CHAPTER XXIX
If the fears of the night before had not quite been slept off, if the alarming ideas had not all been left in dreamland, still it was hard for anything but peace and pleasure to shew its head that morning. In at Faith's window came the sunbeams, the tiny panes of glass shewed each a patch of the bluest sky, and through some unseen open sash the morning air swept in full sweetness. When Faith opened her own window, the twitter and song of all manner of birds was something to hear, and their quick motions were something to see. From the sweetbriar on the house to the trees in the orchard,—from the mud nest under the eaves to the hole in the barn wall,—what darting and skimming and fluttering! Off in the orchard the apple trees were softly putting on their nonpareil dress of blossoms, feeding the air with nectar till it was half intoxicated; and down in the garden a little bevy of bells stood prim and soft and sweet, ringing their noiseless spring chimes under Faith's window.
Under her window too, that is within close sight of it, stood Reuben Taylor and Mr. Linden. Not watching for her just then as it appeared, but intent upon their own concerns. Or rather, Reuben—in his usual dark, neat dress and straw hat, with hands neither busy nor at rest, but waiting and ready—was intent upon Mr. Linden—and Mr. Linden upon his work. His hat was off, on the grass beside him, and he himself—half sitting half leaning upon an old crooked apple tree, had his hands full of cowslips—though what he was doing with them Faith could not tell. Only from a fluttering end of blue ribband that appeared, she could guess their destination. The two friends were talking busily and merrily, with little cowslip interludes, and the yellow blossoms sprinkled the grass all about the tree, some having dropped down, others been tossed off as not worthy a place in the ball. For that was the work in Mr. Linden's hands—something which Faith had never seen.
It was so very pretty a picture that Faith sat down to look at it, and thoughtless of being found out, looked on in a dream. Mr. Linden's threats of yesterday did come back to her shrinkingly, but she threw them off; the time was too happy to bear the shadow of anything weightier than apple blossoms. Faith looked out through them admiringly, marvelling anew how Mr. Linden had ever come to like her; and while her soft eyes were studying him, her heart made many a vow before the time. She only felt the birds fly past; her mind was taking strange glimpses into the future.
Stepping jauntily out from the house, Sam Stoutenburgh came next upon the scene, the springtime of his man's attire suiting well enough with his years but not so well with his surroundings; too desperately smart for the cowslips, bright and shining as they were there in the sun, too new for the tulips—though they had been out of the ground but a few days. For
In a little bit of garden ground
Where many a lovely plant was found,
Stood a tulip in gay attire!
His pantaloons green as ever were seen,
His cap was as red as fire.
But the tulip was at least used to his cap—which was more than could be said of Sam and his hat.
"Mrs. Derrick told me to come out here and find you, sir," he said."But what are you doing, Mr. Linden?"
"I am making a ball."
"A ball!"
"Yes," said Mr. Linden,—"gratifying one of my youthful tastes. Sam,I'll lend you my hat."
"Why! what for, sir?" said Sam, a little confused and a good deal puzzled, while Reuben smiled.
"Just to save you from the headache while you stand there in the sun," said Mr. Linden, tying the ends of his ribband together. "It's a man's hat, Sam—you need not be afraid of it. That's a good lesson in whistling!" he said, looking up into the tree over his head, where a robin had just come to exercise his powers. But as Mr. Linden's eyes came back from the robin they caught sight of Faith at her window, and instantly he was on his feet and made her a most graceful and low reverence. Instinctively the two boys turned and followed suit—the one with his straw hat the other with his beaver.
Faith's contemplative quiet was broken up, and her face grew shy and flushed as she gave her tiny grave signs of recognition; but a soft "good morning" floated down to them, followed—nobody knows why—by a more particular "Good morning, Sam."
"Miss Faith!" said Sam affectingly, "are you always going to stay up stairs?"
"No—I am coming down presently. You are early to-day, Sam."
"Not earlier than I've been some other days, Miss Faith."
Faith nodded at him and left the window; threw round her the light shawl which she was expected to wear because she had been sick, rather than because the May air called for it, and prepared to go down. But in the second of time which all this took, she heard her name called from the orchard—not very loud but very distinct.
"Faith!"
She knew who called, and it was with a little startled thrill that she presented herself at the window to answer the summons. Mr. Linden stood close beneath it.
"Can you catch this?" he said, looking up at her with laughing eyes. And the soft cowslip ball came whirling up to bury its golden head in her hands. If Faith saw anything else, it was the very evident astonishment of one of the standers-by. But nevertheless she bravely put her bright blushing face out again.
"Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said. "It's too pretty to be thrown more than once."
"Are you ready to come yourself?"
"Yes, I'm coming."
He bowed and turned away, passing on into the house with so quick a step that he was at the head of the stairs as soon as she was.
"You are not going to carry me down to-day!"—said Faith starting back. "I can walk down as well as you can—or at least I can as well walk down."
"There is no one in the parlour, Mignonette."
"Then I'll not go there," said Faith smiling.
"I'll take you to the garden, if you prefer it. Is the supposed fact of your being able to walk down stairs any reason why you should not bid me good morning?"
There was neither that nor any other existing reason, to judge by the quiet grace with which Faith drew near to give the required good morning, or rather to permit Mr. Linden to take it; and then placed her hand in his, as willing to have so much aid from him as that could give. He held it fast, and her too, for a minute, while his other hand busied itself with fastening in her belt a dewy, sweet, sonsie looking little sprig of May roses.
"How do you feel this morning?" he said when he was gravely considering the effect.
"Very much like Spring!"—Faith looked so, with her other hand full of primroses.
"And otherwise?"
"I don't feel otherwise!" said Faith laughing; the first really free merry look of laughter he had seen on her face since he came home.
"You are the sweetest of all spring blossoms," Mr. Linden said, carrying her off with perfect disregard of the supposed fact of her being able to walk. At the foot of the stairs, however, she was permitted to find her feet again. "Where will you go, dear child?—the orchard is very wet, but you may venture as far as the door."
"No, I have something to do," said Faith.
"What have you to do?"
"What I used to take care of—part of it. I'm so glad to do it again."
"Not to-day—you ought not!—nor to-morrow. You must come in here and sit quiet till breakfast, and for a few days more be content to be 'Love in idleness' as well as Mignonette. Will you promise?" he said, seating her in the easy-chair, with open window, and breakfast table, and a gay little fire to make the captivity pleasant.
"But I like work, Endy—and a little won't hurt me. Those boys want you—and I'll make the coffee."
"Do you know, Mignonette, how pale you would be if I were away?"
She shook her head.
"I do," said Mr. Linden,—"and as I am in a mood for roses this morning, I want you to let me bring 'those boys' in here—then they can see me and I can see you."
The roses came, started and brightened, and her eyes looked a soft protest; but it was a minority protest and gave way, and her face after all told him he might do what he liked. He gave her a reassuring smile, and went back to the orchard, presently returning with Reuben and Sam,—the one wearing a face of unqualified pleasure, the other of almost as unqualified shyness. Sam was not quite sure that his ears had reported correctly, but the doubt and the new idea were enough to discompose him thoroughly. He listened eagerly to the answers Reuben's words called forth, but seemed afraid to venture many himself. As for Mr. Linden, he was combining another handful of flowers—covering his amusement with very grave composure.
It was not bad amusement; for the exquisite simplicity in Faith's manner, with the contrast of the coming and going colour and the shy eyelashes, made a picture that any one claiming interest in it would have been a little proud of. And the roses in her belt and the cowslips in her hand and the delicate lines of her face which health had not yet rounded out again, all joined to make the vision a very fair one. She was most shy of Sam, and did not look at Mr. Linden.
"I haven't thanked you for your pigeons, Sam," she said, after a few lively words with Reuben.
"No, Miss Faith, please don't!" was the gallant rejoinder.
"Weren't they worth thanks?" inquired Mr. Linden.
"I thought they were, when I was eating them; and mother said they were the best I had. Don't you like to be thanked, Sam?"
"When it's worth while," said Sam. "But you know, ma'am—You know, Mr.Linden, it's thanks enough to do anything for Miss Faith."
"I know that very well." Quiet as the words were they brought all Sam's ideas to the ground like his own pigeons.
"Where are you now in college, Sam?" Faith went on perhaps because she felt herself a coward.
Sam made answer, in a more subdued state of mind than was usual when he announced his Sophomorical distinctions.
"What are you going to do when you come out?"
"O I don't know, Miss Faith,—father says I can do just what I like."
"And you don't know what that will be, Sam?"
"No—" said Sam. "I can't even guess."
"A man who can do what he likes ought to do a great deal," said Mr. Linden. "Reuben, will you take the upper road home, and give these flowers to Ency Stephens for Miss Faith?"
"O yes, sir!" Reuben said.
"No, Reuben! I didn't send them," said Faith eagerly.
"Tell her," said Mr. Linden smiling, "that they came from Miss Faith's garden, and that I shall bring Miss Faith herself to see her, just so soon as she can bear such a long drive." The bunch of flowers was laid lightly on her hands for her disposal. "Now I must send you two collegians—present and future—away, for you have had your breakfast and we have not had ours."
At which remark Sam took Faith's hand with a bow of great perplexity and reverence, and Reuben drew near and waited for the flowers.
"Give them to her from Mr. Linden," said Faith, rosy red, as she put them in his keeping;—"she will like that best, Reuben."
Reuben thought he knew how to combine the two messages, and the boys went off just as the coffee-pot came in.
"Faith," said Mr. Linden coming back to sit down by her, "here is a rosebud so much like you that I think I ought to wear it. What do you consider the most appropriate way?"
"How do gentlemen wear flowers?—You'll have to stick it in a buttonhole," said Faith half grave and half laughing,—"if it must be worn."
"But that is to treat it as a common flower!"
"You'll have to treat it so," said Faith glancing from the rosebud to him.
"Look at it," said Mr. Linden,—"do you see how very lovely it is?"
She did look at it, more closely, and then at him with an appeal of grave remonstrance, deep though unspoken. But it was met defiantly.
"If I am to wear this, Mignonette, you must put it in place."
Faith was a little shy of even doing so much, and besides was aware that her mother as well as the coffee-pot had come upon the scene. However she took the flower and succeeded in attaching it securely where she thought it ought to go, on the breast of Mr. Linden's waistcoat; by which time the resemblance between the two rosebuds was perfect, and striking; and Faith drew back to her breakfast, glad to have everybody's attention diverted to coffee, which she declared was good with cowslips. It may be said that the diversion was not immediate; for though her chair was at once wheeled round to the table, yet Faith had to take her thanks then and there—in full defiance of Mrs Derrick's presence. After that, however, Mr. Linden—to do him justice—did change the subject.
Cowslips and coffee went on well till near the end of breakfast, which to say truth had been rather prolonged as well as delayed; and then there came a front door knock. It was of no use for Faith to start, for breakfast was not absolutely finished; and the next minute who should come in from the hall but Miss Essie de Staff. As fresh as possible, in white dress and black silk apron; her black hair from which she had drawn off the sunbonnet, in shining order; the black eyes as well! Perhaps they dilated on first seeing the party; more sparkling they could not be. She advanced at a moderate pace towards the table, looking and speaking.
"Mrs. Derrick!—I didn't know you were such late people. I have come to run away with your daughter, and thought I should find the coast clear. Mr. Linden! I didn't know Pattaquasset was so happy as to have you back, sir."
"We have breakfast late for Faith's sake," said Mrs. Derrick, while Mr. Linden rose and gave the lady first his hand and then a chair, remarking that the happiness of Pattaquasset was pleasant news to him too.
"But Faith's well again, isn't she?" said Miss Essie, waiting to get breath, mentally.
"She's better," said Mrs. Derrick.
"She goes out?"
"She has been once."
"Is that all? Well it will do her good to go again. Sophy Harrison and I made up our minds that she and I and Faith would spend the day together—and so I've come to fetch her. Do you believe in the possibility of ladies falling in love with ladies, Mr. Linden?"
"I have more knowledge of gentlemen's possibilities. Who is supposed to be in danger, Miss Essie?"
"Faith cannot go out to spend the day," said Mrs. Derrick decidedly.
"Is it danger?" said Miss Essie. "Mrs. Derrick, why can't Faith go with me? Faith, won't you go?"—She had come up close to the table and stood by Faith's side, whom her eyes were now reading, or at least endeavouring to spell out.
"Not to-day, Miss Essie, thank you."
"Thank me? you ought to apologize to me." Miss Essie took a chair in that place, where she could "rake" the whole table. "Here will be Sophy and me horribly disappointed. We had counted on you. Sophy is all alone. You know, Faith, the doctor is laid up?"
"We heard of it,"—Faith answered, not very easily.
"Well, do you know he says he is going South?"
"I heard so," said Faith. Miss Essie could not make much of the rising colour in her cheeks, it came and went so easily!
"What takes him off just now in such haste?—business?"
Faith looked up and gave her inquisitor a full clear look, such as curiosity never cares for, while she answered with quiet dignity, "He did not tell me, Miss Essie."
"It's a pity Dr. Harrison's just going now that you're just come," said the lady of the black eyes, shifting her ground. "You used to be such friends."
"What is a friend?" said Mr. Linden—"By the way, Miss Essie, you should make these cresses an excuse for at least eating salt with us, and so prove your title to the name."
"Dear me!" said the lady taking a handful,—"I thought a friend was something more—more etherial than that!"
"Than what, if you please?"
"A person who eats your salt!—I don't love cresses. I am not one ofNebuchadnezzar's family. Where did you get the fashion? It's French.Dr. Harrison eats them. Did he teach it to you, Faith?"
"I think I had that honour," said Mr. Linden.
"I dare say you gave more lessons than were given in school," said MissEssie significantly. "What else did you learn of him, Faith?"
Faith gave the lady only a glance of her soft eye, but her face and her very throat were charged with varying colour. Her attention went from cresses to cowslips.
"I am saucy!" said the lady.—"Mr. Linden, are you coming back to the bona fide school here? there'll be a great many glad."
A very involuntary lesson to Miss Essie herself came longingly to Mr. Linden's lips, but except from the slight play and compression of the same she had not the benefit of it. He spoke as usual.
"She has never learned the art of self-defence, Miss Essie, therefore I pray you attack me. No, I am not coming back to the school—and to say truth, I think there would be some people sorry—as well as glad—if I did."
"Your bad scholars?"—said the lady, not intent upon her question.
"No—my good friends."
"I should be glad," said Miss Essie. "Who are your friends that would be sorry? Dr. Harrison, for instance?"
"The friends who like my present work better."
"And you are going to be a clergyman?" said Miss Essie, leaning her elbow on the table and 'studying' Mr. Linden, perhaps some other things too, with her eyes. He smiled under the scrutiny, but merely bowed to her question.
"It's dreadful hard work!—" said Miss Essie.
"Dreadful?—Miss Essie, you have not studied the subject."
"No," said she laughing,—"I said 'dreadful hard.' And so it is, I think."
"'There be some sports are painful, but their labour delight in them sets off'—is not that equally true of some work?" said Mr. Linden, making one or two quiet additions to the breakfast on Faith's plate. Which means of assistance Faith inadvertently disregarded and pushed her plate away.
"Do you suppose anybody delights in them?" said Miss Essie. "I can't understand it—but perhaps they do. A minister is very much looked up to. But one thing is certain—of all things the hardest, it is to be a minister's wife!"
"Of all things! He must be a poor sort of a minister who lets his wife have a harder life than his own."
"He can't help it—" said Miss Essie, walking her black eyes about. "Of course he don't wish it—but women always do have a harder time than men, and a minister's wife particularly."
"It's a comfort to think he don't wish it," said Mr. Linden with a sort of resigned gravity.
"Well it would not be much comfort to me," said Miss Essie. "When a woman marries, she naturally expects her husband to belong to her;—but a minister belongs to everybody else!"
"I see I have not studied the subject," said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, you are giving me most important information. Is this so inevitable that I ought in conscience to warn the lady beforehand?"
Miss Essie smiled graciously. "It would be no use,—she wouldn't believe you. I might warn her. I have seen it."
"What have you seen?"
"Why that!—that a woman who marries a minister needn't expect to have any more of her husband than his clothes to mend."
"Melancholy statement!" said Mr. Linden.
"It's of no use to tell it to a man!" said Miss Essie. "But I have seen it."
"Not in my house."
"I shall see it in your house, if you ever let me in there—but it will be too late to warn then. Very likely you will not see it."
Faith sat with one hand shielding her face from this speaker, though by that means it was more fully revealed to the other. Her other hand, and her eyes as far as possible, were lost in the bunch of cowslips; her colour had long ceased to be varying. She sat still as a mouse.
"No, I shall not see it. To what end would your warnings be directed, if they could reach her in time?"
"To keep her from taking such a trying position."
"Oh—" said Mr. Linden. "Have you no feeling for me, Miss Essie? It is very plain why you scrupled to eat salt with me this morning!"
"I'll eat salt with you as a single man," said Miss Essie,—"but if you are going to be a minister, be generous, and let your wife go! Any other woman will tell you so."
"Let her go where? With me?—that is just what I intend."
"Yes," said Miss Essie,—"and then—you'll never know it—but she will sit alone up stairs and sew while you are writing your sermons, and she'll sit down stairs and sew while you're riding about the country or walking about the town; and she'll go out alone of your errands when you have a cold that keeps you at home; and the only time she hears you speak will be when you speak in the pulpit! And if you ask her whether she is happy, she will say yes!—"
Despite all her desperate contusion, the one visible corner of Faith's mouth shewed rebellion against order. Mr. Linden laughed with most unterrified amusement.
"If she says that, it will be so, Miss Essie—my wife will be a most uncompromising truth-teller. But in your picture I am the one to be pitied. Will she never sit on the same floor with me under any circumstances?"
"More than you deserve!" said Miss Essie. "You to be pitied, indeed! You know the man has the stir, and the talk, and the going from place to place, and the being looked up to, and the having everybody at his feet; and what has she?"
Mr. Linden did not answer, even with his eyes, which were looking down; and the smile which came at Miss Essie's last words, was clearly not meant for her. His wife would have something—so it said and asserted,—and his wife was not an indefinite, imaginary person,—it said that too. And she was worth all that could be laid at her feet. How much he had to lay there—what homage his homage was—even of this the face gave unconscious token. Miss Essie looked, and read it or at least felt it, much more than she could well have put into words. Then taking in review Faith's bowed head, she turned and spoke in quite a different tone.
"There is no use in talking to people, Mrs. Derrick. After all, mayn'tI have Faith?"
"To spend the day? Oh no, Miss Essie!—she's not strong enough," said Mrs. Derrick, rising from the table and beginning to put the cups together. Faith left the party and went to the fire, which in the advanced state of the May morning needed no tending.
"Yet she must spend the day somewhere," said Miss Essie wheeling round."Faith!—what are you going to do with yourself?"
"Nothing, Miss Essie,"—came softly from the fire-mender. But as her hand moved to and fro with the tongs, the sparkle of the diamonds caught Miss Essie's eye.
"Child!—how did you get that?"—she exclaimed, springing to her side and arresting the tongs. Faith's low "I don't know, ma'am"—was inimitable. It was well neither lady had sight of Mr. Linden's face.
"It's very beautiful!" said Miss Essie, controlling herself into some order, and poring over the little hand she had made captive. "I never saw a greater beauty of a ring—never. Do you know what it means, Faith?" She dropped her voice and tapped significantly the finger.
Faith answered like a person put to the question,—"Yes."
"Do you?" said Miss Essie in the same low aside and half laughing. "I am so glad. I always thought it. But this is splendid, Faith. You don't know how handsome it is. It is easy to know where this came from. I needn't ask."
"I must ask you both to sit down," said Mr. Linden,—"Faith is not strong enough for much standing, Miss Essie."
"I can't sit down—I'm going away," said the lady. "I'll tell Sophy she may expect you the first day you can go out for so long,"—she went on renewing her half whisper to Faith. "Does she know of this?"—touching the diamonds which Miss Essie had not yet let go.
"No, Miss Essie—" Faith stood in great confusion. Mr. Linden left the table, and gently disengaging her from Miss Essie placed her in the great chair, and stood resting one hand on the back of it.
"Miss Essie," he said, "Faith belongs to me—and therefore if I take care of her strength in a somewhat summary way, you will forgive me."
Miss Essie paused and looked at him in most bewildering confusion. He had spoken and she had heard, very clearly.
"I don't believe it!"—she said with an attempt at jocularity in which there mingled somehow, inexplicably, a quality that was not pleasure. "Faith!—no double-dealing. Two is too much."
"Or even the suggestion of two," Mr. Linden said.
"Do you mean," said Miss Essie looking at him with a semi-comical endeavour to cover up discomfiture and other things—"do you mean to say that I have made nothing here but an abominable mistake?"
"I should give it a different adjective."
Miss Essie made a despairing gesture. "Oh!—I might well say it's no use talking to people! Will you ever for give me, Mr. Linden, for all the mischief I have tried to do you? I didn't know both parties were within hearing of me, you know, sir?—"
"Miss Essie, I hope you may always be as successful."
Perhaps Miss Essie wondered, as she glanced at Faith, whether she had done any "mischief" or no; but she ventured no sort of repartee, being altogether in an uncomfortable and somewhat awed state of mind. She made hurried adieus to Mrs. Derrick, more formal and extremely civil leave-taking of Mr. Linden, parted in a sort of astonished wise with Faith and the diamonds which evidently bewildered her yet, and made what was also evidently an escape out of the house. While Mr. Linden attended the lady to the door, Faith softly and swiftly passed behind them and made her escape too, up stairs. She was gone before he turned.
It was perhaps an hour after this, when Cindy entered Faith's room and gave her a note. "I'm free to confess," said Cindy, "that Mr. Linden gave it to me, but who writ it I don't know." But Faith did. It ran thus:—
"Mademoiselle—With great impatience I have waited for my Sunbeam to break through the gloomy clouds of doubt which surround me—but I perceive the 'warning' has taken effect!
In keeping with this is the state of the outer world, which is even rainy!—so that my purpose to take said Sunbeam out to drive is for the present thwarted.
Conceive of my state of mind!
In vain I repeat to myself the comforting truth, that my Sunbeam is shining somewhere, if not on me,—there are circumstances where philosophical truths lose all their power.
I remember that the 'warning' contained some notable mistakes,—as for instance, that I should ever—my pen refuses to write the words!—or I do. As well might it be said that I should–. Mademoiselle, you must perceive the obvious bearing of these two upon each other.
If your interest in the writer has carried you so far, perhaps he may indulge the hope that at some future time it may carry you further—even to the head of the stairs—where it is needless to say you will be received with open arms.
It is also needless to sign this—it could come from but one person!"
Some two minutes after, Faith's room door opened, and a very flashing bright sunbeam came out upon the place indicated, only a little peachblossom tinge in her cheeks witnessing to any consciousness. She was met according to promise—then held off and looked at with serio-comic eyes.
"What a cruel child you are!" Mr. Linden said.
"What do you want, Endecott?" said Faith trying to be serious.
"How can you have the heart to sit up stairs and sew while I am down stairs in my study?"
Faith instantly came so close, taking the nearest refuge, that he could not very well see her face; but that she was laughing still he knew.
"Endecott!—don't talk so. I didn't know where you were."
"Will it be in this sort of weather that you will 'go out to do errands' and leave me at home?"
"Endecott!—If you don't want anything more of me," said Faith lifting up a face which was an array of peach-blossoms,—"I'll go back again."
"Will you?—" with a little tightening of his hold, and signification of his approval of peachblossoms. "Faith, you are a lovely child! Will it distress you very much if I go off and ride about the country alone?"
But now,—seeing she could not get away,—she stood graver; and the answer was very gentle, almost tender—"No."
"Then you will not confess that you were frightened out of your wits at the picture?" said Mr. Linden smiling, though with an answering change of tone.
"Did you think I was?"
"No—you are too much of a woman for that, even if you had believed it true."
"Then you were not frightened?—" she said with some comicality.
"I? desperately!—my note did not give you any idea of the state of my mind! Imagine me sitting down stairs and saying to myself—(words naturally suggested by the state of the weather)—
'O how this spring of love resembleth
Th' uncertain glories of an April day,
Which now shews all the beauties of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!'"
One of the soft flashes of Faith's eye came first to answer him; and then she remarked very coolly, (N.B. her face was not so,) "I think it will clear at noon, Endecott."
"Do you?" he said looking towards the window with a counterfeit surprise that was in comical antithesis to his last words,—"does it rain still!"
Faith's eye came back quick from the window to him, and then, for the first time in many a long day, her old mellow sweet laugh rolled over the subject, dismissing make-believes and figures of speech in its clear matter-of-fact rejoicing.
"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said, "that does my very heart good. You are really getting better, in spite of lessons and warnings, and all other hindrances. Do you want to know what I have truly been thinking of since you came up stairs? Shall we exchange thoughts?"
"Please give me yours," she answered.
"They sprang from Miss Essie's question. Faith, when she asked me what my wife would have, I could not tell her—I could not answer it to myself afterwards very definitely. Only so far—she will have all I have to give." His hand was smoothing and arranging her hair as he spoke—his look one that nobody but Faith ever had from Mr. Linden. She had looked up once and seen it; and then she stood before him, so still and silent as if she might have had nothing to say; but every line of her brow, her moved lip, her attitude, the very power of her silence, contradicted that, and testified as well to the grace of a grave and most exquisite humility which clothed her from head to foot. Mr. Linden was as silent as she, watching her; but then he drew her off to the low couch in the wide old-fashioned entry window, and seated her there in a very bath of spring air and struggling sunbeams.