"Better?" she said slowly--"I don't believe it. Who is he? your brother?"

"No--I haven't any brother. But that don't matter. He's somebody that is a great deal better than I am. May I let him come in? He's here,"

said Faith very quietly, along with her flushing cheek.

There was a poor little faint smile for a moment upon the sick woman's lips while Faith spoke, but it pa.s.sed and she answered in the same tone--"I'll see him--to please you--before you go. I just want the words now--and I like you best."

Faith troubled her no more with unnecessary suggestions, and gave her "the words." Gave them with the fragrance of her own love about them, which certainly is the surest human vehicle for the love above human that is in them. As on that first occasion, Faith placed herself on the side of the bed; and holding one of Mrs. Custers' hands in her own, bending her soft quiet face towards the listening eyes and ears, she gave her one by one, like crumbs of life-giving food, the words of promise, of encouragement, of invitation, of example. No answer cheered or helped her; no token of pleasure or even of a.s.sent met her; only those fixed listening eyes bade her go on, and told that whether for life and refreshment or no, the words were eagerly taken in, each after the other, as she said them. There was something in the strong sympathy of the speaker--in her own feeling and joy of the truths she told--that might give them double power and life to the ears of another. Faith reported the words of her Master with such triumphant prizing of them and such leaning on their strength; she gave his invitations in such tones of affection; she told over the instances of others' prevailing faith with such an evident, clear, satisfying share in the same;--the living words this time lost nothing of their power by a dead utterance.

Of her own words Faith ventured few; now and then the simplest addition to some thing she had repeated, to make it more plain, or to carry it further home; such words as she could not keep back; such words, very much, as she would have spoken to Johnny Fax; not very unlike what Johnny Fax might have spoken to her. But there was not a little physical exhaustion about all this after a while, and Faith found she must have some help to her memory. She went into the other room.

"I want a bible," she said looking round for it--"Is there one here?"

Yes there was one, but it was Mr. Linden's. That was quickly given her.

"I forgot it at the moment you went in," he said, "and then I did not like to disturb you. My dear Faith!--" and he held her hand and looked at her a little wistfully. She brought her other hand upon his, and looked down and looked up wistfully too; like one with a heart full.

"Can I help you? can I take your place?"

"She won't let you," said Faith shaking her head. "She says she will see you by and by--but she must take her own time for it."

And Faith went back to her ministrations. Of all bibles, she would have had that one in her hand then! And yet its companionship bowed down her heart with a sense of weakness;--but that was the very position for the next move; a spring beyond weakness to the only real and sufficient ground of strength.

The afternoon merged into the evening. A tallow candle had been brought by the attendant into the room in which Mr. Linden was waiting; and its dim smoky light would have made a dismal place of it if he had had no other to go by. He could sometimes hear the low tones of a word or two in the other room; more often the tones were so low that they failed to reach him. When this state of things had lasted a long time--as it seemed--there came an interruption in the form of quick steps on the snow; then the door was pushed open, and Dr. Harrison appeared.

"You here!" was his astonished salutation. "What upon earth has brought you?"

"I came to bring some one else."

"_She_ isn't here?" said the doctor. "You don't mean that?"

His emphatic p.r.o.nouns were a little smile-provoking, in spite of the grave thoughts upon which they intruded--or rather perhaps because of them; but if Mr. Linden's face felt that temptation, it was only for a moment,--he answered quietly,

"If you mean Miss Faith, she has been here a long time."

The doctor knew that! if she came when she was called. _He_ had stopped to eat his dinner.

"I mean her, of course," he said with his tone a little subdued. "I shouldn't think her mother would have let her come--such a night!--"

Which meant very plainly that Dr. Harrison would not have let her.--"Is she in there with the woman now?"

"Yes."

The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith, engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment--then came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression.

"You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,--"I'm not afraid of you to-night."

He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then without a word turned to Faith.

Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently.

"She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may have anything she fancies to have."

Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour, and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't somebody pray for me?"

Faith bent over until her lips almost touched the sufferer's cheek and her warm breath floated in the words, "I'll bring somebody--" then loosing her hold, she sprang from the bed and out into the other room.

But when she had clasped Mr. Linden's hand, Faith bent down her head upon it, unable to speak. The strength it could, his hand gave her--and his voice.

"What, my dear child?"

Then Faith looked up. "She wants you to pray for her." And without waiting for the unnecessary answer, she led Mr. Linden to the door of the room, there dropped his hand and went in before him. Dr. Harrison was standing by the bedpost, and looked wordlessly upon the two as they entered.

Mrs. Custers scanned the stranger's face as he came to wards her, with an anxious, eager look, as if she wanted to know whether he could do anything for her; the look changing to one of satisfaction. But to his low-spoken question as he took her hand, she gave an answer that was almost startling in its slow earnestness.

"Pray that I may believe--and that _he_ may--and that G.o.d would bless her forever!"

How was such a request to be met! then and there!--for a moment Mr.

Linden's eyes fell. But then he knelt by her side, and met it most literally,--in tones very low and clear and distinct, in words that might have been angels' plumage for their soft bearing upward of the sufferer's thoughts. Faith could feel a slight trembling once or twice of the hand that held hers, but the bitterness of its grasp had relaxed. Dr. Harrison was behind her; whether he stood or knelt she did not know; but _he_ knew that when the other two rose to their feet, one of them was exceedingly pale; and his move, made on the instant, was to get her a gla.s.s of water. Faith only tasted it and gave it him back, and mounted to her former place on the bed. And for a little all was still, until Mr. Linden spoke again in the same clear, guiding tones.

"'My G.o.d, within thy hand My helpless soul I trust!

Thy love shall ever stand-- Thy promise must!--'"

Then Mrs. Custers opened her eyes; and her first look was at Dr.

Harrison. But whether the relaxed mental tension let the bodily weakness appear, or whether the tide was at that point where it ebbs most rapidly, her words were spoken with some trouble--yet spoken as if both to make amends and give information.

"You meant to be very kind--" she said--"and you have--But _now_ I want to believe--even if it isn't any use."

Her eyes pa.s.sed from him--rested for a minute on Mr. Linden--then came to Faith, and never wavered again. "Read"--was all she said.

With unnerved lip and quivering breath Faith began again her sweet utterance of some of those sweetest things. For a moment she longed to ask the other two listeners to go away and leave her alone; but reasons, different and strong, kept her mouth from speaking the wish; and then, once dismissed, it was forgotten. Her voice steadied and grew clear presently; its low, distinct words were not interrupted by so much as a breath in any part of the room. They steadied her; Faith rested on them and clung to them as she went along, with a sense of failing energy which needed a stay somewhere. But her words did not shew it, except perhaps that they came more slowly and deliberately.

Mr. Linden had drawn back a little out of sight. Dr. Harrison kept his stand by the bedpost, leaning against it; and whatever that reading was to him, he was as motionless as that whereon he leaned.

Till some little length of time had pa.s.sed in this way, and then he came to Faith's side and laid his hand on her open book.

"She does not hear you," he said softly.

Faith looked at him startled, and then bent forward over the woman whose face was turned a little from her.

"She is sleeping"--she said looking up again.

"She will not hear you any more," said the doctor.

"She breathes, regularly,--"

"Yes--so she will for perhaps some hours. But she will not waken again,--probably."

"Are you sure?" Faith said with another look at the calm face before her.

"Very sure!"--

Was it true? Faith looked still at the unconscious form,--then her bible fell from her hands and her head wearily sunk into them. The strain was over--broken short. She had done all she could,--and the everlasting answer was sealed up from her. Those heavy eyelids would not unclose again to give it; those parted lips through which the slow breath went and came, would never tell her. It seemed to Faith that her heart lay on the very ground with the burden of all that weight resting upon it.