"I know what you're thinkin' of," said he;--"but haint I done it? Who ever heerd a man say I had wronged him? or that I have been hard-hearted either? I never was."

It was curious how he let his thoughts out to her; but the very gentle, pure and true face beside him provoked neither controversy nor mistrust, nor pride. He spoke to her as if she had only been a child.

Like a child, with such sympathy and simplicity, she answered him.

"Mr. Simlins, the Bible says that 'the fruits of righteousness are by Jesus Christ.'--Do you know him?--are you in his service?"

"I don't know as I understand you," said he.

"I can't make you understand it, sir."

"Why can't you? who can?" said he quickly.

"It is written, Mr. Simlins,--'They shall be all taught of G.o.d.'"--She shewed him the place. "And it is written, 'Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the G.o.d of Jacob; and _he will teach us_ of his ways, and we will walk in his paths.'--That is it. If you are willing to walk in his paths, he will shew them to you."

Faith looked eagerly at the farmer, and he looked at her. Neither heart was hid from the other.

"But supposin' I was willin'--which I be, so fur's I know--I don't know what they be no more'n a child. How am I goin' to find 'em out?"

Faith's eyes filled quick as she turned over the leaves again;--was it by sympathy alone that occasion came for the rough hand to pa.s.s once or twice hastily across those that were looking at her? Without speaking, Faith shewed him the words,--"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine."

"That is the question, dear Mr. Simlins. On that 'if' it all hangs."

The farmer took the book into his own hands and sat looking steadily at the words.

"Well," said he putting it back on her lap--"supposin' the 'if' 's all right--Go ahead, Faith."

"Then the way is clear for you to do that; and it's all easy. But the first thing is here--the invitation of Jesus himself."

"'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"

"You see," she went on very gently,--"he bids you _learn of him_--so he is ready to teach you. If you are only willing to take his yoke upon you,--to be his servant and own it,--he will shew you what to do, step by step, and help you in every one."

"I don't see where's the beginning of the way yet," said the farmer.

"_That_," said Faith. "Be the servant of Jesus Christ and own it; and then go to him for all you want. He is good for all."

There was a pause.

"I s'pose you've been goin' on in that way a good while."

"A good while--yes,"--Faith almost whispered.

"Well, when you are goin' to him sometimes, ask somethin' for me,--will you?"

He had bent over, leaning on his knees, to speak it in a lower growl than ordinary. Faith bowed her head at first, unwilling to speak; but tears somehow started, and the drops followed each other, as she sat gazing into the black fireplace,--she could not help it--till a perfect shower of weeping brought her face into her hands and stirred her not very strong frame. It stirred the farmer, robust as he was in spite of illness; he shifted his chair most uneasily, and finally laid down his head on his folded arms on the table. Faith was the first to speak.

"Mr. Simlins, who takes care of you?"

"Ugh!" (a most unintelligible grunt,) "they all do it by turns--Jenny and all of 'em."

"What have you had for dinner to-day?"

"Didn't want anything!" He sat up and brushed his cloak sleeve across his forehead.

"Mr. Simlins, I shall send you down something from home and you must eat it."

"The doctor said I was to take wine--but I haint thought of it to-day."

"Where is it?"

He nodded his head in the direction of the cupboard. Faith went rummaging, poured him out a gla.s.s and brought it.

"You see," said he after he had taken it--"I've been pretty well pulled down--I didn't know--one time--which side of the fence I was goin'

over--and I didn't see the ground on the other side. I don't know why I should be ashamed to say I was afeard!"--There was a strong, stern, truth-telling about this speech that thrilled his hearer. She sat down again.

"You had best take some yourself," he said. "Do Faith!"

"No sir--I'm going. I must go," she answered rising to make ready.

It was strange how the door could have opened and she not heard it--neither she nor Mr. Simlins in fact,--perhaps because their minds were so far away. That the incoming steps were unheard was not so strange, nor new, but the first thing of which Faith was conscious was the soft touch of a hand on either side of her face--she was a prisoner. Faith's instant spring to one side brought her face to face with everybody. Mr. Simlins looked from one to the other, and his first remark was characteristically addressed to Faith.

"Why you didn't tell me that!"

"Has she told you everything _but_ that?" said Mr. Linden smiling, and giving the farmer's hand good token of his presence.

"Where under the sun did you come from?" said the farmer returning his grasp with interest, and looking at Mr. Linden as if indeed one of the lights of the solar system had been out before his arrival. Faith sat down mutely and as quietly as possible behind Mr. Linden.

"From under the sun very literally just now--before that from under a shower. I have been down to Quapaw, then home to Mrs. Derrick's, then here. Mr. Simlins, I am sorry to see that you are nursing yourself instead of me. What is the matter?"

"I'd as lieves be doin' this, of the two," said the farmer with a stray smile. "There aint much the matter. How long have you been in this meridian?"

"Two days." And stepping from before Faith, Mr. Linden asked her "if she had come there in a dream?"

"Do you ever see such good-lookin' things in your dreams?" said the farmer. "My visual pictures are all broken down fences, or Jem or Jenny doin' somethin' they haint ought to do. How long're you goin' to stay in Pattaqua.s.set, Dominie?"

"Some time, I hope. Not quite so long as the first time, but longer than I have been since that. Do you know, Mr. Simlins, your coat collar is a little bit turned in?--and why don't you give the sunshine a better welcome?--you two sick people together want some one to make a stir for you." Which office Mr. Linden took upon himself--lightly disengaging the collar, and then going to the window to draw up the shade and throw back the shutters, stopping on his way back to straighten the table cover, and followed by a full gush of sunlight from the window.

"It is so glorious this afternoon!" he said. And standing silent a moment in that brilliant band of light-looking out at the world all glittering and sparkling in the sun, Mr. Linden repeated,--"'Unto you that fear my name, shall the Sun of Righteousness arise, with healing in his wings.'--What a promise that is!"

"Where did you get those words?"--said Mr. Simlins, after the sunlight and the silence had given them their full effect.

"From the Bible--G.o.d's book of promises. Do you want to see the place?"

Mr. Simlins turned down a corner of the leaf and laid the book, still open, on the table. Then looked at Mr. Linden with a mixture of pleasure and humour in his eyes. "Are you any nearer bein' a minister than you was a year ago?"

"Nearer in one way. But I cannot lay claim to the t.i.tle you gave me for another year yet, Mr. Simlins."

"You're Say and Seal as much as ever. What more fixin' have you got to do?"

"A little finishing," said Mr. Linden with a smile.