At which Faith looked thoughtful.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to live at Quilipeak?"

The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted.

"Well?" he said smiling--though she felt some other thread in the voice. "What did you think of the words that pa.s.sed between the doctor and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?"

"You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I couldn't wish anything else."--

He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and affection, as if she were very, very precious.

"My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do it, it would be you!--and yet I cannot."

She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing.

"You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so sure that you would feel with me!--I know it so well! I have a long story to tell you, dear Faith,--some time, not now," he added, with a sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own time? I know it is asking a good deal."

"It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best."

He pa.s.sed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it too,--then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the room.

But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons--under careful guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest, and listen,--first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the light faded--the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden, who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face her.

"How do you feel to-night?" he asked.

"Perfectly well--and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last night to make it pleasant to lie still."

"You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with me on a shining expedition?"

"On _what_ sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing.

"A shining one--I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest places I can find."

There was an alternation of amus.e.m.e.nt and a grave expression in her face for a minute, one and the other flitting by turns; but then she said quietly, "When, Mr. Linden?"

"What shall I do with you?" he said,--"shall I call you Miss Derrick?"

"No indeed!" she said colouring. "I don't often forget myself."

"No, I shall not do that, for it would punish myself too much, but I shall do something else--which will not punish me at all, and may perhaps make you remember. What do you suppose it will be?"

"I don't know"--she said flushing all over.

"Nothing worse than this"--he said, bending his face to hers. "Faith! I did not mean to frighten you so! I'll tell you where I want to take you.--You know Monday is the first of January, and I want to go with you to those houses in the neighbourhood where the wheels of the new year drag a little, and try to give them a pleasant start. Would you like it?"

"O!"--she said, springing forward with a delighted exclamation.--"Tell me, just what you mean. To which houses?"

"I mean that if you are well, we will have a long, long sleigh ride, and leave as many little pieces of comfort and pleasure by the way as we can. The houses, dear, will be more than you think--I must make out a list."

Faith clapped her hands.

"O delicious! That is the best thing we could possibly do with Monday!

and there are two days yet this week--I shall have plenty of chance, mother and I, to make everything. O what sorts of things shall we take?

and what are some of the houses? There is Mrs. Dow, where we went that night,"--she said, her voice falling,--"and Sally Lowndes--what places are you thinking off?"

"I think we might give Reuben at least a visit, if nothing else,--and there are a good many such houses down about those points, and far on along the sh.o.r.e. I was thinking most of them--though there are some nearer by. But my Mignonette must not tire herself,--I did not mean to bring anything but pleasure upon her hands."

"You can't! in this way," said Faith in delighted eagerness. "Who keeps house in Reuben's home? he has no mother."

"No--I suppose I may say that he keeps house,--for his father is away a great deal, and Reuben always seems to be doing what there is to do. As to things--you will want some for well people, and some for sick,--at some houses the mere necessary bread and meat, and at others any of those little extras which people who spend all their money for bread and meat can never get. But little child," Mr. Linden said smiling, "if I let you prepare, you must let me send home."

"What?" said she. "I thought you said we would both take them together?"

He laughed--taking her hand and holding it in both his.

"And so we will!--I meant, send home here, to prepare."

"Oh!--Well," said Faith, "but we have a great deal now, you know; and I can send Mr. Skip to get more. But one thing I know--we will take Reuben a roast turkey!"

I wonder if she could tell, in the firelight, with what eyes he watched her and listened to her! Probably not, for his back was towards the fire, and the changing light and shade on his face was a little concealed. But the light had the mastery.

"Faith," he said, "I shall send you home some sugar-plums--upon express condition that you are not to eat them up; being quite sweet enough already."

His face was so hid that probably Faith thought her own was hid too, and did not know how clearly its moved timid changes were seen. She leaned forward, and touching one hand lightly to his shoulder, said,

"What do you mean to make me,--Endecott?"

It was a thing to hear, the soft fall and hesitancy of Faith's voice at the last word. Yet they hardly told of the struggle it had cost. How the word thrilled him she did not know,--the persons living from whom he ever had that name were now so few, that there was a strange mingling with the exquisite pleasure of hearing it from her lips,--a mingling of past grief and of present healing. He changed his place instantly; and taking possession of her, gave her the most gentle, tender, and silent thanks. Perhaps too much touched to speak--perhaps feeling sure that if he spoke at all it would be in just such words as she had so gently reproved. The answer at last was only a bright, "I told you I could not promise--and I will not now!"

She pushed her head round a little so that she could give a quick glance into his face, in which lay her answer. Her words, when she spoke, made something of a transition, which however was proved by the voice to be a transition in words only.

"Wouldn't a bag of potatoes be a good thing for us to take?"

"Certainly!--and we must take some books, and some orders for wood. And you must have a basket of trifles to delight all the children we meet."

"That's easy! And books, will you take? that's delicious! that's better than anything, for those who can enjoy them. Do you think any of them want bibles?"

"We will take some, at a venture--I never like to go anywhere without that supply. And then we shall both have to use our wits to find out just what is wanted in a particular place,--the people that tell you most have often the least to tell. And above all, Faith, we shall want plenty of sympathy and kind words and patience,--they are more called for than anything else. Do you think you can conjure up a sufficient supply?"

"It is something I know so little about!" said Faith. "I have never had very much chance. When I went to see Mrs. Custers I didn't in the least know how to speak to her. But these people where we are going all know _you_, I suppose?"--she said with another and not a little wistful look up into his face.

"Most of them--more or less. What of it?"

"That makes it easy," she said quietly. "But I suppose it would be just the same if you didn't know them! About the sick people,--Endecott--if you can tell us _how_ they are sick, mother and I between us can make out what things to prepare for them."

"Did you think I was in earnest, dear Faith, when I asked about your sympathy?" Mr. Linden said, drawing her closer.

"No.--I think I have the sympathy, but I don't so well know how to shew it. Then loaves of bread, I suppose, wouldn't come amiss?--And above all, meat. Where else do you think a roast turkey ought to go?"