"But you are mistaken, Dr. Harrison," she said gently. "There is nothing so soothing, to those that love it. I wish you loved it! Don't you remember you confessed to me once that somebody had told you you had but half learned your profession?"

Faith trembled, for she had said those last words wittingly. She could not have spoken them, if the light in the room had not been such as to hide her change of colour; and even then she dared not speak the name she alluded to. But she had said it half as a matter of conscience.

It drew forth no answer from the doctor, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh just then stirred and awoke. And Faith little guessed the train she had touched. There were no indications of manner; and she could not, as Dr.

Harrison went leisurely down the stairs, see the tremendous bound his mind made with the question,--

"Is it _that book_ that stands in my way?--or HE!"

CHAPTER XXII.

Mrs. Stoutenburgh got well. And it was in Faith's mind then, by some means to see very little more of Dr. Harrison till Mr. Linden should be in Pattaqua.s.set again. So much for human intentions. Faith fell sick herself; and instead of being kept at a distance Dr. Harrison saw her twice at least in the twenty-four hours.

It was a doubtful privilege to see those soft eyes l.u.s.trous with fever and a steady glow take place of the changing and flitting hues which were as much a part of Faith's language, at times, as the movements of a horse's ears are part of his. But as after a few days it became evident that there was nothing dangerous about Faith's attack, it is probable that the doctor rather enjoyed his position than otherwise.

The freedom and authority of his office were a pleasant advance upon the formalities of ordinary intercourse; and to see Faith and speak to her and touch her hand without any ceremonial but that of friendship, was an advantage great enough to desire the prolonging thereof. Faith was a gentle patient; and Dr. Harrison's care was unbounded; though it was not alarming, even to Mrs. Derrick, as he a.s.sured her there was no cause.

For a week however Faith kept her bed, and even Dr. Harrison was glad when at the end of a week she was able to be up again. Especially perhaps as it was only in her wrapper and an easy chair; his office was not at an end; the fever, in a remittent or intermittent form, still hung about her and forbade her doing anything but taking care of herself.

Not precisely in this category of duty were the letters Faith had written all that week. She had written them, how was best known by an aching head and burning fingers and feverish vision. But an interruption of them would have drawn on Mr. Linden's knowing the reason; and then Faith knew that no considerations would keep him from coming to her. It was towards the end of the study term; he was working hard already; she could not endure that any further bar should be placed in his way. None should for her. And so, bit by bit when she could do but a bit at a time, the letters were written. Exercises had to be excused. And Faith was at heart very thankful when at the end of a sick week, she was able to get up and be dressed and sit in the easy-chair and see the diamonds sparkling against her brown wrapper again.

It was April now, and a soft springy day. A fire burned gently in the chimney, while a window open at a little distance let in Spring's whispers and fragrances; and the plain old-fashioned room looked cosy and pretty, as some rooms will look under undefinable influences.

Nothing could be plainer. There was not even the quaint elegance of Mr.

Linden's room; this one was wainscotted with light blue and whitewashed, and furnished with the simplest of chintz furniture. But its simplicity and purity were all in tone with the Spring air and the cheer of the wood fire; and not at all a bad setting for the figure that sat there in the great chintz chair before the fire; her soft hair in bright order, the quiet brown folds of the wrapper enveloping her, and the flash of the diamonds giving curious point and effect to the whole picture. Faith was alone and looking very happy.

It wanted but a few weeks now of Mr. Linden's coming home,--coming home for a longer rest and sight of her; and Faith had not seen him since January. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's illness and Faith's consequent fatigue had in part accounted to him for the short letters and missing French exercises, but she could see that such excuse would not long be made for her,--his last one or two letters had been more anxious, more special in their inquiries: how glad she was that he need have no further cause for either. Partly musing on all this, partly on what she had been reading, Faith sat that afternoon, when the well-known single soft knock at her door announced Reuben Taylor. He came in with a glad face--how sad it had lately been Faith had seen, sick as she was,--and with both hands full of pleasant things. One hand was literally full, of cowslips; and as he came up and gave her his other hand, it seemed to Faith as if a great spot of Spring gold was before her eyes.

"Dear Miss Faith," Reuben said, "I wonder if anybody can ever be thankful enough, to see you better! You feel stronger than yesterday, don't you, ma'am?"

"_I_ can't be thankful enough, Reuben--I feel that to-day. How good you are to bring me those cowslips! O yes,--I am stronger than I was yesterday."

That Faith was not very strong was sufficiently shewn by the way her hands lay in her lap and on the arm of the chair, and by the lines of her pale quiet face. _Bodily_ strength was not flourishing there.

Reuben looked at her wistfully, with a half-choked sigh, then knelt down beside her chair, as he often did.

"I didn't bring them all, Miss Faith--I mean, I didn't _pick_ them all.

Charlie and Robbie saw me in the meadow, and nothing would do but they must help. I don't think they always knew which to pick--but I thought you wouldn't mind that," he said as he laid the cowslips on the table, their fair yellow faces shewing very fair in the sick room. Faith's face was bright before, but it brightened still.

"They look lovely to me--tell Charlie and Rob I will thank them when I can. I don't thank _you_, Reuben,"--she said turning from the flowers to him.

"No, ma'am, I should hope not," he said, answering her smile gratefully. "But that's not all, Miss Faith--for Ency Stephens sent you one of her rosebuds,"--and Reuben took a little parcel carefully from his pocket. "It's only wrapped up in brown paper, because I hadn't time to go home for white. And she told me to tell you, Miss Faith," he added, both eyes and cheek flushing--"that she prays every day for you to get well and for Mr. Linden to come home."

The smile died on Faith's face and her eyes fell. "He ought to have this," she said presently, with a little flush on her own cheek. "I don't feel as if it should come to me. Reuben, does she want anything?"

It was very rare, even now, for Faith to speak directly to Reuben of Mr. Linden, though she was ready enough to hear Reuben speak of him.

"No, ma'am, I think not," he said in answer to net question. "You know--did you ever hear, Miss Faith?--that when Mr. Linden first went there she was kept in the house the whole time,--n.o.body knew how to take her out--or took the trouble; and Mr. Linden carried her half a mile down the lane that very first day. And you can guess how he talked to her, Miss Faith,--they said she looked like another child when she came back. But is there anything I can do for you, ma'am, before I go to the post-office?--it's almost time."

"If you'll fill that gla.s.s with water for me, Reuben--that I mayn't let my sweet cowslips fade--that's all. They'll do me good all to-morrow."

Reuben went off, his place presently supplied by Mrs. Stoutenburgh; who against all persuasion had insisted upon coming down to see Faith. And then Faith was left to the calm companionship of her cowslips till Reuben came back from the post-office.

He came up to Faith's chair, and taking out the letter broke the outer seal, (a ceremony he generally performed in her presence) and was just removing the envelope when the doctor came in for his evening visit.

The doctor saw a tableau,--Faith, the cowslips, and Reuben,--Mrs.

Derrick by the window he hardly saw, nor what the others were about.

But that he had interrupted _something_ was clear--the very atmosphere of the room was startled; and though Reuben's position hid both letter and hands, it was certain the hands were busy. What was in them, and what became of it, the doctor could not tell. Before he was fairly in the room the letter had retreated to Reuben's pocket, and Reuben stepped back and stood behind Faith's chair.

The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a "How do you do" as he pa.s.sed; and accosted Faith with all the free kindliness which his office of physician permitted him to add to the friend. The doctor took all his advantage; he did not take more; and not Faith herself could see that there was any warmer feeling behind his pleasant and pleased eye and smile. But it is true Faith was a simpleton. She did not see that his pleasantness covered keen scrutiny. The scrutiny found nothing.

"How do you do?" he said.

"I don't suppose I need say a word to tell you," Faith answered smiling. "I am well enough to enjoy cowslips."

The doctor's eye fell slightingly upon them, which was not wonderful.

"I think you must be very well!" he said with some trifle of addenda from lip and eye. "You see you are mistaken. I shouldn't have known how well, except from your words."

"_You_ are mistaken now, Dr. Harrison," said Faith in the slow quiet way in which she spoke to-day. "You think these are not splendid--but they are bits of spring!"

"They are not Spring's best bits, I hope," said the doctor.

"What do you think of that?"

The doctor took the rosebud and looked at it.

"If I were to tell you what I think of it," he said with a sort of grave candour, "you would dismiss me, and I should come here no more!"

"Reuben brought me that, Dr. Harrison, from the little lame girl you sent the rosebush to, in the winter. I wish you knew how much good that rosebush has done!"

"I sometimes wish," said the doctor, "that I had been born in a cottage!"

"Why, in the world?"

"It would be so pleasant to have people come and bring me rosebushes!"

"Or cowslips?" said Faith. "Then you would have a taste for cowslips."

"But then the people might get sick," said the doctor, waiving the "bits of spring;"--"so I am content. How are you to-day?" He took Faith's hand and felt it, and looked at her. The result did not seem to be unsatisfactory on the whole.

"You mustn't read too much in that book," said he, glancing over at it.

"Why not?"

"You must keep quiet."

"For how long?"

"It depends. There is a little enemy of fever hanging about your skirts, that I will oppose with something else; but all you can oppose to him is quietness."