Did Mr. Linden know? or did he _not_ know! Faith looked up to see. He was just disentangling one of the lines from Jerry's tail, but met her look with great composure.

"It's an old thing,"--said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up."

"But since I have brought it--won't you indulge me?"

The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,--if I told it to you.--Won't you let me let it alone?"

"I should like to hear you tell it."

"He made one or two rude speeches"--said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;--"that was all."

"_That_ I knew before."

"Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?"

There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her m.u.f.flers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question.

"You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell me _now?_--and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?"

Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,--if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,--but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find.

"I want an answer to one of these questions,"--Mr. Linden said, in a playful sort of tone. "Dr. Harrison used to ask me if you lived upon roses--but do you think I can?"

Faith made an effort. "What do you want me to say?"

"What was it in Phil's words that troubled you so much?"

The crimson rush came back overwhelmingly. "Oh Endy--please don't ask me!"

"Not quite fair,"--he said smiling. "I'm sure I am willing to tell _you_ anything. Though indeed I do not suppose you need much telling.

But Faith--is _that_ the system of tactics by which you intend always to have your own way? I shall have to be philosophical to any point!"

"That speech is so very zigzag," said Faith, "that I cannot follow it.

How are you going to be philosophical, Mr. Linden?"

"Not by forgetting to exact your forfeit, Miss Derrick."

"That isn't fair," said Faith laughing. "I didn't for get!--I shouldn't think you had gone all day without eating anything!--and yet you must be starving."

"For what? little provider."

"For something to eat, I should think."

"Does that mean that you are suffering?--because if that be the case, I will refresh you (cautiously) with sugar-plums! A very superfluous thing, to be sure, but the most suitable I can think of."

Faith's laugh came clear now. "No indeed. Suffering! I never eat so many dinners in one day in my life. But I am hungry though, I believe.

How many more places are we going to? I don't care how many," she said earnestly. "I like to be hungry."

"Well, keep up your spirits,--the next turn will bring us out of the woods, and a three-minute stay at one or two doors will end our work for this time. Meanwhile, do you want to hear a little bit of good poetry--on an entirely new subject?"

"Oh yes! if you please."

Demurely enough it was given.--

"'Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness, than all art Or inventions can impart.

Thoughts too deep to be expressed, And too strong to be repressed.'"

She gave him a wistful look as he finished the lines; and then sat among her furs, as quiet again as a mouse.

"Do you like them, Mignonette?"

"Yes--very much."

"Would you like to tell me then why the hearing of them makes you sober?"

"Yes--if you wish"; she said gently. "I know--a little--I believe,--what you think of me; but what I seem to your eyes on the outside--and much more!--I want to be really, really--in the sight of the eye that tries the heart--and I am not now, Endy."

"My dear child--" he said,--and was silent a minute, speeding smoothly along through the starlight; then went on.

"Yes, dear Faith,--that is what I wish for you--and for myself. That is where we will most earnestly try to help each other." And presently, as eye and thoughts were caught and held by the wonderful constellation above in the clear sky, yet not drawn away from what they had been talking of, Mr. Linden said,--

"'Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,--that bringeth the shadow of death upon the day, and turneth the night into morning!'" And so, in the thought of that, they went home; Orion looking down upon them, and they leaving bits of brightness by the way at the two or three houses which yet remained. The box sleigh got home at last emptied of all its load but the two travellers.

Mrs. Derrick and supper were ready for them, and had been a good while; and by this time Mr. Linden and Faith were ready for supper. And much as Mrs. Derrick had to hear, she had something to tell. How Judge Harrison had come to make a visit and say good-bye, and how he had put in her hands another twenty-five dollars to be added to those his son had already bestowed on Reuben. Squire Stoutenburgh too had been there; but his errand was to declare that Jerry could never be received again into his service, but must henceforth remain in Mrs. Derrick's stable and possession. Altogether, the day even at home had been an exciting one.

A little time after supper Faith went into the sitting-room. Mr. Linden was there alone. Faith came up to the back of his chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, and bent her head into speaking neighbourhood. It may be remarked, that though Faith no longer said "Mr. Linden," yet that one other word of his name was _never_ spoken just like her other words.

There was always a little lowering or alteration of tone, a slight pause before--or after it, which set and marked it as bordered round with all the regards which by any phrase could be made known.

"Endecott"--she said very softly,--"do you know what you have been doing to-day?"

"Comprehensively speaking--I have been enjoying myself," he said with a bright smile at her.

"You have been giving me a lesson all the while, that I felt through and through."

"Through and through?" he repeated. "Come round here, little bird--you need not perch on the back of my chair. What are you singing about?"

"Of what you have taught me to-day."

"I must have fallen into a very unconscious habit of lesson-giving.

What have I taught you?--suppose you teach me."

"How one should 'hold forth the word of life.'"

"Ah little bird!"--he said, with a look at her which said his day's lesson had been the same, yet on different grounds. "Well--if you can learn anything from so imperfect a teacher, I am glad. But do not rest there,--take up the olive leaf and bear it on!"

CHAPTER IX.