The soft grey clouds which had hung about the setting sun only waited
his departure to double their folds and spread them all over the sky.
Then the wind rose, sweeping gustily through the bare branches, and
heavy drops of rain fell scatteringly on the dead leaves. But when wind
and rain had taken a little more counsel together, they joined forces
in a wild stormy concert which swept on with increasing tumult. It did
not disturb Faith and her mother, at their quiet work and reading,--it
did not deter Cindy from going over night to spend Thanksgiving day
with her friends,--but it was a wild storm nevertheless; and while the
hours of the night rolled on over the sleepers in Mrs. Derrick's house,
still wind and rain kept up their carousal, nor thought of being quiet
even when the morning broke.
"But rather, giving of thanks."--That was the motto of the day--the one
answer to the many vexed questions of life and care. Care was pressing,
and life distracting, and everywhere was something that seemed to call
for tears or complaints. To all of these the day answered--"But rather,
giving of thanks."
It was dark enough when Faith awoke; and she sat up in bed a minute or
two, listening to the wild blasts of wind and the heavy pattering of
the rain,--hearing the screech of the locomotive as the train swept by
in the distance, with a pang at the thought of its freight of
homeward-bound and expected dear ones,--then taking the day's motto,
and gently and quietly going about the day's work. But the first of its
work for her, was to cancel the bit of work it had already done by
itself; and for that Faith went to her Bible,--went first to the list
of texts that had come with it; endeavouring to realize and make sure
her ground on that verse of the 91st Psalm--then on from that to its
following--
"For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion."
It was not a "time of trouble." Faith would not call it so. Never so
bright a Thanksgiving day had risen upon her, spite of its clouds. But
trouble might come; in the course of life-experience she knew it was
pretty sure to come; and she sought to refuge herself beforehand in the
promise of that pavilion of hiding. The driving wind and storm that
emblematized another kind, gave emphasis also to the emblem of shelter.
How Faith blessed her Bible!
The next verse enlarged a little.--
"Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man:
thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues."
Then followed the joyful acceptance of that promise--
"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou
shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."
Then its result--
"I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the
mercy of God for ever and ever."
"From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is
overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast
been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide
in thy tabernacle for ever; I will trust in the covert of thy wings."
What strong refuge! what riches of trust!--How very bright Faith's
fire-lit room looked, with the wind whistling all about, and the red
light on her open Bible. She turned on. And like the full burst of a
chorus after that solo, she seemed to hear the whole Church Militant
say,--
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."
Her mind swept back to the martyr ages,--to times when the church's
road has been in darkness and in light, and the long train of pilgrims
have gone over it in light and in darkness, each with that staff in his
hand. Faith looked long at those words, seeming to see the great "cloud
of witnesses" pass in procession before her. How true the words were to
Abraham, when he left his home. How true to Daniel when he was thrown
to the lions. How true they were to Stephen when he uttered his dying
cry!--how true to the little child whom she had seen go to be with
Christ for ever!--"In all generations."
The prophets, true to their office, threw the light for ward.--
"He shall be for a sanctuary."
"Although I have cast them far off among the heathen, and although
I have scattered them among the countries, yet will I be to them as a
little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come."
"I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast
forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty
shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon."
The next words gave the whole description, the whole key of entrance.
"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in
him and he in God. And we have known and believed the love that God
hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God,
and God in him."
Here was the "Sanctuary" on earth,--the foreshewing image of the one on
high.
"I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are
the temple of it."
How far Faith had got from the earthly Thanksgiving day--even to that
finished and everlasting one on high! She had of course read and
studied these passages all before--once; and then she had shut them up
as a particular casket of treasures that she would not grow too
familiar with suddenly, but would keep to enjoy their brightness
another time. Something this Thanksgiving morning had made Faith want
them. She now sat looking at the last words, feeling as if she wanted
nothing.
The wind and the rain still raged without, drowning and merging any
sounds there might be in the road, though truly few animate things were
abroad at that hour in that weather. Mr. Skip had roused himself,
indeed, for his day's pleasure, and after lighting the kitchen fire had
gone forth--leaving it to take care of itself; but when the door closed
after him, Faith and her fire looked at each other in the same
stillness as before. Until she heard the front door open and
shut,--that was the first sound, and the last,--no unwonted one,
either; that door opened and shut twenty times a day. What intangible,
well-recognized modification in its motions now, made Faith's heart
bound and sink with sudden belief--with swift denial? Who was it? at
that hour! Faith sprang to the parlour door, she did not know how, and
was in the dark hall. A little gleam of firelight followed her--a
little faint dawn came through the fanlight of the door: just enough to
reveal to Faith those very outlines which at first sight she had
pronounced "pleasant." One more spring Faith made; with no scream of
delight, but with a low exclamation, very low, that for its many-folded
sweetness was like the involutions of a rosebud.
"Faith!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch me till I get out of the
rain!"--which prohibition Faith might consider useless, or might think
that--shuttlecock fashion--it had got turned round in the air.
"The best place to get out of the rain is in here," she said trying to
draw him along with her. "Oh Endy! how came you in it?"
"If you say three words to me, I shall give you the benefit of all the
remaining raindrops," said Mr. Linden, disengaging himself to throw off
his overcoat,--"how can one do anything, with you standing there? How
came I in it?--I came in it! Precious child! how do you do?" And she
was taken possession of, and carried off into the next room, like a
rosebud as she was, to have the same question put a great many times in
a different way. More words for her, just then, Mr. Linden did not seem
to have. Nor Faith for him. She stood very still, her face in a glow of
shy joy, but her eyes and even her lips grave and quiet; except when
sometimes a very tiny indicatory smile broke half way upon them.
"When did you come?"
"I came in the night train. Mignonette--are you glad to see me?"
The smile shewed her teeth a little. They would bear shewing, but this
was only a glimmer of the white enamel.
"Then you have been travelling all night?"
"Yes. How are you going to prove your position?"
"What position, Endy?"
"That you are glad to see me."
"I don't know,"--she said looking up at him.
"You cannot think of any proof to give me?"
"I can think of a great many."
"I am ready to take them!" said Mr. Linden demurely.
"Then if you will sit down and let me leave you for a few minutes, I
will see what I can do."
"Thank you--the proofs that I mean would by no means take you further
off. Suppose you see what you can do without going away."
She laid her head down for a minute, colouring too, even the cheek that
was high-coloured before; but she looked up again.
"Stoop your high head, then, Endy!"--she said;--and she gave him two
kisses, as full and earnest as they were soft. There was no doubt Faith
had proved her position!
"Faith, darling," he said, "have you been growing thin?--or is it only
that I have had to do with such substantial humanity of late. Look up
here and let me see--are you anything but the essence of Mignonette?"
The face she shewed was aptly named; about as pure as that. With grave,
loving intentness--not the less grave for its little companion
smile--Mr. Linden studied her face for a minute,--pushing back her hair.
"Do you think,"--she said then in a light soft tone--a departure from
the last words,--"do you think you won't want the essence of something
else by and by, Endecott?"
"No,"--decidedly,--"I want nothing but you--so you may as well make up
your mind to want nothing but me."
"Do you know what that would end in?"
"Not necessarily in such a simple duet," said Mr. Linden
smiling,--"people do not always realize their ideal. Mignonette, you
are just as lovely as you can be!--and you need not bring Miss Reason
to keep me in order. I suppose if _she_ were in the house it would end
in her wanting her breakfast."
"I don't like Miss Keason," said Faith, "and the only thing I am
thinking of putting in order is the kitchen fire. Would you like to go
there with me? Nobody's in the house--Cindy went yesterday to a
wedding, and Mr. Skip is gone home to keep Thanksgiving."
"That is the best thing I ever heard of Cindy," said Mr. Linden. "Of
course I will go!--and play Ferdinand again Faith, would the doctor
call me an 'acid'--come to dissolve all his crystals?"
"Dr. Harrison gave me ten dollars yesterday for the poor people," said
Faith as she led the way to the kitchen. Arrived there, she placed a
chair for Mr. Linden and requested him to be seated; while she examined
into the state of the fire. The chair was disregarded--the fire
received double attention.
"Faith," he said laughingly, "I bear the curb about as well as
Stranger. I have a great mind to tell you how that eagle stands in the
doctor's memorandum book!"
Faith dropped her hands for the moment and looked at him, with grave
eyes of wide-open attention. The look changed Mr. Linden's purpose,--he
could not bear to take away all the pleasure the eagle had brought on
his gold wings.
"I don't believe there is such a book in existence," he said lightly.
"Miranda, what would you like to have me do for you now?--the fire is
ready for anything."
"I haven't anything ready for it yet," said Faith, "but I will have--if
you'll wait a bit."--She left him there, and ran off--coming back in a
little while. And then Mr. Linden was initiated, if he never was
before, in kitchen mysteries. Faith covered herself with a great apron,
rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and with funny little glances
at him between whiles, went round the room about various pieces of
work. Almost noiselessly, with the utmost nicety of quick and clean
work, she was busy in one thing after another and in two or three at
the same time; while Mr. Linden stood or sat by the fire looking on.
Two things he comprehended; the potatoes which were put over the fire
to boil and the white shortcakes which finally stood cut out on the
board ready for baking. The preliminary flour and cream and mixing in
the bowl had been (culinary) Sanscrit to him. He had watched her
somewhat silently of late, but none the less intently: indeed in all
his watching there had been a silent thread woven in with its laughing
and busy talk,--his eyes had followed her as one follows a veritable
sunbeam, noting the bright gleams of colour here, and the soft light
there, and thinking of the time when it must quit the room.
"Faith," he said as she cut out her cakes, "are these what you made for
me the first night I came here?"
"I believe so!"
"What do you suppose you look like--going about the kitchen in this
style?--you make me think irresistibly of something."
"I should like to know," said Faith with an amused laugh.
"I shall make you blush, if I tell you," said Mr. Linden.
That was enough to do it! Faith gave him one look, and went on with her
shortcakes.
"You don't care about knowing, after all?" said Mr. Linden.
"Well,--Faith, do you expect ever to make such things in my
house?--because if you do, I think it will ensure my coming down stairs
before breakfast."
How she flushed--over cheek and brow,--then remarked gravely that, "she
was glad he liked it."
"Yes, and you have no idea what effects my liking will produce!" said
Mr. Linden. "You see, Faith, it may happen to us now and then to be
left without other hands than our own in the house (there is no
reliance whatever to be placed upon cottages!) and then you will come
down, as now, and I shall come too--taking the precaution to bring a
book, that nobody may suspect what I come for. Then enter one of my
parishioners--Faith, are you attending?"
Faith had stopped, and poising her rolling pin the reverse way on the
board--that is, on end,--had leaned her arms upon it,--giving up
shortcakes entirely for the time being.
"You will not be in that position," said Mr. Linden, "but going on
properly with your cakes--as you should be now. Then enter one of my
parishioners who lives six miles off, to ask me to come over to his
house and instruct him in the best way of hanging his gate,--which I of
course promise to do, notwithstanding your protestations that I know
nothing of that--nor of anything else. Parishioner goes away and
reports. One part of the people say how economical we are!--to make one
fire do our cooking and studying. Another part have their suspicions
that you keep me at hand to lift off the teakettle (much strengthened
by report of your protest.) And the charitable part at once propose to
raise my salary--so that we may have as many fires as we like.
Faith--what should we do in the circumstances?"
Faith was biting her lips and rolling out cakes with the swiftest
activity, not allowing Mr. Linden a sight of her face.
"If you hung the gate, I should think you would take the money"--she
answered demurely.
"I said you would say I could not do it!" said Mr. Linden. "Which being
duly reported and considered by certain other people, will cause them
to shake their heads, and wish in half audible (but most telegraphic!)
whispers, 'that Mr. Linden were half as smart as his wife'!"
Faith stopped again. "Oh Endy!"--she exclaimed between laughing and
pleading.
"Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?"
But Faith went at her cakes and finished the few that were left.
"I think you must be very much in want of your breakfast," she said
coming to the fire. "You have played Prince Ferdinand--do you think you
would mind acting the part of King Alfred, for once?"
"My dear, I will play any part for you whatever!--in our duet. Shall I
practise taking off the kettle to begin with?"
"I don't think you had better,"--Faith said with a kept down
laugh,--"for it doesn't boil."
"Shall I take you off then? What are you going to do while I play
Alfred?--I will not answer for my solo performances."
"I shall not be gone but a few minutes. Do you think you could take
this little skillet from the fire if it _did_--boil?"
Mr. Linden might have got into a reverie after she ran away;--but
certain it is that the skillet was in imminent danger of "boiling over"
when Faith appeared at his side and with a laughing look at him gently
lifted it off.
"You are an excellent Alfred!"
"What version of Alfred have you learned?" he said laughing, and
catching it from her hand before it reached the hearth. "I thought hot
water was his reward--not his work."
"I thought, Endy, you would like to go up to your room before
breakfast. Mother will be down presently."
"And am I to find the perfection of a fire, as usual?" said Mr. Linden,
taking both her hands in his and looking at her. "Little Sunbeam!--you
should not have done that! Do you know what you deserve?"
She stood before him rather soberly, glancing up and down; but he
little guessed what her quietness covered. Though the lines of her lip
did give tiny indication that quietness was stirred somewhere. He drew
her to him for a moment, with one or two unconnected words of deep
affection, then turned and went away. Faith listened to hear the well
known run up the stairs--the familiar closing of that door,--how
strange it sounded! how gladsome, how sorrowful. She stood still just
where Mr. Linden had left her, as if sorrow and joy both held her with
detaining hands.
"Why child? Faith!"--said Mrs. Derrick coming into the kitchen, "what
_are_ you about? What made you get up so early, Faith? What's the
matter?--breakfast ready at this time of day! Couldn't you sleep,
pretty child?" she added tenderly.
"I didn't get up very much earlier than usual, mother. Don't you want
breakfast?"
"Whenever you like, child," said her mother, taking hold in her
turn,--"but what's made you in such a hurry? And what makes you look
so, Faith?--You're not pale, neither,--how _do_ you look?"
Faith came so close that her mother could not see, and kissed her.
"Mother, Mr. Linden is here."
"Here!" said Mrs. Derrick with a little sympathetic start--it was not
all surprise, nor all joy.--"Pretty child! how glad I am! But why
didn't you call me, Faith?--and why don't you go and sit down and be
quiet--now you've just been tiring yourself, and I could have done the
whole! And of all things, how could he get here in such weather? No
wonder you're in a hurry, child!"--and Mrs. Derrick began to work in
earnest.
Faith gave her the word or two more that she could give, and went to
the dairy. It was Faith's domain; she was alone, and her industry fell
from her hands. Breakfast and all might wait. Faith set down her bowl
and spoon, sat down herself on the low dairy shelf before the window,
cold and November though it was, and let the tears come, of which she
had a whole heartful in store; and for a little while they fell faster
than the raindrops which beat and rattled against the panes. But this
was a gentler shower, and cleared the sky. Faith rose up from the shelf
entirely herself again.
So busy, skimming off the smooth cream, she felt the light touch of
hands on her shoulders--felt more than that on her cheek. Had the tears
left any trace there?--that Mr. Linden brought her face round into
view. He asked no such question, however, unless with his eyes.
"Mignonette, what are you about?"
"King Alfred's breakfast. I forgot you knew the way to the dairy!"
"Or could find it if I did not. What shape does my breakfast take in
these regions?"
"It takes the shape--Let us go back to the kitchen and we will see."
It was spry work in the kitchen now! How Faith's fingers went about.
But Mr. Linden could make nothing of the form his breakfast was
taking--nothing of Faith's mysterious bowl, in which the cream he had
seen her skim went into compound with the potatoes he had seen boiling
and with also certain butter and eggs. The mixture went into the oven,
and then Faith went off to set the table in the parlour. As they were
alone to-day the fire in the dining-room was not to be kindled.
The storm beat so differently upon the windows now!--now, when it was
only a barrier against people who were not wanted to come in. Mr.
Linden followed Faith in her motions, sometimes with eye and voice,
sometimes with his own steps; confusing both her and her arrangements,
making her laugh, and himself the cause of various irregularities in
the table-setting, which he was very quick to point out.
"Mignonette," he said, "I think it is a perfect day! Do you hear how it
storms?"
"And aren't you glad Cindy went to a wedding? And oh, Endy!--how many
people will be coming after you to-day?" Faith stopped, knife in hand.
"Did you suppose that I would come here to see you, and then be obliged
to see half Pattaquasset instead? I stopped at Patchaug station,--there
Reuben met me, and we had as pleasant a four mile drive in the rain as
I ever remember. As to the wedding--I think there can never be more
than one other so felicitous."
Faith ran off.
And presently the breakfast came in, variously, in her hands and in
Mrs. Derrick's. It was broad light now, and the curtains drawn back,
but the red firelight still gave the hue of the room; and the
breakfast-table and the three people round it wanted for no element or
means of comfort. There were the shortcakes, which Mr. Linden might
more readily recognize now in their light brown flakiness--his coffee
was poured upon the richest of cream; the potatoes came out of the oven
in the shape of a great puff-ball, of most tender consistency; and the
remains of a cold chicken had been mystified into such a dish of
delicacy as no hands but a Frenchwoman's--or Faith's--could concoct.
It's a pleasant thing to be catered for by hands that love you. Mr.
Linden had found that pleasure this morning before. But both Faith and
he were undoubtedly ready for their breakfast!
After breakfast came the consideration of a basketful of things Mr.
Linden had brought her. Very simple things they were, and unromantic
enough to be useful; yet with sentiment enough about them,--if that
name might be given to the tokens of a care that busied itself about
all the ins and outs of her daily life, and sought out and remembered
the various little things that she wanted and could not get; for the
various papers of sugarplums in which the whole were packed, Mr. Linden
declared them to be nothing but epithets and adjectives.
The weather held on its way into the afternoon; but what was most
unexpected, the afternoon brought a visiter. Mr. Linden and Faith, deep
in talk, heard the sound of a foot on the scraper and then of a knock
at the door, which made them both start up. Faith went to the door. But
before she could open it, Mrs. Derrick came up behind her with swift
steps and remanded Faith to the parlour.
"I'll open it, child," she said,--"it's no use for you to run the risk
of seeing anybody you don't want to." So Faith returned to Mr. Linden.
But the first word set all fears at rest--it was only Reuben Taylor. He
presented himself with many apologies, and would fain have told his
errand to Mrs. Derrick, but as it was for Faith, the good lady opened
the parlour door and bade Reuben go in,--which, as he could not help
it, Reuben did. But the colour of his face as he came in!--Mr. Linden
took the effect of it--Faith was partly occupied with her own; and
Reuben, thinking the sooner the quicker--walked straight up to her.
"Miss Faith," he said, trying to speak as usual, "I beg your
pardon--but I was sent here with this,"--and Reuben presented a
moderately large round basket, without a handle.
"Reuben, come up to the fire," said Mr. Linden; while Faith took the
basket and exclaimed, "This! Who in the world sent you, Reuben?--Yes,
come to the fire."
"I am not cold, sir," Reuben said with a look towards where Mr. Linden
stood by the mantelpiece, as if his desire was to get out of the
room--instead of further in, though he did follow Faith a step or two
as she went that way. "I didn't mean to come here to-day, Mr. Linden,
but--"
"Didn't mean to come here?" said Mr. Linden smiling,--"what have you
been doing, to be afraid of me? Faith, has your postman been remiss?"
They were a pair, Reuben and Faith! though the colour of the one was
varying, while Reuben's was steady. Faith nevertheless seized the boy's
hand and drew him with gentle violence up to the fire.
"Who sent you with this, Reuben?"
"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. I was off on an errand after church, and one
of his men came after me and told me to come to the house. And there I
saw the doctor himself--and ho told me to bring you this basket, ma'am,
and that he didn't like to trust it to any one else. And--" but there
Reuben hesitated.
"And that you were the only person he knew who would go through fire
and water for him?" said Mr. Linden.
"No, sir, but--I suppose I've got to say it, since he told me to,--Dr.
Harrison said, Miss Faith, that--" the message seemed to stir both
Reuben's shame and laughter--"that he had begged a cake of his sister,
to go with your Thanksgiving pies--and that it was in the basket. And
that I needn't tell anybody else about it."
"Reuben," said Mr. Linden laughing, "you needn't tell him that I shall
eat half the cake."
"No, sir"--Reuben said,--and tried not to laugh, and couldn't help it.
The third member of the trio shewed no disposition at all to much
laughter. She had put the basket down on the table and looked at it
from a distance, as if it had contained the four and twenty live
blackbirds--or a small powder magazine. The effect of his message
Reuben did not stay to see. He went round to Mr. Linden to ask if the
morning orders were unchanged, clasped hands with him--then bowed low
to Faith and went out.
With very demure face Mr. Linden seated himself in one of the
easy-chairs, and looked towards the table, with the air of one who
expects--something! And not demurely but with grave consciousness,
Faith stood looking in the same direction; then her eyes went to Mr.
Linden. But his face did not relax in the least.
"Do you suppose that basket holds a kitten?" he said contemplatively.
Faith did not answer but walked over to the table and began the work of
investigation. Mr. Linden came too. "If you are to make feline
discoveries, I must stand by you, little bird," he said.
The basket was carefully tied with a network of strings over the top;
then followed one paper after another, a silk paper at last,--and the
cake was revealed. The low exclamation that burst from Faith might be
characterized as one of mingled admiration and dismay.
Certainly Dr. Harrison had amused himself that Thanksgiving day!
perhaps in terror of his old enemy, ennui. At least his basket looked
so.
The cake lay upon a white paper in the basket, with a little space all
around. It was a rather small loaf with a plain icing. But round the
sides of it were trailed long sprays of ivy geranium, making a
beautiful bordering. The centre was crowned with a white camellia in
its perfection. From the tip edge of each outer petal depended a drop
of gold, made to adhere there by some strong gum probably; and between
the camellia and the ivy wreaths was a brilliant ring of gold spots,
somewhat larger, set in the icing. Somebody, and it was probably the
doctor, for want of better to do,--had carefully prepared the places to
receive them, so that they were set in the white like a very neat
inlay. It was presently seen that quarter eagles made the inlay, and
that the camellia was dropped with gold dollars.
On the ivy lay a note. Faith looked at Mr. Linden as she took it up;
broke the seal, and hastily running over the paper gave it to him--
"MY DEAR MISS FAITH,
My yesterday's speculation in pumpkins proved so successful, that like
a true speculator it made me want to plunge deeper--into the pumpkin
field! I find myself this morning dissatisfied with what I have
done--and beg to send a cake to go along with the pies--to be
apportioned of course as your judgment shall suggest. I begged the cake
from Sophy, who I am sure would not have given it to me if she had
known what I was going to do with it.
Your pleasure, personal and representative, last night, is a reproach
to me whenever I think of it. Yet my unwonted hand knows neither how to
cut up cake, nor what to do with it when it is cut--except--_avaler!_
Am I wrong in hoping that you will do me the grace to make available
what I should only--if I tried to do better with it--throw away? and
that as a token of your forgiveness and grace you will on the next
opportunity bestow a piece of pumpkin pie, such as you carried the
other night, on
Your very respectful and most obedient servant,
JULIUS HARRISON."
PATTAQUASSET, Nov. 15, 18--.
Mr. Linden read the note more deliberately than Faith had done, but his
face, the while, she could not read; though (fascinated by the
difficulty) her glances changed to a steady gaze. It was quietly
grave--that was all and not all,--and the note was given back to her
with a smile that spoke both "thoughts" of the doctor, and pleasure for
any pleasure Faith might have from his basket. But then some of the
deeper feeling came out in his comments--and they were peculiar. He had
stood still for a second after reading the note,--his eyes looking down
at the cake--gravely; but then they came to her; and suddenly taking
her in his arms Mr. Linden gave her--it would be hazardous to say, as
many kisses as Dr. Harrison had gold pieces--but certainly as many as
he had put in the basket, and more. Faith did not read them, either, at
first,--till the repetition--or the way of it, told what they were; the
glad saying that she was his, beyond any one's power to buy her,--more
than all, an indemnification to himself for all the gold he could not
lay at her feet! There needed no speech to tell her both.
A word or two had answered his demonstrations, first a wondering word,
and then afterwards a low repetition of his name, in a tone of humble
recognition and protest. Now she looked up at him with a child's clear
face, full of the colour he had brought into it.
"Little darling," he said, "you will have your hands full of business!"
"Oh Endy--I am very sorry!"
"Sorry?" Mr. Linden said. "What about?"
"I'm sorry that basket has come here!"
"It gives you the means of making other people glad."
"Yes--but,"--Faith looked uncomfortably at the basket. Then brought her
eyes back to Mr. Linden's face. "What ought I to do, Endecott?"
"The most good and the least harm you can in the circumstances."
"How shall I,--the last?"--she said with a manner like a beautiful
child, truth struggling through embarrassment.
"If you could contrive to make yourself disenchanting!"
Faith passed that, and waited, her eyes making a grave appeal. Mr.
Linden smiled.
"I am afraid you can only be yourself," he said. "And if Dr. Harrison
will not remove himself to a safe distance, there is not much to be
done, except with the money. Let him understand that you consent for
once to be his almoner, merely because you know better than he where
the need is,--that you take from him, as from anybody, a donation for
your poor and sick neighbours."
"Must I write?"
"No."
"But, Endecott--is that all?"
"All that I need say. You never did encourage him, Faith,--it may be a
long time before he gives you a chance to _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!