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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id04287" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXII.</h3> Faith pondered probably Miss Essie's enigmatical words; but she said nothing on the subject even to her mother. Other people's words and looks had produced their share of disturbance at the time; disturbance that Faith did not like to recollect. And she would not recollect it, practically. It left no trace on her face or behaviour. The simplicity of both, unchanged in a whit, testified for her that her modesty would not take such hints from other people's testimony, and that there was no folly in her to be set fluttering at the suggestion. The next Wednesday morning was one of great promise,—fair and soft and quiet, with November's sunshine softening November's brown dress. "I think, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said before he went off after breakfast, "that you should take a short run or two, before you try that long one to Mattabeeset." "A run, Mr. Linden? Didn't I have one last night?" "Truly yes,—but I mean on horseback. Will you take such a one to-day?" "Yes!" said Faith, looking different things, especially pleasure,—"but Mr. Linden, I don't know where I am to get a horse. Crab can't go now." "Well, as I am to play the part of page, and run by your side," said Mr. Linden, "I am rather glad he can't!—no disrespect to his other good qualities. When will you be ready, Miss Faith?" The hour fixed upon had need to be early, for the days were short; so though books had a little time after dinner, it was but a little. Then the horses came; and Mr. Linden took Faith in charge, with words from her mother that might have been very useful if they had been needed,—which in his case they hardly were. A fact which his reply, or the manner of it, seemed to impress upon Mrs. Derrick's mind, for she saw them ride off with nothing but pleasure. Other people saw them with a variety of emotions All the boys they met (except Sam) looked unqualified delight,—from her window Mrs. Stoutenburgh gave them a gay wave of her hand; Miss Bezac on the sidewalk absolutely turned to look again. They rode leisurely up the grassy road, hardly beyond a walk at first, and it was not till the houses grew few and the road more open, that Faith had her promised run: which was but an easy trot, after all. "You must begin very gently, Miss Faith," said her companion as they walked their horses up a little hill. "Look how those topsails mark the water line!" "Yes—don't you like to see the white sails peeping over the trees? I always do. But Mr. Linden, I don't get tired easily—you needn't be afraid. I can go just as fast as you like." She looked enough in the mood. "You know I am interested in the matter,—if I should come home to-morrow and find you gone to sleep at midday—I should lose my French lesson! Now you may have another run." This run was rather a long one, yet came to an unexpected end, for turning a woody point in the road the two riders saw a wagon before them, so directly in their way, that the run changed to a walk even before they perceived that the wagon was in distress. Some bit of harness, some pin, had given way, and the driver had dismounted to repair damages. But moody, or intent upon his work, Faith's horse was close upon him before he looked up—then she saw it was Squire Deacon. He looked down again as suddenly, with only a slight motion of his hand to his hat. Faith's first impulse would have been to rush on; but she checked that. Her next would have been to wait and leave somebody else to speak first; but she overcame that too. So it was her very clear gentle voice that asked, "Are you in trouble here, Mr. Deacon?" The Squire had no time to give his answer, and scarce a moment wherein to concoct it, for Mr. Linden had dismounted and now came between Faith's horse and the wagon, with,—"What is the matter, Squire Deacon?—can I help you?" The Squire looked up them, full, with a face that darkened as he looked. "It's you, is it?" he said slowly. "I thought it was Dr. Harrison!" "Can I help you?" Mr. Linden repeated—and the tone was a little peremptory. Sullenly and slowly the Squire told the damage—the broken harness, the lost lynch-pin; and let Mr. Linden take the first out of his hands, and do what he chose with it; looking on the while—then by degrees taking hold himself and working with him as with any other man, but throwing off jealously the kindness of his helper's words or manner. It was a grave kindness, certainly, but it did not belie the name. Faith sat looking on. After awhile her voice broke the silence. "Did you say a lynch-pin was wanting, Mr. Deacon?" "There's one gone." "I should like to be doing something to help. Will you lend me your knife, Mr. Deacon?—and I'll try." But that brought a hand on her bridle. "I cannot trust your horse out of my sight, Miss Faith,—I will get what is wanting." "There's no use in anyone's doing anything," said Squire Deacon, by way of a settler; and the harness work went on in silence. Faith waited a little. "I am not the least afraid," she said then, leaning over her horse's neck but speaking no name. "There's a place only a little way back where I think I can get a lynch-pin,—if anybody will lend me a knife. Please let me go and be doing something! I want to go." "This cord," said Mr. Linden, taking one up from the bottom of the wagon—"is it wanted for any special purpose, Squire Deacon?" "I guess if you ask Joe he could tell you," said the Squire with a glance that way. "'Twas good for something, but he's tied it in forty knots—just to see if I'd be fool enough to pick 'em out." "It would be very useful about this harness," said Mr. Linden,—"will you try and get rid of the knots?"—and he handed Faith the cord, with a smile which said she must make that do instead of the lynch-pin. Which Faith did not particularly like, for she had a strong hankering for the ride back to the bushes. She dropped the bridle upon her horse's neck, and began to exercise her patience and skill upon the knots. "I wish I had a knife!" she said as she did so, "and I'd shew you that I am not afraid." And a little colour rose in her face, which rather grew. "That's easy," said Squire Deacon, looking suddenly up and extending his hand. "Here's one as'll cut through most things." Mr. Linden's head was bent over the harness,—neither eye nor hand stirred from his work. "Thank you, Mr. Deacon," said Faith, feeling the blood rise to her brow,—"but I won't go for it now.—I'll do this first." In her confusion Faith did not see another person that joined the group, till he was standing at her horse's side. "What sort of a bee are you gettin' up here on the high-way?" said Mr. Simlins in his good-humoured growl (and he had a variety.) "What air you doin' on horse-back?" "There's harness to be mended here, Mr. Simlins—and I'm making rope for it." "You go 'long!" said he. "Who are you makin' rope for? Give that to me?" But Faith held fast. "No, Mr. Simlins, you can't have it—I am bound to get out these knots. There is work doing round here, that perhaps you can help." Mr. Simlins stooped under her horse's head and went round to the other side, and then for the first time he got a full view. "That's the way you perform actions!" he said; seeming too profoundly struck to be at all wordy. "'Say and Seal' I guess you be! What's the matter with you, Squire?" "If anything is, I haint heard of it," said Mr. Deacon, with the knife lying heavy against his ribs. "Mr. Linden's turned harness-maker—that's the last news." "O are you there, Mr. Simlins?" said the new mechanic, looking up from his work. "Can't be more unlikely than you," said the farmer, beginning on his part to finger the broken harness. "How you come to be here passes all my imagery. That'll do smartly. Where did you learn all trades? I don't see, Squire Deacon, but he's as good at mendin' as you be at marrin'. What do you think?" "I don't see as one man has much to do with another," said Mr. Deacon lucidly. "Yes, that will do," said Mr. Linden. "Now Miss Faith—give me that cord if you please, and you shall go after the lynch-pin." "No," she said pleasantly,—"it'll be done in a minute—I want to finish it." "When did you get back from York, Squire?" said Mr. Simlins—"and what took you away? I haint heerd yet. I never believed you were gone for good—though folks said it." "'Taint generally worth while to believe what folks says," replied the Squire. "I've been back three weeks, I guess. Shouldn't wonder if I went again though." "Shouldn't wonder if you did," said Mr. Simlins. "I would if I was you—if I wanted to. Mr. Linden, it was a providential thing, that you should come along at this idiomatical moment. There aint another man in Pattaquasset would ha' done this so good as you." "There is another line of business open to me then," said Mr. Linden, who had begun upon the other end of the piece of cord with opposition fingers. "What aint open to you?" said Mr. Simlins. "Do you know of anything? Give us that cord—will you?" "Yes, you may have it now—the knots are all out," said Mr. Linden, as he put the disentangled cord in the hands of Mr. Simlins and himself in the saddle. "Now Miss Faith, you shall have a lesson in lynch-pins—s'il vous plaît." "You do beat all!" said Squire Deacon looking up from under his hat, and with a voice that kept his eyes company. Faith looked very pretty as she turned her horse in obedience to the intimation given her, with a somewhat demure smile and blush upon her face. Mr. Simlins looked, as well as the Squire, with a different expression. "Well, I guess you're about right!" was his answering remark. "I do believe he can get the whip hand of most things. He's a Say and Seal man, he says." To which, however, the Squire deigned no response. Stooping over his harness, fingering and fitting, he was silent a little; then spoke in a careless, half inquiring half assenting sort of way. "What wonders me is, why he don't marry that girl out of hand. I reckon she'd follow him down that road as easy as she does down others. What's he waiting for?" "I guess he haint pitched upon a likely place to settle yet,"—said Mr. Simlins, in a manner equally careless and devoid of reliable information. Squire Deacon gave a little inarticulate reply. "He'd better hurry up—" he said,—"Dr. Harrison's giving chase." "Is he?" said Mr. Simlins. "He'll be where the dog was when he chased the wolf—if he's spry. I shouldn't wonder." "O—you think he's a wolf, do you?" said Mr. Deacon. "Well—the doctor's chance aint much the worse of that." "Don't look very carnivorous," said Mr. Simlins, "but I aint sure. I wouldn't be so quick in my presumptions, Squire. You'll shoot the wrong game one of these days—if you haint already." "Think so?" said the Squire. "Well, I aint after the game they are, any way, so it don't matter to me which of 'em gets her. Most folks say it's like to be the doctor,—she seems tryin' 'em both by turns." The riders, on their part, had a short run back on the road they had come, to where there was a hedge and thicket and trees together; and Faith's horse being led close up to the side of the hedge, and she herself provided with a knife, she was free to cut as many lynch-pins as she chose. But at this point Faith handed back the knife. "I can't do it half so well," she said. "I would rather you did it, Mr. Linden." "You would rather not do it?" he said looking at her. "Is no bread pleasant but that 'eaten in secret'?" Faith coloured very much. "I didn't care about doing it, Mr. Linden, except to be useful, and for the enterprise of going off for it by myself. And I didn't care about that, more than two minutes." "You know I had a charge about you before we came out," he said, taking the knife and bending down towards the hedge to use it. "But for that—or a like one in my own mind—you should have had your enterprise. There—I think that may serve the purpose." The lynch-pin being delivered, the riders left the distressed wagon behind; and again the free road stretched before them; the soft air and light filled all the way and even the brown tree stems with pleasantness. The horses felt they had had a rest and pricked up their ears to be in motion again, and the minds of the riders perhaps felt a stir of the like kind. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "a German writer says, that 'one should every day read a fine poem, look upon an excellent picture, hear a little good music, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.'" "Why do you tell that to me, Mr. Linden?" "I consider it my duty to keep you well informed as to yours." "But then!" said Faith, who by dint of trotting had got into as merry a mood as her gentleness often wore, "I hope you will also think it your duty, Mr. Linden, to tell me how I can perform mine. Will you?" "Of course!—please speak a few sensible words to me at once." "You begin with the easiest thing!" said Faith. "Yes, I am generally considerate. But as it is part of my duty to hear a little good music, I am willing you should sing first." Music he had, though not exactly of the specified sort; for Faith's laugh rolled along the road, like the chafing of silver pebbles in a brook. "Now for the next part," said Mr. Linden smiling. "I think I have done too much already," said Faith growing grave. "Besides," she added, the corners of her mouth all alive again, "I don't remember what the next part is, Mr. Linden." "Why the sensible words!—what are the most sensible you can think of on a sudden, Miss Faith?" "I don't know that I could think of anything very sensible on a sudden, Mr. Linden. Is it my duty to do it on sudden?" "It might be, Miss Faith. Indeed I think it is now!" "What would you like them to be about, Mr. Linden? and I'll try." "Nay, you may choose: sense is of universal application." "If I should say what was uppermost," said Faith, "it would be, How very pleasant what we are doing now, is!" "Which part?" "Both parts!—Every part! One makes the other more pleasant." And Faith's happy face looked so. "Very sensible words!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "I agree to them perfectly,—which is, you know, in every mind, the great test of sense. The picture, Miss Faith, we have before us." "Yes,—isn't it lovely to-day, Mr. Linden? and hasn't it been lovely ever since we set out? Except that broken harness—and I don't think that has hurt anything, either." "No, I am not sure that even the harness was much the worse. And 'it' has been very lovely. As for the poem, Miss Faith, you cannot be trusted with that—and must resign yourself to hearing it read. What shall it be?" "I don't know," said Faith. "I know hardly any poetry, Mr. Linden, except what I have heard you read. Will you read some, perhaps, this evening?" "Yes—every evening, if you like,—if we are to follow Göthe's rule. Just before tea is a good time, don't you think so?" "Yes indeed!" said Faith, whose colour rose from pure pleasure, as her thought went back to L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. "I don't think there is any time pleasanter for it. But they're all pleasant—I've dropped my whip, Mr. Linden!"— "I will get it for you," he said checking his horse, "if you will promise not to run away! I am afraid of your 'enterprising' spirit, Miss Faith." But her look at him was a little touched and deprecating. They turned their horses together and went back a few steps. There was no trouble in finding the whip, for just where it had been dropped, a boy stood holding it on high for Faith's acceptance The boy was Phil Davids. "Thank you, Phil!" said Faith, surprised and grateful. "I see it go out of your hand," said Phil. "Yes," said. Mr. Linden—whose smile and word of thanks had accompanied Faith's,—"Phil has singularly quick eyes. They have done me good service before." As they turned again, Farmer Davids stood at their horses' heads. They were just at the farmer's door, and he so entreated them to come 'in and rest,' that there was no refusing his hospitality. It was large, and various—Pumpkin pies and cider, and much pouring forth of gratitude and admiration for Mr. Linden's success with Phil. "What have you done to that fellow?" his father remarked admiringly to Mr. Linden. "You never see such an alteration in a boy. He used—oncet—to talk hard words agin you, sir;—you won't mind hearing it now; but he's come all about, and lately there's nothing to Phil's mind can equal up to Mr. Linden. He don't say much about it, sir, but it's evident. And he's been at me and his mother this fortnight or two, to give him something to make a present to you—the boys do, he says; and he wants the best thing on the farm should go, and so do I, sir, if we knowed oncet what would be most favourable. It would be a kindness, sir, as I should be grateful for,—if you'd say what would do you most service or be most pleasure—of anything that is on the farm;—fruit or vegetables or dairy. We're plain folks, sir; I say what I mean. Take some pie, Mr. Linden!—some cider, sir?" Answering these various questions and demands as best he might, Mr. Linden contrived to convince Mr. Davids that Phil himself was the thing "on the farm" that he cared most about; and his goodwill, better than any special manifestation thereof; giving at the same time full and grateful thanks for the other things that had come to him when he was ill. "Yes," said Mr. Davids, smiling one of his grim and rare smiles,—"all that don't help our difficulty, you see. Well, Phil and I'll have to put our heads together. But there's one person can send nothing that will tell half his good feelings of gratefulness to you,—and that's me." And a very unwonted softening of the stern man's eye and brow shewed that he spoke a gentle truth. Kind words answered him,—words of personal kindness and interest, and deep pleasure too; but Mr. Davids knew it was a pleasure, an interest, a kindness, that had each (like Samuel Rutherford's hope) "a face looking straight out unto that day!" Truly, "a city that is set on an hill, cannot be hid!" And the farmer felt it, and his manner softened, and his interest grew more wistful and intent with every minute they stayed. Faith was on horseback and Mr. Linden about to follow, when Farmer Davids arrested him with a low remark and question. "She's a fine-faced girl—looks as her father needn't ha' been ashamed of her. Looks good—like he did. Is she going to marry the son of Judge Harrison, sir?" "Dr. Harrison has told me nothing of the kind." "I heerd it"—said the farmer. "I didn't know nothing, how it might be. Good day, sir! I hope you'll come again." And they trotted off at last, with again the renewed feeling of liberty and pleasure of motion. But the sun had descended perceptibly nearer to the horizon than he was when they dismounted. However there was nothing to do but to ride, for the proposed route was a circuit and they were passed the first half of the way already. "That was good, Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Which part of it this time?" "I don't mean the pumpkin pie and the cider," she said smiling. "Do you feel rested?" "Oh yes! Rested and tired too. At least, quite ready to move on again." "Yes, so am I. But do you know Göthe left out one very important item in his daily directions?" "What was that?" "One should, if possible, every day give some one else a little pleasure." "Yes!" said Faith. "And it's so true, and so easy. How much you gave there just now, Mr. Linden!" "It was rather of their taking than my giving. But Miss Faith, —'How necessary is it now-a-days, That each body live uprightly in all manner ways?'" "Yes, Mr. Linden! What are you thinking of?" "Just that—" he said smiling. "A thought of the darkness makes one want to trim the lights. Did you ever notice, Miss Faith, that many things which were written in a mere worldly sense, will bear a very sweet Christian application? Take this for instance:— 'Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he who runs it well, runs twice his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, that happy state, I would not fear nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night,— To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.'" She listened with a bright face at first; then as the quotation was ended her face flushed, she turned her eyes away, and a grave look of sorrow crept over her lips. But in a little while she looked again. "How many books do you carry about in your head, Mr. Linden?" "If I should tell you, Miss Faith, then you would know—and then I could never delude you any more! Now we must quicken our pace, or we shall scarce get our poem before tea." For awhile the trotting was pretty brisk, then they drew bridle again and went gently on, but now towards the setting sun, whose bright rays were caught and held by the white sails that gleamed here and there in the distance. Now they met lines of cattle, driven by some bare-footed boy or sun-bonneted girl, and ploughmen trudged along the road behind their teams. Thicker curls of smoke from wayside chimneys spoke of supper, and where a house stood in the shadow of some bit of forest, lights were already gleaming from the windows. "How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise, and true perfection!" Which bit of excellent eulogy might also have been true of Quapaw creek and the bridge over it, which they reached in seasonable time. Quapaw creek was here a little bit of a river, and the bridge over it was an insignificant little bridge—'no count,' in Squire Deacon's language. But now, of all times in the year, the little bridge was already full of more than it could hold, literally, for it couldn't hold what was upon it. A heavy farm-wagon loaded with some sort of produce had got fairly upon the bridge some hour or two before and then broken through; men and teams had for the present deserted it, and there was the way pretty effectually blocked up. What was to be done? They were not more now than a mile or two from home, but to go back and round by the nearest way would be several miles. The water was not very broad, nor generally deep; but the banks and the bed of the stream were uneven and strewn with rocks and stones, small and great. It was fordable, certainly; a good rider might cross well enough; but a good rider would scarce choose to trust an unskilful one there. What was to be done? "We shall have to go back, Mr. Linden," said Faith;—"and you mustn't mind my riding fast now, or mother will be uneasy." Mr. Linden took the case into consideration. "Will you mind riding before me, Miss Faith?" "What, sir?" she said, not understanding. "Will you let me take you across?" "How can you, Mr. Linden?" she said, looking a little startled, and flushing. "Very easily—on my horse. Stay where you are a minute, and let me try the ford." And not waiting for an answer to that, he rode down the bank and into the stream. It was easy enough, for a man who knew what to do with his horse's mouth; not easy, nor perhaps safe for another. The footing needed to be chosen by the hand of the rider; so chosen it was good. Mr. Linden rode to the other side and came back. "Will you try, Miss Faith?" "Yes," she said, putting her horse in motion,—"I am not afraid. I will follow you. It will be better than going round." But his horse did not stir. "I shall not follow you, Miss Faith,—and yet if you cross it must be before me. No other way is safe for you." "Well, we can go round, can't we?" said Faith. "Yes," he said,—as the sun dropped down behind the low horizon, and the cool shade fell on everything but the tree tops. "You know it is about six times as far. Are you afraid of my horse?" "No, not when you hold him. I will do just what you please, Mr. Linden," she said, though her colour mounted. "Then do not be afraid of me," he said, dropping his own bridle and gently disengaging the hand from hers. "Please take your foot out of the stirrup, Miss Faith—" and the transfer was made in a moment: she was lifted across the little space between the two horses, and seated in front of Mr. Linden, and held fast. "Are you afraid?" he repeated, looking gravely down at her. "No sir.—Not a bit, Mr. Linden," she said, throwing a little more warmth into her words, for the first had been spoken somewhat under breath. So leaving the one horse fastened to a tree-branch, the other set forward with his unwonted burden, which indeed at first he did not much approve; pricking his ears, and sidling about, with some doubtfulness of intent. But being after all a sensible horse, and apprehending the voice and rein suggestions which were made to him, he began to pick his way slowly and carefully among the stones on the bank, and then through the stones in the river; setting down his feet with great judgment and precaution, and paying no heed to the rushing and splashing of the little stream, except by his ears—which certainly worked, for once. And so the dangerous "pass" was soon behind them, and Mr. Linden dismounted and lifted Faith down, and seated her on a grey stone on the bank, while he went back for her horse. Which crossing, it may be observed, was accomplished much quicker than the last. The twilight was falling fast, and the little river, and the two horses as they forded its swift current, looked shadowy enough; set off by the white foam on both. The evening wind began its fitful stir, and swept the dry leaves past Faith's feet, and shook the cedar boughs above her head; and so she sat there, and watched the crossing. "I have had the best picture to-day, Mr. Linden," she said, when she was placed in the saddle again. "You ought to have seen the river, and you and the two horses coming over it, in this light, as I did. You don't know how pretty it was. Now you'll let me ride fast, won't you?—for mother will be looking for us." "As fast as you please—but after all, you have not seen my picture," he said smiling. Faith profited by the permission given and put her horse to a pace that proved she was very much in earnest to prevent that "looking for them" on Mrs. Derrick's part. She got out of the trot into a canter—or her horse did—and then away they flew; too fast to see or be hindered by any more friends or foes; till they drew bridle at home. It was too late to have the reading before tea. So to have tea as speedily as possible was the next object. And then they adjourned to the fire-lit sitting-room, where Faith lighted the lamp in uncertainty whether reading or studies was to be the next move. Mr. Linden, however, went for his book—a little old volume, of which Faith had never taken notice; and began, without doubt, the prettiest description of a garden that ever was written;— "How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays:"—etc. The reader paused a moment, to tell more particularly what these leafy honours were, and then went on. "Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude." At which words precisely, the spirit of contrariety opened the door and ushered in Dr. Harrison. All he saw, was Mr. Linden with a book, in one easy-chair; Mrs. Derrick with her knitting in another; and a little further off, Faith, sitting on her low cushion and apparently doing nothing. Probably for that reason the doctor made up to her first. He sat down beside her, and enquired in a low tone how the fishes were? Faith answered that they were well; only one of them had been eaten up by the others. "You are a little tired and are feeling remarkably well to-night," the doctor went on. "What have you been doing?" "I have been trying to do my duty," Faith said colouring and laughing. "Don't you always do that?" said Dr. Harrison looking at her enquiringly. "But I didn't know what it was till to-day." "You are doing what is very uncommon with you," said the doctor—"fighting me with my own weapons." His smile was pleasant though acute; but Faith coloured exceedingly. "I can't tell you exactly what duty I mean," she said, "but Mr. Linden can." "Do you take your notions of duty from him?" "To-day,"—said Faith with a smile, sweet and with spirit enough too. "I maintain that duties are facts, not notions," said Mr. Linden. "Hum—" said the doctor turning,—"Now you are too quick for me. May one not have a notion of a fact?" "One may. What are your notions about society and solitude?" "Of duty in those regards?" "Not at all,—your notions of those facts." "Confused—" said the doctor,—"Incomprehensible—Melancholy—and Distracting!" He had got up and assumed the position he seemed to like, a standing-place on the rug, from whence he could look down on everybody. "What do you say to this?— 'Two paradises were in one, To live in Paradise alone.'— I suppose that meets your 'notions.'" "No," said the doctor,—"not unless Eve were the paradise. And even then, I shouldn't want her any more to myself than to let all the world come and see that she was mine." "It is a grave question," said Mr. Linden, "whether paradise becomes smaller by being divided. In other words, whether after sharing it with Eve, Adam still retained the whole of it for himself!" "Just the other way!" said the doctor,—"it was doubled—or trebled. For in the first place he had Eve; she was a second paradise;—then all her enjoyment of paradise was his enjoyment; that was a third;—and in short I should think the multiplication might go on ad infinitum—like compound interest or any other series of happiness impossible to calculate." "Simple interest isn't a bad thing," said Mr. Linden. "Yes," said the doctor with an answering flash of his eye, "but it never contented anybody yet that could get it compound—that ever I heard of. Does Miss Derrick understand arithmetic?" "Miss Derrick," said Mr. Linden, "how many angels can stand on the point of a (darning) needle without jostling each other?" "Don't be deluded into thinking that is arithmetic," said the doctor. "Some of them would get their feet hurt. What duty has Mr. Linden been persuading you to do to-day?" "Mr. Linden can tell," said Faith. Which appeal Mr. Linden answered by deliberately finishing his poem aloud, for the benefit of the company. "'What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, the curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.' 'Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.'" etc. The doctor listened, faithfully and enjoyingly; but his finishing comment was, "What a pity it is November!" "No," said Faith—"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July." "Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?" "It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith. "What have you got there, Linden?" "Various old poets, bound up together." "What was that you read?" "Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'" "It's a famous good thing!—though I confess my soul never 'glided into the boughs' of any tree when my body didn't go along. Apropos—Do you like to be on the back of a good horse?" "Why yes," said Mr. Linden, "when circumstances place me there." "Will you let me be a circumstance to do it? I have an animal of that description—with almost the facility of motion possessed by Andrew Marvell's soul. Will you try him?" "Can he run?" said Mr. Linden with comic demureness. "Fleetly. Whether away with you depends, you know, on what I have no knowledge of; but I should think not." "I should like to know beforehand—" said Mr. Linden in the same tone. "However—Is it to be on simple or compound interest, doctor?" "I never take simple interest," said Dr. Harrison. "I want all I can get." "Well if I take your horse, what will you ride alongside of me?" "That is easily arranged," said the doctor smiling. "This fellow is a new-comer, comparatively, and a pet of mine. I want to know what you think of him. When is your next time of leisure?" "My daylight leisure is pretty limited now. Part of Saturday I could take." "Then you'll hold yourself engaged to me for Saturday morning,—and I'll hold myself engaged to give you some thing pleasant to do with it. The roads hereabout are good for nothing but riding—you can have the pleasure of motion, there isn't much to take your thoughts away from it." "Except emotion?" "If you're another Marvell of a man, and can send your soul into the boughs as you pass;—as good as stumbling on melons," said the doctor. "Unless your horse stumbles!" "I see his character is coming out by degrees," said Mr. Linden smiling. "He's as sure-footed—as you are! Here comes emotion—in the shape of my aunt Ellen. Isn't Mr. Linden a careful man?" he asked whimsically in a low voice, returning to his place by Faith. The question touched Faith's feeling of the ludicrous, and she only laughed at the doctor. Which he liked very well. Mrs. Somers' errand was to invite the younger portion of the company to spend Christmas evening with her. And having succeeded in her mission, she made the doctor take her home. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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