Say and Seal, Volume II

"What a strange, incomprehensible, admirable fellow, Linden is!" said Mr. Motley one day when he and the doctor were sunning themselves in profound laziness on deck. It was rather late Sunday afternoon, and the morning service had left a sort of respectful quietness behind it.

"He must be!" said the doctor with a slight indescribable expression,—"if at this moment you can be roused to wonder at anything."

Mr. Motley inclined his head with perfect suavity in honour of the doctor's words.

"It's a glorious thing to lie here on deck and do nothing!" he said, extending his elegantly clad limbs rather more into the distance. "How fine the breeze is, doctor—what do you think of the day, as a whole?"

"Unfinished, at present,—"

"Well—" said Mr. Motley,—"take that part of it which you with such precision term 'this moment',—what do you think of it as it appears here on deck?"

"Sunny—" said the doctor,—"and we are flies. On the whole I think it's a bore, Motley."

"What do you think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, in comparison?" saidMr. Motley closing his eyes.

"The difference is, that that would have been an insufferable bore."

Mr. Motley smiled—stroking his chin with affectionate fingers. "On the whole," he said, "I think you're right in that position. What do you suppose Linden's about at this moment?"

"Is he your ward?" said the doctor.

"He's down below—" said Mr. Motley with a significant pointing of his train of remarks. "By which I don't mean! that he's left this planet—for truly, when he does I think it will be in a different direction; but he's down in the steerage—trying to get some of those creatures to follow him."

"Which way?"

"You and George Alcott have such a snappish thread in you!" said Mr.Motley yawning—"only it sits better on George than it does on you. ButI like it—it rather excites me to be snubbed. However, here comesLinden—so I hope they'll not follow him this way."

"This way" Mr. Linden himself did not come, but chose another part of the deck for a somewhat prolonged walk in the seabreeze. The doctor glanced towards him, then moved his chair slightly, so as to put the walker out of his range of vision.

"He's a good fellow enough," he remarked carelessly. "You were pleased to speak of him just now as 'incomprehensible'—may I ask how he has earned a title to that?" The tone was a little slighting.

"Take the last instance—" said Mr. Motley,—"you yourself were pleased to pronounce the steerage a more insufferable bore than the deck—yet he chooses it,—and not only on Sundays. I don't believe there's a day that he don't go down there. He's popular enough without it—'tisn't that. And nobody knows it—one of the sailors told me. If he was a medico, like you, doctor, there'd be less wonder—but as it is!—" and Mr. Motley resigned himself again to the influence of the sunshine. A moment's meditation on the doctor's part, to judge by his face, was delectable.

"There isn't any sickness down there?" he said then.

"Always is in the steerage—isn't there?" said Mr. Motley,—"I don't know!—the surgeon can tell you."

"There's no occasion,—" said the doctor with a little haughtiness. "He knows who I am."

And Dr. Harrison too resigned himself, apparently, to the sunny influences of the time and was silent.

But as the sun went down lower and lower, Mr. Motley roused himself up and went off to try the effect upon his spirits of a little cheerful society,—then Mr. Linden came and took the vacant chair.

"How beautiful it is!" he said, in a tone that was half greeting, half meditation. The start with which Dr. Harrison heard him was skilfully transformed into a natural change of position.

"Beautiful?—yes," said he. "Has the beauty driven Motley away?"

"He is gone.—Your waves are very dazzling to-night, doctor."

"They are helping us on," said the doctor looking at them. "We shall be in after two days more—if this holds."

Helping us on—perhaps the thought was not unqualified in Mr. Linden's mind, for he considered that—or something else—in grave silence for a minute or two.

"Dr. Harrison," he said suddenly, "you asked me about my course—I wish you would tell me yours. Towards what—for what. You bade me call myself a friend—may I use a friend's privilege?" He spoke with a grave, frank earnestness.

The doctor's face shewed but a small part of the astonishment which this speech raised. It shewed a little.

"I can be but flattered!—" he said with something of the old graceful medium between play and earnest. "You ask me what I am hardly wise enough to answer you. I am going to Paris, and you to Germany. After that, I really know about as much of one 'course' as of the other."

"My question referred, not to the little daily revolutions, but to the great life orbit. Harrison, what is yours to be?"

Evidently it was an uneasy question. Yet the power of influence—or of associations—was such that Dr. Harrison did not fling it away. "I remember," he said, not without some bitterness of accent—"you once did me the honour to profess to care."

"I do care, very much." And one of the old looks, that Dr. Harrison well remembered—said the words were true.

"You do me more honour than I do myself," he said, not so lightly as he meant to say it. "I do not care. I see nothing to care for."

"You refuse to see it—" Mr. Linden said gently and sorrowfully.

Dr. Harrison's brow darkened—it might be with pain, for Mr. Linden's words were the echo of others he had listened to—not long ago. In a moment he turned and spoke with an impulse—of bravado? Perhaps he could not have defined, and his companion could not trace.

"I refuse to see nothing!—but I confess to you I see nothing distinctly. What sort of an 'orbit' would you propose to me?"

The tone sounded frank, and certainly was not unkind. Mr. Linden's answer was in few words—"'To them who by patient continuance in well doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life'."

Dr. Harrison remained a little while with knitted brow looking down at his hands, which certainly were in an order to need no examination. Neither was he examining them. When he looked up again it was with the frankness and kindliness both more defined. Perhaps, very strange to his spirit, a little shame was at work there.

"Linden," he said, "I believe in you! and if ever I enter upon an orbit of any sort, I'll take up yours. But—" said he relapsing into his light tone, perhaps of intent,—"you know two forces are necessary to keep a body going in one—and I assure you there is none, of any sort, at present at work upon me!"

"You are mistaken," said Mr. Linden,—"there are two."

"Let's hear—" said the doctor without looking at him.

"In the first place your conscience, in the second your will."

"You have heard of such things as both getting stagnant for want of use—haven't you?"

"I have heard of the one being half choked by the other," said Mr.Linden:

"It's so warm this afternoon that I can't contradict you. What do you want me to do, Linden?"

"Let conscience do its work—and then you do yours."

A minute's silence.

"You do me honour, to believe I have such a thing as a conscience,"—said the doctor again a little bitterly. "I didn't use to think it, myself."

He was unaware that it was that very ignored principle which had forced him to make this speech.

"My dear friend—" Mr. Linden began, and he too paused, looking off gravely towards the brightening horizon. "Then do yourself the honour to let conscience have fair play," he went on presently,—"it is too delicate a stream to bear the mountain torrents of unchecked will and keep its clearness."

"Hum!—there's no system of drainage that ever I heard of that will apply up in those regions!" said the doctor, after again a second's delay to speak. "And you are doing my will too much honour now—I tell you it is in a state of stagnation, and I don't at present see any precipice to tumble down. When I do, I'll promise to think of you—if that thought isn't carried away too.—Come, Linden!" he said with more expression of kindliness than Mr. Linden had seen certainly during all the voyage before,—"I believe in you, and I will!—though I suppose my words do seem to you no better than the very spray of those torrents you are talking about. Will you walk?—Motley put me to sleep, but you have done one good thing—you have stirred me to desire action at least."

It was curious, how the power of character, the power of influence, had borne down passion and jealousy—even smothered mortification and pride—and made the man of the world speak truth. Mr. Linden rose—yet did not immediately begin the walk; for laying one hand on the doctor's shoulder with a gesture that spoke both regard and sorrow and entreaty, he stood silently looking off at the colours in the west.

"Dr. Harrison," he said, "I well believe that your mother and mine are dear friends in heaven—God grant that we may be, too!"

Then they both turned, and together began their walk. It lasted till they were summoned to tea; and from that time till they got in there was no more avoidance of his old friend by the doctor. His manner was changed; if he did not find enjoyment in Mr. Linden's society he found somewhat else which had value for him. There was not again a shade of dislike or of repulsion; and when they parted on landing, though it might be that there lay in Dr. Harrison's secret heart a hope that he might never see Mr. Linden again, there lay with it also, as surely, a secret regret.

Now all that Faith knew of this for a long time, was from a newspaper; where—among a crowd of unimportant passengers in the Vulcan's list—she read the names of Dr. Harrison and J. E. Linden.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Faith and her mother sat alone at breakfast. About a fortnight of grave quiet had followed after the joyous month that went before, with little enlivening, few interruptions. Without, the season had bloomed into greater luxuriance,—within, the flowers now rarely came; and Faith's flowerless dress and belt and hair, said of themselves that Mr. Linden was away. Roses indeed peeped through the windows, and thrust their heads between the blinds, but no one invited them in.

Not so peremptorily as the roses—and yet with more assurance of welcome—Reuben Taylor knocked at the door during breakfast time; scattering the abstract musings that floated about the coffee-pot and mingled with its vapoury cloud.

"Sit down, Reuben," said Faith jumping up;—"there's a place for you,—and I'll give you a plate." To which Reuben only replied, "A letter, Miss Faith!"—and putting it in her hands went off with quick steps. On the back of it was written, up in one corner—"Flung on board the Polar Bear, by a strong hand, from steamship Vulcan, half way across."

There was no need of flowers now truly in the house, for Faith stood by the table transformed into a rose of summer joy.

"Mother!" she exclaimed,—"It's from sea—half way across."—

"From sea!—half way across—" her mother repeated. "Why child, what are you talking about? You don't mean that Mr. Linden's contrived to make a letter swim back here already, do you?"

Faith hardly heard. A minute she stood, with her eyes very like what Mr. Motley had graphically described them to be, breaking the seal with hurried fingers,—and then ran away. The breakfast table and Mrs. Derrick waited—they waited a long time before Faith came back to eat a cold breakfast, which tasted of nothing but sea-breezes and was therefore very strengthening. The strengthening effect went through the day; there was a fresh colour in Faith's face. Fifty times at least the "moonbeams" of her eyes saw a "strong hand" throw her packet across the sea waves that separated the two steamers; the master of the "Polar Bear" might guess, but Faith knew, that a strong heart had done it as well. And when her work was over Faith put a rose in her belt in honour of the day, and sat down to her books, very happy.

The books were engrossing, and it was later than usual when she came down stairs to get tea, but Mrs. Derrick was out. That wasn't very strange. Faith went through the little routine of preparation,—then she took another book and sat down by the sweet summer air of the open window to wait. By and by Mrs. Derrick came slowly down the road, opened and shut the gate with the same air of abstracted deliberateness, and came up the steps looking tired and flushed. In the porch Faith met and kissed her.

"Where have you been now, mother? tea's ready."

"Pretty child!" was Mrs. Derrick's answer, "how glad I am you got that letter this morning!"

Faith smiled; she didn't forget it, but it was not to be expected that it should be quite so present to Mrs. Derrick's mind. Yet almost at the same instant she felt that her mother had some particular reason for saying that just then.

"Where have you been, mother?"

"Up to Squire Stoutenburgh's," said Mrs. Derrick, putting herself wearily in the rocking-chair,—"and they were all out gone—to Pequot to spend the day. So I lost my labour."

Gently Faith stood before her and took off her bonnet. "What did you go there for, mother?"

"I wanted to see him—" said Mrs. Derrick. "Squire Deacon's been here,Faith."

"Mother! Is he back again?—What for?"

"Settle here and live, I suppose. He's married—that's one thing. What was he here for?—why the old story, Faith,—he wants the place." And Mrs. Derrick's eyes looked as if she wanted it too.

"Does he want it very much, mother?"

"Means to have it, child—and I don't feel as if I could live in any other house in Pattaquasset. So I thought maybe Mr. Stoutenburgh would make him hold off till next year, Faith," said Mrs. Derrick, a little smile coming back to her lips. "I guess I'll go up again after tea."

Faith coaxed her mother into the other room and gave her her tea daintily; revolving in her mind the while many things. When tea was over and Mrs. Derrick was again bent upon business, Faith ventured a question. "Mother, what do you suppose Squire Stoutenburgh can do to help us?"

"I can't tell, child,—he might talk Sam Deacon into letting us keep the house, at least. We've got to live somewhere, you know, Faith. It's no sort of use for me to talk to him,—he's as stiff as a crab tree—and I aint. I think I'll try."

"To-night, mother?"

"I thought I would."

Faith hesitated, putting the cups together. "Mother, I'll go. I dare say I shall do as well."

"I'm afraid you're tired too, pretty child," said Mrs. Derrick, but with evident relief at the very idea.

"I tired?—Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother—and don't fear," she added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet—and be there and back again in a little while."

The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone, the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the implication of that one year of reprieve which she must ask for. How should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she could.

Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was, but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs. Stoutenburgh—looking very pretty in her light summer dress—was half reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's Miss Faith."

"Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing the young ones,—"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!—My dear other child, how do you do?—and what sweet corner of your little heart sent you up here to-night? You have not—no, that can't be,—and you wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"—and she was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith answered.

"And you haven't had tea yet,"—she said remorsefully. "I came to give Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble—but I can do it in three minutes." Faith looked towards the Squire.

"My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!"

"But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh—"here comes the tea, and you can't go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,—and nothing qualifies him for business like a contented state of his appetite!"

Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so.

"My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what fine weather we have had, eh?"

"Beautiful weather!"—Faith responded with a little energy.

"Papa," said one of the children, "do you think Mr. Linden's had it fine too?"

"What tangents children's minds go off in!" observed Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Faith! don't eat your raspberries without sugar,—how impatient you are. You used to preach patience to me when I was sick."

"I can be very patient, with these raspberries and no sugar," said Faith, wishing she could hide the bloom of her cheeks as easily as she hid that of the berries under the fine white shower.

"Poor child!" said her friend gently,—"I think you have need of all your patience." And her hands came softly about Faith's plate, removing encumbrances and adding dainties, with a sort of mute sympathy that at the moment could find no more etherial channel. "Mr. Stoutenburgh drove down to Quapaw the other day," she went on in a low voice, "to ask those fishing people what indications our land weather gave of the weather at sea; and—he couldn't half tell me about his visit when he came home," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, breaking short off in her account. "Linda, go get that glass of white roses and set it by Miss Faith,—maybe she'll take them home with her."

Faith looked at the white roses and smelled their sweetness; and then she said, "Who did you see, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—down at Quapaw?"

"None of the men, my dear—they were all away, but I saw half the rest of the village; and even the children knew what report the men had brought in, and what they thought of the weather. Everybody had a good word to say about it, Miss Faith; and everybody—I do believe!" said the Squire reverently, "had been on their knees to pray for it. Jonathan Ling's wife said that was all they could ever do for him." Which pronoun, be it understood, did not refer to Jonathan Ling.

"They're Mr. Linden's roses, Miss Faith," said little Linda, who stood waiting for more marked admiration,—"do you like them? He always did."

Faith kissed the child, partly to thank her and to stop her lips, partly to hide her own which she felt were tale-telling.

"Where did you get the roses, Linda?"

"O off the bush in the garden. But Mr. Linden always picked one whenever he came, and sometimes he'd stop on his way to school, and just open the gate and get one of these white roses and then go away again. So we called it Mr. Linden's bush." Faith endeavoured to attend to her raspberries after this. When tea was over she was carried off into the drawing-room and the children were kept out.

"If you want me away too, Faith," Mrs. Stoutenburgh said as she arranged the lamp and the curtains, "I'll go."

"I don't want you to go, ma'am."—And then covering her trepidation under the simplest of grave exteriors, Faith spoke to the point. "It is mother's business. Squire Deacon has come home, Mr. Stoutenburgh."

"My dear," said the Squire, "I know he has. I heard it just before you came in. But he's married, Miss Faith."

"That don't content him," said Faith, "for he wants our farm."

"Rascal!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh in an emphatic under tone,—"the old claim, I suppose. What's the state of it now, my dear?"

"Nothing new, sir; he has a right to it, I suppose. The mortgage is owing, and we haven't been able to pay anything but the interest, and that must be a small rent for the farm." Faith paused. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was silent; looking from one to the other anxiously,—the Squire himself was not very intelligible.

"Yes"—he said,—"of course. Your poor father only lived to make the second payment. I don't know why I call him poor—he's rich enough now. But Sam Deacon!—a small rent? too much for him to get,—and too little.—Why my dear!" he said suddenly sitting up straight and facing round upon Faith, "I thought—What does your mother expect to do, Miss Faith?—has she seen Sam? What does he say?"

"He came to see her this afternoon, sir—he is bent upon having the place, mother says. And she don't like to leave the old house," Faith said slowly. "He will take the farm, I suppose,—but mother thought, perhaps, sir—if you would speak to Mr. Deacon, he would let us stay in the house—only the house without anything else—for another year. Mother wished it—I don't know that your speaking to him could do any good." Faith went straight through, but the rosy colour sprung and grew till its crimson reached her forehead. Not the less she went clearly through with what she had to say, her eyes only at the last words drooping. Mr. Stoutenburgh rose up with great energy and stood before her.

"My dear," he said, "he shall do it! If it was any other man I'd promise to make him do more, but Sam always must have some way of amusing himself, and I'm afraid I can't make this as expensive as the last one he tried. You tell your mother, Miss Faith, that she shall stay in her house till she'd rather go to yours. I hope that won't be more than a year, but if it is she shall stay."

"That's good, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife with a little clap of her hands.

Whether Faith thought it was 'good' might be a question; her eyes fell further, she did not offer to thank Mr. Stoutenburgh for his energetic kindness, nor to say anything. Yet Faith had seemingly more to say, for she made no motion to go. She sat quite still a few minutes, till raising her eyes fully to Mr. Stoutenburgh's face she said gravely, "Mother will feel very glad when I tell her that, sir."

"She may make herself easy But tell her, my dear," said the Squire, again forgetting in his earnestness what ground he was on,—"tell her she's on no account to tell Sam why she wants to stay. Will you recollect that, Miss Faith?"

Faith's eyes opened slightly. "I think he must know—or guess it, Mr. Stoutenburgh? Mother says she could hardly bear to live in any other house in Pattaquasset."

"My dear Miss Faith!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh,—"I mean!—why she don't want to stay any longer. That's what Sam mustn't know. I'm very stupid about my words, always."

Faith was again obliged to wait a few minutes before she could go on. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was the first to speak, for the Squire walked up and down, no doubt (mentally) attacking Mr. Deacon.

"I'm so glad!" she said, with the old dance of her eyes—and yet a little sigh too. "So glad and so happy, that I could cry,—I know I shall when the time comes. Dear Faith, do you feel quite easy about this other business now?"

"What, ma'am?—about Mr. Deacon?"

"Why yes!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing,—"isn't that the only one you've been uneasy about?"

"I am not uneasy now," said Faith. "But Mr. Stoutenburgh—if Mr. Deacon takes the farm back again, whom does the hay belong to, and the cattle, and the tools and farm things?"

"All that's on the land—all that's growing on it, goes with it. All that's under cover and moveable belongs to you."

"Then the hay in the barn is ours?"

"Everything in the barn."

"There's a good deal in the barn," said Faith with a brightening face. "You know the season has been early, sir, and our hay-fields lie well to the sun; and a great deal of the hay is in. Mr. Deacon will want some rent for the house I suppose,—and I guess there will be hay enough to pay it, whatever it is. For I can't sell my cows!—" she added laughing a little.

Her two friends—the Squire on the floor and his wife on the sofa—looked at her and then at each other.

"My dear," the Squire began, "I want to ask you a question. And beforeI do, let me tell you—which perhaps you don't know—just what rightI"—

"Oh Mr. Stoutenburgh!" cried his wife, "do please hush!—you'll say something dreadful."

"Not a bit of it—" said the Squire,—"I know what to say this time, my dear, and when to stop. I wanted to tell you, Miss Faith, that I am your regularly appointed guardian—therefore if I ask questions you will understand why." But what more on that subject the Squire might have said, and said not, was left to conjecture. Faith looked at him, wondering, colouring, doubting.

"I never heard of it before, sir," she said.

"You shouldn't say regularly, Mr. Stoutenburgh," said his wife,—"Faith will think she is to be under your control."

"I shouldn't say legally," said the Squire, "and I didn't. No she aint under my control. I only mean, Miss Faith," he said turning to her, "that I am appointed to look after your interests, till somebody who is better qualified comes to do it."

"There—Mr. Stoutenburgh,—don't go any further," said his wife.

"Not in that direction," said the Squire. "Now my dear, if Sam Deacon will amuse himself in this way, as I said, what will you do? Do the farm and the house about counterbalance each other most years?"

Faith never knew how she separated the two parts of her nature enough at this moment to be practical, but she answered. "We have been able to pay the interest on the mortgage, sir, every year. That's all. Mother has not laid up anything."

The Squire took a turn or two up and down the room, then came and stood before her again. "My dear," he said, "you can't tell just yet what your plans will be, so I won't ask you to-night, but you had better let me deal with Sam Deacon, and the new tenant, and the hay, and everything else. And you may draw upon me for something more solid, to any amount you please."

"Something more solid than yourself!—O Mr. Stoutenburgh!" his wife said, though her eyes were bright with more than one feeling.

Faith was silent a minute, and then gave Mr. Stoutenburgh a full view of those steady eyes that some people liked and some did not care just so to meet.

"No, sir!—" she said with a smile and also a little wistful look of the gratitude she did not speak,—"if the hay will pay the rent, I don't want anything else. Mother and I can do very well. We will be very much obliged to you to manage Mr. Deacon for us—and the hay. I think I can manage the rest. I shall keep the cows and make butter,"—she said with a laughing flash of the eye.

"O delicious!" cried Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "(I mean the butter,Faith)—but will you let me have it?"

"You don't want it," said Faith.

"I do!—nobody makes such butter—I should eat my breakfast with a new appetite, and so would Sam. We never can get butter enough when he's in the house. I'll send down for it three times a week—how often do you churn, Faith?"

Faith came close up to her and kissed her as she whispered laughingly,"Every day!"

"Then I'll send every day!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh clapping her hands. "And then I shall hear of you once in a while.—Ungrateful child, you haven't been here before since—I suppose it won't do to say when," she added, kissing Faith on both cheeks. "I shall tell Mr. Linden it is not benevolent to pet you so much."

"But my dear—my dear—" said the Squire from one to the other. "Well, well,—I'll talk to you another time, Miss Faith,—I can't keep up with more than one lady at once. You and Mrs. Stoutenburgh have gone on clean ahead of me."

"What's the matter, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith. "I would like to hear it now, for there is something I want settled."

"What's that?" said the Squire.

"Will you please go on, sir?"

"I guess I'll hear you first," said the Squire. "You seem to know just what you want to say, Miss Faith, and I'm not sure that I do."

"You said we had gone on ahead of you, sir. Shall we go back now?"

"Why my dear," said the Squire smiling, "I thought you two were settling up accounts and arrangements rather fast, that's all. If they are the beginning and end, that's very well; but if they're only premonitory symptoms, that again's different."

"And not 'very well'?" said Faith, waiting.

"Not very," said Mr. Stoutenburgh shaking his head.

"How should it be better, sir?"

"My dear, in general, what is needless can be spared."

"I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do it without help." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point.

"Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more than you've been doing—everybody knows that's enough. In the first place, my dear, you are your father's child—and that's all that need be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next place—shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"