Say and Seal, Volume II. Warner Susan

good, dear child!—and this blanket must go—and some tracts,—that will furnish more reading. You run in with those, Faith—these other things are too heavy for you."

      "I've strength enough to carry a blanket," said Faith laughing.

      "Well, run off with that too, then," said Mr. Linden, "only if your strength gives out by the way, please to fall on the blanket."

      Faith managed to reach the house safely and with a bright face deposited the blanket on a chair. "I got leave to bring this in to you, Mrs. Roscom," she said. "I suppose you know what Mr. Linden means you to do with it."

      Perhaps they had seen no two people in the course of the day more thoroughly pleased than these two. The sources of pleasure were not many in that house, and the expectation of pleasure not strong; and the need of comforts had not died out with the supply; and old and alone as they were, the looking forward to possible cold and hunger was a trial. It was easy to see how that blanket warmed the room and promised a mild winter, and how the socks be came liniment,—and it seemed doubtful whether the old man would ever be sick enough for roast potatoes, with the potatoes really in the house. So with other things,—they took a childish pleasure even in the cakes and pie, and an order for wood was a real relief. And what a dinner they were already eating in imagination!

      Mr. Linden had put Faith in the sleigh, with the last sunset rays playing about her; and he stood wrapping her up in all sorts of ways, and the old man and the old woman stood in the door to see. Then in a voice which he supposed to be a whisper, Mr. Roscom said,—

      "Be she his wife?"

      "He didn't say—and I don' know what he said," screamed Mrs. Roscom.

      "Wal—she's handsome enough for it—and so's he," said the old man contemplatively. "I hope he'll get one as good!"

      Very merrily Mr. Linden laughed as they drove away.

      "I hope I shall!" he said. "Faith, what do you think of that? And which of us has the compliment?"

      But Faith was engaged in pulling her furs and buffalo robes round her, and did not appear to consider compliments even a matter of moonshine; much less of sunshine. Her first words were to remark upon the exceeding beauty of the last touch the sunlight was giving to certain snowy heights and white cumuli floating above them; a touch so fair and calm as if heaven were setting its own seal on this bright day.

      "Is your heart in the clouds?" Mr. Linden said, bending down to look at her with his laughing eyes. "How can you abstract your thoughts so suddenly from all sublunary affairs! Do you want any more wrapping up?"

      A little flashing glance of most naive appeal, and Faith's eyes went down absolutely.

      "You may as well laugh!" he said. "One cannot get through the world without occasionally hearing frightful suggestions."

      Faith did laugh, and gave him another good little look, about which the only remarkable thing was that it was afraid to stay.

      "What were your cloudy remarks just now?" said Mr. Linden.

      "I wanted you to look at the beautiful light on them and those far-off ridges of hill—it is not gone yet."

      "Yes, they are very beautiful. But I believe I am not in a meditative mood to-day,—or else the rival colours distract me. Faith, I mean to put you in the witness-box again."

      "In the witness-box?"—she said with a mental jump to Neanticut, and a look to suit.

      "Yes—but we are not on the banks of Kildeer river, and need not be afraid," he said with a smile. "Faith—what ever made you take such an aversion to Phil Davids?"

      "I don't dislike him,"—she said softly.

      "I did not mean to doubt your forgiving disposition! But what did he do to displease you?"

      Did Mr. Linden know? or did he not know! Faith looked up to see. He was just disentangling one of the lines from Jerry's tail, but met her look with great composure.

      "It's an old thing,"—said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up."

      "But since I have brought it—won't you indulge me?"

      The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,—if I told it to you.—Won't you let me let it alone?"

      "I should like to hear you tell it."

      "He made one or two rude speeches"—said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;—"that was all."

      "That I knew before."

      "Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?"

      There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her mufflers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question.

      "You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell me now?—and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?"

      Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,—if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,—but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find.

      "I want an answer to one of these questions,"—Mr. Linden said, in a playful sort of tone. "Dr. Harrison used to ask me if you lived upon roses—but do you think I can?"

      Faith made an effort. "What do you want me to say?"

      "What was it in Phil's words that troubled you so much?"

      The crimson rush came back overwhelmingly. "Oh Endy—please don't ask me!"

      "Not quite fair,"—he said smiling. "I'm sure I am willing to tell you anything. Though indeed I do not suppose you need much telling. But Faith—is that the system of tactics by which you intend always to have your own way? I shall have to be philosophical to any point!"

      "That speech is so very zigzag," said Faith, "that I cannot follow it.How are you going to be philosophical, Mr. Linden?"

      "Not by forgetting to exact your forfeit, Miss Derrick."

      "That isn't fair," said Faith laughing. "I didn't for get!—I shouldn't think you had gone all day without eating anything!—and yet you must be starving."

      "For what? little provider."

      "For something to eat, I should think."

      "Does that mean that you are suffering?—because if that be the case, I will refresh you (cautiously) with sugar-plums! A very superfluous thing, to be sure, but the most suitable I can think of."

      Faith's laugh came clear now. "No indeed. Suffering! I never eat so many dinners in one day in my life. But I am hungry though, I believe. How many more places are we going to? I don't care how many," she said earnestly. "I like to be hungry."

      "Well, keep up your spirits,—the next turn will bring us out of the woods, and a three-minute stay at one or two doors will end our work for this time. Meanwhile, do you want to hear a little bit of good poetry—on an entirely new subject?"

      "Oh yes! if you please."

      Demurely enough it was given.—

         "'Her true beauty leaves behind

      Apprehensions in my mind

      Of more sweetness, than all art

      Or inventions can impart.

      Thoughts too deep to be expressed,

      And too strong to be repressed.'"

      She gave him a wistful look as he finished the lines; and then sat among her furs, as quiet again as a mouse.

      "Do you like them, Mignonette?"

      "Yes—very much."

      "Would you like to tell me then why the hearing of them makes you