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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id01794" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XIV.</h3> With a slight congee the doctor left thorn and went back again; and then came the full rush of all the guests, small and great. Miss Harrison claimed Mr. Linden's assistance to marshal and arrange the boys at their table—one being given specially to them; and then established him as well as circumstances permitted at another—between Miss Cecilia Deacon and Miss Essie de Staff. Miss Harrison herself did not sit down. The guests were many, the servants far too few; and Miss Harrison and her brother with one or two helpers, of whom Faith was one, went round from table to table; attending to everybody's wants. The supply of all eatables and drinkables was ample and perfect enough; but without the quick and skilful eyes and hands of these educated waiters, the company could not have been entirely put in possession of them. So Faith's red oak leaves did after all adorn the entertainment, and publicly, though most unconsciously on her part. "Reuben," she whispered at his shoulder, "there are no roast clams here—shall I give you some jelly? I see you have got substantials." "No thank you, Miss Faith," said Reuben—adding with some hesitation, "I believe it's ungrateful in me, but I don't want to eat." "Are you eating your book all the while? I am so glad, Reuben! Where is your father?" "I think he's home, Miss Faith—he must be by this time." "Home! I'm sorry. I've been looking for him. Sam—what can I get you? coffee?" "Miss Faith!" said Sam standing up in his place, "I'd rather have one of those leaves you've been wearing all day than all the coffee that ever was burnt!" "Leaves! you foolish boy," said Faith, her own colour in an instant emulating them, and as before her hand went up to shield them. "I can't give you one of these, Sam—I'll bring you some coffee." Away she ran, coming back presently with a cup and a piece of jelly cake, bestowing a fellow piece upon Reuben, "You can get plenty of oak leaves anywhere, Sam," she said laughing a little. "But you haven't worn 'em, Miss Faith—and I can't keep this!" said Sam surveying the cake with a very serio-comic face. "Well, who wants to?" said Joe Deacon. "Hand us over the other cake, that's got nothing between. If you're settin' up to get round anybody, Sam Stoutenburgh, you'll find there's two or three in a bunch—I tell you." Which remark Faith was happily too far off to hear. "Faith," said Mrs. Somers, leaning back and stopping her as she passed; "do you know why I let Sophy keep you running about so?" "I like to do it, Mrs. Somers." "Well that's not the reason. You ought to sit up at the head of the table for your skill in arranging flowers. I didn't know it was in you, child." And Mrs. Somers bent closer to Faith to take the breath of the roses, but softly for she loved flowers herself. Faith bore it jealously, for she was afraid of another invading hand; and blushing at the praise she could not disclaim ran away as soon as she was free. But as the tide of supper-time began to ebb, the doctor arrested Faith in her running about and saying that his sister had had no supper yet and wanted company, led her to the place his aunt had spoken of, a clear space at one end of the table, where the doctor also discovered he had taken no supper. The rest of the party sat at ease, or began to scatter again about the grounds. A new attraction was appearing there, in the shape of Chinese lanterns, which the servants and others were attaching in great numbers to the trees and shrubbery. The sun went down, the shades of evening were fast gathering. At last Miss Harrison rose. "When the lamps are lit, Miss Derrick," said the doctor as they followed her example, "there is a particular effect which I will have the pleasure of shewing you—if you will allow me." "Dr. Harrison, how do you do!" said a voice that sounded like—perhaps as much like the bark of a red squirrel as anything; and a little figure, with everything faded but her ribbands, and everything full but her cheeks, looked up with a pair of good, kind, honest eyes into the doctor's face. "It makes a body feel young—or old—I don't know which, to see you again," she said. "Though indeed I know just how old you are, without looking into the Bible. Not but that's a good place to look, for various things. And there's a great variety of things there,—if a body had time to read 'em all, which I haven't. I used to read like a scribe when I was young—till my eyes got bad; but a body can't do much without eyes, especially when they have to sew all the time, as I do. I always did think it was one indemnification for being a man, that a body wouldn't have to sew. Nor do much of anything else—for 'man works from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done.' And I always think the work after sundown comes hardest—it does to me, because my eyes are so bad.—Well, Miss Cilly! don't your dress fit!"—It may be proper to mention that this last sentence was a little undertone. "You have given me, Miss Bezac," said the doctor, "what I have wanted all my life until now—an indemnification for being a man!" "Is that the way they talk over in France?" said Miss Bezac—"well, it don't make a body want to go there, there's that about it. And there always is something about everything. And I've something to say to you, Faith, so don't you run away. You've done running enough for one day, besides." Faith was in no danger of running away. For while Miss Bezac was running off her sentences, a little low voice at Faith's side said "Ma'am!"—by way of modestly drawing her attention to Johnny Fax and his red ribband. Faith stooped down to be nearer the level of the red ribband. "You did bravely, Johnny. And you got a book too. I guess Mr. Linden was pleased with you to-night," she added softly. "O he's always pleased with me," said Johnny simply. "But I wasn't brave, ma'am,—I was frightened." Then in a lower tone, as if he were telling a great secret, Johnny added, "I'm coming to you next Sunday if it's cold weather"—and looked up in her face to see the effect of this mysterious announcement. "You, Johnny!" said Faith, with a flash of remembrance of the time she had last seen him, which made her almost sorrowful. "Well, dear—we'll do the best we can," she added in a tone which was sweet at least as tenderness could make it. The child looked at her a little wistfully. "Mr. Linden says he don't think I'm big enough to keep warm out of doors any more," he said with childish inexplicitness. "I don't think you are," said Faith. "Well, Johnny—you come to me next Sunday, and we'll try!"—And she gave him, what Sam Stoutenburgh would probably have mortgaged his life for,—a soft touch of her lips upon his cheek. And Sam Stoutenburgh was not far off. "Miss Faith!" he said as she rose to her former position,—"stand out of the way, Johnny, there's a good boy!—mayn't I see you home to-night? Please don't refuse me everything!" "There isn't room in the wagon, Sam," said Faith. "Are you going to ride?" said Sam. "But I may go with you to the wagon?" "Yes if you like," said Faith looking a little puzzled and amused. "I suppose you may." "Are there any more to come?" said Miss Bezac, whose patience had outlasted that of Dr. Harrison,—"because if there are, I'd rather wait—I don't like to be stopped when once I begin. And if I was you, Faith—(how pretty you look!)—I'd keep still and not let my head be turned; the old direction's the best; and after all directions are more than dresses. For what's the odds between an embroidered vest and a plain one? Not that it's much to embroider it—I used to fiddle faddle many a one, till I lost my eyes; and I'll teach you to do it in a minute, if you like." With which kind and lucid proposal, Miss Bezac put her hand softly on Faith's waist and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the white dress. "Dear Miss Bezac," said Faith, not losing her amused look,—"I don't want to embroider waistcoats. What are you talking of?" "I know—" said Miss Bezac, "and I suppose that's enough. If folks don't know what you mean they can't say anything against it. But you don't know what you want, child,—any more than I did. And do you know, sometimes I wish I'd never found out? But whenever you do know, you can come to me; and I'll fix you off so you won't know yourself. It's a pleasant way to lose a body's identity, I can tell you. Now give me a kiss and I'll go, for I live 'tother side of creation—where you never come; and why you don't come, and bring him, I don't see—but I've seen him, in spite of you. Here he comes, too"—said Miss Bezac, "so I'll be off." There was such a variety of confusions in this speech that Faith was hopeless of setting them right. She stood looking at the speaker, and did not try. However, everybody was accustomed to Miss Bezac's confusions. "Are you pledged to stand still on this particular spot?" Mr. Linden said at her side. "No indeed," said Faith with ready smile,—"but people have been talking to me—" "Yes, and there is no telling how many I shall interfere with if I take you away now." "I don't care—" said Faith. "Only Dr. Harrison said he wanted to shew me something when the lamps were lit." "When they are lighting? or when they are lit?" "When they are lit, he said." "Well they are not lit yet," said Mr. Linden, "and before they are I want you to get a view of people and things in twilight perspective. For which purpose, Miss Faith, I must take you to the extreme verge of society and the lawn—if you will let me." "I would like to go anywhere you please, Mr. Linden." And Faith's face gave modest token that she would like it very much. He gave her his arm, and then by skilful navigation kept clear of the groups most likely to interrupt their progress; passing rather towards the boy quarter, making Sam Stoutenburgh sigh and Joe Deacon whistle, with the most frigid disregard of their feelings. The shrubbery at the foot of the lawn was in more than twilight now, and its deeper shadow was good to look out from; giving full effect to the dying light on earth and sky. The faint rosecoloured clouds hung over a kaleidoscope of dresses, which was ever shifting and making new combinations, passing into black spots in the shadow of the trees, or forming a broad spread of patchwork on the open lawn. The twilight perspective was far more witching than the sunlight full view. "How pretty that is!" said Faith delightedly. "Thank you, Mr. Linden. I don't believe Dr. Harrison will shew me any effect so good as this. How pretty and odd it is!" "Don't you know," he said, "that you never should thank me for doing pleasant things?" "Why, Mr. Linden?" she said in a tone a little checked. "Why?—because I like to do them." "Well," she said laughing slightly, "that makes me want to thank you more." "It don't make me deserve the thanks, however. Do you perceive the distant blue of Miss Cecilia's dress? does it make you think of the blue ether over your head?" "Not the least!" said Faith much amused. "What makes you ask me that, Mr. Linden?" "I should like to hear why it does not?" "The two things are so very, very far apart," Faith said, after a moment's consideration. "I don't see what could make me think of them together. The only thing is that both are blue, but I should have to think to remember that." "You haven't answered me yet," he said smiling. "Why are they far apart?—your blue gentians there, are as far below the sky in number of miles—yet from them to the sky the transition is easy." "Yes—" said Faith looking down at her blue gentian. "Why is it, Mr. Linden? But this is God's work too," she added softly. "I suppose that is the deep root of the matter. The ruined harp of man's nature yet answers to a breath from heaven as to no other touch. Then blue has been so long the emblem of truth, that separated from truth one can scarce, as you say, realize what colour it is." "Then Mr. Linden," said Faith after a moment's silence, with the tone and the look of quick pleasure,—"is this what you mean by 'reading' things?" "Yes—" he said with a smile, "'To rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew.'" "But how far can you read?" said Faith. "And I never thought of such reading till—till a little while ago! How far can you read, Mr. Linden?" "I don't know," he said,—"because I don't know how far I cannot read! Yet if 'the invisible things of God' may be known 'by the things which are seen,' there is at least room for ample study. To some people, Miss Faith, the world is always (with the change of one adjective) an incomprehensible little green book; while others read a few pages now, and look forward to knowing the whole hereafter." There was a pause, a little longer than usual. "And you say I must not thank you?"—Faith said very low. "I say I think you have no cause." She was silent. "Has the day been pleasant?" Mr. Linden asked, as they walked up and down. "Yes, very pleasant. I liked what you didn't like, Mr. Linden—all that examination business. And I was very glad for Reuben and little Johnny." "How do you know I didn't like it?" "I don't 'know'—I thought you didn't," she said looking at him. "You don't like to say why?" "Yes! I thought you didn't like it, Mr. Linden, when Judge Harrison first proposed it. You wished he would give us the pleasure without the shewing off." "Well, did you also know," he said with a peculiar little smile, "that one of my best scholars was not examined?" "No—who do you mean?" she said earnestly. He laughed, and answered, "One who would perhaps prefer a private examination at home—and to whom I have thought of proposing it." "An examination?" said Faith, wondering and with considerable heightening of colour, either at the proposal or at the rank among scholars assigned her. "You need not be frightened," Mr. Linden said gravely—"if anybody should be, it is I, at my own boldness. I am a little afraid to go on now—though it is something I have long wanted to say to you." "What is it, Mr. Linden?" she said timidly. "I have thought—" he paused a moment, and then went quietly on. "You have given me reason to think, that there are other desirable things besides French of which you have no knowledge. I have wished very much to ask you what they are, and that you would let me—so far as I can—supply the deficiency." It was said with simple frankness, yet with a manner that fully recognized the delicate ground he was on. The rush of blood to Faith's face he could see by the lamplight, but she hesitated for an answer, and hesitated,—and her head was bent with the weight of some feeling. "I should be too glad, Mr. Linden!" she said at last, very low, but with unmistakeable emphasis. "Then if you will let me see to-morrow what you are doing with that other little book, I will see what companions it should have." And warned by the kindling lamps on every side, he led the way a little more into the open lawn, that Faith might at least be found if sought. That allowed him to see too, the look he had raised in her face; the little smile on the lips, the flush of colour, the stir of deep pleasure that kept her from speaking. Yet when they had taken a few steps on the broad lawn and other people would soon be nearing them, she suddenly said, softly, "What 'other' book do you mean, Mr. Linden?" "I don't know how many there may be, Miss Faith, but I meant one which I tried to get at the store one day, and found that the last copy had passed into your hands." "The arithmetic!" said Faith. "That was how you knew it.—There is Dr. Harrison looking for me!" she added, in a tone which gentle as it was would have turned that gentleman to the right about if he had heard it—which he did not—and if he had not been indifferent on the point of all such tones,—which he was. "Stars shine by their own light!" said the doctor as he came up. "I have no need to ask, 'Where is Miss Derrick?' Your Quercus rubra there is brilliant at any distance, with a red gleam. You have Mars on your breast, and Hesperus in your eye! It is heaven on earth!" Faith could not choose but laugh at the mixture of gallantry and fun and flattery in the doctor's manner, though his meaning was, to her, doubtful. Other answer she made none. "And so," said Mr. Linden, "you make the stars shine by their own light, and Miss Derrick by the light of the stars!" "Advances constantly making in the sciences!" said the doctor with a wave of his hand. "I dare say you are a better astronomer than I am;—I haven't kept up with the latest discoveries. But Mr. Linden, may I interfere with your heaven for a moment, and persuade these stars to shine, for that length of time, upon less favoured regions? With another revolution of the earth they will rise upon you again." "I shall not persuade the stars for you," said Mr. Linden. "I will endeavour so far," said the doctor turning to Faith. "I had the honour to offer to shew Miss Derrick the peculiar effect of Chinese lanterns in Pattaquasset—may I hope that she will allow me to fulfil my promise?" He took possession of Faith, and with a graceful "Au revoir!"—to Mr. Linden, led her away. The effect of the lanterns was very pretty, and to her eyes very curious. So were the lanterns themselves, be fore one and another of which Faith stopped and looked with charmed eyes, and the doctor nothing loth gave her charming details. "After all, it is only child's play," he said as he turned away. "Why should we want Pattaquasset to look like China?" "For one night?" said Faith. "Well, for one night," said the doctor. "But you haven't got little feet on, have you?" said he looking down at the edge of Faith's white dress in mock alarm;—"I shouldn't like the transformation to go too far." Faith laughed. "Reassure me," said the doctor. "Nothing can be more unlike the Mongol type than the pure Circassian I have before me,—yet let me see the slipper. I want to be sure that all is right." He persisted, and to stop the absurdity of the thing, Faith shewed him, not indeed her slipper, but the most un-Chinese, un-French, neat little shoe thick enough for walking, in which she had come to Judge Harrison's party. "Alarmingly near!" said the doctor peering at it—"but the proportions are perfect. It is not Chinese. Thank you. I have seen so many odd things in my life, Miss Derrick,—and people,—that I never know what to expect; and anything right from head to foot, is a marvel." They moved on again and sauntered round and round in the paths of the shrubbery, Faith hardly knew whither. In truth the doctor's conversation was amusing enough to leave her little care. Very few indeed were the words he drew from her; but with all their simplicity and modesty, he seemed to be convinced that there was something behind them worth pleasing; at least he laid himself out to please. He easily found that what she knew of life and the world was very little, and that she was very ready to take any glimpses he would give her into the vast unknown regions so well known to him. Always in his manner carelessly graceful, Faith never dreamed of the real care with which he brought up subjects, and discussed them, that he thought would interest her. He told of distant countries and scenes—he detailed at length foreign experiences—he described people—he gave her pictures of manners and customs,—all new to her ears, strange and delightful; and so easily yet so masterly given, that she took it all in an easy full flow of pleasure. So it happened that Faith did not very well know how they turned and wound in and out through the walks; she was in Switzerland and at Paris and at Rome, all the while. She came back pretty suddenly to Pattaquasset. As they paused to watch the glitter of one of the lamps on the shining leaves of a holly tree, several of the boys, seeking their own pleasure, came sauntering by. The last of these had time to observe her, and swaggering close up under her face said, loud enough to be heard, "You aint, neither!—I know you aint. Reuben Taylor says you aint." The lamplight did not serve to reveal Faith's changes of face and colour, neither did Dr. Harrison wait to observe them. "What do you mean, sir?" he said, catching hold of the boy's arm. "Why do you speak so to a lady?—what isn't she?" "Somebody's sweetheart," said the boy resolutely. "She aint. Reuben Taylor says she aint." "You'll never be, my fine fellow," said the doctor letting him go,—"if you don't learn more discretion. I must tell Mr. Linden his boys want a trifle of something besides Algebra. That don't give all the relative values of things." "Pray do not! don't speak of it, Dr. Harrison!" said Faith. He tried to see her face, but he could not. "Hardly worth while," he said lightly. "Boys will be boys—which is an odd way of excusing them for not being civilized things. However if you excuse him, I will." Faith said nothing. She was trying to get over the sudden jar of those words. They had not told her anything she did not believe—she thought no other; but they gave her nevertheless a keen stir of pain—a revival of the pain she had quieted at Neanticut; and somehow this was worse than that. Could Reuben Taylor talk about her so?—could Reuben Taylor have any authority for doing it? But that question would not stand answering. Faith's red oak leaves were a little AEgis to her then, a tangible precious representative of all the answer that question would not wait for. No sting of pain could enter that way. But the pain was bad enough; and under the favouring shadowy light of the lamps she strove and strove to quiet it; while the doctor went on talking. "Indeed,"—said he—going on with the subject of Phil's speech,—"I am obliged to him for his information—which was of course incorrect. But I am very glad to hear it nevertheless. Other people's sweethearts, you know, are 'tabooed'—sacred ground—not to be approached without danger to all concerned. But now—if you will allow me, I think I shall claim you for mine." Whatever look the words may have, they did not sound rude. They were said with a careless half-amused, half gentle manner, which might leave his hearer in doubt whether the chief purpose of them were not to fall pleasantly on her ear and drive away any disagreeable remainders of Phil's insolence. But Faith scarce heard him. She was struggling with that unbidden pain, and trying with all the simplicity and truth of her nature and with the stronger help she had learned to seek, to fight it down. She had never thought such an utterly vain thought as that suggested in Phil's words; in her humility and modesty she chid herself that it should have come into her head even when other people's words had forced it there. Her humility was very humble now. And in it she quietly took up with the good she had, of which her roses were even then breathing sweet reminders in her face; putting from her all thought of good that did not belong to her and she could not deserve. The uncertain light favoured her well, or Dr. Harrison would have seen too much of her face-play. They had been going on and on, and the doctor had been as usual talking, and she had managed now and then to seem to give an answer—she never remembered to what; and her part in the conversation all along had been so modestly small that the doctor hardly knew when or whether she had ceased to comprehend him. But they emerged at last upon the lawn, where Faith was taken possession of and marched off by the old Judge, nothing loth. The doctor casting about for another fish to throw his line at, spied Reuben Taylor, standing alone, and eying as Mr. Linden and Faith had done the gay scene about the house, now gay with the many-coloured lamps. "Well, my man," said the doctor easily accosting him as he stood there, "you did very well this afternoon. How long have you been at the school?" Reuben made answer with his usual respectful courtesy. "Are you a friend of Miss Derrick's?" "I think Miss Derrick is my friend, sir," said Reuben with a little flush. "Is she?" said the doctor. "Well don't you think that comes to the same thing?" "No sir." "No? What's the difference? I'm not examining you now—I am asking for information." "I think you must know, sir," said Reuben, respectfully but firmly, after a glance at his questioner. "Do you?" said the doctor laughing slightly. "Well, if you are not her friend, it don't signify. I was going to remark to you, if you were, that ladies don't generally care to have their private affairs talked about, and however much you may know, it is not always worth while to tell it." "I neither know nor have said anything, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben, drawing himself up a little, and looking full in the doctor's face. "You're Reuben Taylor, aren't you?" "Yes sir—I'm not anybody else though." "No," said the doctor carelessly. "Well, it isn't necessary you should be, for present purposes. I heard you quoted as authority just now, on something which touched that lady's affairs, whose friend you say you are not—and I think, your friend though she may be, she was not particularly gratified with your interference." "Miss Faith knew it was a wrong quotation," said Reuben quietly. "You are sure of that?" "Quite sure, sir—if it was anything about her which ought not to have said." "Don't know that it was," said the doctor; "it's well enough sometimes to set people right when they are wrong—what I say is, that ladies don't always thank one for it." Reuben flushed a little. "You don't know me, Dr. Harrison," he said—"I can't expect you to take my word; but I have nothing to add to it." "And I have nothing to add to mine," said the doctor lightly. "I heard you quoted—that's all; I supposed you would know what for." "Who did you hear, sir?" "Don't know, really," said the doctor—"only he was a rude fellow—if you can tell one by such a description among your mates, it was he." And the doctor strolled away. Reuben on his part seemed to recognize the description, for taking a sort of intuitive bee-line through people and trees, he suddenly brought up with the question, "Phil Davids, what have you been saying about me?" "I s'pose you think folks have nothing to do but talk about you now. You're a long way out!"—was the careless answer. "What did you say I said?" said Reuben. "I never heard you say anything, as I know, that was worth tellin' over. When I do, I'll let somebody know it, I tell you." "I suppose that means that you won't answer my question," said Reuben. "What I want to know is, not what I said, but what you say I said." "About what?" "About Miss Faith Derrick." "I don't say you said nothing about her—I never heard you call her name, as I know." "Like enough," said Reuben, with a sort of resolute patience; "but what did you say I said that had to do with her in any way?" "Who do you think you air?" said Phil. "I tell you what, Phil Davids," said Sam Stoutenburgh, who had heard the last question or two, "if you don't keep your tongue off Miss Derrick, I'll pitch you up into a pine tree so far that you'll see stars before you come down—or I'm not Stoutenburgh nor stout, neither!" and Sam—who was a little of a young giant—backed Phil up against the tree that was nearest in a sort of preparatory way that was rather breathless. Phil however was as tough as shoe leather. "Suppos'n you keep eyes off her, then," said he struggling. "It's a poor rule that don't work both ways." "What have you been about?" said Sam,—"come, own up for once—just to try how it feels." "What have you?" said Phil. "I aint up to half as many shines as you, Sam Stoutenburgh." "I should think not!" said Sam disdainfully. "O let him alone, Sam!" said Reuben—"what's the use?" "Little enough use—" said Sam, "or matter either,—everybody knows Phil Davids. Pity he wouldn't make his own acquaintance!" And releasing his prisoner Sam turned disdainfully and Reuben sorrowfully towards the house. But Reuben did not go very near. A wistful look or two towards the lighted front and the clustering guests, and he paused, leaving Sam to go on alone. Sam's bashfulness was happily not of the uncompromising kind, therefore he not only found Faith, but she found him—ready to claim her promise—the very moment she was ready to go. "But I don't know whether the wagon is here, Sam," said Faith. Other wagons were come, and driving off, and a little procession of colours was setting forth on foot, up and down the street from Judge Harrison's. The hall was full of people, getting hoods on and taking leave. "Well, Miss Faith," said Sam, "we can walk to where it ought to be, and if it isn't there maybe you'll let me go further." "But I can't go without seeing my mother, Sam, and I don't know where she is." "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden's voice, while the speaker laid both hands on the boy's shoulders, "what are you about?" "Miss Faith said I might go as far as the wagon with her, sir," said Sam looking down. "The wagon is not here," said Mr. Linden,—"Mr. Skip is probably asleep." "Then I may see you home, Miss Faith?" was the joyous comment. "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden again, preventing Faith's reply, and giving Sam a gentle shake. "Isn't one favour a day enough for you?" he added presently. "No sir!" said Sam boldly. "I suppose I must give way before a blue ribband," said Mr. Linden smiling, yet as if he was much inclined to lift Sam out of the way. "Miss Faith, the matter is in your hands." But Faith did not smile, and looked, or was it his fancy?—ever so little careworn. "What matter, Mr. Linden?" she said simply. "Whether you will take charge of this boy as far as his father's gate. I will try and take care of you, after that." "Will that do, Sam?" said Faith pleasantly, as she threw her scarf over her head. "I'm glad to go any distance with you, Miss Faith," said Sam, but half content—or a quarter! for that was the distance assigned him. "Well behave yourself then," said Mr. Linden, removing his hands. A parting injunction Sam's dignity would have dispensed with. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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