Say and Seal, Volume II

"O I don't know," said Sam. "It's a while before I've got to do anything yet. But Miss Faith—I mean! since you will go, won't you please take this?" and Sam presented a tiny box containing a pretty gold set cornelian seal, engraved with a spirited Jehu chariot running away! "It'll remind you of a day I shall never forget," said Sam both honestly and sentimentally. If Mr. Linden could have helped Faith answer, he would!

Faith's face was in a quiver, between laughter and very much deeper and stronger feeling; but she shook Sam's hand again gratefully.—"I shall never forget it, Sam, nor what you did for me that day. And I hope you'll come and see me somewhere else, some time."

Then Mr. Linden spoke. "No one can owe you so much for that day's work as I, Sam; and since she is running away again you must do as you did then, and find her."

Sam was somewhat touched and overwhelmed, and went off to talk toReuben about Miss Linden's dress. A little while longer and the roomwas cleared. The two collegians came last of all to say good-bye,Reuben lingering behind his friend.

"You know," said Mr. Linden, holding the boy's hand, "you are coming to study with me, Reuben, if I live; we will not call it good-bye. And I shall expect to see you before that in vacation."

"And you know, Reuben," said Faith, very low, "you have been a brother to me this great while."

Reuben looked down, trying for words. Then meeting Faith's eyes as he had done that very first time—what though his own were full—he said, "I am not sorry, ma'am, I am glad: so glad!" he repeated, looking from her face to Mr. Linden's. But his eyes fell then; and hastily clasping the hand she held out to him, he bent his face to Mr. Linden's and turned away. One quick step Mr. Linden took after him, and they left the room arm in arm, after the old fashion.

With Mr. Linden, when he came back, was an oldish gentleman, silver-haired, with a fresh ruddy face; not very tall, very pleasant-looking. Pet's exclamation was of joy, this time, and she ran forward to meet him. Then Mr. Linden brought him up to Faith. "Mignonette, this is my dear friend, Mr. Olyphant." And Mr. Olyphant took both her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, as if he meant to be her friend too: then looked at her without letting go. "Endecott!" he said, turning to Mr. Linden, "whatever you undertake you always do well!" And he shook Faith's hands again, and told her he could wish her joy with a clear conscience.

The timid little smile which this remark procured him, might have confirmed the old gentleman in his first-expressed opinion. Mr. Olyphant studied her a minute, not confusingly, but with a sort of touched kindliness.

"What do you call her, Endecott?" he said.—"Any sweet name I can think of," said Mr. Linden, smiling, "just now, Mignonette." Which remark had a merciless effect upon Faith's cheeks.

"It suits her, Mr. Olyphant," said Pet.

"So I see, Miss Pet. Do you think I have lost my eyes? Endecott, are you going to bring her to the White Mountains?"—"I think so, sir: that is my present inclination."

"How would you like it, Mrs. Linden?"—"I think I should like it, sir."

"Not afraid of the cold?"—Faith's smile clearly was not afraid of anything. So was her answer.

"You must have a house midway on the slope," said Mr. Olyphant; "half your parish above your heads, half at your feet: and you will have plenty of snow, and plenty of work, and not much else, but each other. Endecott's face says that is being very rich but he always was an unworldly sort of fellow, Mrs. Linden; I don't think he ever saw the real glitter of gold, yet."

Did her eyes? But they were unconsciously looking at riches of some kind; there was no poverty in them. "I like work, sir."

"Do you think she could bear the cold, Mr. Olyphant? how are the winters there? That is what I have thought of most."

"I am no more afraid of the cold than you are, Endecott." How gently the last word was spoken! But Faith clearly remembered her lesson.

Mr. Linden smiled. "She is a real little Sunbeam," he said. "You know they make light of cold weather."

"Light of it in two ways," said Mr. Olyphant. "No, I don't think you need fear the winters for her; we'd try and protect her."

"Do you see how much good the Sunbeam has done him, Mr. Olyphant?" said Pet.—"I see it, Miss Pet; it does me good. I meant to have been here to see you married, Endecott, and missed the train. I shall miss it again, now, if I am not careful. But you must come up and stay with us, and we'll arrange matters. Such neighbours may tempt me to winter in the mountains myself, and then I shall take charge of you, Miss Pet."

"I should like that," said Pet.

"I see, my dear Mrs. Linden," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling at her, "I see you follow one of the old Jewish laws."

"What is that, sir?"—"You know it was required of the Jews that they should bear the words of the law 'as frontlets between the eyes'. Now—if you will forgive me for saying so—in your eyes is written one of the proverbs."

"Look up, Mignonette, and let me see," said Mr. Linden. But oddly,Faith looked down first; then the eyes were lifted.

"Is truth a proverb?" said Pet laughing.—"O you see too many things there!" said Mr. Olyphant,—"this is what I see, Endecott—'The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.'"

A little veil of shyness and modesty suddenly fell around Faith. Even her head drooped. But Mr. Linden's lips touched the fair brow between those very fair eyes.

"I cannot praise your discernment, sir," he said. "It is not more true than evident."

"I cannot half congratulate either of you," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling, "so I'll go. Good-bye, Miss Pet—remember next winter. Mrs. Linden, we shall expect to see you long before that time. Let me have a word with you, Endecott." And Faith was again left alone, entirely this time, for Miss Linden went up stairs to attend Mrs. Iredell.

As they turned to go out, Faith turned the other way, and sat down, feeling overwhelmed. Everything was very still. Pet's light steps passed off in the distance; through the open windows came the song of kildeers and robins, the breath of roses, the muslin-veiled sunshine. Then she heard Mr. Olyphant's carriage drive off, and Mr. Linden came back. Faith started up, and very lovely she looked, with the timid grace of those still dyed cheeks and vailed brow.

"My poor little tired Mignonette!" he said as he came up to her. Then lifted her face, and looking at it a moment with a half smile, pressed his lips again where they had been so lately. But this time that did not satisfy him.

"Endy," she said presently, "please don't praise me before other people!"

"What dreadful thing did I say?" inquired Mr. Linden, laughing. "Do you know I have hardly seen my wife yet?"—To judge by Faith's face, neither had she.

"If I speak of her at all I must speak the truth. But Mr. Olyphant knows me of old; he will not take my words for more than they are worth."

A slight commentary of a smile passed, but Faith did not adventure any repartee.

"Are you very tired?"—"Oh no!"

"Little bird!" said Mr. Linden, holding her close. "What sort of a sweet spirit was it that said those words at my side this morning?"

There was no answer at first; and then, very quaint and soft the words—"Only Faith Derrick."

"'Only.'—Faith, did you hear my parting direction to MissEssie?"—"Yes."

"Do you agree to it, Mrs. Linden?"

He had spoken that name a good many times that day, and to be sure her cheeks had more or less acknowledged it; but this time it brought such a rush of colour that she stooped her face to be out of sight.

"Do you want Miss Reason to answer that question, sir?"—"No, nor Miss anybody."

"Prudence would say, there are shortcakes," said Faith.

"Where?"—"In—hypothesis."

"If your shortcakes outweigh my study, Faith, they will be heavier thanI ever saw them!"

"You wouldn't take Reason's answer," said Faith.

"What would it have been?"

She looked up, a swift little laughing glance into his face.

"Parlez, Madame, s'il vous plaît."

Her look changed. "You know, Endy, I would rather be there than anywhere else in the world."

It moved him. The happiness to which his look bore witness was of a kind too deep for words.

"Do you know, love, if we had been going at once to our work in the mountains, I should have asked a great many people to come here to-day."

"Would you? why, Endy?"—"To let them see my wife. Now, I mean to take her to see them."

Faith was willing he should take her where he pleased, though she made no remark. Her timidity moved in a small circle, and touched principally him. Mingling with this, and in all she did, ever since half past one o'clock to-day, there had been a sort of dignity of grave happiness; very rare, very beautiful.

"I wonder if you know half how lovely and dear you are?" said Mr. Linden, studying the fair outlines of character, as well as of feature. But Faith's eye went all down the pattern of embroidery on her white robe, and never dared meet his. "Have you any idea, little Mignonette of sweetness, after what fashion that proverb is true?"

She looked up, uncertain what proverb he meant; but then immediately certain, bent her head again. Faith never thought of herself as Mr. Linden thought of her. Movings of humility and determination were in her heart now, but she knew he would not bear to hear her speak them, and her own voice was not just ready. So she was only silent still.

"What will make you speak?" said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I am like Ali Baba before the storehouse of hid treasure. Is this the 'Sesame' you are waiting for?" he added, raising her face and trying two or three persuasive kisses.

"There was nothing in the storehouse," said Faith laughingly. "No wordsI mean."—"I am willing to take thoughts."

"How?"—"Which way you like!"

"Then you will have to wait for them, Endy."

"Mignonette, I am of an impatient disposition."

"Yes I know it."

"Is it to be your first wifely undertaking to cure me?" he said, laughing.—"It takes time to put thoughts into action," said Faith, blushing.—"Not all thoughts, Mignonette."

She coloured beautifully; but anything more pure and sweet than those first wifely kisses of Faith could not be told. Did he know, had he felt, all the love and allegiance they had so silently and timidly spoken? She had reason to think so.

CHAPTER XLIV

In a low whitewashed room, very clean though little and plain, where the breeze blew in fresh from the sea, Faith found herself established Friday afternoon. Mr. Linden had promised to show her the surf, and so had brought her down to a little village, long ago known to him, on the New England shore; where the people lived by farming and fishing, and no hotel attracted or held an influx of city life. It was rather late in the day, for the journey had been in part off the usual route of railway and steam, and therefore had been longer if not wearier. But when Faith had got rid of the dust, Mr. Linden came to her door to say that it would be half an hour to supper, and ask if she was too tired to walk down to the beach.

The shore was but a few hundred yards from the little farmhouse; green grass, with interrupting rocks, extending all the way. Faith hardly knew what she was corning to till she reached the brink. There the precipitous rocks rose sheer a hundred feet from the bottom, and at the bottom, down below her, a narrow strip of beach was bordered with the billowy crest and foam of the sea. Nothing but the dark ocean and the illimitable ocean line beyond; there was not even a sail in sight this evening; in full uninterrupted power and course, from the broad east, the swells of the sea rolled in and broke—broke, with their graceful, grand monotony.

The beach was narrow at height of tide; now the tide was out. Fishermen's boats were drawn up near to the rocks, and steep narrow pathways along and down the face of them allowed the fishermen to go from the top to the bottom.

"Can't we get down there?" said Faith, when she had stood a minute looking silently. Her face showed an eager readiness for action.

"Can you fly, little bird?"—"Yes—as well as the fishermen can!"

"If you cannot I can carry you," said Mr. Linden.—And doubtless he would have found some way to make his words good had there been need; as it was, he only guarded her down the steep rocky way, going before her and holding her hand in a grasp she would have been puzzled to get away from. But Faith was light and free of foot, and gave him no trouble. Once at the bottom, she went straight towards those in-coming big waves, and in front of them stood still. The sea-breeze blew in her face; the roar of the breakers made music in her ears. Faith folded one hand upon the other, and stood motionless. Now and then the wind caught the spray from some beaten rock and flung it in her face, and wave after wave rose up and donned its white crest; the upstanding green water touched with sunlight and shadow, and changing tints of amber and olive, down which the white foam came curling and rushing—sweeping in knots of seaweed, and leaving all the pebbles with wet faces. Mr. Linden let her look without the interruption of a word; but he presently put his arm round her, and drew her a little into shelter from the strong breeze. It was a while before she moved from her steady gaze at the water; then she looked up, the joy of her face breaking into a smile.

"Endecott, will you show me anything more grand than this?"

"You shall tell me when you have seen the uprising mists of Niagara," he answered, smiling, "or the ravines between snowcaps 'five thousand summers old.'"

Her eye went back to the sea. "It brings before me, somehow," she said slowly, "all time, and all eternity! I have been thinking here of myself as I was a little child, and as I shall be, and as I am," she added, with her inveterate exactness, and blushing. "I seem to see only the great scale of everything."

"Tell me a little more clearly what you see," said Mr. Linden.

"It isn't worth telling. I see everything here as belonging to God. The world seems his great work-place, and life his time for doing the work, and I—and you," she said, with a flash of light coming across her face, "his work-people. And those great breaking waves, somehow, seem to me like the resistless, sure, beautiful, doings of his providence." She spoke very quietly, because she was bidden, evidently.

"Do you know how many other things they are like?—or rather how many are likened to them in the Bible?"—"No! I don't know the Bible as you do."

"They seem to be a never-failing image—an illustration suiting very different things. 'The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest,' and then, 'O that thou hadst hearkened to me I then had thy peace been as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea.'"

"There is the endless struggle of human will and purpose against the divine—'The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.' 'Fear ye not me? saith the Lord: will ye not tremble at my presence, which have placed the sand for the bound of the sea by a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass it: and though the waves thereof toss themselves, yet can they not prevail: though they roar, yet can they not pass over it?' And so in another place the image is reversed, and God says, 'Behold I am against thee, O Tyrus, and will cause many nations to come up against thee, as the sea causeth his waves to come up.' Could anything be more forcible?"

A look was Faith's answer; it spoke the kindled thoughts at work.

"Then you know," Mr. Linden went on, "how often the troubles of God's children are compared to the ocean; as David says, 'All thy waves are gone over me.' But then the Lord answers to that, 'When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the floods, they shall not overwhelm thee;' and David himself in another place declares it to be true—'O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto thee? or to thy faithfulness round about thee? Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, thou stillest them.'—I suppose," he added, thoughtfully, taking both her hands in his, "this is one sense in which by-and-by 'there shall be no more sea'—except that 'sea of glass, upon which they stand who have gotten the victory!'"

Another look, a grave, full look, came to him from Faith; and grave and soft her eye went back to the sea. The sunbeams were all off it; it was dark and foamy. Speaking rather low, half to her half to himself, Mr. Linden went on,—"'And they overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony: and they loved not their lives unto the death.'"

Her look did not move. Mr. Linden's went with it for a minute or two, but then it came back to her differently.

"My darling, I am afraid to have you stay here any longer."

"We can come again!" said Faith gleefully, as she turned away. "I want to look at them a great deal."

"We will come again and try how far a 'ladder' can reach from this low sand."

She looked back for another glance as she began to mount the rocky way. The mounting was an easy matter, for Mr. Linden came close and took hold of her in such fashion that she was more than half carried up.

"Do you feel as if you had wings now?" he asked her, after a somewhat quick "flight" up half the way.

"Folded ones," said Faith, laughing and breathless. "I don't know what sort yours can be! I can go up by myself, Endecott."

"With folded wings, as you remark, Mrs. Linden. Do you remember that infallible way of recognizing 'earth's angels,' when they are not pluming themselves?"—"They never do plume themselves," said Faith, stopping to look at him.

"Not when they are carried!"

Faith's laugh rolled down the rocks; and then as they reached the top she grew timid and quiet, a mood which came over her whenever she remembered her new position and name in the world.

There is no room to tell all the seaside doings of those days; the surf bathing, and fishing beyond the surf. A week passed there, or rather more; then, Mr. Linden having business in New York, the "wooden horse" went that way. We cannot follow all its travels. But we must stay with it a day in the city.

CHAPTER XLV

Everybody who has travelled on the great route from Pattaquasset to New York, knows that the scenery is not striking. Pleasant it is, and fresh, in fresh seasons of the year; cornfields and hayfields and sparkling little rivers always make up a fair prospect: but, until the towers of Quilipeak rise upon the sight, with their leafy setting of green, there is nothing to draw much notice. And less, afterwards. The train flies on, past numberless stopping-posts, over bridges, through towns; regaling its passengers with hay, salt water, bony fish, and (in the season) dust; until the matchless flats, marshes, pools, sights, and smells crowd thick about Haarlem river, and lure the traveller on through the sweet suburbs of New York. Hither, business demanded that the "wooden horse" should come for a day or two; here they were to be received by one of the many old friends who were claiming, all over the country, a visit from Mr. Linden and his bride. Through the dark tunnel the train puffed on, the passengers winking and breathing beneath the air-holes, dark and smothered where air-holes were not; then the cars ran out into the sunlight, and, in a minute more, two of the passengers were transferred to the easy rolling coach which was in waiting for them, and drove away. Past warm brick fronts and pavements; past radish boys and raspberry girls; past oranges, pineapples, vegetables, in every degree of freshness except fresh. Of all which, even the vegetables, Faith's eyes took most curious and intent notice—for one minute; then the Avenue and fruit stalls were left behind; the carriage had turned a corner, and, in another minute or two, drew up before an imposing front in Madison Square. And there, at the very steps, was a little raspberry girl. How Faith looked at her!

"Raspberries to-day, ma'am?" said the child, encouraged by the look, or the sweet face.—"No, dear, I don't want any."

Faith went gravely up the steps. It was her first introduction to New York. But Mr. Linden's face wore a smile. There was no time to remark on it, for the door opened and a second introduction awaited her. An introduction to another part of the world. A magnificent house, every square yard of which, perhaps, taken with its furniture and adornments, had cost as much as the whole of Faith's old home. A palace of luxury, where no want of any kind, material, could be known or fancied. In this house they were welcomed with a great welcome by a stately lady, Mr. Linden's old friend and his mother's; and by her family of sons and daughters, who were in another style, and whose vivacious kindness seemed disposed to take up Faith bodily and carry her off. It was a novel scene for Faith, and she was amused. Amused too with the overpowering curiosity which took the guise, or the veil, of so much kindness, and beset her, because—Mr. Linden had married her. Yet Faith did not see the hundredth part of their curiosity. Mr. Linden, whose eyes were more open, was proportionably amused, both with that and with Faith's simplicity, which half gratified and at least half baffled it. The young ladies at last took Faith up to her room; and, after lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her, and making various vain efforts to understand her, gave her the information that a good deal of company was expected to dinner, and left her, baffled and attracted almost in an equal degree.

They did not seem to have as puzzling an effect on Faith; for when Mr. Linden came out of his own dressing-room, he found her ready, and looking as fresh and cool as if she had just come up from the sands at Bankhead. She was dressed in a light muslin, but no more elaborately than she used to be at Pattaquasset; only that this time her ruffles were laces. She was a little more dainty for the dinner-party. Mr. Linden came with a knot of glowing geraniums—"Jewess," and "Perfection," and "Queen of the Fairies;" which, bound together as they were with white ribband, he first laid against her dress to try the effect (well deserving his smile of comment) then put in her hand to make fast. They set off all the quiet elegance of her figure after their own style, which was not quiet.

"Now, Mignonette," he said, "I suppose you know that I am to have the pleasure of introducing my wife to sundry people?"—"I heard they were coming," said Faith.

"If you will only stand by and look on, it will amuse you very much."

"It will amuse me anyway," said Faith, "if,"—and what a rose colour came up into her face—"if, Endy, you are satisfied."

Mr. Linden folded his arms and looked at her. "If you say anything against my wife, Mrs. Linden, her husband will not like it—neither will yours."

"That is all I care about, not pleasing those two gentlemen," saidFaith, laughing.

"Is that all? I shall report your mind at rest. Come, it is time this little exotic should appear." Faith thought as she went with him, that she was anything but an exotic; she did not speak her thoughts.

There was a large dinner company gathered and gathering; and the "pleasure" Mr. Linden had spoken of—introducing his wife—was one enjoyed, by him or somebody, a great many times in the course of the evening. This was something very unlike Pattaquasset or anything to be found there; only in Judge Harrison's house little glimpses of this sort of society might be had; and these people seemed to Faith rather in the sphere of Dr. Harrison than of his father and sister. People who had rubbed off every particle of native simplicity that ever belonged to them, and who, if they were simple at all—as some of them were—had a different kind of simplicity, made after a most exquisite and refined worldly fashion. How it was made or worn, Faith could not tell; she had an instinctive feeling of the difference. If she had set on foot a comparison, she would soon have come to the conclusion that "Mr. Linden's wife" was of another pattern altogether. But Faith never thought of doing that. Her words were so true that she had spoken, she cared so singly to satisfy one person there, and had such an humble confidence of doing it, that other people gave her little concern. She had little need, for no word or glance fell upon Faith that did not show the eye or the speaker won or attracted. The words and glances were very many, but Faith never found out or suspected that it was to see her all this party of grand people had been gathered together. She thought they were curious about "Mr. Linden's wife;" and though their curiosity made her shy, and her sense of responsibility gave an exquisite tenderness to her manner, both effects only set a grace upon her usual free simplicity. That was not disturbed, though a good deal of the time Faith was far from Mr. Linden's kelp or protection. A stranger took her in to dinner, and among strangers she made her way most of the evening. But though she was shy, Faith was afraid never but of one person, nor much of him.

For him—among old acquaintances, beset with all manner of inquiries and congratulations—he yet heard her voice whenever it was possible, and knew by sight as well as hearing all the admiration she called forth. He might have said as at Kildeer river, that he found "a great deal of Mignonette." What he did tell her, when the evening was over, was that people were at a loss how to name the new exotic.

"How to name me, Endecott?"—"As an exotic."

"I don't wonder!" said Faith with her merry little laugh. "Don't philosophers sometimes get puzzled in that way, Endecott?"—"Scientific philosophers content themselves with the hardest names they can find, but in this case such will not suit. Though Dr. Campan may write you in his books as 'Lindenethia Pattaquassetensis—exotic, very rare. The flower is a double star—colour wonderful.'"

Faith stopped to laugh.

"What a blunder he will make if he does!" she said. "It will show, asMr. Simlins says—that he don't understand common vegetables."

"Well translated, Mignonette. How will it show that, if you please?"—"He has mistaken one for a trumpet creeper."

"A scarlet runner, I suppose."

"Was I?" said Faith seriously.

"According to you. I am in Dr. Campan's predicament."

"I should think you needn't be," said Faith, simply. "Because you know, Endy I never knew even how to climb till you showed me."

Mr. Linden faced round upon her, the quick flashing eyes answering even more than his. "Faith! what do you mean?" But his lips played then in a rare little smile, as he said, very quietly, in his former position, "Imagine Mignonette, with its full sweetness—and more than its full colour—suddenly transplanted to the region where Monkeys and Geraniums grow—I like to think of the effect."

"I can't think of any effect at all," said Faith. "I should look at the Monkeys and Geraniums!"

"Of course—being Mignonette. And clearly that you are; but then how can Mignonette so twine itself round things?"

Faith thought it did not, and also thought of Pet's charge about "charming;" but she left both points.

"Most climbers," said Mr. Linden, with a glance at her, "have but one way of laying hold; but this exotic has all. There are the tendrils when it wants support, and the close twining that makes of two lives one, and the clasp of a hundred little stems that give a leaf or a flower wherever they touch."

"Endecott!" said Faith, with a look of astonished remonstrance and amusement in one.—"What?"

But the smile and blush with which Faith turned away bespoke her not very much displeased; and she knew better by experience than to do battle with Mr. Linden's words. She let him have it his own way.

The next day business claimed him. Faith was given up to the kindness and curiosity of her new friends. They made good use of their opportunity, and their opportunity was a good one; for it was not till late in the day, a little while before the late dinner hour, that Mr. Linden came home. He found Faith in her room; a superbly appointed chamber, as large as any three of those she had been accustomed to. She was standing at the window, thoughtfully looking out; but turned joyfully to meet Mr. Linden. Apparently he was glad too.

"My dear little Mignonette! I feel as if I had not seen you for a week."

"It has been a long day," said Faith; who looked rather, it may be remarked, as if the day had freshly begun.

"Mignonette, you are perfectly lovely! Do you think you will condescend to wear these flowers?" said Mr. Linden, drawing her to a seat by the table, and with one arm still round her beginning to arrange the flowers he had thrown down there as he came in.

Faith watched him, and then looked up.

"Endecott you shouldn't talk to me so. You wouldn't like me to believe you."

Mr. Linden finished setting two or three ruby carnations in the green and purple of heliotrope and sweet-scented verbena; then laid the bunch lightly upon her lips and gravely inquired if they were sweet.

"Yes," Faith said, laughing behind them. "You are not hungry?"

"Why? and what of it?"—"You don't seem to remember it is near dinner-time."

"Dinner time is a myth. My dear, I am sorry I give you so much uneasiness. I wish you could feel as composed about me as I do about you. What have I done with that white ribband!—don't stir—it is in some pocket or other." And the right one being found, Mr. Linden unwrapped the piece of ribband and cut off what he wanted, remarking that he could not get used to giving her anything but blue.

"Well, why do you then?" said Faith.—"I feel in a subdued state of mind, owing to reproofs," said Mr. Linden, with the white satin curling round his fingers. "I may not tell anybody what I think of my wife!"

Faith looked amused, and yet a soft glance left the charge and the "reproof" standing.