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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id02725" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXII.</h3> Phil Davids, taking his morning walk through the pleasant roads of Pattaquasset, engaged in his out-of-school amusements of hunting cats and frightening children, was suddenly arrested in the midst of an alarming face ('got up' for the benefit of Robbie Waters) by the approach of Sam Stoutenburgh. In general this young gentleman let Phil alone, 'severely,' but on the present occasion he stopped and laid hold of his shoulder. "Phil Davids! I've a warrant against you." "Hands off, Sam! and let a man alone, will you! What do you mean by that?" said Phil gruffly. "Yes—I'll let him alone—when I find him, if he's like you," said Sam with great coolness and some little contempt. "But if you're tired of your own face, Phil, why don't you make up a handsome one, while you're about it? Keep out of his way, Robbie! can't you?" "Guess you don't know what folks says o' yourn! Do you?" said Phil, wriggling his shoulder from under Sam's hand, "I do!" "I guess I know as much as is good for me," replied the undaunted Sam. "But that's none of your business just now. Mr. Linden wants to see you, Phil—and it aint often anybody does that, so you'd better make the most of the chance." With which pleasing sentiment, Sam released Phil, and taking a sharp run after Robbie. Waters enticed him into a long confidential conversation about his new Sunday school teacher. In the midst of which Phil's voice came again. "'Twon't hurt you Sam—jest listen once. They say, Sam Stoutenburgh would have been a Lady apple, if he hadn't grown to be such a Swar, and all the while he thinks he's a Seek-no-further. That's what folks says. How d'ye like it?" "Firstrate!" said Sam—"glad I missed the Lady apples, anyhow,—and as for 'tother, never thought myself one yet—don't like 'em well enough. When you get through paying me compliments, Phil Davids, you'd better go and see Mr. Linden." "Guess I will!" said Phil swaggering off,—"when I want to see him; and that aint to-day, by a long jump." "He said you were to come—" Sam called after him. "If I wasn't a Stoutenburgh sweeting, Phil Davids, I'd teach you to talk of him so! If I only was!—" Sam added sotto voce, "wouldn't I pack myself up in a basket! Robbie, what sort of flowers did Miss Faith have in her bonnet?" At which interesting point the two turned a corner out of Phil's sight. But Phil pursued his way; decently regardless of threats or invitations, and having a wholesome opinion of his own that in holiday time Mr. Linden had nothing to say to him. In no possible time had he anything to say to Mr. Linden that he could help. So it happened, that coming in soon after Mr. Linden had dismissed his breakfast, Faith found Mr. Linden alone. She brought to his side a basket of very fine-looking pears. "Mr. Davids has sent you these, Mr. Linden." "He is very kind," said Mr. Linden. "That is more than I asked for. He hasn't sent Phil in the basket too, has he?—as the easiest way of getting him here." Faith rather startled, and passing over that asked Mr. Linden how he did. Which point, having learned all he wanted upon the other, Mr. Linden was also ready for. Faith then leaving the basket by the couch side, went to the fire and hearth, and put them more thoroughly to rights than Cindy's delicacy of touch, or of eye, had enabled her to do; and going on round the room, care fully performed the same service for everything in it generally. This work however was suddenly stopped in the midst, and coming to the head of the couch, rather behind Mr. Linden, Faith spoke in a low and ill-assured tone. "Mr. Linden—will you let me be by this morning when Dr. Harrison dresses your arm?" There was a moment's silence, and then raising himself up and turning a little so as to see her, Mr. Linden answered, gravely though smiling, "No, Miss Faith!" She coloured very much and drew back. "I asked—" she said presently, speaking with a good deal of difficulty,—"because he spoke of being away—and then there would be no one to do it—and mother is afraid—" And there Faith stopped, more abashed than anybody had ever seen her in her life before. He held out his hand, and took hers, and held it fast. "I know—" he said,—"you need not tell me. When is the doctor going away?" "I don't know," she said almost under breath—"he said perhaps—or I thought—I understood him to mean in a few days." "Miss Faith!"—and the tone was half expostulating, half scolding, half caressing. "Come here and sit down by me," he said, gently drawing her round to the low chair at his side, "I want to talk to you. Do you need to be told why I said no?" She sat down, but sunk her head a little and put up her other hand to shield the side of her face which was next him. The answer did not come at once—when it did, it was a low spoken "no." Her hand was held closer, but except that and the moved change of his voice, Mr. Linden took no notice of her fear. "I would not let Pet do it—" he said gently, "if I could help it. My child, do you know what a disagreeable business it is? I could trust you for not fainting at the time, but I should ill like to hear of your fainting afterwards. And then if you chanced to hurt me—which the doctor often does—you would be unhappy for the rest of the day,—which the doctor by no means is. That is all—I would a great deal rather have your hands about me than his, but a thing that would give you pain would give me very doubtful relief. I had rather go with my arm undressed." He had gone on talking—partly to give her time to recover; but the silent look that was bent upon that shielded face was a little anxious. She dropped the hand that shielded it presently, and shewed it flushed and wistful, yet with a tiny bit of smile beginning to work at the corners of the mouth. "Then Mr. Linden," she said almost in the same tone and without turning her face,—"if you have no other objection—please let me come!" "But that one is strong enough. You may send Cinderella up to take a lesson." "You said that was all?" she repeated. "That is the only real objection—I would not raise even that in a case of greater need. But I suppose unskilful hands could hardly do me much mischief now. So if you will send Cinderella," he added with a smile, "she may enlarge her world of ideas a little." "Mr. Linden,"—said Faith looking at him now fearlessly—"I am going to come myself." "You are!" he said, looking at her—and then his eyes went from her to the fire, and back again to her face. "Then if you faint away, Miss Faith, and I jump up to take care of you (which I shall certainly do) I may faint myself—at which stage of the proceedings Dr. Harrison will have his hands full." "I shall not faint—before nor after," she said, shaking her head. "I should not like to count too much upon your unfeeling disposition," said Mr. Linden, in whose face different currents of thought seemed to meet and mingle. "And then you see, my senses may be guilty of as great a breach of politeness as the warder in a German story I was reading yesterday." "What was that?" "It fell out," said Mr. Linden, "that a lady of surpassing beauty arrived at a certain castle; and next day, the lord of the castle brought before her his warder, bound in chains for a great breach of politeness; he having failed to give his lord notice of the lady's approach! The warder thus defended himself: he had indeed seen the lady, but his dazzled eyes mistook her for another sun! So," added Mr. Linden smiling, "if my eyes should mistake you for a sunbeam or a maple leaf, I might forget myself, and not keep my patience so perfectly as I ought under the hands of such a chirurgeon." "What is going to try your patience, Mr. Linden?—I?"—said Faith, now indubitably in a puzzle. "Do you really want to do this for me?" he said in a different tone, looking at her with that same grave, kind look which she had seen before. "I think I can—and I should like to do it, Mr. Linden, if you are perfectly willing," Faith answered. "I am willing, since you wish it,—and now you must get the doctor's leave—or rather I must get it for you; but in the mean time, Miss Faith, we may go on with some of our studies, if you are at leisure." Faith went to get the books, but returned without them and with a disturbed face. "Mr. Linden, one of the boys wishes to see you." "I suppose it never was heard that a boy came at the right time," said Mr. Linden. "Well Miss Faith—I believe I must see him—will you write another exercise for me? Here is your pen and paper—I will try not to be hindered long." Faith mutely took the pen and paper, and went out with a divided mind, for the boy whom she let in, Cindy being nowhere visible, was Phil Davids. Phil had thought better of his determination, and wisely judging that if Mr. Linden wanted to see him he probably would accomplish the measure some time, concluded the shortest way was to see him as smoothly as possible. So in he walked and made his bow, grumly civil, but civil. Mr. Linden's opening remark, after he had given the boy his hand (which even he liked to touch) was at least peculiar. "Phil—do you know what a smart boy you are?" And the answer was a strictly true, though blundering, "No, sir." "I don't know how smart you could be, myself," said Mr. Linden, "but I know you are very smart now. You always make me think of the man who found a bag of jewels lying in the road and didn't know what they were." It occurred to Phil's mind that not to know jewels when they were seen was a doubtful proof of smartness; so he answered with a somewhat surly, "How, sir?" "This man," Mr. Linden went on, "instead of having his jewels set in gold, to wear or to sell, went round the town flinging them at his neighbour's windows—or his neighbour's cats,—as you do, Phil, with your very bright powers of head and tongue. Why don't you make a man of yourself—and use those powers for something worth while?" "You never see me doin' it, sir!" said Phil, answering the most interesting part of Mr. Linden's address. "Don't I?" said Mr. Linden,—"I see and hear a good many things. But nobody can get on in the world after such a prickly fashion,—why even a porcupine smooths himself down before he tries to go ahead. If you were to be a lawyer Phil, you'd fight your clients instead of helping them fight,—and if you were a farmer, you'd be like the man who burnt up three stacks of his hay because the fourth got wet." Phil reddened, though he couldn't help smiling, and was evidently getting angry. "That 'ere farmer was a big fool!" he said. "Yes, we are agreed upon that point," said Mr. Linden,—"I daresay he would have said so himself next day. Well Phil—this was not what I wanted to talk to you about to-day—much as I like to see smart boys make the most of themselves. I want to know exactly what it was that you heard Reuben Taylor say about Miss Derrick." Phil's eyes opened unmistakeably. "I never heerd him say nothing about her!" he said boldly. "Then why did you say you did?" said Mr. Linden, with the cool face of one who knows his ground. "I didn't!" said Phil. "I'm blessed if I did." "No you are not—" said Mr. Linden gravely,—"people are never blessed who do not speak truth. And you have shut both doors by which such a blessing might have come in this case, Phil." "Who said I ever said so, sir?" Phil asked confidently. "You told Dr. Harrison, for one," said Mr. Linden. "I never spoke a word to Dr. Harrison—" Phil began and checked himself. "I never said anything but the truth, sir!" "What truth did you say to him?" said Mr. Linden. "I wish you would do the same for me. The roughest truth, Phil, is pleasanter to ray ears than the smoothest falsehood." "I said nothin' but what was truth, sir," said Phil, perplexedly, as if he felt caught in a snare. "I didn't think you meant that." "That is precisely what I meant." "'Twarn't nothing but the truth, sir." "Well—" said Mr. Linden,—"I never was afraid of the truth yet, and I don't mean to begin now. You didn't say I had cut your ears off, did you Phil?" "I didn't say nothin' about you, sir, good or indifferent." "That's something," said Mr. Linden with unmoved gravity. "What else did you say?" "It was down to Neanticut, sir," said Phil—"I told Reuben Taylor as how he'd druv her down, Joe Deacon said he had; and Reuben said Joe had made a mistake. That's the hull of it, sir." "Who is her?" said Mr. Linden. "She—Miss Faith Derrick, sir." Phil was getting very uncomfortably red in the face. "Well why did you tell Miss Derrick that Reuben didn't drive her down?—would not she have been likely to know." "I didn't, sir." "I thought not. What did you tell her?" "She knows what I told her!"—said Phil, looking abstractedly at the corner of the couch on which Mr. Linden lay.—"I don't know as I can recollect. But that's what Reuben said, sir." "Well tell me as near as you can recollect—" said Mr. Linden. "And also just the words you used to Reuben." Phil took time to reflect. "I don't want ter," he said. "No, I see you don't—but I want to hear them," said Mr. Linden very quietly. "But tell me the truth this time, Phil." "Folks has a right to speak," said Phil, stating a broad proposition,—"but they hain't a right to tell all they say!" "Well?"—said Mr. Linden, waiving that. "'Twarn't nothin'!" said Phil—"and it 'll just make folks mad—and I durstn't—" "Dare not repeat what you have dared to say? how is that, Phil? But my forgiveness always meets confession half way, as you know," said Mr. Linden. "Well," said Phil, "I jest told Reuben he'd druv her down, and Reuben said Joe was mistaken. It was Joe said it first," "And what did you say before Dr. Harrison?" "I said what Reuben said,"—said Phil feeling poorly. "And what was that?"—Mr. Linden was as untireable as a minority juror. "I said Reuben said she warn't what Joe said," Phil got out at last in a lowered tone. "And what was that?" "Well—" said Phil desperately—"Joe said she was—" Mr. Linden waited. So did Phil. "This is the house that Jack built," Mr. Linden remarked. "What did Joe say she was?" The answer came in articulation pretty well smothered up. "Joe said she was Mr. Linden's sweetheart." "O!—" said Mr. Linden, with a tone Phil felt to the tips of his ears,—"that was it! I really did not know, Phil, that you and Joe took an interest in such matters. Have you had much experience?" Phil shuffled and looked exceedingly embarrassed, but words found none. He had exhausted his stock, of more than words. "Well!" said Mr. Linden,—"you will find, Phil, that it is generally safe to study arithmetic before you begin algebra. There's a little mistake here. Reuben did not drive anybody down to Neanticut—Mrs. Derrick drove the whole way. That explains his words. As for yours, Phil—I wish," said Mr. Linden, looking at him gravely, but gently too, "I wish I knew something you would like very much to have. Can you tell me?" If ever in his life Phil Davids mentally stared, (physically, too) he did it now. 'Something he would like very much to have'? What could Mr. Linden want to know that for? In his confusion Phil didn't know himself. To take in Mr. Linden, all over, was all he was competent to. "Well?" said his teacher with a smile—it was rather a faint one, for he was tired, but very pleasant still. "What is there, Phil?—I am in earnest." "I'm sorry I said it, anyhow!" burst at last from the boy's reluctant lips. That seemed to be his ultimatum. He could see that his words gave pleasure, though they were not directly answered. "I must send you away now," Mr. Linden said, taking his hand again. "I am not strong enough to talk any more. But Phil—if you will learn to speak the truth—so that at the end of six months you can truly say, 'I hate every false way'—I will give you then what you like,—you shall choose your own reward. I would give anything I have in the world if I could make you fear to displease God by telling a falsehood, as much as you fear to displease me by owning it!" It was as much as Phil could do, to take his teacher's hand, and that was done more humbly than certainly any previous action of his life. Speak he could not; but so far as Mr. Linden's influence and authority were concerned that boy was conquered. Whatever he became in after times, and whatever his mates found him still,—and they were not open-mouthed in praise,—for his teacher that boy was a different boy. On his way out of the house he chanced to pass Faith, and did so without a sign of recognition, giving her about as wide a berth as if she had been a ghost. At the door he met Dr. Harrison coming in; but the doctor perhaps did not recognize him. Once clear, Phil ran for it. And at the stair-foot the doctor found Faith. "Dr. Harrison," she said with grave simpleness, "if you will allow me, I should like to see you dress Mr. Linden's arm. If you go to Quilipeak there will be nobody to do it,—and I think I can learn. Mother is afraid, and it would be very disagreeable to her." "And not to you?" said the doctor. "Not so disagreeable. I think I can do it," she answered, meeting his look steadily. "You must not!" said he. "You were not made for such things. Could do it! I don't doubt you could do anything. But if I go, I will send Dr. Limbre in my place. There is no need for you to do disagreeable work. Now it's pleasant to me!" "Dr. Limbre I shouldn't like to have come into the house," said Faith. "And you know he can't leave his own house now—he is sick. I will go up with you, if you please." Dr. Harrison could but follow her, as she tripped up the stairs before him; but there is no reasonable doubt he would have sent her on some other errand if he could. Faith tapped at the door, and they entered the room together. "How do you do?" said Dr. Harrison rather gravely, approaching the couch. Now the fact was, that those two previous interviews had been both long and exciting; and the consequent prostration was greater than usual; so though Mr. Linden did take down the hand which covered his eyes, and did meet the doctor's look with his accustomed pleasantness, his words were few. Indeed he had rather the air of one whose mind has chosen a good opportunity to ride rampant over the prostrate flesh and blood, and who has about given up all attempts to hold the bridle. Whether Dr. Harrison perceived as much, or whether there might be some other reason, his words were also few. He addressed himself seriously to work. "Will you permit me to introduce an apprentice?" he said, in a more commonplace way than was usual for him, as he was removing Mr. Linden's wrapper from the arm. Faith had come quietly up to the head of the couch and was standing there. "Is not that the doctor's prerogative?" "Hum—" said the doctor doubtfully; but he did not explain himself further. Faith had come close to the head of the couch, but stood a little back, so that Mr. Linden could not see whether she looked like fainting or not. There were no signs of that, for the lessening of colour in her cheeks, which was decided, kept company with a very clear and intent eye. One little caught breath he might hear, when the wounded arm was first laid bare; but not another. The doctor heard it too, for he looked up, but Faith was gravely and quietly busy with what she had come there to see; giving it precisely the same simplicity of attention that she brought to her physical geography or her French exercise; and that was entire. She did not shrink; she rather pressed forward and bent near, to acquaint herself perfectly with what was done; and once or twice asked a question as to the reason or the use of something. Dr. Harrison glanced up at her the first time—it might have been with incipient impatience—or irony,—but if either, it disappeared. He answered her questions straightforward and sensibly, giving her, and with admirable precision, exactly the information she desired, and even more than absolutely that. For everything else, the work went on in silence. When the doctor however was standing at the table a moment, preparing his lint or something else, and Faith had followed him there and stood watching; he said to her over the table in a sotto voce aside—but with a sharp glance— "Was the information true, that we received the other night?—under the lanterns?" "What a singular question!" said Mr. Linden from his couch. "Pourquoi?" said the doctor as simply as if the original words had been addressed to Mr. Linden himself. "Well, it may be a singular question, for it was singular information. Was it well-founded, Miss Derrick?" "No—at a venture," said Mr. Linden, with just the sort of air with which a sick person puts in his word and assumes superior knowledge. The doctor looked at one and at the other; Mr. Linden's face told him nothing, any more than his words; Faith, by this time, was covered with confusion. That at least it might be visible to only one person, she moved back to her former place. "Were you behind us?" said the doctor;—"or were you French enough to come by invisibly?" "Is that the last new method?" said Mr. Linden. "You have been in Paris since I was." "Never got so far as that though, I am sorry to say," said the doctor coming back to the couch. "But after all, that was very vague information—it didn't tell one much—only I have a personal interest in the subject. But I am glad you spoke—the man that can tell the dream should be able to give the interpretation. What did it mean, Linden?" "Behold a man of an enquiring turn of mind!" said Mr. Linden with the same half listless half amused air. "He asks for truth, and when that tarries demands interpretation." "I don't know what sort of a man I behold!" said the doctor, moving his eyes with a double expression for an instant from Mr. Linden's arm to his face. "I should think you were a German student in pursuit of the 'Idea'!" said Mr. Linden taking a quiet survey of the doctor's face. "Have you completed the circle, or is there still hope the Idea may seize you?" "The idea seized me a good while ago," said the doctor, with a most comical mock confessional look. "Well then," said Mr. Linden in a sort of confidential tone, "what is your opinion upon the great German question—whether it is better to be One and Somewhat, or to be Nought and All? "You see,"—said the doctor, standing back and suspending operations,—"everybody can't be One and Somewhat!" "Then you choose the comprehensive side—" said Mr. Linden. "That is without doubt the most difficult,—the One and Somewhat is called egotistical, but to be Nought and All!—one must be—what do you suppose?" "A philanthropist, I should suppose!" the doctor answered, with a change of expression not agreeable. And returning to his work, for awhile he behaved unusually like other people; not hurrying his work, but doing it with a grave steady attention to that and nothing else—answering Faith, and saying no more. Perhaps however he thought silence might be carried too far; or else had an unsatisfied mood upon him; for as he was finishing what he had to do, he looked up again to Faith and remarked, "What do you think of this for our quiet town, Miss Derrick? Has Mr. Linden any enemies in Pattaquasset—that you know?" It was merciless in the doctor; for through all this time she had been in a state of confusion—as he knew—that made speech undesirable, though she had spoken. And she didn't answer him now, except by a quickly withdrawn glance. "Who do you suppose loves him well enough," pursued the doctor, "to send a charge of duck shot into him like that?" A sudden little cry of pain, driven back before it was well begun, was heard and but just heard, from Faith. The doctor looked up. "I was afraid this—Are you faint?" he said gently. "No sir,—" she answered; and she stood still as before, though the overspread colour which had held its ground for a good while past, had given way now and fluttered pain fully. But the doctor's words brought Mr. Linden, for the first time since his accident—to a perfectly erect position on the couch—with a total disregard of where his arm went, or what became of its bandages. "What are you about!" "I declare, I don't know!" said Dr. Harrison, standing back. "I thought I was just disposing of you comfortably for the day—but I am open to conviction!" The left hand let go its grasp of the couch—taken so suddenly, and for which the wounded arm took swift vengeance; and Mr. Linden laid himself down on the cushions again, the colour leaving his cheeks as fast as it had come. "What's the matter, Linden?" said the doctor with rather a kind look of concern. "You have hurt yourself." Faith left the room. "I fear I have disarranged some of your work." The doctor examined and set to rights. "I'll see how you do this evening. What ailed you to pitch into me like that, Linden?" "I think the 'pitching in' came upon me," he answered pleasantly. "It seems so, indeed. I hope you won't try this kind of thing again. I am sure you won't to-day." And so the doctor went. A quarter of an hour or a little more had gone by, when the light knock came at Mr. Linden's door that he had certainly learned to know by this time; and Faith came in, bearing a cup of cocoa. The troubled look had not entirely left her face, nor the changeful colour; but she was not thinking of herself. "I knew you were tired, Mr. Linden—Would you like this—or some grapes—or wine—better?" The most prominent idea in Mr. Linden's mind just then, was that he had already had what he did not like; but that had no place in the look which answered her, as he raised himself a little (and but a little) to take the cup from her hand. "Pet would thank you better than I can now, Miss Faith." She stood looking down at him, with a little sorrowing touch about the lines of her mouth. "Do you know how much better two cups of cocoa are than one?" said Mr. Linden. "I don't know how you can have two at once, Mr. Linden." "Then I will bestow one upon you—and wait while you get it." "I am well—" she said, looking amused through her gravity, and shaking her head. "And besides, I couldn't take it, Mr. Linden." And to put an end to that subject, Faith had recourse to the never failing wood fire; and from thence went round the room finishing what she had failed to do in the morning; coming back at the point of time to take Mr. Linden's cup. He looked at her a little as he gave it back. "You are too tired to go over all those lessons to-day—which do you like best? will you bring it?" "I am not tired at all," she said with some flitting colour,—"but you are, Mr. Linden. Won't you rest—sleep—till after dinner—and then, if you like, let me come?" "I will let you come then—and stay now," he said smiling. "Let me stay and be silent then—or do something that will not tire you. Please, Mr. Linden!" "Your line of action lies all within that last bound," he said gently. "But you may read French if you will—or write it and let me look over you,—or another geographical chapter. Neither need make me talk much." The hint about looking over her writing startled Faith amazingly, but perhaps for that very reason she took it as the delicate expression of a wish. That would be a trial, but then too it would call for the least exertion on the part of her teacher. Faith was brave, if she was fearful, and too really humble to have false shame; and after an instant's doubt and hesitation, she said, though she felt it to her fingers' ends, "My exercise is all ready—it only wants to be copied—but how could you look over me, Mr. Linden?" "Could you do such an inconvenient thing as to use that small atlas for a table? and bring it here by me—I am not quite fit to sit up just now." Faith said no more words, but went for her exercise and sat down to write it, as desired, under an observing and she knew a critical eye. It was well her business engrossed her very completely; for she was in an extremely puzzled and disturbed state of mind. Dr. Harrison's words about the occasion of Mr. Linden's accident, carelessly run on, had at last unwittingly given her the clue her own innocent spirit might have waited long for; and grief and pain would have almost overcome her, but for a conflicting feeling of another kind raised by the preceding colloquy between the two gentlemen. Faith was in a state of profound uncertainty, whether Mr. Linden's words had meant anything or nothing. They were spoken so that they might have meant nothing—but then Phil Davids had just been with him—what for?—and whatever Mr. Linden's words might have meant, Faith's knowledge of him made her instinctively know, through all the talk, that they had been spoken for the sake of warding off something disagreeable from her—not for himself. She tried as far as she could to dismiss the question from her thoughts—she could not decide it—and to go on her modest way just as if it had not been raised; and she did; but for all that her face was a study as she sat there writing. For amid all her abstraction in her work, the thought of the possibility that Mr. Linden might have known what he was talking about, would send a tingling flush up into her cheeks; and sometimes again the thoughts of pain that had been at work would bring upon her lip almost one of those sorrowful curves which are so lovely and so pure on the lip of a little child—and rarely seen except there. All this was only by the way; it did not hinder the most careful attention to what she was about, nor the steadiest working of her quite unsteady fingers, which she knew were very likely to move not according to rule. For a little while she was suffered to go on without interruption, other than an occasional word about the French part of her exercise; but presently Mr. Linden's hand began to come now and then with a modifying touch upon her pen and fingers. At first this was done with a gentle "forgive me!" or, "if you please, Miss Faith,"—after that without words, though the manner always expressed them; and once or twice, towards the very end of the lesson, he told her that such a letter was too German—or too sophisticated; and shewed her a more Saxon way. Which admonitions he helped her, as well as he could, to bear, by a quietness which was really as kind, as it seemed oblivious of all that had disturbed or could disturb her. And the words of praise and encouragement were spoken with their usual pleasure-taking and pleasure-giving effect. All this after a time effectually distracted Faith from all other thoughts whatever. When it was done, she sat a moment looking down at the paper, then looked up and gave him a very frank and humble "Thank you, Mr. Linden!" from face and lips both. If Faith liked approbation—that clover-honey to a woman's taste, so far beyond the sickly sweets of flattery and admiration—she might have been satisfied with the grave look of Mr. Linden's eyes at her then. "You are a brave little child!" he said. "I wish I could do something to give you a great deal of pleasure!" "Pleasure!"—said Faith, and what was very rare with her, not only her face flushed but her eyes, so that she turned them away,—"why it is all pleasure to me, Mr. Linden!"—'Such pleasure as I never had before,'—she was near saying, but she did not say. "Well I must not let you tire yourself," he said with a smile, "for that would not be pleasant to me. Have you been out to-day?" "No," said Faith, thinking of her brown moreen. "Nor yesterday—that will not do, Miss Faith. I am afraid I must give you up to the open air for a good part of this afternoon." "What shall I do there?" said Faith smiling. "Let the wind take you a walk—I wish I could be of the party. But the wind is good company, Miss Faith, and talks better than many people,—and the walk you want." "So I want to finish my wood-box," said Faith, looking at the corner of the fireplace. "And I should think you would be tired of seeing the wood lie there, Mr. Linden. I am. I have got to go out this evening too—" she said with a little hesitation,—"to see that microscope." Mr. Linden was silent a moment. "The microscope does make some difference," he said,—"as for the wood-box, Miss Faith, I don't think I can permit it to have any voice in the matter,—you may leave it for me to finish. But if you are going up there this evening—there are two or three things I should like to talk to you about first." "Then shall I come by and by?" she said. "I must do something else before dinner." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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