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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id04006" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXI.</h3> The 29th of November came on Wednesday, which permitted Mrs. Stoutenburgh to have her dinner at an earlier hour than would else have been possible. To this dinner the two older guests were invited—the boys were only to come to supper; and four o'clock was the time. Till near three, studies and reading were in full force, but then other duties claimed attention. "If I could only sit next you at dinner, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as he shut up the books, "we could talk French all the time!—but there is no hope of that. And Miss Faith—" he said as she turned to go upstairs, "do you know that all the things on my table are not in their proper place?" Very much wondering, Faith was for a moment at a loss. "What is wrong, Mr. Linden?" "I would not give it so harsh a name, Miss Faith—only I thought perhaps you would go in there before I come up and see that all is left just as usual,—if you would be so good." Faith went up, querying with herself whether Cindy could perhaps have been in there and committed some dire damage—or what it could be. What could it!—if ever a room was scrupulously in order, that was; and the table—it had not been stirred, nor a book upon it, since Faith's arranging hands had been there. Even writing implements were not laid about, as they often were,—the table was just as usual. Unless—— Yes, in front of the books stood a glass of water, and therein one dark velvet rose, truly of a "Cramoisi supérieure," failing to support itself upon its own green leaves, laid its face half coquettishly and half wearily upon dark sprigs of heliotrope and myrtle. Thence it looked at Faith. And Faith looked at it, with a curious smile of recognition, and yet of doubt,—whether that could possibly be what he meant. But she was to see that all things were "left just as usual;" it did not admit of a serious question. So lifting the glass and the rose, Faith and it went off together. Faith's best dress, of course put on for this occasion, was a black silk. She had thought that a little extravagant at the time it was got; but Mrs. Derrick would have it. It was made with the most absolute plainness, high in the neck, where the invariable little white ruffle graced the white throat; but the sleeves were short, and similar white ruffles softened the dividing line between them and the well rounded fair arms. Her hair was as usual, her feet were as usual, only the shoes were of fresh neatness; but when Faith had with eyes that saw only them, not herself, fastened the rose and myrtle on the bosom of her dress, a little figure stood there that in its soft angles and exquisite propriety of attire would have been noted in any circle of splendour, and might have satisfied the most fastidious lover of elegance. Wrapped up and hooded Faith went down stairs, and Mr. Linden put her in the Stoutenburgh carriage, which rolled off to the mansion of the same name in a very short space of time. In solitary grandeur Faith was ushered into Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedroom, where first the fire kept her company, and then Mrs. Stoutenburgh herself came in from another door and both unwrapped her and wrapt her up! But when all that could be done was done, Mrs. Stoutenburgh ran off again, and told Faith, laughing, that she hadn't seen her yet—and was all ready for her in the parlour. Faith being left to herself stepped out into the passage, where Mr. Linden was standing with folded arms before a window that looked out upon the closing November day. Faith came softly up beside him. "I've seen Mrs. Stoutenburgh," she said, "but she says she hasn't seen me. Are your flowers right now, Mr. Linden?" "Miss Faith! why do you wear velvet shoes?"—he said turning full upon her. "You have not been down stairs?" "No, certainly. I saw Mrs. Stoutenburgh up here." "Then shall I have the pleasure of taking you down?—I see nothing that is not right," he added smiling. It was rather an odd new thing to Faith, to be taken down, or in, anywhere. The form of having a gentleman's arm was something rather startling. But she did not shew it. Down stairs they went, into the glowing parlour, where Faith was met and greeted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh de nouveau. "Ah Miss Faith!" said the Squire as he gave her his salutation, "how extravagant you are to add roses to roses in that style! Don't you know it's a waste of material?" "No, sir. I shall use it all up." "I should like to see you after you get through!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Ask Mr. Linden if it's not waste." Mr. Linden however entirely declined to assent to any such proposition,—nay, even hinted that if any one was to be charged with wasting roses just then, it was the Squire himself. "Yes, I think so too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"but how funnily you always see through things and turn them about!" "Roses are not very opaque things to see through," he answered smiling, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh rescued Faith and putting her arm round her drew her off towards the sofa. Where Faith was glad to get at a distance from the rose-consumers. She felt rather nervous. "Where is Sam?" she asked. "This is his day, isn't it?" "He was here a minute ago," said his mother,—"I guess he ran off when he heard you coming. He takes fits of being bashful once in a while,—they don't last long. Your mother wasn't afraid to let you come with our horses, was she?" "No ma'am," Faith said,—"not at all. But she hasn't got back her old trust in horses and carriages generally. I wish she had." "I don't—" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"they're not to be trusted generally, child. Has your horse got well yet?" "Not well. Mr. Skip says he's better, but we can't use him." "Well I wanted to talk to you about that—Mr. Stoutenburgh's been at me to do it this month. You know we've always got more horses on hand than we can use—and there's one of 'em that would just suit you. Won't you let him stand in your stable this winter?—and give Crab a chance." "O no, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!—thank you!" said Faith. "I dare say Crab will get better—it won't be necessary; and you know we don't ride much in winter. You're very kind to think of it." "There you are—as usual!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I'm always afraid to ask you anything, you keep such magnifying glasses. But now Faith, listen to reason. Not ride in winter!—why it's the very time for riding, if there's snow; and you could drive Jerry, or your mother could, just as well as Crab—he's as quiet as he can be. At the same time," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a little dance in her eyes, "if anybody else drives him, he can go a little faster." "I'll tell mother how good you are, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. It isn't my business to give answers for her. But did you ever see me drive?" "Not horses," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Not anything else, I am sure? I used to want to go after the cows, but mother never would let me." But whatever Mrs. Stoutenburgh meant she did not explain, for dinner was announced, and the Squire came up to take possession of Faith again; receiving his wife's little whispered "I've done it!" with all her own satisfaction. In the dining-room Sam was at last visible, but the bashful fit had not gone off, and Faith's black silk was even more distracting than her white muslin. Her greeting of him was simple enough to have been reassuring. "I hope you will be as happy a great many times as you are to-day, Sam," she said as she shook hands with him. "On the 29th of November, I mean." Perhaps Sam thought that doubtful—perhaps impossible,—perhaps undesirable. At all events his words were few; and though he was permitted the post of honour at Faith's side, he did not do much for her entertainment at first. The dinner itself, service and style and all included, was sufficiently like the Squire and his wife. Handsome and substantial, free, bountiful, and with a sort of laughing air of good cheer about it which more ceremony would have covered up. There was no lack of talk, either,—all the company having the ability therefor, and then, at least, the inclination. But if Mr. Linden now and then called Sam out of his abstraction, so did the Squire attack Faith; giving her a little sword play to parry as best she might. "Miss Faith," he said, "do you know to what a point you are, day by day, winding up the curiosity of this town of Pattaquasset?" "I, sir!" said Faith, apparently, by her eye and air, occupying the place of the centre of motion to all this curiosity;—the point of absolute rest. "My dear," said the Squire, "they say two things about you! The first is that you never go out! Now don't trouble yourself to contradict that, but just tell me the reason. We're all friends here, you know." "Why I go out very often indeed, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Faith. "Didn't I tell you not to contradict me? Ah Miss Faith!—young ladies never will take advice! Well—the first thing is, as I said, that you never go out. The second," said the Squire laughing, "is—that you do!" "Well sir," said Faith merrily,—"they can't both be true—and there isn't anything very bad about either of them. Nor very curious, either, I think." "What I should like to know," said Mr. Linden, "is, who keeps watch at the gate?" "Squire Deacon does, for one," said Sam promptly. "I see him there often enough." "When you come to relieve the guard?" said Mr. Linden smiling. And the laugh was turned for the moment, rather to Sam's confusion. "So that's what the Squire's come back for, is it?" said Mr. Stoutenburgh. "I thought somebody was to blame for his going away." "Nobody was much to blame," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I had a long talk with Sam the other day—Sam Deacon, I mean," said the Squire, "and he was keen to get acquainted with Dr. Harrison. And as the doctor came along just then, I gave him a chance. I guess the doctor blessed me for it!—I did him. By the way, Miss Faith, I s'pose you've got acquainted with the doctor by this time?" "Yes sir—very well—" Faith said quietly, though she felt the ground uneasy and unsafe. "Well what sort of a chap is he?—up to anything besides running away with all he can lay his hands on?" "Don't you know him, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "Can't say I do, Miss Faith,—it rather strikes me he's not anxious I should." "How can he be anxious, sir, when you are not?" said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that expecting too much?" The Squire laughed. "I don't expect too much of him," he said,—"and don't you expect too little. After all, I'd as soon take a boy's mind as a man's—and he aint popular among the boys. I thought he would be, after that exhibition—but he aint." Which remark Mr. Linden knew to be true, though he did not say so. "Well, Mr. Stoutenburgh! if you don't like him why do you talk about him?" said his wife. "Faith—you can play blind man's buff, I'm sure?" "Wait a bit,—wait a bit," said the Squire—"I'm not ready to be blinded yet, if she is. You ladies are always in such a hurry! Now Mr. Linden and I want to have our ideas cleared up. What sort of a man is the doctor, Miss Faith? You say you know him 'very well,'—do you like him 'very much'?" This shot brought Faith to a stand and obliged her, to be sure, to 'shew her colours,' which she did bravely. Nevertheless she faced the Squire and answered steadily. "I like him a good deal, Mr. Stoutenburgh—in some respects very much." "Hum—" said the Squire, as he cut a persuasive piece of duck and put it on her plate. "Well wouldn't you like to tell me, my dear, what you mean by 'some respects'?—That's Mrs. Stoutenburgh's word, and I never could find out yet." "I suppose it means different things in different cases," said Faith smiling. "Did you ever?"—said the Squire, taking a general survey of the table, which began with Faith and ended with Mr. Linden, "Aint that half of creation up to anything? I tell you what, Miss Faith, if I'd been in that meadow 'tother day, I'd have made Mazeppa of the doctor in no time,—Sam hasn't learnt to put his history in practice yet. And besides," said the Squire, with a peculiarly slow, innocent enunciation, "he never likes to do anything that would displease Mr. Linden!" "Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife, though she was laughing merrily herself, "Can't you be quiet? Faith, why don't you answer me?" "What, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"—Faith turned towards her a face from which, gentle as it was, the smile had disappeared. "You play blind man's buff, don't you, dear?" "When I can," said Faith. "The real question, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, whose grave unmoved look—unmoved unless by a little fear that she might be annoyed—would have been some help to her during her cross-examination if she had seen it,—"the real question is, whether you are willing to play to-night." "I am as willing as can be," said Faith. "I don't know whether they'll want to play it," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "but they may; and Sam's never content unless I'm in the fun, whatever it is." "Of course Miss Faith will play," said the Squire,—"she never refuses to please anybody." "Mr. Linden said he would," said Sam. "But how shall you and I manage, Faith?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "They'd tell us in a minute by our dresses—as there are only two of us." Faith pondered this difficulty with an amused face. "Sam must lend us some of his jackets or coats, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. Our heads are the worst,—or mine is—you and Sam might be mistaken for each other." "But there'd be no use in Miss Faith's disguising herself," said Sam naively, "because she's so sweet." "You wouldn't have her disguise that, would you, Sam?" said Mr. Linden laughing. "What a boy!" said his mother,—"and what a reflection upon me!" "Why I meant her flowers!" said Sam,—"you needn't all laugh so. I don't mean either that I didn't mean—" but what more he meant Sam left unsaid, which did not much stay the laughter. "I will appoint two or three boys to play the part of the pigeon in hawking," said Mr. Linden,—"Miss Faith might get tired of being caught, if not of running away." "How do you know that, Mr. Linden?" she said a little archly. "Truly," he answered, "I know it not—but most things are possible, even in blind man's buff. And all boys are not provided with silk gloves. But you shall not complain of not being caught—I promise you that." "Again!" she said with another soft flash of her eye, though now she coloured. "Don't you understand, Mr. Linden, that I don't intend to let anybody catch me?—if I can help it." "Miss Faith, I have the most entire confidence in your intentions!" Faith kept her energies for action, and said no more. And in a very harmonious temper the whole party left the dinner table and went back to the fire-lit parlour. All but Sam, who went to be ready for his particular guests in another room. His place was presently supplied by a new-comer. There was a step in the hall—then the parlour door opened, and a little lady with a shawl round her shoulders, came in. "Good evening!" she said in a very cheery voice. "Why I didn't expect to find so many of you! Is it a party, Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—and shall I go away? or will you let me come in, now I've got here?" "Come in, come in, Miss Essie, and make it a party," said the Squire; while Mrs. Stoutenburgh took off the shawl and answered, "Go away? why of course not! It's only Sam's birth-day—you're not afraid of boys, I guess." "I'm not afraid of anything," said Miss Essie, and her bright black eyes said it too. "Isn't that Mr. Linden?—yes, I thought so. And Faith Derrick!—my! child, how you're dressed. What sort of a party have you got, Mrs. S.?" "Why, boys!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while Mr. Linden said, "Good evening, Miss Essie—you know I am one of them." "Are you? I don't know much about you, except by hearsay, you know. I am glad you are here to-night. I shall study you, Mr. Linden." Mr. Linden bowed his acknowledgments. "Will you want my help, Miss Essie?" She laughed. "Come!" said she—"don't get on too fast! I am beginning to like you already. What are the boys doing, Mrs. Stoutenburgh? Sam's birthday, did you say?" "Yes, it's Sam's birthday,—I don't suppose they're doing much yet except coming," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "What they will do, no mortal can say." "And you'll let them do anything! It must be a nice thing to be a boy, with such a mother as Mrs. Stoutenburgh, Mr. Linden." His "yes" came readily enough, but was unaccompanied with any other word whatever. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's "Do hush!"—was sufficiently energetic though very low. "How old is Sam?" was the instant question, as if the whisper had referred to him. "O Sam can't get beyond fourteen till he's twenty," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "I suppose by that time I sha'n't care how old he is." "I know who thinks he's a handsome fellow!" said Miss Essie shaking her head,—"and that's not you, Mrs. S. I know he's a smart one, for I pinned a blue ribband to his coat once. I wonder if he loves me properly for it.—Faith Derrick, how come you to be here, child?" "Why because Mrs. Stoutenburgh asked me," said Faith, answering this sudden address with some surprise. "Wrong!" said Miss Essie. "There's some mistake about it. I've just come from hearing you talked of." "Whom did you hear, Miss Essie?" said the Squire. "Come—give up your authority." "I was at Judge Harrison's," said Miss Essie, after a considerative look of her black eyes at the Squire;—"and that's all I am going to tell you, Mr. Stoutenburgh! Mr. Linden, what do you think of the propriety of people's talking about people?" "I think well of the propriety, when it exists." "Well what do you think of its existence? Honestly, now. I want to get at your opinion." "I think its existence is rather limited and precarious, Miss Essie," said Mr. Linden smiling. "It is one of those things that may be said to have a delicate constitution." "Well," said Miss Essie again, smiling too, both with lips and eyes,—"how could people get along in such a place as Pattaquasset, for instance, without it? People must talk. And it is so pleasant to know that Mrs. Stoutenburgh's son Sam is fifteen years old and had a party on his birthday; and that Mr. Linden and Miss Derrick were there and eat roast turkey;—and to know that Miss Essie de Staff went to New York to get a new carpet for her best room and what the new style is;—and that Miss Faith Derrick was run away with and brought home again, and went through adventures. How could we do without talking of these things? Now perhaps you will say it's immoral; but I'm in favour of a possible morality; and I say, how could Pattaquasset get along without all this?" "Pattaquasset could get along without some of the things, to start with," said the Squire. "I don't know what you call 'pleasant,' Miss Essie, but I never was so angry in my life—since some rascal told me Mrs. Stoutenburgh was going to marry somebody else," he added laughing. "But I say," said Miss Essie, "how could Pattaquasset get along without talking of these things? and I ask Mr. Linden. I want to know his opinion." "I will not say that it could," said Mr. Linden.—"Miss Essie, you know Pattaquasset better than I do." "Well do you think there is any harm in talking of them?" "What do you think of the modern definition of a young lawyer, Miss Essie—'a man who is where he has no business to be, because he has no business where he ought to be'?" Miss Essie laughed, and laughed. "Don't Sam get along fast with his reading and writing. Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "Always did—" said the Squire; "and with everything else too. What are you talking about? I lost that. I'd gone off to that rascal—" Miss Essie's laugh rang out again and her eyes danced. "That rascal! Now for shame, Mr. Stoutenburgh! You know better. I wonder if you never had young horses yourself, and took Mrs. Stoutenburgh to ride, too. Now I like him very much. Mr. Linden, you know Dr. Harrison, don't you?" "I should—a little." "Well aren't you a judge of character? Do you think he deserves to be called a rascal?" But Squire Stoutenburgh prevented the answer. "I wish you'd just stop and let me catch up with you, Miss Essie," he said. "Now before we go any further, whoever said he was a rascal?—I didn't." "Did you mean somebody else, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "That's the way you talk over pleasant things!" said the Squire. "If I hadn't hallooed after you, Miss Essie, I should have had a challenge from the doctor before morning—or a shot,—that's getting to be the fashion." "Do you think Dr. Harrison is that kind of man?" said Miss Essie. "Mr. Linden, what kind of man do you think he is? You can tell better than the Squire, and I want to know." "Miss Essie!—he is my friend and I am his,—you cannot expect me to give you Dr. Harrison's components—'each with its Latin label on'!" "Not at all! but in general, how would you characterize him, if asked what sort of a man he was!" "I should perhaps decline." Miss Essie had no chance to push her question, for Sam came with a demand for Mr. Linden himself, which was at once obeyed. A little while passed, and then Mr. Linden came back again; and walked composedly round to the back of Faith's chair. "Mrs. Stoutenburgh," he said, "will you let me take this lady away for five minutes?—Miss Faith, will you come?" Nothing loth, if the truth must be told, Faith rose up to follow his leading; which was out of the parlour and through the hall. "Miss Faith," he said as he shut the door, "have you been conjugating the verb s'ennuyer?" "No," she said. "I was amused to hear you and Miss Essie talk." "What singular ideas people have on the question of pleasant things!" said Mr. Linden. "Come in here, Miss Faith"—and he opened the door of a mingled library, study room, and office—"I want to give you (before we go any further) the whole quotation which I did not dare to give Miss Essie, though it would not have been meant for her, if I had." And he took down one of the books, and read— "'Her eye,—it seems a chemic test, And drops upon you like an acid; It bites you with unconscious zest, So clear and bright, so coldly placid; It holds—you quietly aloof, It holds, and yet it does not win you; It merely puts you to the proof And sorts what qualities are in you,' &c. 'There you are classified: she's gone Far, far away into herself; Each with its Latin label on, Your poor components, one by one, Are laid upon their proper shelf In her compact and ordered mind,' &c. 'O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err, For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art;— Thou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter Of any simple human heart.' That's comforting doctrine—isn't it?" he said smiling as he put up the book. "How good that is!" said Faith, as much in the spirit of enjoyment as of criticism. But it isn't just Miss Essie. It's more like"—She stopped. "Well—who? No, it is not Miss Essie." "I was going to say, Mrs. Somers—but it is not Mrs. Somers, either. She is more kind than that." "Yes, I think so—though she keeps her kindness under lock and key, like her sweetmeats. Miss Faith, shall I give you a loophole view of those boys—before you venture yourself among them?" She said yes, with a bright face that shewed her primed for any enjoyment, or anything else perhaps, he might propose. He knew the house, apparently, and led her out of one door and in at another, giving her little undertone remarks by the way. "I know you and I agree in some of our notions about pleasant things," he said, "or I should not presume that you would find this one. To some people, you know, boys are mere receivers for Latin and Greek—to me they are separate little pieces of humanity. I study them quite as much as they do their lessons. Now you shall see them off their guard. This room is dark—but I know the way." He took her hand as he spoke, and led her through the darkness to a spot of shaded light at the further end of the room, whence too came laughter and voices; then drew back the curtain from a sash door and let her look in. It was pleasant, as he said,—the room was glowing with light, the boys in a knot about the fire; some sitting, some standing, one or two couchant upon the rug. Sam was the spokesman just then—the rest listening, interrupting, applauding; the flashing firelight shewing such different faces! such varied indications!—they looked like a little Congress of representatives. "What are they doing, Mr. Linden? Sam is having a good time!—and all the rest of them for that matter." "I am not quite sure what they are doing, Miss Faith,—Sam looks as if he might be recounting some of his own exploits—for the twentieth time." "But Reuben, who never would recount one of his, is five times as much of a man." "Yes,—I wonder what Miss Essie would say of the two, respectively. She means to study me to-night, you know," he said smiling—"and I mean she shall! There comes Mrs. Stoutenburgh—now I shall take you in." Not by the sash door, but round again by another way they came upon the little company. Mrs. Stoutenburgh had been in before, and her reappearance had not made much change in the order of things; but when Faith came in every boy rose to his feet, and the admiring looks were only bounded by the number of eyes. They fell back right and left as she came on towards the fire; and once seated there in an easy chair, those who knew her came up to pay their respects—those who did not stood still and paid them at a distance, whispering and touching each other with, "My! ain't she handsome!"— All of which amused at least two of the lookers-on. One or two of the boys Mr. Linden brought up and presented. Faith however was presently out of her chair of state and wound in and out among them, speaking to those whom she knew or remembered at Neanticut. She was in a little gale of good-fellowship by the time Mr. Linden with Miss Essie returned to the room. "Well!" said Miss Essie. "Now what's the first order of things? Mr. Linden, these are all your boys, I suppose?" "These are all and not all, Miss Essie." "Yes. Do they always do what you tell them?" "They are extraordinary boys!" said Mr. Linden. "Not one of them has a will of his own." "Oh!" said Miss Essie. "What has become of their wills? Have you stolen them? Now I am going to put that to the proof. Sam Stoutenburgh—you are not twenty years old yet, your mother says; have you a will of your own?" "Mother says I have," replied Sam. "Ah!—you see!" said Miss Essie. "You sir,—I know you but I don't remember you,—your teacher says you haven't a will of your own—now is it true? I want to know." "A will of my own, ma'am?" Reuben repeated, looking doubtfully from Miss Essie to Mr. Linden. "Against whose, if you please?" "Well—" said Miss Essie, a little surprised, and laughing—"upon honour, will you tell the truth?" "I'll try, ma'am." "Against Mr. Linden's. Now upon honour!—I'll go bail for you." The bail was not needed. Reuben's quiet "No, ma'am, and don't want to have," was very forcible. "I declare!" said Miss Essie turning to Mr. Linden,—"you're a wonderful man!—For of course Sam's word is his mother's word, and that's nothing in the circumstances. I wish I had been so happy as to be a boy and go to school to you, Mr. Linden! All my life my trouble has been a will of my own; and I never found anybody that could deprive me of it." "Nor yourself ready to give it up?" "Of course! but I never could, you know. It was stronger than I." "I'll tell you what," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, coming up, "if you two people want to talk any more, you've got to stand out of the way,—Faith and I are going to have a game with these boys." "What sort of game?" "Why blind man's buff," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Sam—go to my room and fetch that plaid ribband that lies on the bed." "Now I'll tell you," said Miss Essie, "you must play this game as they do it up at Suckiaug. Any game wants a stake, you know, Mr. Stoutenburgh, to make it thoroughly interesting. You must play it this way. Everybody that is caught and found, must answer any question the person catching chooses to ask. And if he refuses to answer, he must answer some other question and give a reason for it. That'll make 'em fly round!" In the midst of a little general bustle that ensued, Faith was startled at finding that her rose and myrtle were gone. The next instant a hand presented them unceremoniously under her face, and an abrupt voice announced, "Here's your flowers!" It was even Phil Davids who had done it. Faith seized her flowers, and then sprang after Phil and thanked him very gratefully; rightly hailing this civility as an omen for good. The flowers were next bestowed carefully in a glass of water, to be in safety till the play should be over. Now began the fun of robing and disrobing. The ladies pinned up their silk skirts into order and quiet compass, and pulled on over their arms and shoulders whatever boys' gear would fit. Faith was jaunty in a little cloth jacket which covered her arms; Miss Essie wrapped about her a plaid travelling shawl of the Squire's. Mrs. Stoutenburgh deferred her disguising till she should need it, being in the first place to be the catcher, not the caught. Mr. Linden on his part chose to rely on his own resources for safety, but two or three of the boys tied on shawls and scarfs—soon discarded in the mêlée. If Sam's intent was to have a steady game of running, never to produce results—unless fatigue and laughter—he had well chosen the first 'catcher.' Mrs. Stoutenburgh's powers of entanglement lay not in that line, though she ran about with the most utter good will and merriment. But how the boys jumped over her arms!—or dived under them! How Sam caught her round the waist, and even kissed her, regardless of danger! She might have been playing till this time, if Mr. Linden had not interposed and gallantly suffered himself to be caught. "We'll have to step round now, I tell you!" said one of the boys,—"this'll be another guess sort of a run!" "Look out for yourself now, Miss Faith!" said Reuben—both which things were profoundly true and necessary. And Faith soon found out that she was the quarry—and that pigeons were of no avail. Whether Mr. Linden had heard her steps about his sick room till he had learned them by heart,—whether the theory of 'spirits touching' held good in this case,—he gave her a swift little run round the room, and shut her up gracefully in the corner. Then with the simplicity which characterized most of his proceedings, disregarding jacket and cap, he took hold of her hand and inquired, "Miss Faith—do you consider yourself disguised?" The soft laugh which it was impossible to keep back, answered to his ear, as the flush which overspread Faith's face answered to eyes of the rest of the company. "That will do to begin with," he said as he took off the plaid ribband, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed and clapped her hands after her own lively fashion. "But Miss Faith!" said Sam—"don't tie up your head, please!—if you shut your eyes it will do just as well." "You can't see her eyes if they're shut, you foolish boy," said Mr. Linden,—"go off and attend to your own affairs. Miss Faith, shall I tie this on—or do you wish for a deputy?" There is a great deal of character that comes out in a play! Miss Essie might have had excellent opportunity for prosecuting her "studies," if she had not been busy on her own score. For Faith did not play like Mrs. Stoutenburgh. She played like herself—with a gentleness that never overstepped delicate bounds; but her foot was light and true, and her movements fearless and free as those of the very boys. It was a pretty game that she played. It would have been a short one, but that it was so hard to identify her captives. One boy after another Faith caught,—to the feeling they were all alike! At last her hand seized an other prize, and her voice exclaimed, Mr. Stoutenburgh! There was a sharp change about now between the older and the younger people. Faith did her best not to be caught again. But after half a dozen changes between Mr. Linden and the boys, he again had the pleasure of investing her with the plaid ribband. "May I give her the question?" whispered Miss Essie at Mr. Linden's ear. "No indeed!" said Mr. Linden.—"Miss Faith, what is the difference between a bird and a philosopher?" Somewhat to the surprise as well as amusement of the company, the answer to this was the heartiest, merriest bit of a laugh; then she said, "One looks round the corner, Mr. Linden!" "Well you won't see round the corner now," he said softly and laughing as he tied on the ribband. "Miss Faith! do you mean to say I did?" She said "no," and ran away. But Faith was not in luck this time, for she caught Miss Essie. And Miss Essie in a few minutes got the chance she wanted at Faith. She wouldn't have had it, for Faith ran too well and vanished too skilfully; but a little knot of the boys getting into a knot just in her way and at the wrong time, Faith fell a prey. "Now," said her captor unbinding her ribband, "what do you think I am going to ask you?" Faith was very doubtful on the subject, and waited in silence. "Only a matter of taste," said Miss Essie. "Who do you think"—(speaking slowly)—"is the handsomest man in Pattaquasset?" The colour mounted in Faith's cheeks too distinctly to leave any room for the doubt that no other answer was at hand. She avoided Miss Essie's black eyes. "Come!" said that lady. "I can't tell you,"—said Faith, amid the laughter of some of the company, which was enormous. "You can't!" said Miss Essie. "Now you are at my mercy. You have got to tell me something else and give your reason. What do you think is the best profession a man can follow?" "Any one is good that is used right," said Faith, looking down and speaking with difficulty,—"but I suppose the best is a minister's." "Why?" said Miss Essie, disappointed. "Because the business of that profession is to lead men to heaven;—that of others is only to fit them for earth." "My dear, you're a fine girl!" said the Squire—willing Faith should say anything that cut out Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, what do you mean by asking her such a string of questions?—how can she tell who's the handsomest man? She wouldn't like to hurt Mr. Linden's feelings by saying me, nor to make us both mad by saying anybody else—if there was anybody else to speak of." "You hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Miss Essie. "Don't you know how to ask questions? Now Faith Derrick—run off with yourself." Faith obeyed with a trifle less than her usual spirit; but the game presently called it back again. Darting about, like some gentle-hearted hawk, among those flying pigeons, she had seized one boy and another with her usual bad success in the matter of identifying, when the boys suddenly cleared away a little—anxious perhaps that Mr. Linden should be caught again; for of all the players he gave them the most fun. And so effectually did they clear the way—so ineffectually did he protect himself! that the next grasp of Faith's hand was upon his arm. And her voice gravely announced that she knew it. "Now Faith!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "do puzzle him if you can—give him a hard question." "She does not want to ask me any questions," said Mr. Linden as he untied the ribband. "You forget, Mrs Stoutenburgh, how many she can ask every day. Now with Miss Essie the case is quite different." Very quiet and pleasant was the look bent on Faith,—very cool and undisturbed the manner. "Miss Faith, are you tired?—I must be philosophical enough to inform you that there is a shadow of puss-in-the-corner!" And a very plain expression of gratitude was in her eyes and smile as she answered, "No, I'm not tired, Mr. Linden—but I would as lieve look on as play." That seemed to be the general grown-up mind; but before the looking on had lasted long, everybody was called into another room to supper. There the boys were left somewhat to themselves at one end of the table, and the half dozen others stood or sat in the warm fireplace corner at the other. Mr. Linden indeed, and Squire Stoutenburgh, were both "boys" very often; but their returns to the ladies were frequent and prolonged. Faith was enthroned in a great chair, and there petted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while everybody brought her things by turns—a privilege highly prized by some of the boys. Neither could Miss Essie complain of want of attention, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh and Mr. Linden took laughing care of each other between whiles. "Miss Essie," he said as he brought her a cup of coffee, "where are you in the pursuit of knowledge?" Miss Essie laughed; yet not a triumphant laugh, nor even a satisfied one; it might be considered doubtful. "I think," she said, "you are one of a sort I don't much understand, Mr. Linden—perhaps because I don't know them much. Aren't you one of what I may call the good sort?" Faith's laugh, which was indeed very low but unavoidable, was the first testimony. "I hope you may—" said Mr. Linden,—"the words sound pleasant. I am not quite sure what they mean." "Ah! There you are again!" said Miss Essie. "As difficult to catch at other things as at blind man's buff. Well I'll be frank with you, for I don't mean to offend you. I mean, the sort of people who are called 'rigidly righteous'—people who think it incumbent on them to be better than their neighbours." "O no—" said Mr. Linden,—"I quite disclaim that. I only think it incumbent on me to be better than myself." "Yes, but you are one of the people I mean—aren't you?" "Not according to that term, Miss Essie. May I ask what you mean by the other?" "Rigidly righteous?" "Yes." "Why I told you—people that pretend to be better than people in general. People in general, you know, get on without pretending much to be good at all: and of course it's disagreeable to be brought short up at every turn with 'you ought not,' and 'you ought;' and whether it is said or acted don't make much difference. Now here's this child, a little while ago, thought she mustn't say anything was good but a minister. "Do you mean Christians?" said Mr. Linden. "Well—" said Miss Essie, "I hope we're all Christians—aren't we? We're not heathens." "I mean the followers of Christ. Is that what you meant? I do wear the badge of that 'Legion of Honour.'" Miss Essie looked fidgeted. Faith was letting her ice-cream melt while she listened. Mrs. Stoutenburgh in the midst of supper-table attentions gave an anxious eye and ear to the conference, which she would not interrupt. "Well now tell me what you mean by that?" said Miss Essie, feeling herself in some confusion, of terms at least. "Can I find plainer words? You know what was meant by a follower in the old feudal times?" "No I don't," said Miss Essie beginning to sip her coffee again. "Tell me!" "A follower was one who binding himself to the service his lord required of him, thenceforth paid it—in peace or in war,—to the end of his life. And the terms of agreement were two-fold,—fidelity on the one side, protection on the other. 'They follow me,' says Christ, 'and I give unto them eternal life.'" "Yes, but," said Miss Essie, "do you think it is required that we should put ourselves so much out of the way to be good? I think people were meant to enjoy themselves." "_I _enjoy myself—" said Mr. Linden smiling a little. "What think you makes the lark fly circling up into the very sunbeams, singing as lie goes?—is it duty? is it to rise above the robins and sparrows?" "I don't understand you!" said Miss Essie respectfully. "That is just the inner life of many a Christian,—his very heart-cry is, 'Nearer, my God, to thee! Nearer to thee! E'en though it be a cross, That raiseth me!'—" "Well, you think nobody can be safe that don't live just so?" persisted Miss Essie. "In whom such a life is not at least begun?—How can it be, Miss Essie? Safe? without the blessing of God?" "Well there we differ," said the lady. "That's what I mean by being rigidly righteous. I think every one must judge for himself." A little more erect Mr. Linden stood, drawing himself up slightly—it was his wont sometimes under a touch of excitement, and spoke with his deep emphasis these words— "'This is life eternal, to know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent.'—Miss Essie, where is your permit for free judgment against the Bible?" "I didn't mean that," said Miss Essie, lowering her crest. "But I mean that everybody can't be good after your strict way." "I am not standing up for myself, you know," said he pleasantly, "nor denying that you have described me right; but what a follower of Christ ought to be, is no more rigid than sunlight—or than the wings of angels. Yet both sun and angels 'always do his commandment' who made them both." "Oh people can't be sunlight—nor angels neither, in this world. You're Utopian! That's what I said." "They can be 'burning and shining lights,'" said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, will you gainsay the Bible? Why can they not?" "They can be—but I suppose they aren't obliged to be; or what is to become of us all?" said Miss Essie, half seriously half defiantly. "That will depend upon whom we follow," he answered gravely. "Well now, Mr. Linden, how many people in the world are 'followers' in the way you have described them?—and are all the rest going to destruction? Take the people in this room now, for instance,—boys and all here's twenty of us perhaps. How many do you suppose are here of your way of 'following'? You're one—who's another? Stand off there, and see whom you can get to join you!" "Stand off and say with Moses—'who is on the Lord's side?'—there would be several, Miss Essie." "Well count up," said Miss Essie. "I suppose they have no objection to shew themselves. You are one—who's another?" "I am another," said Faith, rising and setting down her ice cream. "You!"—said Miss Essie turning the black eyes upon her,—"you look like it, child!" "You must put the 'rigid' out of your head," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which changed as he spoke. "Well who else?" said Miss Essie, for some reason or other in an impatient temper. "Tell them your definition, will you, and ask who'll stand by you. Mrs. Stoutenburgh!—make them all stop and attend." "If I ask them you may think they come to please me." "No, no, you know how to say it. Mr. Stoutenburgh!—boys!—listen. I want to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people—Mr. Linden will tell you what kind." He spoke then—as Faith had once or twice heard him speak, sending his voice through the room almost without raising it. "Miss Essie de Staff wishes to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people—those that 'have sworn unto the Lord, and will not go back.' Whoever is of that number will please come over to this side." There was a little astonished pause. Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, just then at the further end of the room, had moved at Miss Essie's summons, but stopped short at the first sound of Mr. Linden's voice, and looked in a sort of maze,—he clearly was not jesting, that was all they could make out. That too the boys saw: but for a minute they stood like statues,—then Reuben stepped from the group and walked quietly, deliberately, over to where Mr. Linden stood; the covenant-signing in his face glowing with the Free Church addition—"until death!" One and another followed him—one after another,—Faith was surprised to see how many: ranging themselves about Mr. Linden. But something in it all touched him—stirred him,—something perhaps personal to himself and them; for after the first three or four had come he looked no more,—his eyes fell, and the firmly compressed lips could not quite conceal their trembling. He stood as statue-like as the boys had done. In the interest of a moment and a scene that she never forgot, it was a simple thing that Faith lost thought of her own standing. Perhaps Miss Essie shared her oblivion of self for that minute; her look of uneasy curiosity changed to a sobriety that was almost awe. Perhaps self-recollection came back; for after eying the dumb show with uncommonly blank black eyes, both they and she suddenly started into action. "That will do," she said with voice and gesture,—"you may go back—scatter! and be boys again. Mr. Linden, what I complain of is, that you say you are on the Lord's side and that everybody else is not!" His thoughts came back slowly, as from some far distant region,—he even turned to Faith and wheeled up a chair for her before he answered. "No, Miss Essie—those last words I believe I never said. But the 'Lord knoweth them that are his'—let each one have answering knowledge for himself." Miss Essie's look was not comfortable. She abandoned the point in hand, and swallowed her cold coffee. "What are you talking about?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh coming up to them. "What sort of a game was that, Miss Essie?" "Nothing,"—said Miss Essie. "I said I would study Mr. Linden—and I have. I've found out two things about him." "I wonder if he's been studying too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.—"What are the two things? Miss Essie, your coffee's just as cold as Faith's ice is warm!—that comes of talking when you ought to be eating. Mr. Linden—just help Mr. Stoutenburgh with that little table, please—and I'll have the coffee-pot here and be comfortable." "And I shall tell Miss Essie a story about fishes," said Mr. Linden as he obeyed. Mrs. Stoutenburgh sat down behind her coffee-pot, while the gentlemen went back and forth between the two tables, bringing cups and cake and what else was needed for this "German cotillion," as Mr. Linden called it. During which interlude Miss Essie, after taking an observant view of Faith, gave her a significant private admonition, that "somebody" would not like her being there. Faith in vain endeavoured to get some light on this dark information; Miss Essie was startling but enigmatical, and suddenly turned from her and asked Mr. Linden "what was the story he had promised?" "Not much of a story, though I called it one. It has to do with the way different races of fishes wear their bones." "Well?" said Miss Essie, using her eyes; while Faith forgot her flushed cheeks and used hers. "You are perhaps aware," he said smiling, "that even fishes have their inflexible points; in other words, a region of bone somewhere." Miss Essie bowed her head, mentally ejaculating, "You have!" "And all the fossil tribes, as well as those which now exist, are divided into two great classes,—those which wear their bones on the outside, and those which wear them within. The first have a perfect plate armour—jointed and fitted and carved, piece by piece; but the inner framework is merely cartilaginous. The others, while they shew nothing but pliant flesh, have an internal structure of bone which can outlast ages." "Curious!" said Miss Essie, eying him all the while carefully. "Then I suppose we are all fishes!" "I was thinking—apropos to our talk awhile ago—of the intangible, unseen nature of a Christian's strength. The moment his defence is worn on the outside, that moment there is a failure of strength within. His real armour of proof is nothing more 'rigid,' Miss Essie, than 'the girdle of truth,' 'the breastplate of righteousness,' and 'for a helmet the hope of salvation.'" "Very good armour," said Miss Essie; "but can't he wear it without being unlike other people?" "Can he?" "Look here," said Squire Stoutenburgh, "what have you been about? If you've been studying anatomy, Mr. Linden, I'll go learn dancing!" And the conversation diverged. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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