Say and Seal, Volume I. Warner Susan

down the main street of Pattaquasset. I say revolving—for the slight suggestion of a small stone in the road—or a spot of particular dustiness—was enough to make the boy break the monotony of his walk with a somerset; by which style of progress he at last arrived at Mrs. Derrick's door, entered the gate and came up the steps. There he paused and gazed at Mr. Linden.

      "What is your name?" inquired that gentleman, with the benevolent idea of setting the boy's thoughts in motion in a straight line.

      "Charles twelf'" replied the boy promptly.

      "Charles twelfth!" said Mr. Linden. "Are there eleven more of you?"

      The boy put his finger in his mouth but brought forth no answer.

      "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "are you the planet which has attracted this small star out of its usual orbit?"

      Faith came to the door.

      "Who are you, little fellow?" said she, eying the dusty white head.

      "Who be you?" said the boy.

      "The centre of your solar system at present," said Mr. Linden. "Is that the way satellites generally ask questions?"

      "What a queer man!" said the boy looking at Mr. Linden.

      "What a queer boy—" said that gentleman gravely.

      "What do you want?" said Faith, biting her lips and laughing at both of them.

      The boy gazed at her, but he also gazed at the scraper!—and the attraction of that was irresistible. Down went his white head, and over went his dusty feet, and then Charles twelfth was himself again.

      "My ma' kep' your 'ma to supper," he said. "And she says you may come too, if you want ter—and bring him. We've got lots o' pies." And stimulated by this recollection, the boy turned without delay and began his revolutions homeward. Faith ran down the two or three porch steps and laid hold of the little invader.

      "Here! You Charles twelfth!—who are you, and where does your ma' live?"

      "She lives down to our house."

      "Where's that?"

      "Down the woody road—" said the boy,—"next after you come to CaptingSamp's blackberry field. There's sunflowers in front."

      "Then you are Mrs. Seacomb's boy? Very well," said Faith, letting him go. "Mr. Linden, there is an invitation for you."

      "Is there a carriage road into Sweden? or do we walk?" he replied.

      "Sweden?"—said Faith,—"it is in the woods, two or three miles from here. A woman lives there—the widow of a man that used to sail with my father. My father was captain of a ship, Mr. Linden. Mr. Seacomb was one of his mates, and very fond of him; and we go to see Mrs. Seacomb once in a while. I don't think, perhaps, you would like it. It's a pretty ride."

      "That is a kind of ride I do like."

      "But I don't know whether you would like it all. If you say so, I will have up the wagon."

      "Thank you—that I should not like. I prefer to have it up myself,Miss Faith—if you will have up your bonnet."

      Faith's face gave way at that, and the bonnet and the wagon were up accordingly.

      The way led first down the high road, bordered with gardens and farms and the houses of the village—if village it were called, where the neighbours looked at each other's distant windows across wide tracts of meadow, orchards and grain fields. The road was reasonably dusty, in the warm droughts of September; nevertheless the hedgerows that grew thick in many places shewed gay tufts of autumn flowering; and the mellow light lay on every wayside object and sober distance like the reflection from a butterfly's wing. Except the light, all changed when they got into the woody road.

      It was woody indeed!—except where it was grassy; and woods and grass played hide and seek with each other. The grass-grown road, its thicker grass borders—where bright fall flowers raised their proud little heads; the old fence, broken down in places, where bushes burst through and half filled the gap; bright hips on the wild rosebushes, tufts of yellow fern leaves, brilliant handfuls of red and yellow which here a maple and there a pepperidge held out over the road; the bushy, bosquey, look which the uncut undergrowth gave the wood on either hand; the gleams of soft green light, the bands of shadow, the deeper thickets where the eye looked twice and came back unsatisfied,—over all the blue sky, with forest leaves for a border. Such was the woody road that afternoon. Flocks of little birds of passage flitted and twittered about their night's lodging, or came down to feast on wintergreen or cedar berries; and Mrs. Derrick's old horse walked softly on, as if he knew no one was in a hurry.

      "'With what a glory comes and goes the year'!" Mr. Linden said.

      "And stays all the while, don't it?" said Faith rather timidly and after an instant's hesitation.

      "Yes, in a sort—though to my fancy the other seasons have rather beauty and splendour, while autumn keeps the glory for itself."

      "I think it is glorious all the year round," said Faith;—"though to be sure," she added with a sudden check, "perhaps I don't use the word right."

      "Yes, it is glorious,—but I think 'glorious' and 'glory' have drifted a little apart upon the tide of human speech. Glory, always seems to my mind a warm, glowing, effulgent thing,—but ice-peaks may be glorious. The old painters encircled the heads of their saints with a 'glory' and you could not imagine that a cold light."

      Faith listened, with the eyes of one first seeing into the world of wonder and beauty hidden from common vision. She did not answer, till her thoughts came back to the road they were travelling, and catching her breath a little she said,

      "This isn't a cold light."

      "No, truly. And just so far as the saints on earth walk in a cold light, so far, I think, their light is less glorious."

      "I don't see how they can,"—said Faith timidly.

      "They do—sometimes,—standing aloof like those ice-peaks. You can see the white garments, but no glory transfigures them. Such a face as Stephen's, Miss Faith, is worth a journey to see."

      Faith thought so; wondered how many such faces he had seen. Her meditations plunged her too deep for words.

      "What are you musing about?—if I may ask," Mr. Linden said presently.

      She coloured but answered, "I was thinking what one must be, to have a face like Stephen's."

      "That is the promise, you know—from 'glory to glory.' 'From grace to glory' must come first. 'What one must be'—yes, that is it. But it is good to measure the promises now and then."

      Faith laid that last remark up in her heart, enshrining it in gold, as it were. But she said nothing.

      "How is it with you?" he said turning his eyes full upon her,—"you have not told me lately. Are the clouds all gone?"

      Her look met his, wistful, and simple as her answer.

      "I see the light through."—

      "'Unto the perfect-day'!" Mr. Linden said, his smile—slight as it was—bringing a sort of illumination with it. After a few minutes he turned to her again.

      "Miss Faith, one whom Christ has called into his army should wear his uniform."

      "What, sir?"—she said, the colour starting readily.

      "With the private vows of allegiance, there should be also a public profession."

      "Yes,"—she said, "I suppose so.—I am willing—I am ready."

      Timid, modest, even shrinking as she was, more in view of the subject than of her adviser, her face was as frank as the day. His hand quitted the reins a moment, taking hers and giving it a sort of 'right-hand-of-fellowship' clasp, glad and warm and earnest, as was his look.

      "I am not going to ask you anymore questions," he said,—"you will tell me if there are any you wish answered."

      Her "Thank you" was a little breathless.

      For a while the old horse jogged on in his easy way, through the woods and the fall flowers