"No, sir. I came a while ago."

The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him, with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned, judged, and pa.s.sed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to Mr. Linden.

"There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would stay--but I know that it would be in vain. _She_ ought not to be here."

For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,--the second fell upon a heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort--as to the probable length of time there would be to do anything.

"He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor--"such as he has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am sorry I cannot stay longer with you--but it does not matter--you can do as well as I now."

He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be taken care of. You were here yesterday--there is no necessity for you to be here to-day."

"I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison."

"I know!" said he shaking his head,--"your will is strong! but it ought not to have full play. You are not wanted here."

Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then suddenly she said,

"Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott--now."

"I do not feel the need of it--" he said. "I had some s.n.a.t.c.hes of sleep last night."

She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural heaviness, Faith said,--and the tone seemed to come from very stillness of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,--

"The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott."

"How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very precious too, is the love of his will!"--and he repeated softly, as if half thinking it out--

"'I worship thee, sweet will of G.o.d!

And all thy ways adore!

And every day I live, I seem To love thee more and more.'"

An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a child's lip in its humbleness.

"It was very hard for me to give him up at first--" Mr. Linden went on softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions.

'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month.'"--

Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms--and was silent.

"Reuben was telling me yesterday--" she said after a few minutes,--"what you have been to him."

But her words touched sweet and bitter things--Mr. Linden did not immediately answer,--his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention.

The quiet rest of the little sleeper was pa.s.sing off,--changing into an unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr.

Linden, with the words, "Walk--like last night."

And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles--from the words which by degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words was, "Sing."--Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word.

"Jesus loves me--this I know, For the Bible tells me so: Little ones to him belong,-- They are weak, but he is strong.

"Jesus loves me,--he who died Heaven's gate to open wide; He will wash away my sin, Let his little child come in.

"Jesus loves me--loves me still, Though I'm very weak and ill; From his shining throne on high Comes to watch me where I lie.

"Jesus loves me,--he will stay Close beside me all the way.

Then his little child will take Up to heaven for his dear sake."

There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright cheerful way--meant for her as well as the child--that Johnny wanted her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then, after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden watched her, with grave eyes.

"Now you must go and lie down," he said.

"Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time--or didn't take time--to eat my breakfast before I came away from home--that is all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"--she added gently.

She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she came and sat down.

"Won't you go?" she said softly.

"I would rather stay here."

Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful.

Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he said, laying his cheek against the child's,--

"Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the minute you want me."

The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might be the wiser,--when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and looked down at his child and her with a curious look--that half recognized what it would not see.

"You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!--" said Jonathan, in a voice not clear.

"So he does--" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words had shaken her.

"How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child.

Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted her face and looked up--looked full into his eyes.

"Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way but _well?_"

The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening himself instantly as if he had received a blow.

"Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' to _die?_"

It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever heard from her voice--as unfearful--

"Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him."

"Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter.

Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too--but clear and cheery.