FAITH MAKES A FRIEND
Next day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had told the
tale of Adam, and all the scholars, except the Blythes, thought it
quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too
bad, and the boys wrote sardonic notes of condolence to her. Poor Faith
went home from school feeling her very soul raw and smarting within
her.
“I’m going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. Blythe,” she
sobbed. “_She_ won’t laugh at me, as everybody else does. I’ve just
_got_ to talk to somebody who understands how bad I feel.”
She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been at work the
night before. A light snow had fallen and the powdered firs were
dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond was
richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset lay over
the world like a pink kiss. Of all the airy, fairy places, full of
weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the most
beautiful. But all its dreamlike loveliness was lost on poor,
sore-hearted little Faith.
By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who was sitting on
the old pine tree. She was on her way home from Ingleside, where she
had been giving the girls their music lesson. She had been lingering in
Rainbow Valley quite a little time, looking across its white beauty and
roaming some by-ways of dream. Judging from the expression of her face,
her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle
from the bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile to
her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by the consciousness that John
Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the gray house on the
white wind-swept hill.
Into Rosemary’s dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebellious
bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she saw Miss West. She did not
know her very well—just well enough to speak to when they met. And she
did not want to see any one just then—except Mrs. Blythe. She knew her
eyes and nose were red and swollen and she hated to have a stranger
know she had been crying.
“Good evening, Miss West,” she said uncomfortably.
“What is the matter, Faith?” asked Rosemary gently.
“Nothing,” said Faith rather shortly.
“Oh!” Rosemary smiled. “You mean nothing that you can tell to
outsiders, don’t you?”
Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was a person who
understood things. And how pretty she was! How golden her hair was
under her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet coat! How
blue and companionable her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could
be a lovely friend—if only she were a friend instead of a stranger!
“I—I’m going up to tell Mrs. Blythe,” said Faith. “She always
understands—she never laughs at us. I always talk things over with her.
It helps.”
“Dear girlie, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blythe isn’t
home,” said Miss West, sympathetically. “She went to Avonlea to-day and
isn’t coming back till the last of the week.”
Faith’s lip quivered.
“Then I might as well go home again,” she said miserably.
“I suppose so—unless you think you could bring yourself to talk it over
with me instead,” said Miss Rosemary gently. “It _is_ such a help to
talk things over. _I_ know. I don’t suppose I can be as good at
understanding as Mrs. Blythe—but I promise you that I won’t laugh.”
“You wouldn’t laugh outside,” hesitated Faith. “But you might—inside.”
“No, I wouldn’t laugh inside, either. Why should I? Something has hurt
you—it never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them.
If you feel that you’d like to tell me what has hurt you I’ll be glad
to listen. But if you think you’d rather not—that’s all right, too,
dear.”
Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss West’s eyes. They were
very serious—there was no laughter in them, not even far, far back.
With a little sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend
and told her all about Adam and his cruel fate.
Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood and
sympathized—really, she was almost as good as Mrs. Blythe—yes, quite as
good.
“Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a _butcher_,” said
Faith bitterly. “He is so fond of carving things up. He _enjoyed_
cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any
common rooster.”
“Between you and me, Faith, _I_ don’t like Mr. Perry very well myself,”
said Rosemary, laughing a little—but at Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as
Faith clearly understood. “I never did like him. I went to school with
him—he was a Glen boy, you know—and he was a most detestable little
prig even then. Oh, how we girls used to hate holding his fat, clammy
hands in the ring-around games. But we must remember, dear, that he
didn’t know that Adam had been a pet of yours. He thought he _was_ just
a common rooster. We must be just, even when we are terribly hurt.”
“I suppose so,” admitted Faith. “But why does everybody seem to think
it funny that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss West? If it had
been a horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. When Lottie
Warren’s kitten had its legs cut off by the binder everybody was sorry
for her. She cried two days in school and nobody laughed at her, not
even Dan Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten’s funeral and
helped her bury it—only they couldn’t bury its poor little paws with
it, because they couldn’t find them. It was a horrid thing to have
happen, of course, but I don’t think it was as dreadful as seeing your
pet _eaten up_. Yet everybody laughs at _me_.”
“I think it is because the name ‘rooster’ seems rather a funny one,”
said Rosemary gravely. “There _is_ something in it that is comical.
Now, ‘chicken’ is different. It doesn’t sound so funny to talk of
loving a chicken.”
“Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little
golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of my hand. And he was
handsome when he grew up, too—white as snow, with such a beautiful
curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short. He knew
his name and always came when I called him—he was a very intelligent
rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It
wasn’t fair, was it, Miss West?”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Rosemary decidedly. “Not a bit fair. I remember I
had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was such a pretty little
thing—all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved
any pet. She was never killed—she died of old age. Mother wouldn’t have
her killed because she was my pet.”
“If _my_ mother had been living she wouldn’t have let Adam be killed,”
said Faith. “For that matter, father wouldn’t have either, if he’d been
home and known of it. I’m _sure_ he wouldn’t, Miss West.”
“I’m sure, too,” said Rosemary. There was a little added flush on her
face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing.
“Was it _very_ wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tails were
scorching?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, terribly wicked,” answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. “But _I_
would have been just as naughty, Faith—_I_ wouldn’t have told him they
were scorching—and I don’t believe I would ever have been a bit sorry
for my wickedness, either.”
“Una thought I should have told him because he was a minister.”
“Dearest, if a minister doesn’t behave as a gentleman we are not bound
to respect his coat-tails. I know _I_ would just have loved to see
Jimmy Perry’s coat-tails burning up. It must have been fun.”
Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh.
“Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am _never_ going to love anything
again.”
“Don’t say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don’t love.
The more we love the richer life is—even if it is only some little
furry or feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith—a little golden
bit of a canary? If you would I’ll give you one. We have two up home.”
“Oh, I _would_ like that,” cried Faith. “I love birds. Only—would Aunt
Martha’s cat eat it? It’s so _tragic_ to have your pets eaten. I don’t
think I could endure it a second time.”
“If you hang the cage far enough from the wall I don’t think the cat
could harm it. I’ll tell you just how to take care of it and I’ll bring
it to Ingleside for you the next time I come down.”
To herself, Rosemary was thinking,
“It will give every gossip in the Glen something to talk of, but I
_will_ not care. I want to comfort this poor little heart.”
Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understanding were very sweet. She
and Miss Rosemary sat on the old pine until the twilight crept softly
down over the white valley and the evening star shone over the gray
maple grove. Faith told Rosemary all her small history and hopes, her
likes and dislikes, the ins and outs of life at the manse, the ups and
downs of school society. Finally they parted firm friends.
Mr. Meredith was, as usual, lost in dreams when supper began that
evening, but presently a name pierced his abstraction and brought him
back to reality. Faith was telling Una of her meeting with Rosemary.
“She is just lovely, I think,” said Faith. “Just as nice as Mrs.
Blythe—but different. I felt as if I wanted to hug her. She did hug
_me_—such a nice, velvety hug. And she called me ‘dearest.’ It
_thrilled_ me. I could tell her _anything_.”
“So you liked Miss West, Faith?” Mr. Meredith asked, with a rather odd
intonation.
“I love her,” cried Faith.
“Ah!” said Mr. Meredith. “Ah!”