"I have not much to tell you,"--he said in the same tone,--"nothing, but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me by and by?"

"Yes.--After church?"

"After church in the afternoon would give us most time."

The Sunday cla.s.ses were first met--_how_ was not likely to be forgotten by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As soon as she was where n.o.body need know what she did, Faith felt unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come.

After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive--it was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,--the afternoon was well on its way.

The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr.

Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he pa.s.sed through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside.

They stood there and looked--as one might look at a ray of eternal sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time.

The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills at neck and wrists,--on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!"

With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady, Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,--then knelt together, and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might themselves be found faithful.

"You shouldn't say _we_"--said Faith when they had risen and were standing there again. "It was _you_--to him and me both." And bending forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much as he ever learned from me!"

But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more.

They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know--she could only guess.

There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,--not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,--since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,--some st.u.r.dy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field.

The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with c.r.a.pe; followed by Johnny's two little cla.s.smates--Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners--Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the c.r.a.pe badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone--

"Through a dark stormy night, To a calm land of light!"--

"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again, Though now we part in pain!

His people all Together Christ shall call, Hallelujah!"

"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long pa.s.sed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word against _him_ again. Faith, he's beautiful!"

CHAPTER XIII.

It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pa.s.s away--or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. _She_ was not the cloud--that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter _could_ be increased, then were they now,--every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him--lived even in her presence,--nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,--what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson--she felt if she did not see them,--even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,--what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,--so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,--Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.

He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire--never more wanted--burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired--but Faith fancied she saw the shadow.

She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.

"Endecott"--she said in some of her most winning tones,--"may I ask you something?"

He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?"

"I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me--unless you have a mind!"

"_Do_ you suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!"

"No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?"

"You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!--of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?--to challenge Dr. Harrison?--or to run for President?"

"Would you like to do either of those two things?"

"I was only putting myself at your disposal--as I have done before."

"Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly.

"I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird--why do you keep on the wing?"

"I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith.

"Endy"--and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,--"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?"

He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence,

"Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"--But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield.

"Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?"

She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott--tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by."

"My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!--What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?"

Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile.

"I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late--or _less_,--and I wanted to know which it was."

"Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?--and in what way did I grow less?"

"I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if it _was_ sense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so--so I wanted to know."

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that Englishman Madame D'Arblay tells about,--who to the end of his life declared that his wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you know I think he will have a successor?"

Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was?

"She was an English woman, an auth.o.r.ess, a maid of honour to the Queen.

Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?"

One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said.

"You know enough already?--or too much? Faith--are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?"

"I don't know,--but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it--Monsieur?"