"I don't like Miss Keason," said Faith, "and the only thing I am thinking of putting in order is the kitchen fire. Would you like to go there with me? Nobody's in the house—Cindy went yesterday to a wedding, and Mr. Skip is gone home to keep Thanksgiving."
"That is the best thing I ever heard of Cindy," said Mr. Linden. "Of course I will go!—and play Ferdinand again Faith, would the doctor call me an 'acid'—come to dissolve all his crystals?"
"Dr. Harrison gave me ten dollars yesterday for the poor people," said Faith as she led the way to the kitchen. Arrived there, she placed a chair for Mr. Linden and requested him to be seated; while she examined into the state of the fire. The chair was disregarded—the fire received double attention.
"Faith," he said laughingly, "I bear the curb about as well as Stranger. I have a great mind to tell you how that eagle stands in the doctor's memorandum book!"
Faith dropped her hands for the moment and looked at him, with grave eyes of wide-open attention. The look changed Mr. Linden's purpose,—he could not bear to take away all the pleasure the eagle had brought on his gold wings.
"I don't believe there is such a book in existence," he said lightly. "Miranda, what would you like to have me do for you now?—the fire is ready for anything."
"I haven't anything ready for it yet," said Faith, "but I will have—if you'll wait a bit."—She left him there, and ran off—coming back in a little while. And then Mr. Linden was initiated, if he never was before, in kitchen mysteries. Faith covered herself with a great apron, rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and with funny little glances at him between whiles, went round the room about various pieces of work. Almost noiselessly, with the utmost nicety of quick and clean work, she was busy in one thing after another and in two or three at the same time; while Mr. Linden stood or sat by the fire looking on. Two things he comprehended; the potatoes which were put over the fire to boil and the white shortcakes which finally stood cut out on the board ready for baking. The preliminary flour and cream and mixing in the bowl had been (culinary) Sanscrit to him. He had watched her somewhat silently of late, but none the less intently: indeed in all his watching there had been a silent thread woven in with its laughing and busy talk,—his eyes had followed her as one follows a veritable sunbeam, noting the bright gleams of colour here, and the soft light there, and thinking of the time when it must quit the room.
"Faith," he said as she cut out her cakes, "are these what you made for me the first night I came here?"
"I believe so!"
"What do you suppose you look like—going about the kitchen in this style?—you make me think irresistibly of something."
"I should like to know," said Faith with an amused laugh.
"I shall make you blush, if I tell you," said Mr. Linden.
That was enough to do it! Faith gave him one look, and went on with her shortcakes.
"You don't care about knowing, after all?" said Mr. Linden. "Well,—Faith, do you expect ever to make such things in my house?—because if you do, I think it will ensure my coming down stairs before breakfast."
How she flushed—over cheek and brow,—then remarked gravely that, "she was glad he liked it."
"Yes, and you have no idea what effects my liking will produce!" said Mr. Linden. "You see, Faith, it may happen to us now and then to be left without other hands than our own in the house (there is no reliance whatever to be placed upon cottages!) and then you will come down, as now, and I shall come too—taking the precaution to bring a book, that nobody may suspect what I come for. Then enter one of my parishioners—Faith, are you attending?"
Faith had stopped, and poising her rolling pin the reverse way on the board—that is, on end,—had leaned her arms upon it,—giving up shortcakes entirely for the time being.
"You will not be in that position," said Mr. Linden, "but going on properly with your cakes—as you should be now. Then enter one of my parishioners who lives six miles off, to ask me to come over to his house and instruct him in the best way of hanging his gate,—which I of course promise to do, notwithstanding your protestations that I know nothing of that—nor of anything else. Parishioner goes away and reports. One part of the people say how economical we are!—to make one fire do our cooking and studying. Another part have their suspicions that you keep me at hand to lift off the teakettle (much strengthened by report of your protest.) And the charitable part at once propose to raise my salary—so that we may have as many fires as we like. Faith—what should we do in the circumstances?"
Faith was biting her lips and rolling out cakes with the swiftest activity, not allowing Mr. Linden a sight of her face.
"If you hung the gate, I should think you would take the money"—she answered demurely.
"I said you would say I could not do it!" said Mr. Linden. "Which being duly reported and considered by certain other people, will cause them to shake their heads, and wish in half audible (but most telegraphic!) whispers, 'that Mr. Linden were half as smart as his wife'!"
Faith stopped again. "Oh Endy!"—she exclaimed between laughing and pleading.
"Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?"
But Faith went at her cakes and finished the few that were left.
"I think you must be very much in want of your breakfast," she said coming to the fire. "You have played Prince Ferdinand—do you think you would mind acting the part of King Alfred, for once?"
"My dear, I will play any part for you whatever!—in our duet. Shall I practise taking off the kettle to begin with?"
"I don't think you had better,"—Faith said with a kept down laugh,—"for it doesn't boil."
"Shall I take you off then? What are you going to do while I play
Alfred?—I will not answer for my solo performances."
"I shall not be gone but a few minutes. Do you think you could take this little skillet from the fire if it did—boil?"
Mr. Linden might have got into a reverie after she ran away;—but certain it is that the skillet was in imminent danger of "boiling over" when Faith appeared at his side and with a laughing look at him gently lifted it off.
"You are an excellent Alfred!"
"What version of Alfred have you learned?" he said laughing, and catching it from her hand before it reached the hearth. "I thought hot water was his reward—not his work."
"I thought, Endy, you would like to go up to your room before breakfast. Mother will be down presently."
"And am I to find the perfection of a fire, as usual?" said Mr. Linden, taking both her hands in his and looking at her. "Little Sunbeam!—you should not have done that! Do you know what you deserve?"
She stood before him rather soberly, glancing up and down; but he little guessed what her quietness covered. Though the lines of her lip did give tiny indication that quietness was stirred somewhere. He drew her to him for a moment, with one or two unconnected words of deep affection, then turned and went away. Faith listened to hear the well known run up the stairs—the familiar closing of that door,—how strange it sounded! how gladsome, how sorrowful. She stood still just where Mr. Linden had left her, as if sorrow and joy both held her with detaining hands.
"Why child? Faith!"—said Mrs. Derrick coming into the kitchen, "what are you about? What made you get up so early, Faith? What's the matter?—breakfast ready at this time of day! Couldn't you sleep, pretty child?" she added tenderly.
"I didn't get up very much earlier than usual, mother. Don't you want breakfast?"
"Whenever you like, child," said her mother, taking hold in her turn,—"but what's made you in such a hurry? And what makes you look so, Faith?—You're not pale, neither,—how do you look?"
Faith came so close that her mother could not see, and kissed her.
"Mother, Mr. Linden is here."
"Here!" said Mrs. Derrick with a little sympathetic start—it was not all surprise, nor all joy.—"Pretty child! how glad I am! But why didn't you call me, Faith?—and why don't you go and sit down and be quiet—now you've just been tiring yourself, and I could have done the whole! And of all things, how could he get here in such weather? No wonder you're in a hurry, child!"—and Mrs. Derrick began to work in earnest.
Faith gave her the word or two more that she could give, and went to the dairy. It was Faith's domain; she was alone, and her industry fell from her hands. Breakfast and all might wait. Faith set down her bowl and spoon, sat down herself on the low dairy shelf before the window, cold and November though it was, and let the tears come, of which she had a whole heartful in store; and for a little while they fell faster than the raindrops which beat and rattled against the panes. But this was a gentler shower, and cleared the sky. Faith rose up from the shelf entirely herself again.
So busy, skimming off the smooth cream, she felt the light touch of hands on her shoulders—felt more than that on her cheek. Had the tears left any trace there?—that Mr. Linden brought her face round into view. He asked no such question, however, unless with his eyes.
"Mignonette, what are you about?"
"King Alfred's breakfast. I forgot you knew the way to the dairy!"
"Or could find it if I did not. What shape does my breakfast take in these regions?"
"It takes the shape—Let us go back to the kitchen and we will see."
It was spry work in the kitchen now! How Faith's fingers went about. But Mr. Linden could make nothing of the form his breakfast was taking—nothing of Faith's mysterious bowl, in which the cream he had seen her skim went into compound with the potatoes he had seen boiling and with also certain butter and eggs. The mixture went into the oven, and then Faith went off to set the table in the parlour. As they were alone to-day the fire in the dining-room was not to be kindled.
The storm beat so differently upon the windows now!—now, when it was only a barrier against people who were not wanted to come in. Mr. Linden followed Faith in her motions, sometimes with eye and voice, sometimes with his own steps; confusing both her and her arrangements, making her laugh, and himself the cause of various irregularities in the table-setting, which he was very quick to point out.
"Mignonette," he said, "I think it is a perfect day! Do you hear how it storms?"
"And aren't you glad Cindy went to a wedding? And oh, Endy!—how many people will be coming after you to-day?" Faith stopped, knife in hand.
"Did you suppose that I would come here to see you, and then be obliged to see half Pattaquasset instead? I stopped at Patchaug station,—there Reuben met me, and we had as pleasant a four mile drive in the rain as I ever remember. As to the wedding—I think there can never be more than one other so felicitous."
Faith ran off.
And presently the breakfast came in, variously, in her hands and in Mrs. Derrick's. It was broad light now, and the curtains drawn back, but the red firelight still gave the hue of the room; and the breakfast-table and the three people round it wanted for no element or means of comfort. There were the shortcakes, which Mr. Linden might more readily recognize now in their light brown flakiness—his coffee was poured upon the richest of cream; the potatoes came out of the oven in the shape of a great puff-ball, of most tender consistency; and the remains of a cold chicken had been mystified into such a dish of delicacy as no hands but a Frenchwoman's—or Faith's—could concoct. It's a pleasant thing to be catered for by hands that love you. Mr. Linden had found that pleasure this morning before. But both Faith and he were undoubtedly ready for their breakfast!
After breakfast came the consideration of a basketful of things Mr. Linden had brought her. Very simple things they were, and unromantic enough to be useful; yet with sentiment enough about them,—if that name might be given to the tokens of a care that busied itself about all the ins and outs of her daily life, and sought out and remembered the various little things that she wanted and could not get; for the various papers of sugarplums in which the whole were packed, Mr. Linden declared them to be nothing but epithets and adjectives.
The weather held on its way into the afternoon; but what was most unexpected, the afternoon brought a visiter. Mr. Linden and Faith, deep in talk, heard the sound of a foot on the scraper and then of a knock at the door, which made them both start up. Faith went to the door. But before she could open it, Mrs. Derrick came up behind her with swift steps and remanded Faith to the parlour.
"I'll open it, child," she said,—"it's no use for you to run the risk of seeing anybody you don't want to." So Faith returned to Mr. Linden. But the first word set all fears at rest—it was only Reuben Taylor. He presented himself with many apologies, and would fain have told his errand to Mrs. Derrick, but as it was for Faith, the good lady opened the parlour door and bade Reuben go in,—which, as he could not help it, Reuben did. But the colour of his face as he came in!—Mr. Linden took the effect of it—Faith was partly occupied with her own; and Reuben, thinking the sooner the quicker—walked straight up to her.
"Miss Faith," he said, trying to speak as usual, "I beg your pardon—but I was sent here with this,"—and Reuben presented a moderately large round basket, without a handle.
"Reuben, come up to the fire," said Mr. Linden; while Faith took the basket and exclaimed, "This! Who in the world sent you, Reuben?—Yes, come to the fire."
"I am not cold, sir," Reuben said with a look towards where Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, as if his desire was to get out of the room—instead of further in, though he did follow Faith a step or two as she went that way. "I didn't mean to come here to-day, Mr. Linden, but—"
"Didn't mean to come here?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—"what have you been doing, to be afraid of me? Faith, has your postman been remiss?"
They were a pair, Reuben and Faith! though the colour of the one was varying, while Reuben's was steady. Faith nevertheless seized the boy's hand and drew him with gentle violence up to the fire.
"Who sent you with this, Reuben?"
"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. I was off on an errand after church, and one of his men came after me and told me to come to the house. And there I saw the doctor himself—and ho told me to bring you this basket, ma'am, and that he didn't like to trust it to any one else. And—" but there Reuben hesitated.
"And that you were the only person he knew who would go through fire and water for him?" said Mr. Linden.
"No, sir, but—I suppose I've got to say it, since he told me to,—Dr. Harrison said, Miss Faith, that—" the message seemed to stir both Reuben's shame and laughter—"that he had begged a cake of his sister, to go with your Thanksgiving pies—and that it was in the basket. And that I needn't tell anybody else about it."
"Reuben," said Mr. Linden laughing, "you needn't tell him that I shall eat half the cake."
"No, sir"—Reuben said,—and tried not to laugh, and couldn't help it.
The third member of the trio shewed no disposition at all to much laughter. She had put the basket down on the table and looked at it from a distance, as if it had contained the four and twenty live blackbirds—or a small powder magazine. The effect of his message Reuben did not stay to see. He went round to Mr. Linden to ask if the morning orders were unchanged, clasped hands with him—then bowed low to Faith and went out.
With very demure face Mr. Linden seated himself in one of the easy-chairs, and looked towards the table, with the air of one who expects—something! And not demurely but with grave consciousness, Faith stood looking in the same direction; then her eyes went to Mr. Linden. But his face did not relax in the least.
"Do you suppose that basket holds a kitten?" he said contemplatively.
Faith did not answer but walked over to the table and began the work of investigation. Mr. Linden came too. "If you are to make feline discoveries, I must stand by you, little bird," he said.
The basket was carefully tied with a network of strings over the top; then followed one paper after another, a silk paper at last,—and the cake was revealed. The low exclamation that burst from Faith might be characterized as one of mingled admiration and dismay.
Certainly Dr. Harrison had amused himself that Thanksgiving day! perhaps in terror of his old enemy, ennui. At least his basket looked so.
The cake lay upon a white paper in the basket, with a little space all around. It was a rather small loaf with a plain icing. But round the sides of it were trailed long sprays of ivy geranium, making a beautiful bordering. The centre was crowned with a white camellia in its perfection. From the tip edge of each outer petal depended a drop of gold, made to adhere there by some strong gum probably; and between the camellia and the ivy wreaths was a brilliant ring of gold spots, somewhat larger, set in the icing. Somebody, and it was probably the doctor, for want of better to do,—had carefully prepared the places to receive them, so that they were set in the white like a very neat inlay. It was presently seen that quarter eagles made the inlay, and that the camellia was dropped with gold dollars.
On the ivy lay a note. Faith looked at Mr. Linden as she took it up; broke the seal, and hastily running over the paper gave it to him—
"MY DEAR MISS FAITH,
My yesterday's speculation in pumpkins proved so successful, that like a true speculator it made me want to plunge deeper—into the pumpkin field! I find myself this morning dissatisfied with what I have done—and beg to send a cake to go along with the pies—to be apportioned of course as your judgment shall suggest. I begged the cake from Sophy, who I am sure would not have given it to me if she had known what I was going to do with it.
Your pleasure, personal and representative, last night, is a reproach to me whenever I think of it. Yet my unwonted hand knows neither how to cut up cake, nor what to do with it when it is cut—except—avaler! Am I wrong in hoping that you will do me the grace to make available what I should only—if I tried to do better with it—throw away? and that as a token of your forgiveness and grace you will on the next opportunity bestow a piece of pumpkin pie, such as you carried the other night, on
Your very respectful and most obedient servant,
JULIUS HARRISON."
PATTAQUASSET, Nov. 15, 18—.
Mr. Linden read the note more deliberately than Faith had done, but his face, the while, she could not read; though (fascinated by the difficulty) her glances changed to a steady gaze. It was quietly grave—that was all and not all,—and the note was given back to her with a smile that spoke both "thoughts" of the doctor, and pleasure for any pleasure Faith might have from his basket. But then some of the deeper feeling came out in his comments—and they were peculiar. He had stood still for a second after reading the note,—his eyes looking down at the cake—gravely; but then they came to her; and suddenly taking her in his arms Mr. Linden gave her—it would be hazardous to say, as many kisses as Dr. Harrison had gold pieces—but certainly as many as he had put in the basket, and more. Faith did not read them, either, at first,—till the repetition—or the way of it, told what they were; the glad saying that she was his, beyond any one's power to buy her,—more than all, an indemnification to himself for all the gold he could not lay at her feet! There needed no speech to tell her both.
A word or two had answered his demonstrations, first a wondering word, and then afterwards a low repetition of his name, in a tone of humble recognition and protest. Now she looked up at him with a child's clear face, full of the colour he had brought into it.
"Little darling," he said, "you will have your hands full of business!"
"Oh Endy—I am very sorry!"
"Sorry?" Mr. Linden said. "What about?"
"I'm sorry that basket has come here!"
"It gives you the means of making other people glad."
"Yes—but,"—Faith looked uncomfortably at the basket. Then brought her eyes back to Mr. Linden's face. "What ought I to do, Endecott?"
"The most good and the least harm you can in the circumstances."
"How shall I,—the last?"—she said with a manner like a beautiful child, truth struggling through embarrassment.
"If you could contrive to make yourself disenchanting!"
Faith passed that, and waited, her eyes making a grave appeal. Mr.
Linden smiled.
"I am afraid you can only be yourself," he said. "And if Dr. Harrison will not remove himself to a safe distance, there is not much to be done, except with the money. Let him understand that you consent for once to be his almoner, merely because you know better than he where the need is,—that you take from him, as from anybody, a donation for your poor and sick neighbours."
"Must I write?"
"No."
"But, Endecott—is that all?"
"All that I need say. You never did encourage him, Faith,—it may be a long time before he gives you a chance to _dis_courage. There is one thing I can do, if you wish."
She had stood with an awakened, sorrowful look, the colour burning all over face and brow. Now she startled and asked "What?"
"Something you do not wish. I can tell him that you belong to me."
But that indeed Faith did not wish.
"Oh no, Endecott—I would rather manage it some other way. Now don't let us lose any more of our afternoon with it—but come and tell me what will be the best things to do with this money."
"It is hard to tell all at once," Mr. Linden said as they once more took their seats by the fire. "What have you thought of yourself?"
"I know where one or two blankets are wanting. And O, Endy! there is one place where I should like to send a rocking-chair—ever so common a one, you know."
"And if Ency Stephens had one of those little self-locomotive carriages, she could go about by herself all day long."
"How good that would be! as soon as the spring opens. You could send one up from New York, Endecott. Do they cost much?"
"I think not. And what do you say to taking a little portion of this for the beginning of a free library for the poor people? If the thing were once begun, Mr. Stoutenburgh would give you what you please to carry it on,—and Mr. Simlins would help,—and so would I."
"I was thinking of books!" said Faith, her eye dancing in an unknown "library";—"but these would be books to lend. I think a great many would like that, Endecott! O yes, we could get plenty of help. That is a delightful plan!—I don't think I ought to be sorry that basket came, after all," she added smiling. Mr. Linden smiled too—she was a pretty Lady Bountiful!
"Faith," he said, "suppose (it is a very presumptuous supposition, but one may suppose anything) suppose when my hands are free to take care of my Mignonette, that I should have the offer of two or three different gardens wherein to place her. How should I choose?"
She coloured and looked at him somewhat inquiringly, then turned away with a kept-in but very pretty smile. "I know," she said, "how you would choose—and you would not ask me."
"Yes I should, little unbeliever—I ask you now."
"You would go," she said gravely—"where your hands were most wanted."
"There spoke a true Sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. But perhaps the word—or something in the changing light of the afternoon—carried his thoughts on to the night train which was to bear him away; for he left Dr. Harrison, and baskets, and schemes, in the background; and drawing her closer to his side talked of her affairs—what she had been doing, what she meant to do, in various ways,—trying to leave as it were a sort of network of his care about her. Then came twilight, and Mrs. Derrick and tea; with Faith's light figure flitting to and fro in preparation; and then prayers. And then—how fast the clock ticked! how fast the minutes began to run away!
The storm did not rest,—it blew and beat and poured down as hard as ever, eddying round the house in gusts that made every word and every minute within doors seem quieter and sweeter. And the words were many, and the minutes too—yet they dropped away one by one, and the upper glass was empty!
CHAPTER XX.
Faith fortified herself with a triple wall of mental resolves against Dr. Harrison's advances. But when the doctor came again, a night or two after Thanksgiving, there did not seem to be much that she could do—or hinder. The doctor's lines of circumvallation were too skilfully drawn for an inexperienced warrior like Faith to know very well where to oppose him. He was not in a demonstrative mood at all; rather more quiet than usual. He had just pushed an advanced work in the shape of his golden cake; and he rested there for the present.
To Faith's great joy, midway in the evening the doctor's monopoly was broken by the entrance of Squire Stoutenburgh and a very round game of talk. Faith seized the opportunity to present her claim for a free library—answered with open hand on the spot. And when he was gone, she sat meditating a speech, but she was prevented. The doctor, as if unconsciously amusing himself, started a chymical question; and went on to give Faith a most exquisite analysis and illustration. It was impossible to listen coldly; it was impossible to maintain reserve. Faith must be herself, and delight shone in every feature. Now could Dr. Harrison enjoy this thoroughly and yet give no sign that he did so; his eye watched hers, while Faith thought he was looking into depths of science; his smile was a keen reflection of that on her lips, while she fancied it called forth only by his own skill, or success, or scientific power. He had produced the very effect he wanted; for the moment, he had her all to himself.
"Miss Faith," he said gently, as his demonstration came to an end,—"you may command me for that library."
Faith drew back and her mind returned to business again. The doctor saw it, and was instantly sorry he had started the subject.
"I was going to speak to you about that, Dr. Harrison. If you have no objection, I shall take a little of that money you entrusted to me, for it—the beginning of it. Only a little. The rest shall go as I suppose you meant it to go."
"I knew it was very sure to go right after it got into your hands. I don't think I followed it any further."
"It will make a great many people happy this winter, Dr. Harrison."
"I hope it will," said he very sincerely; for he knew that if it made them it would her.
"You have little notion how much," Faith went on gravely. "I will do the best I can with it,—and if you had patience to hear, I would let you know what, Dr. Harrison."
"You do me less than justice, Miss Faith. You can hear me rant about philosophical niceties,—and yet think that I would not have patience to listen to a lecture from you upon my neglected duties!"
"I didn't mean that, sir."
He gave her a genial, recognizing little smile, which was not exactly in his "part"—but came in spite of him.
"Do you know, I should like to hear it, Miss Faith. I always like lectures illustrated. What have you done already?"
"There is an almost bed-ridden woman two miles off, who will bless somebody all winter for the comfort of a rocking-chair—all her life, I may rather say;—a common wooden one, Dr. Harrison."
"That is a capital idea," said the doctor. "She will bless you, I hope."
"No, certainly! I shall tell her the money is not mine,—I am only laying it out for a kind somebody."
"Miss Faith," said the doctor,—"I am not kind!"
"I think you are,"—was her gentle, somewhat wistful answer. The doctor sprung up.
"Mrs. Derrick," said he with all his comicality alive,—"Miss Faith promised me a piece of pumpkin pie."
He had it, and taking his old place on the rug slowly demolished it, qualifying every morsel with such ridiculous correlative remarks, allusions, and propositions,—that it was beyond the power of either Mrs. Derrick or Faith to retain her gravity. But the moment the door closed upon him, Faith looked sober.
"Well, child?" said her mother.
"Well, mother—I haven't written my French."
And she sat down to write it, but studied something else. "Manage it some other way"—she had said she would; it was not easy! What was she going to do? the doctor asked nothing of her but ordinary civility; how could she refuse him that? It was a puzzle, and Faith found it so as the weeks went on. It seemed to be as Mr. Linden had said; that she could do little but be as she had been, herself. That did not satisfy Faith.
It was a great relief, when about the middle of December the family went to New York for a few weeks, and Dr. Harrison went with his family. Once more she breathed freely. Then Faith and Reuben made themselves very busy in preparing for the Christmas doings. Means enough were on hand now. Reuben was an invaluable auxiliary as a scout;—to find out where anything was pressingly wanted and what; and long lists were made, and many trains laid in readiness against Mr. Linden's arrival. And then he came!
It was for a good week's holiday this time, and how it was enjoyed two people knew—which was enough. Studies went on after the old fashion during that week, and dinners and teas out made some unavoidable interruptions, yet not on the whole unpleasant. And sleigh rides were taken, day and night; and walks and talks not to be mentioned. Then the Newyear's visiting—with such a budget of new varieties!—how pleasant it was to go that round again together; and it was hard to make short visits, for everybody wanted to see and hear so much of Mr. Linden. He stayed one extra day after that—to see Faith when he had done seeing everybody else, but then he went; and the coldness and quiet of winter set in, broken only by letters.
There was a break of another kind when Dr. Harrison came back, in the middle of January; such a break to Faith's quiet that the coldness was well nigh forgotten. She had doubly resolved she would have as little as possible to do with him; and found presently she was having quite as much as ever.
The plan of rendering him a grave account of what she had done or was doing with his money, so far as the plan regarded keeping him at a distance, was a signal failure. Very simply and honestly it was done, on her part; but it suited the doctor admirably; nothing could better serve his purposes. Dr. Harrison heard her communication about some relieved family or project of relief, with a pleasant sort of attention and intelligence; and had skill, although really and professedly unwonted in the like things, to take up her plans and make the most happy suggestions and additions—often growing a large scheme upon a small one, and edging in the additional means so insensibly, so quietly, that though Faith saw he did it she could not tell how to hinder and did not know that she ought. Mr. Linden had sent, as he promised, his help for the library,—indeed sent from time to time some new parcel; and without inquiring whether the money he had left for his poor people was exhausted, had sent her a fresh supply. But she had none too much, from all sources. It was a winter of great severity among the poorer portion of the community; work was hard to come by, and the intense weather made food and clothing and tiring doubly in demand. There were few starving poor people in Pattaquasset; but many that winter lacked comforts, and some would have wanted bread, without the diligent care of their better-off neighbours. And there as everywhere, those who gave such care were few. Faith and Reuben had plenty to do. But indeed not merely, nor chiefly, with the furnishing of food to the hungry and firing to the cold; neither were those the points where Dr. Harrison's assistance came most helpfully in.
Little Ency Stephens wanted a flower now and then, as well as a velocipede; and Dr. Harrison gave—not to Faith, but to Faith's hands for her—a nice little monthly rose-bush out of the greenhouse. How it smiled in the poor cottage and on the ailing child!—and what could Faith do but with a swelling heart to wish good to the giver. A smoky chimney was putting out the eyes of a poor seamstress. Dr. Harrison quietly gave Reuben orders to have a certain top put to the chimney and send the bill to him. He even seemed to be undertaking some things on his own account. Faith heard through Reuben that he had procured the office of post-mistress in Pattaquasset to be given to the distressed family she and Mr. Linden had visited at Neanticut; and that Mrs. Tuck and Mintie were settled at the post-office, in all comfort accordingly. But worst of all! there were some sick people; and one or two for whom Faith dared not refuse his offer to go with her to see them. Dared still less after the first time he had actually gone; so great and immediate she found the value, not of his medicines only, but of the word or two of hint and direction which he gave her towards their help and healing. Faith began to look forward to May with a breath of almost impatience. But a change came before that.
CHAPTER XXI.
The spring came, with all its genial influences. Not now with such expeditions as the last spring had seen, but with letters to take their place, and with walks of business and kindness instead of pleasure. Yes, of pleasure too; and Faith began to find her "knight" not only a help and safeguard, but good company. Reuben was so true, so simple and modest—was walking in such a swift path of improvement; was so devoted to Faith and her interests, besides the particular bond of sympathy between them, that she might have had many a brother and fared much worse. The intercourse had not changed its character outwardly—Reuben's simple ceremonial of respect and deference was as strict as ever; but the thorough liking of first acquaintanceship had deepened into very warm affection on both sides. With Dr. Harrison Reuben gained no ground—or the doctor did not with him. Though often working for him and with him, though invariably courteous with the most respectful propriety, Faith could see that Reuben's old feeling was rather on the increase.
With the spring thaw came a freshet. It came suddenly, at the end of the week; every river and stream rising into a full tide of insurrection with the melting snows of Saturday, and Saturday night bridges and mill dams went by the board. Among the rest, one of the railway bridges near Pattaquasset gave way, and a full train from the east set down its freight of passengers in Pattaquasset over Sunday. They amused themselves variously—as such freight in such circumstances is wont to do. Faith knew that the church was well filled that Sunday morning, but the fact or the cause concerned her little—did not disturb the quiet path of her thoughts and steps, until church was out and she coming home, alone that day, as it happened. Then she found the walk full and her walk hindered. Especially by two gentlemen—who as the others thinned off, right and left, still went straight on; not fast enough to get away from Faith nor slow enough for her to pass them. They were strangers, evidently, and town bred. One of them reminded Faith of Dr. Harrison, in dress and style—both belonged to a class of which she had seen few specimens. But she gave them little heed (save as they detained her,) nor cared at all for their discussion of the weather, or the place. Then suddenly her attention was caught and held.
"By the way!" said one—"this is the very place where Linden was so long."
"Who? Endecott Linden?" said Dr. Harrison's likeness. "What was he here for?"
"Teaching school."
"Teaching school!" echoed the other,—"Endecott Linden teaching school!—Pegasus in pound!—How did the rustics catch him?"
"Pegasus came of his own accord, if I remember."
"Pshaw, yes!—but Linden. For what conceivable reason did he let himself down to teach school?"
"He didn't—" said the other a little hotly. "He wouldn't let himself down if he turned street-sweeper."
"True—he has a sort of natural dais which he carries about with him,—I suppose he'd make the crossing the court end. But I say, what did he do this for?"
"Why—for money!" said the first speaker. "What an ado about nothing!"
"Inconceivable! Just imagine, George, a man who can sing as he does, teaching a, b, ab!"
"Well—imagine it," said George,—"and then you'll wish you were six years old to have him teach you."
"How cross you are," said his friend lazily. "And despotic. Was there nothing left of all that immense property? I've just come home, you know."
"Not much," said George. "A little—but Endecott wouldn't touch that—it was all put at interest for Miss Pet. He would have it so, and even supported her as long as she staid in the country. What he works so hard for now I don't understand."
"Works, does he? I thought he was studying for the church—going to bury himself again. It's a crying shame! why he might be member, minister, Secretary, President!"
"He!" cried George in hot disdain,—"he soil his fingers with politics!
No—he's in the right place now,—there's no other pure enough for him."
"I didn't know you admired the church so much," said his friend ironically.
"I don't—only the place in it where he'll stand. That's grand."
"And so he's at work yet?"
"Yes indeed—and it puzzles me. That year here ought to have carried him through his studies."
"Why what can he do?—not teach school now,—he's no time for it."
"He can give lessons—and does. Makes the time, I suppose. You know he has learned about everything but Theology. Olyphant was telling me about it the other day."
"What a strange thing!" said the other musingly, "such a family, so swept overboard! What a house that was! You remember his mother, George?"
"I should think so!—and the way Endecott used to sing to her every night, no matter who was there."
"Yes," said the doctor's confrère—"and come to her to be kissed afterwards. I should have laughed at any other man—but it set well on him. So did her diamond ring in his hair, which she was so fond of handling. How did he make out to live when she died?"
"I don't know—" said George with a half drawn breath—a little reverently too: "I suppose he could tell you. But all that first year nobody saw him—unless somebody in need or sorrow: they could always find him. He looked as if he had taken leave of the world—except to work for it."
"How courted he used to be!"—said the other—"how petted—not spoiled, strange to say. Do you suppose he'll ever marry, George? will he ever find any one to suit his notions? He's had enough to choose from already—in Europe and here. What do they say of him off yonder—where he is now?"
"They say he's—rock crystal,—because ice will melt," said George. "So
I suppose his notions are as high as ever."
"You used to admire Miss Linden, if I remember," said his friend. "What a ring that was!—I wonder if she's got it. George—I sha'n't walk any further in this mud—turn about."
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."