall, Mr. Linden met her there as he had done the night after the fire; and as then, stayed her for a minute and scanned her face: with a different look from then, with a different sort of gravity, which gladness did not quite cover up. He asked no questions but with his eyes, and did not say much but with his lips; then carried her down to the breakfast-room.

"Mignonette," he said, "what time to-day will it please you to take a drive?"

The pleasure of the idea brought the colour to Faith's cheeks. "I suppose I had better ask Dr. Harrison first whether I may go," she said gravely.

"Not at all. He has nothing whatever to say about it."

"Then as soon as he is gone, I am ready."

"We will not wait for him," said Mr. Linden.

"But Endy, later will do just as well, won't it?"

"No, love—not half so well."

"Why?"

"Principally, because I want you to be out when Dr. Harrison comes." And quitting that subject, Mr. Linden wheeled her round to the nearer consideration of biscuits and coffee; leaving Dr. Harrison, for the time, quite out of sight. Out of his own sight, that is; for Faith plainly did not forget him. She was a delicious thing to take care of this morning; in that delicacy of bodily condition to which the strong love to minister, and a tenderness of spirit which grew out of other things and which to-day she had no force to hide. And there was an apprehension which Mr. Linden could see behind her eyes every time they came to his face. Faith was gathering her powers for a struggle. Yet she had no mind to begin it, and waited after breakfast till Mr. Linden should bring up the subject again. He seemed in no haste to bring it up. For some reason or other, he was in a mood that could not do enough for her. It was a mood Faith must try.

As the morning had worn on and she saw some preliminary movement on Mr. Linden's part, which looked like action, she put her hand in his and lifted her eyes to his face, with a gentle plea in them, speaking in musical softness. "Endy, will you let me wait till Dr. Harrison has made his visit?" The little hand was clasped and held fast.

"He would not wish to see you with me, Mignonette—and I certainly will not let him see you without."

"O why, Endy?"

"Because—Mignonette I cannot tell you. Don't ask me."

Faith flushed and looked troubled but somewhat timid too, and asked no more. She puzzled over the subject.

"Then, Endy, suppose we don't go out to drive to-day?"

"Suppose we do. What are you rouging your cheeks for?" he added smiling. "Faith, I know I have no legal right to control your actions—and yet in this case you must let me say for you what I should for my sister or my wife."

How Faith wished to know why. The rouge grew bright; but forbidden to ask, she dared not ask. "Would you care if we did not go out to-day?" she said with some timid hesitation.

"Very much."

She was silenced. That Mr. Linden had some strong reason it was plain; not the less the thought of Dr. Harrison grieved her. But she said nothing. Nor did he, upon that subject,—threw it to the winds apparently. The first move was to take her up stairs again and bestow her daintily among cushions, then to sit by her and spice her cup of chicken broth with pepper and talk, till both it and Faith were warm, and Mrs. Derrick in a state of delight. The good, sweet effect of which mode of treatment, was shewn in the way "the fringed curtains" of Faith's eyes were by and by dropped by sleep herself. When she awoke Mr. Linden was gone; and Mrs. Derrick sat there keeping watch.

"Has the doctor been here, mother?"

"Why child," said her mother, "he's slipped off Stranger, in some of his capers, and hurt his ancle,—so Reuben says he won't come till to-morrow. Shall I tell Mr. Linden he may come up?"

"Yes." Faith felt it a relief.

Mr. Linden came to tell her the carriage was ready.

It seemed to Faith as if Jerry knew his old driver, with such good will did he set forth, with such little snorts of high spirit and tossings of head and mane. Down the old farm road, among fields of fresh grain and fresh ploughing, where blue birds sat on the fences, and jocund dandelions sunned themselves by the wayside. The breeze came fresh into Faith's face, tossing back her hair; and presently with the scent of buds and flowers and ploughed land came a mingling of the sea breeze, for Mr. Linden was driving that way. He was right to make her come!—Faith felt it in her heart, and so did he. There had been few words spoken hitherto, but now he turned to her with a smile of great satisfaction, saying,

"Mignonette, this breeze is telling upon your cheeks."

"It is going all through me!" said Faith, drawing an eager breath of appreciation. Mr. Linden gave her shawls and cushions some arranging touches, and to her a glad word or two of answer, then drove on down to the shore. Not at their usual bathing and picnic place, but at the further out Barley Point; where the breeze came in its full freshness and the waves rolled in white-crested. There he made Jerry stand still for a while, and made Faith lean upon him and so rest.

They were somewhat elevated above the sea, where the barren face of the land broke down suddenly some twenty feet. With what a sweet dash the waves broke upon the beach, chasing up the wet sand and laying down a little freight of seaweed here and there: how the water sparkled and glittered, and was blue and white and green and neutral tint,—how the gulls soared and stooped and flapped their wings in the gay breeze, before which the white-winged vessels flew on a more steady course. Jerry pawed the turf, and shook his head in approbation, and Faith's head lay very still. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought she had done talking enough that day, for he was rather silent; only watching her lest she should be tired, or have too much of the air. What he watched her for all the rest of the time, was best known to himself. Her brow had its old quiet again now, though her face was grave beyond its old wont; and the eyes, as he could see them, were softly grave and softly glad together, intently going from the white-tipped water to the white-winged gulls and the clouds grey and white that sailed above them. Suddenly, after a long roaming over the fresh life that was abroad there, the eyes were lifted to his face.

"Endecott—if I don't say anything, it is because I can't say anything good enough!"

"Faith," he said with that same glad look at her, "your face says that you are getting better every minute. Not tired yet?"

"I feel as if I was in a grand dream."

"Do you?" said Mr. Linden,—"I am glad I do not. It brings me out of a dream to see you begin to look like yourself. I have not felt so real before since I came home."

"You are real enough," said Faith; "and so is everything else. It is only my feeling that is dreamy. And this air will wake me up, if I stay here a little while longer. How good it is!"

"Do you see that dark rock out in the midst of the waves? and how the waves half cover and then leave it bare?"

"Yes."

"I was thinking of what Rutherford says of the changing, swaying, unsteady tide of life-joys and sorrows,—'Our rock doth not ebb and flow, but our sea.'"

Faith thought her own life had not been much like that changing tide; then remembered his had, in nearer measure. The next question was not far off; she put it, looking up anxiously and regretfully. "Endecott, what are you working so hard for?"

A very gay change of face answered her.

"So hard as what?"

"As you do."

"What makes you think I am working 'so hard,' little Mignonette?—have I given you that impression? I did not mean it. Do I look overworked?"

"No—" said Faith—"I think not,—but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?"

It was a very gently put question, but put with eyes and lips as well as the sweet voice, dainty in its half timidity mixed with the sweetness. Mr. Linden looked down at her till the question was finished, but then he looked off at the dancing water; the smile which had been dawning upon his lips breaking out into very full sunshine. It was a strange smile—very enjoying and yet a little moved.

"Mignonette," he said looking down at her again, "do you know what a dear little child you are?"

Her eyes wavered, then faced him again with a sort of smiling gravity, as not relinquishing their answer.

"You will be dreadfully shocked if I tell you."

"Shall I?"—she said, not believing him.

"Yes. But what do you suppose I am doing?—what has put all this into your head?"

"I heard it," said Faith.

"From whom?"

"I don't know. But somebody that wondered what you were doing it for."

"Most enigmatical information! What 'it' did somebody say I was doing?"

"Working hard—giving lessons," said Faith dropping her voice.

"Well—what else was I doing when I was here? That should not shock you, dear child."

"You were not doing anything else when you were here—that is the very thing, Endecott."

"Mignonette—I have done nothing to hurt myself, as you may see. I am very strong to work."

She gave a little grave glance at him, grave with a background of regretfulness, and placed herself back in her former position; pushing her questions no further. But Mr. Linden did not look grave.

"I am quite willing to tell you all about my work," he said,—"that I did not long ago was for two or three reasons which you will understand. I told you once, dear Faith—upon a night which I shall never forget—that I had means enough to carry me through my studies; but two things made me take measures to earn a good deal more. One was, that I would always rather work than not to have what I want to spend in various good and pleasant ways."

"Yes—?" she said a little eagerly. He looked at her with that same smile coming over his face.

"It will shock you," he said,—"however—The other reason was this. We agreed how I should choose between two gardens wherein to place my Mignonette. But it may chance that for even the offer of one I shall have to wait—and for Mignonette I cannot. Voyez-vous, Mademoiselle?"

Yes, plainly enough; as he could tell by the bright flush which mounted up to her forehead and made her a Rhodora again. And doubtless Faith would have said several things, only—she could not! and so sat like the stillest of scared mice; with no more words at command. Mr. Linden laughed telling her he thought there was no hope of benefitting her cheeks any further that day, and that to judge by her eyelids sleep would be the next thing; and so turned the little carriage round and Jerry's head towards home.



CHAPTER XXVIII.



Dinner was ready when they reached home, so that Faith was taken at once to the table; and when dinner was over, up stairs to go to sleep. And sleep held her well nigh all the afternoon. The sunbeams were long, the light of day was growing gentle, when Faith at last awoke and arose, with a tinge in her cheeks and a face getting to be itself again. She put her hair and her dress in fresh order, and went softly about doing the same office for several things in the room; thinking all the while what Mr. Linden had been working for, and how shut her mouth was from saying anything about it.

"Where is Mr. Linden, mother?"

"Down stairs."

"I am going down too. I am quite well enough without being carried. Come, mother."

"He won't like it, child,—you'd better let me call him."

"No indeed," said Faith. "I'll just take your arm, mother. It will do me good."

So softly and with a little wilful pleasure on Faith's part, the stairs were descended; and not content with that, Faith went into the tea-room and began as of old to give a delicate hand to the tea-table arrangements. Then when all was done, slowly made her entrance into the other room. But there, to Faith's dismay, were two gentlemen instead of one, standing in the middle of the floor in earnest conversation. Both turned the minute she opened the door, and Squire Stoutenburgh came towards her, exclaiming, "Why Miss Faith!—nobody gave me any hope of seeing you. My dear, are you as well as you look?"

Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in the easy-chair.

"No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore you must not keep her standing."

"I won't keep her—nor you neither—long," said the Squire. "Miss Faith, I hope you'll keep him—standing or kneeling or something—all summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?"

"Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken.

"Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad as if you were my own daughter—and you'll let me say that, because your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere expression of feeling the Squire went off.

"You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair, "who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had been after cream."

"No I haven't, Endy,"—said Faith lifting up her face which was in a sort of overwhelmed state.

"What is the matter?" he said smiling.

"Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half ashamed of myself—I shall be better in a day or two."

"How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?"

"O well!—nicely,"—she said in happy accents.

"What made you try to walk down stairs?"

"I thought I could do it."

"And knew I would not let you. Will you be in a talking mood after tea?"

"I am now. I have been wanting to talk to you, Endecott, ever since you got home."

"What about?"

"About these weeks."

The summons to tea came then, however; but when tea was disposed of, and Faith had come back to her sofa in the sitting-room, Mr. Linden took his place at her side.

"Now I am ready for 'these weeks,'" he said.

Faith was less ready than he, though she had wished for the talk. Her face darkened to something of the weary look with which he had found her.

"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained—not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression.

"What has been the matter, my dear child?"

Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,—but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison—every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."

"No."

"And Endy,—he used to talk to me."

"Yes,"—the word was short and grave.

"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."

"Well?—He used to do that long ago."

"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that—I remembered it all the while,—and yet he did talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott—the things were in my head—and I could not get them out!"—The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work.

Mr. Linden did not start—but Faith felt the thrill which passed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly this was not what he expected.

"Faith,"—he said,—"has he touched your faith?"

Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No—never."

"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,—"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!"

Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"—she whispered.

He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."

"I don't know how he did it"—Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;—"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,—something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether—But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it. And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy—I never doubted that—I knew they were not the truth;—yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me. It pained me by day and by night;—but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott—but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches—only I knew it was there—for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between—like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;—and often I had no good of prayer,"—she added in a yet lower voice.

"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?"

She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came—as I knew they would be."

Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,—looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time.

"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body—and how I wanted you!"

"And where was my place in the world if not here!"

"I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone.

"Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,—nor what a snare was spread for you."

"Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way.

"What else?"

"But he always seemed—I always hoped, he was really interested in those things himself."

"No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr. Linden sternly.

Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved. "But you do not think, Endecott,—you do not think—there was no truth in it?"

His face caught her grieved look,—he answered slowly, "Child, you must leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier in his way."

"And how in this, Endecott?—What?"

"He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour."

"And that if he could change that!"—Faith's head sank with a low word of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see. "And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!"

But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,—the sternness of his face did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been done;—then his look changed and saddened.

"Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?"

"No—not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'"

"Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?"

She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden anxiety,—measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old well-remembered standard.

"You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went to the end of his life."

But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips. "Endy,—it was only a cloud—I knew at the time it would scatter away just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well."

Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used to shine so bright in your heart?—that he has not made heaven seem less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?—If he has, find it out now!"

She had never seen him look so—never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels—if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes.

"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,—I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all—but I was weak and not well." Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel.

His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again—as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words—and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.

"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden. "Mignonette—have my words grieved you? they need not—there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind."

"I didn't think it, Endy."

"What are you thinking of, my child?"

"Nothing—Never mind me,—" she said deprecatingly.

"Tell me, Faith," he repeated.

But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a one as might without any force have been given to an angel.

"Faith, what will make you speak?—this?—Tell me what you were trembling about—I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me."

"I don't think I have,—" she said very quietly.

"You are a sort of willowbranch,—so very pliant that you glide out of reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes."

"It's no confidence—" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such danger; and"—she spoke with some difficulty—"I didn't know what it would be to offend you."

"Did you think you could?"

"If I did wrong—?"

"Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,' as you say?—that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my sweet ministering spirit."

A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said.

"What is the precise bearing of that remark?"

"You might be offended—where I should have no right,—" she said with slow utterance and consideration of her words.

"But why—little Arabic poem?"

The colour started into Faith's cheeks, but she answered. "You are better than I,—and besides,—you know, Endy!—it would be right for you to do what it wouldn't be right for me to do." Her colour deepened to brightness and her eyes were very cast down. Mr. Linden looked at her—smiling a grave sweet smile.

"Faith," he said, "I have heard—or imagined—that a man might have an angel for his wife, but I never heard yet of a woman who had an angel for her husband—did you?"

Faith endeavoured to shield her eyes and cheek with a very insufficient hand. "You put me in the witness-box,—what can I do?" she said.

"You can do one thing as well as anybody I ever saw," Mr. Linden said, taking her hand down. "Faith, where did you get such pink cheeks?"

"What is an Arabic poem?" said Faith gravely.

"A pretty thing that requires translating. Faith, I have a great desire to take you all about Pattaquasset and tell everybody what you are to be."

"Endecott!"—said Faith with a startled glance.

"What?" he answered laughing.

"Why do you say so?"

"Just imagine the delight of all Quapaw, and the full satisfaction of the Roscoms. Shouldn't you like to see it?"

Faith looked at him in a sort of frightened mood of mind, discerning some earnest in the play. Mr. Linden's face did not reassure her, though he carried the play at that time no further.



CHAPTER XXIX.



If the fears of the night before had not quite been slept off, if the alarming ideas had not all been left in dreamland, still it was hard for anything but peace and pleasure to shew its head that morning. In at Faith's window came the sunbeams, the tiny panes of glass shewed each a patch of the bluest sky, and through some unseen open sash the morning air swept in full sweetness. When Faith opened her own window, the twitter and song of all manner of birds was something to hear, and their quick motions were something to see. From the sweetbriar on the house to the trees in the orchard,—from the mud nest under the eaves to the hole in the barn wall,—what darting and skimming and fluttering! Off in the orchard the apple trees were softly putting on their nonpareil dress of blossoms, feeding the air with nectar till it was half intoxicated; and down in the garden a little bevy of bells stood prim and soft and sweet, ringing their noiseless spring chimes under Faith's window.

Under her window too, that is within close sight of it, stood Reuben Taylor and Mr. Linden. Not watching for her just then as it appeared, but intent upon their own concerns. Or rather, Reuben—in his usual dark, neat dress and straw hat, with hands neither busy nor at rest, but waiting and ready—was intent upon Mr. Linden—and Mr. Linden upon his work. His hat was off, on the grass beside him, and he himself—half sitting half leaning upon an old crooked apple tree, had his hands full of cowslips—though what he was doing with them Faith could not tell. Only from a fluttering end of blue ribband that appeared, she could guess their destination. The two friends were talking busily and merrily, with little cowslip interludes, and the yellow blossoms sprinkled the grass all about the tree, some having dropped down, others been tossed off as not worthy a place in the ball. For that was the work in Mr. Linden's hands—something which Faith had never seen.

It was so very pretty a picture that Faith sat down to look at it, and thoughtless of being found out, looked on in a dream. Mr. Linden's threats of yesterday did come back to her shrinkingly, but she threw them off; the time was too happy to bear the shadow of anything weightier than apple blossoms. Faith looked out through them admiringly, marvelling anew how Mr. Linden had ever come to like her; and while her soft eyes were studying him, her heart made many a vow before the time. She only felt the birds fly past; her mind was taking strange glimpses into the future.

Stepping jauntily out from the house, Sam Stoutenburgh came next upon the scene, the springtime of his man's attire suiting well enough with his years but not so well with his surroundings; too desperately smart for the cowslips, bright and shining as they were there in the sun, too new for the tulips—though they had been out of the ground but a few days. For

In a little bit of garden ground Where many a lovely plant was found, Stood a tulip in gay attire! His pantaloons green as ever were seen, His cap was as red as fire.

But the tulip was at least used to his cap—which was more than could be said of Sam and his hat.

"Mrs. Derrick told me to come out here and find you, sir," he said. "But what are you doing, Mr. Linden?"

"I am making a ball."

"A ball!"

"Yes," said Mr. Linden,—"gratifying one of my youthful tastes. Sam, I'll lend you my hat."

"Why! what for, sir?" said Sam, a little confused and a good deal puzzled, while Reuben smiled.

"Just to save you from the headache while you stand there in the sun," said Mr. Linden, tying the ends of his ribband together. "It's a man's hat, Sam—you need not be afraid of it. That's a good lesson in whistling!" he said, looking up into the tree over his head, where a robin had just come to exercise his powers. But as Mr. Linden's eyes came back from the robin they caught sight of Faith at her window, and instantly he was on his feet and made her a most graceful and low reverence. Instinctively the two boys turned and followed suit—the one with his straw hat the other with his beaver.

Faith's contemplative quiet was broken up, and her face grew shy and flushed as she gave her tiny grave signs of recognition; but a soft "good morning" floated down to them, followed—nobody knows why—by a more particular "Good morning, Sam."

"Miss Faith!" said Sam affectingly, "are you always going to stay up stairs?"

"No—I am coming down presently. You are early to-day, Sam."

"Not earlier than I've been some other days, Miss Faith."

Faith nodded at him and left the window; threw round her the light shawl which she was expected to wear because she had been sick, rather than because the May air called for it, and prepared to go down. But in the second of time which all this took, she heard her name called from the orchard—not very loud but very distinct.

"Faith!"

She knew who called, and it was with a little startled thrill that she presented herself at the window to answer the summons. Mr. Linden stood close beneath it.

"Can you catch this?" he said, looking up at her with laughing eyes. And the soft cowslip ball came whirling up to bury its golden head in her hands. If Faith saw anything else, it was the very evident astonishment of one of the standers-by. But nevertheless she bravely put her bright blushing face out again.

"Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said. "It's too pretty to be thrown more than once."

"Are you ready to come yourself?"

"Yes, I'm coming."

He bowed and turned away, passing on into the house with so quick a step that he was at the head of the stairs as soon as she was.

"You are not going to carry me down to-day!"—said Faith starting back. "I can walk down as well as you can—or at least I can as well walk down."

"There is no one in the parlour, Mignonette."

"Then I'll not go there," said Faith smiling.

"I'll take you to the garden, if you prefer it. Is the supposed fact of your being able to walk down stairs any reason why you should not bid me good morning?"

There was neither that nor any other existing reason, to judge by the quiet grace with which Faith drew near to give the required good morning, or rather to permit Mr. Linden to take it; and then placed her hand in his, as willing to have so much aid from him as that could give. He held it fast, and her too, for a minute, while his other hand busied itself with fastening in her belt a dewy, sweet, sonsie looking little sprig of May roses.

"How do you feel this morning?" he said when he was gravely considering the effect.

"Very much like Spring!"—Faith looked so, with her other hand full of primroses.

"And otherwise?"

"I don't feel otherwise!" said Faith laughing; the first really free merry look of laughter he had seen on her face since he came home.

"You are the sweetest of all spring blossoms," Mr. Linden said, carrying her off with perfect disregard of the supposed fact of her being able to walk. At the foot of the stairs, however, she was permitted to find her feet again. "Where will you go, dear child?—the orchard is very wet, but you may venture as far as the door."

"No, I have something to do," said Faith.

"What have you to do?"

"What I used to take care of—part of it. I'm so glad to do it again."

"Not to-day—you ought not!—nor to-morrow. You must come in here and sit quiet till breakfast, and for a few days more be content to be 'Love in idleness' as well as Mignonette. Will you promise?" he said, seating her in the easy-chair, with open window, and breakfast table, and a gay little fire to make the captivity pleasant.

"But I like work, Endy—and a little won't hurt me. Those boys want you—and I'll make the coffee."

"Do you know, Mignonette, how pale you would be if I were away?"

She shook her head.

"I do," said Mr. Linden,—"and as I am in a mood for roses this morning, I want you to let me bring 'those boys' in here—then they can see me and I can see you."

The roses came, started and brightened, and her eyes looked a soft protest; but it was a minority protest and gave way, and her face after all told him he might do what he liked. He gave her a reassuring smile, and went back to the orchard, presently returning with Reuben and Sam,—the one wearing a face of unqualified pleasure, the other of almost as unqualified shyness. Sam was not quite sure that his ears had reported correctly, but the doubt and the new idea were enough to discompose him thoroughly. He listened eagerly to the answers Reuben's words called forth, but seemed afraid to venture many himself. As for Mr. Linden, he was combining another handful of flowers—covering his amusement with very grave composure.

It was not bad amusement; for the exquisite simplicity in Faith's manner, with the contrast of the coming and going colour and the shy eyelashes, made a picture that any one claiming interest in it would have been a little proud of. And the roses in her belt and the cowslips in her hand and the delicate lines of her face which health had not yet rounded out again, all joined to make the vision a very fair one. She was most shy of Sam, and did not look at Mr. Linden.

"I haven't thanked you for your pigeons, Sam," she said, after a few lively words with Reuben.

"No, Miss Faith, please don't!" was the gallant rejoinder.

"Weren't they worth thanks?" inquired Mr. Linden.

"I thought they were, when I was eating them; and mother said they were the best I had. Don't you like to be thanked, Sam?"

"When it's worth while," said Sam. "But you know, ma'am—You know, Mr. Linden, it's thanks enough to do anything for Miss Faith."

"I know that very well." Quiet as the words were they brought all Sam's ideas to the ground like his own pigeons.

"Where are you now in college, Sam?" Faith went on perhaps because she felt herself a coward.

Sam made answer, in a more subdued state of mind than was usual when he announced his Sophomorical distinctions.

"What are you going to do when you come out?"

"O I don't know, Miss Faith,—father says I can do just what I like."

"And you don't know what that will be, Sam?"

"No—" said Sam. "I can't even guess."

"A man who can do what he likes ought to do a great deal," said Mr. Linden. "Reuben, will you take the upper road home, and give these flowers to Ency Stephens for Miss Faith?"

"O yes, sir!" Reuben said.

"No, Reuben! I didn't send them," said Faith eagerly.

"Tell her," said Mr. Linden smiling, "that they came from Miss Faith's garden, and that I shall bring Miss Faith herself to see her, just so soon as she can bear such a long drive." The bunch of flowers was laid lightly on her hands for her disposal. "Now I must send you two collegians—present and future—away, for you have had your breakfast and we have not had ours."

At which remark Sam took Faith's hand with a bow of great perplexity and reverence, and Reuben drew near and waited for the flowers.

"Give them to her from Mr. Linden," said Faith, rosy red, as she put them in his keeping;—"she will like that best, Reuben."

Reuben thought he knew how to combine the two messages, and the boys went off just as the coffee-pot came in.

"Faith," said Mr. Linden coming back to sit down by her, "here is a rosebud so much like you that I think I ought to wear it. What do you consider the most appropriate way?"

"How do gentlemen wear flowers?—You'll have to stick it in a buttonhole," said Faith half grave and half laughing,—"if it must be worn."

"But that is to treat it as a common flower!"

"You'll have to treat it so," said Faith glancing from the rosebud to him.

"Look at it," said Mr. Linden,—"do you see how very lovely it is?"

She did look at it, more closely, and then at him with an appeal of grave remonstrance, deep though unspoken. But it was met defiantly.

"If I am to wear this, Mignonette, you must put it in place."

Faith was a little shy of even doing so much, and besides was aware that her mother as well as the coffee-pot had come upon the scene. However she took the flower and succeeded in attaching it securely where she thought it ought to go, on the breast of Mr. Linden's waistcoat; by which time the resemblance between the two rosebuds was perfect, and striking; and Faith drew back to her breakfast, glad to have everybody's attention diverted to coffee, which she declared was good with cowslips. It may be said that the diversion was not immediate; for though her chair was at once wheeled round to the table, yet Faith had to take her thanks then and there—in full defiance of Mrs Derrick's presence. After that, however, Mr. Linden—to do him justice—did change the subject.

Cowslips and coffee went on well till near the end of breakfast, which to say truth had been rather prolonged as well as delayed; and then there came a front door knock. It was of no use for Faith to start, for breakfast was not absolutely finished; and the next minute who should come in from the hall but Miss Essie de Staff. As fresh as possible, in white dress and black silk apron; her black hair from which she had drawn off the sunbonnet, in shining order; the black eyes as well! Perhaps they dilated on first seeing the party; more sparkling they could not be. She advanced at a moderate pace towards the table, looking and speaking.

"Mrs. Derrick!—I didn't know you were such late people. I have come to run away with your daughter, and thought I should find the coast clear. Mr. Linden! I didn't know Pattaquasset was so happy as to have you back, sir."

"We have breakfast late for Faith's sake," said Mrs. Derrick, while Mr. Linden rose and gave the lady first his hand and then a chair, remarking that the happiness of Pattaquasset was pleasant news to him too.

"But Faith's well again, isn't she?" said Miss Essie, waiting to get breath, mentally.

"She's better," said Mrs. Derrick.

"She goes out?"

"She has been once."

"Is that all? Well it will do her good to go again. Sophy Harrison and I made up our minds that she and I and Faith would spend the day together—and so I've come to fetch her. Do you believe in the possibility of ladies falling in love with ladies, Mr. Linden?"

"I have more knowledge of gentlemen's possibilities. Who is supposed to be in danger, Miss Essie?"

"Faith cannot go out to spend the day," said Mrs. Derrick decidedly.

"Is it danger?" said Miss Essie. "Mrs. Derrick, why can't Faith go with me? Faith, won't you go?"—She had come up close to the table and stood by Faith's side, whom her eyes were now reading, or at least endeavouring to spell out.

"Not to-day, Miss Essie, thank you."

"Thank me? you ought to apologize to me." Miss Essie took a chair in that place, where she could "rake" the whole table. "Here will be Sophy and me horribly disappointed. We had counted on you. Sophy is all alone. You know, Faith, the doctor is laid up?"

"We heard of it,"—Faith answered, not very easily.

"Well, do you know he says he is going South?"

"I heard so," said Faith. Miss Essie could not make much of the rising colour in her cheeks, it came and went so easily!

"What takes him off just now in such haste?—business?"

Faith looked up and gave her inquisitor a full clear look, such as curiosity never cares for, while she answered with quiet dignity, "He did not tell me, Miss Essie."

"It's a pity Dr. Harrison's just going now that you're just come," said the lady of the black eyes, shifting her ground. "You used to be such friends."

"What is a friend?" said Mr. Linden—"By the way, Miss Essie, you should make these cresses an excuse for at least eating salt with us, and so prove your title to the name."

"Dear me!" said the lady taking a handful,—"I thought a friend was something more—more etherial than that!"

"Than what, if you please?"

"A person who eats your salt!—I don't love cresses. I am not one of Nebuchadnezzar's family. Where did you get the fashion? It's French. Dr. Harrison eats them. Did he teach it to you, Faith?"

"I think I had that honour," said Mr. Linden.

"I dare say you gave more lessons than were given in school," said Miss Essie significantly. "What else did you learn of him, Faith?"

Faith gave the lady only a glance of her soft eye, but her face and her very throat were charged with varying colour. Her attention went from cresses to cowslips.

"I am saucy!" said the lady.—"Mr. Linden, are you coming back to the bona fide school here? there'll be a great many glad."

A very involuntary lesson to Miss Essie herself came longingly to Mr. Linden's lips, but except from the slight play and compression of the same she had not the benefit of it. He spoke as usual.

"She has never learned the art of self-defence, Miss Essie, therefore I pray you attack me. No, I am not coming back to the school—and to say truth, I think there would be some people sorry—as well as glad—if I did."

"Your bad scholars?"—said the lady, not intent upon her question.

"No—my good friends."

"I should be glad," said Miss Essie. "Who are your friends that would be sorry? Dr. Harrison, for instance?"

"The friends who like my present work better."

"And you are going to be a clergyman?" said Miss Essie, leaning her elbow on the table and 'studying' Mr. Linden, perhaps some other things too, with her eyes. He smiled under the scrutiny, but merely bowed to her question.

"It's dreadful hard work!—" said Miss Essie.

"Dreadful?—Miss Essie, you have not studied the subject."

"No," said she laughing,—"I said 'dreadful hard.' And so it is, I think."

"'There be some sports are painful, but their labour delight in them sets off'—is not that equally true of some work?" said Mr. Linden, making one or two quiet additions to the breakfast on Faith's plate. Which means of assistance Faith inadvertently disregarded and pushed her plate away.

"Do you suppose anybody delights in them?" said Miss Essie. "I can't understand it—but perhaps they do. A minister is very much looked up to. But one thing is certain—of all things the hardest, it is to be a minister's wife!"

"Of all things! He must be a poor sort of a minister who lets his wife have a harder life than his own."

"He can't help it—" said Miss Essie, walking her black eyes about. "Of course he don't wish it—but women always do have a harder time than men, and a minister's wife particularly."

"It's a comfort to think he don't wish it," said Mr. Linden with a sort of resigned gravity.

"Well it would not be much comfort to me," said Miss Essie. "When a woman marries, she naturally expects her husband to belong to her;—but a minister belongs to everybody else!"

"I see I have not studied the subject," said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, you are giving me most important information. Is this so inevitable that I ought in conscience to warn the lady beforehand?"

Miss Essie smiled graciously. "It would be no use,—she wouldn't believe you. I might warn her. I have seen it."

"What have you seen?"

"Why that!—that a woman who marries a minister needn't expect to have any more of her husband than his clothes to mend."

"Melancholy statement!" said Mr. Linden.

"It's of no use to tell it to a man!" said Miss Essie. "But I have seen it."

"Not in my house."

"I shall see it in your house, if you ever let me in there—but it will be too late to warn then. Very likely you will not see it."

Faith sat with one hand shielding her face from this speaker, though by that means it was more fully revealed to the other. Her other hand, and her eyes as far as possible, were lost in the bunch of cowslips; her colour had long ceased to be varying. She sat still as a mouse.

"No, I shall not see it. To what end would your warnings be directed, if they could reach her in time?"

"To keep her from taking such a trying position."

"Oh—" said Mr. Linden. "Have you no feeling for me, Miss Essie? It is very plain why you scrupled to eat salt with me this morning!"

"I'll eat salt with you as a single man," said Miss Essie,—"but if you are going to be a minister, be generous, and let your wife go! Any other woman will tell you so."

"Let her go where? With me?—that is just what I intend."

"Yes," said Miss Essie,—"and then—you'll never know it—but she will sit alone up stairs and sew while you are writing your sermons, and she'll sit down stairs and sew while you're riding about the country or walking about the town; and she'll go out alone of your errands when you have a cold that keeps you at home; and the only time she hears you speak will be when you speak in the pulpit! And if you ask her whether she is happy, she will say yes!—"

Despite all her desperate contusion, the one visible corner of Faith's mouth shewed rebellion against order. Mr. Linden laughed with most unterrified amusement.

"If she says that, it will be so, Miss Essie—my wife will be a most uncompromising truth-teller. But in your picture I am the one to be pitied. Will she never sit on the same floor with me under any circumstances?"

"More than you deserve!" said Miss Essie. "You to be pitied, indeed! You know the man has the stir, and the talk, and the going from place to place, and the being looked up to, and the having everybody at his feet; and what has she?"

Mr. Linden did not answer, even with his eyes, which were looking down; and the smile which came at Miss Essie's last words, was clearly not meant for her. His wife would have something—so it said and asserted,—and his wife was not an indefinite, imaginary person,—it said that too. And she was worth all that could be laid at her feet. How much he had to lay there—what homage his homage was—even of this the face gave unconscious token. Miss Essie looked, and read it or at least felt it, much more than she could well have put into words. Then taking in review Faith's bowed head, she turned and spoke in quite a different tone.

"There is no use in talking to people, Mrs. Derrick. After all, mayn't I have Faith?"

"To spend the day? Oh no, Miss Essie!—she's not strong enough," said Mrs. Derrick, rising from the table and beginning to put the cups together. Faith left the party and went to the fire, which in the advanced state of the May morning needed no tending.

"Yet she must spend the day somewhere," said Miss Essie wheeling round. "Faith!—what are you going to do with yourself?"

"Nothing, Miss Essie,"—came softly from the fire-mender. But as her hand moved to and fro with the tongs, the sparkle of the diamonds caught Miss Essie's eye.

"Child!—how did you get that?"—she exclaimed, springing to her side and arresting the tongs. Faith's low "I don't know, ma'am"—was inimitable. It was well neither lady had sight of Mr. Linden's face.

"It's very beautiful!" said Miss Essie, controlling herself into some order, and poring over the little hand she had made captive. "I never saw a greater beauty of a ring—never. Do you know what it means, Faith?" She dropped her voice and tapped significantly the finger.

Faith answered like a person put to the question,—"Yes."

"Do you?" said Miss Essie in the same low aside and half laughing. "I am so glad. I always thought it. But this is splendid, Faith. You don't know how handsome it is. It is easy to know where this came from. I needn't ask."

"I must ask you both to sit down," said Mr. Linden,—"Faith is not strong enough for much standing, Miss Essie."

"I can't sit down—I'm going away," said the lady. "I'll tell Sophy she may expect you the first day you can go out for so long,"—she went on renewing her half whisper to Faith. "Does she know of this?"—touching the diamonds which Miss Essie had not yet let go.

"No, Miss Essie—" Faith stood in great confusion. Mr. Linden left the table, and gently disengaging her from Miss Essie placed her in the great chair, and stood resting one hand on the back of it.

"Miss Essie," he said, "Faith belongs to me—and therefore if I take care of her strength in a somewhat summary way, you will forgive me."

Miss Essie paused and looked at him in most bewildering confusion. He had spoken and she had heard, very clearly.

"I don't believe it!"—she said with an attempt at jocularity in which there mingled somehow, inexplicably, a quality that was not pleasure. "Faith!—no double-dealing. Two is too much."

"Or even the suggestion of two," Mr. Linden said.

"Do you mean," said Miss Essie looking at him with a semi-comical endeavour to cover up discomfiture and other things—"do you mean to say that I have made nothing here but an abominable mistake?"

"I should give it a different adjective."

Miss Essie made a despairing gesture. "Oh!—I might well say it's no use talking to people! Will you ever for give me, Mr. Linden, for all the mischief I have tried to do you? I didn't know both parties were within hearing of me, you know, sir?—"

"Miss Essie, I hope you may always be as successful."

Perhaps Miss Essie wondered, as she glanced at Faith, whether she had done any "mischief" or no; but she ventured no sort of repartee, being altogether in an uncomfortable and somewhat awed state of mind. She made hurried adieus to Mrs. Derrick, more formal and extremely civil leave-taking of Mr. Linden, parted in a sort of astonished wise with Faith and the diamonds which evidently bewildered her yet, and made what was also evidently an escape out of the house. While Mr. Linden attended the lady to the door, Faith softly and swiftly passed behind them and made her escape too, up stairs. She was gone before he turned.

It was perhaps an hour after this, when Cindy entered Faith's room and gave her a note. "I'm free to confess," said Cindy, "that Mr. Linden gave it to me, but who writ it I don't know." But Faith did. It ran thus:—



"Mademoiselle—With great impatience I have waited for my Sunbeam to break through the gloomy clouds of doubt which surround me—but I perceive the 'warning' has taken effect!

In keeping with this is the state of the outer world, which is even rainy!—so that my purpose to take said Sunbeam out to drive is for the present thwarted.

Conceive of my state of mind!

In vain I repeat to myself the comforting truth, that my Sunbeam is shining somewhere, if not on me,—there are circumstances where philosophical truths lose all their power.

I remember that the 'warning' contained some notable mistakes,—as for instance, that I should ever—my pen refuses to write the words!—or I do. As well might it be said that I should——. Mademoiselle, you must perceive the obvious bearing of these two upon each other.

If your interest in the writer has carried you so far, perhaps he may indulge the hope that at some future time it may carry you further—even to the head of the stairs—where it is needless to say you will be received with open arms.

It is also needless to sign this—it could come from but one person!"



Some two minutes after, Faith's room door opened, and a very flashing bright sunbeam came out upon the place indicated, only a little peachblossom tinge in her cheeks witnessing to any consciousness. She was met according to promise—then held off and looked at with serio-comic eyes.

"What a cruel child you are!" Mr. Linden said.

"What do you want, Endecott?" said Faith trying to be serious.

"How can you have the heart to sit up stairs and sew while I am down stairs in my study?"

Faith instantly came so close, taking the nearest refuge, that he could not very well see her face; but that she was laughing still he knew.

"Endecott!—don't talk so. I didn't know where you were."

"Will it be in this sort of weather that you will 'go out to do errands' and leave me at home?"

"Endecott!—If you don't want anything more of me," said Faith lifting up a face which was an array of peach-blossoms,—"I'll go back again."

"Will you?—" with a little tightening of his hold, and signification of his approval of peachblossoms. "Faith, you are a lovely child! Will it distress you very much if I go off and ride about the country alone?"

But now,—seeing she could not get away,—she stood graver; and the answer was very gentle, almost tender—"No."

"Then you will not confess that you were frightened out of your wits at the picture?" said Mr. Linden smiling, though with an answering change of tone.

"Did you think I was?"

"No—you are too much of a woman for that, even if you had believed it true."

"Then you were not frightened?—" she said with some comicality.

"I? desperately!—my note did not give you any idea of the state of my mind! Imagine me sitting down stairs and saying to myself—(words naturally suggested by the state of the weather)—

'O how this spring of love resembleth Th' uncertain glories of an April day, Which now shews all the beauties of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away!'"

One of the soft flashes of Faith's eye came first to answer him; and then she remarked very coolly, (N.B. her face was not so,) "I think it will clear at noon, Endecott."

"Do you?" he said looking towards the window with a counterfeit surprise that was in comical antithesis to his last words,—"does it rain still!"

Faith's eye came back quick from the window to him, and then, for the first time in many a long day, her old mellow sweet laugh rolled over the subject, dismissing make-believes and figures of speech in its clear matter-of-fact rejoicing.

"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said, "that does my very heart good. You are really getting better, in spite of lessons and warnings, and all other hindrances. Do you want to know what I have truly been thinking of since you came up stairs? Shall we exchange thoughts?"

"Please give me yours," she answered.

"They sprang from Miss Essie's question. Faith, when she asked me what my wife would have, I could not tell her—I could not answer it to myself afterwards very definitely. Only so far—she will have all I have to give." His hand was smoothing and arranging her hair as he spoke—his look one that nobody but Faith ever had from Mr. Linden. She had looked up once and seen it; and then she stood before him, so still and silent as if she might have had nothing to say; but every line of her brow, her moved lip, her attitude, the very power of her silence, contradicted that, and testified as well to the grace of a grave and most exquisite humility which clothed her from head to foot. Mr. Linden was as silent as she, watching her; but then he drew her off to the low couch in the wide old-fashioned entry window, and seated her there in a very bath of spring air and struggling sunbeams.

"I suppose it is useless to say 'Please give me yours'," he said smiling. "Mignonette, we have had no reading to-day—do you like this time and place?—and shall it be with you or to you?"

"It will be both, won't it?" said Faith; and she went for her Bible.



CHAPTER XXX.



The day was struggling into clearness by the time dinner was over. Patches of blue sky looked down through grey, vapoury, scattering clouds; while now and then a few rain drops fell to keep up the character of the morning, and broad warm genial sunbeams fell between them. It was not fair yet for a drive; and Mr. Linden went out on some errands of business, leaving Faith with a charge to sleep and rest and be ready against his return.

He was but a little while gone when Jem Waters made his appearance and asked for Faith. Mr. Simlins had been ill—that Faith knew—but Jem brought a sad report of how ill he had been, and a message that he was "tired of not seeing Faith and wished she would let Jem fetch her down. She might go back again as soon as she'd a mind to." He wanted to see her "real bad," according to Jem; for he had ordered the best wagon on the premises to be cleaned and harnessed up, and the best buffalo robe put in, and charged Jem to bring Miss Faith "if she could anyways come." And there was Jem and the wagon.

Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision.

"Mother," she said, "I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins—I shall be home in time for my ride." So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down.

Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, "fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken," but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke.

"Well,—why haint you been to see me before?"

"I have been sick, sir."

"Sick?" said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. "Sit there and let me see.—I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!" He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose.

"Don't you know," said he settling himself back in his chair,—"I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways—you aint but the half of my Zodiack."

"What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith willing to interrupt him.

"Well—you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too," said Mr. Simlins doubtfully.—"It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh—and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it." His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about.

"What shall I do to stop it, sir?"

"Well, you can read—can't you?—or talk to me."

There was a strange uneasy wandering of his eye, and a corresponding unwonted simplicity and directness in his talk. Faith noted both and silently went for a Bible she saw lying on a table. She brought it to Mr. Simlins' side and opened its pages slowly, questioning with herself where she should read. Some association of a long past conversation perhaps was present with her, for though she paused over one and another of several passages, she could fix upon none but the parable of the unfruitful tree.

"Do you mean that for me?" said the farmer a minute after she had done.

"Yes sir—and no, dear Mr. Simlins!" said Faith looking up.

"Why is it 'yes' and 'no'? how be I like that?"—he growled, but with a certain softening and lowering of his growl.

"The good trees all do the work they were made for. God calls for the same from us," Faith said gently.

"I know what you're thinkin' of," said he;—"but haint I done it? Who ever heerd a man say I had wronged him? or that I have been hard-hearted either? I never was."

It was curious how he let his thoughts out to her; but the very gentle, pure and true face beside him provoked neither controversy nor mistrust, nor pride. He spoke to her as if she had only been a child. Like a child, with such sympathy and simplicity, she answered him.