"From sea!--half way across--" her mother repeated. "Why child, what are you talking about? You don't mean that Mr. Linden's contrived to make a letter swim back here already, do you?"

Faith hardly heard. A minute she stood, with her eyes very like what Mr. Motley had graphically described them to be, breaking the seal with hurried fingers,--and then ran away. The breakfast table and Mrs.

Derrick waited--they waited a long time before Faith came back to eat a cold breakfast, which tasted of nothing but sea-breezes and was therefore very strengthening. The strengthening effect went through the day; there was a fresh colour in Faith's face. Fifty times at least the "moonbeams" of her eyes saw a "strong hand" throw her packet across the sea waves that separated the two steamers; the master of the "Polar Bear" might guess, but Faith knew, that a strong heart had done it as well. And when her work was over Faith put a rose in her belt in honour of the day, and sat down to her books, very happy.

The books were engrossing, and it was later than usual when she came down stairs to get tea, but Mrs. Derrick was out. That wasn't very strange. Faith went through the little routine of preparation,--then she took another book and sat down by the sweet summer air of the open window to wait. By and by Mrs. Derrick came slowly down the road, opened and shut the gate with the same air of abstracted deliberateness, and came up the steps looking tired and flushed. In the porch Faith met and kissed her.

"Where have you been now, mother? tea's ready."

"Pretty child!" was Mrs. Derrick's answer, "how glad I am you got that letter this morning!"

Faith smiled; _she_ didn't forget it, but it was not to be expected that it should be quite so present to Mrs. Derrick's mind. Yet almost at the same instant she felt that her mother had some particular reason for saying that just then.

"Where have you been, mother?"

"Up to Squire Stoutenburgh's," said Mrs. Derrick, putting herself wearily in the rocking-chair,--"and they were all out gone--to Pequot to spend the day. So I lost my labour."

Gently Faith stood before her and took off her bonnet. "What did you go there for, mother?"

"I wanted to see him--" said Mrs. Derrick. "Squire Deacon's been here, Faith."

"Mother! Is he back again?--What for?"

"Settle here and live, I suppose. He's married--that's one thing. What was he here for?--why the old story, Faith,--he wants the place." And Mrs. Derrick's eyes looked as if she wanted it too.

"Does he want it very much, mother?"

"Means to have it, child--and I don't feel as if I could live in any other house in Pattaqua.s.set. So I thought maybe Mr. Stoutenburgh would make him hold off till next year, Faith," said Mrs. Derrick, a little smile coming back to her lips. "I guess I'll go up again after tea."

Faith coaxed her mother into the other room and gave her her tea daintily; revolving in her mind the while many things. When tea was over and Mrs. Derrick was again bent upon business, Faith ventured a question. "Mother, what do you suppose Squire Stoutenburgh can do to help us?"

"I can't tell, child,--he might talk Sam Deacon into letting us keep the house, at least. We've got to live somewhere, you know, Faith. It's no sort of use for me to talk to him,--he's as stiff as a crab tree--and I aint. I think I'll try."

"To-night, mother?"

"I thought I would."

Faith hesitated, putting the cups together. "Mother, I'll go. I dare say I shall do as well."

"I'm afraid you're tired too, pretty child," said Mrs. Derrick, but with evident relief at the very idea.

"I tired?--Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother--and don't fear," she added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet--and be there and back again in a little while."

The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone, the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the implication of that _one year_ of reprieve which she must ask for. How should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she could.

Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was, but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs.

Stoutenburgh--looking very pretty in her light summer dress--was half reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's Miss Faith."

"Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing the young ones,--"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!--My dear other child, how do you do?--and what sweet corner of your little heart sent you up here to-night? You have not--no, that can't be,--and you wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"--and she was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith answered.

"And you haven't had tea yet,"--she said remorsefully. "I came to give Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble--but I can do it in three minutes." Faith looked towards the Squire.

"My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!"

"But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh--"here comes the tea, and you can't go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,--and nothing qualifies him for business like a contented state of his appet.i.te!"

Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so.

"My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what fine weather we have had, eh?"

"Beautiful weather!"--Faith responded with a little energy.

"Papa," said one of the children, "do you think Mr. Linden's had it fine too?"

"What tangents children's minds go off in!" observed Mrs. Stoutenburgh.

"Faith! don't eat your raspberries without sugar,--how impatient you are. You used to preach patience to me when I was sick."

"I can be very patient, with these raspberries and no sugar," said Faith, wishing she could hide the bloom of her cheeks as easily as she hid that of the berries under the fine white shower.

"Poor child!" said her friend gently,--"I think you have need of all your patience." And her hands came softly about Faith's plate, removing enc.u.mbrances and adding dainties, with a sort of mute sympathy that at the moment could find no more etherial channel. "Mr. Stoutenburgh drove down to Quapaw the other day," she went on in a low voice, "to ask those fishing people what indications our land weather gave of the weather at sea; and--he couldn't half tell me about his visit when he came home," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, breaking short off in her account.

"Linda, go get that gla.s.s of white roses and set it by Miss Faith,--maybe she'll take them home with her."

Faith looked at the white roses and smelled their sweetness; and then she said, "Who did you see, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--down at Quapaw?"

"None of the men, my dear--they were all away, but I saw half the rest of the village; and even the children knew what report the men had brought in, and what _they_ thought of the weather. Everybody had a good word to say about it, Miss Faith; and everybody--I do believe!"

said the Squire reverently, "had been on their knees to pray for it.

Jonathan Ling's wife said that was all they could ever do for him."

Which p.r.o.noun, be it understood, did not refer to Jonathan Ling.

"They're Mr. Linden's roses, Miss Faith," said little Linda, who stood waiting for more marked admiration,--"do you like them? He always did."

Faith kissed the child, partly to thank her and to stop her lips, partly to hide her own which she felt were tale-telling.

"Where did you get the roses, Linda?"

"O off the bush in the garden. But Mr. Linden always picked one whenever he came, and sometimes he'd stop on his way to school, and just open the gate and get one of these white roses and then go away again. So we called it Mr. Linden's bush." Faith endeavoured to attend to her raspberries after this. When tea was over she was carried off into the drawing-room and the children were kept out.

"If you want me away too, Faith," Mrs. Stoutenburgh said as she arranged the lamp and the curtains, "I'll go."

"I don't want you to go, ma'am."--And then covering her trepidation under the simplest of grave exteriors, Faith spoke to the point. "It is mother's business. Squire Deacon has come home, Mr. Stoutenburgh."

"My dear," said the Squire, "I know he has. I heard it just before you came in. But he's married, Miss Faith."

"That don't content him," said Faith, "for he wants our farm."

"Rascal!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh in an emphatic under tone,--"the old claim, I suppose. What's the state of it now, my dear?"

"Nothing new, sir; he has a right to it, I suppose. The mortgage is owing, and we haven't been able to pay anything but the interest, and that must be a small rent for the farm." Faith paused. Mrs.

Stoutenburgh was silent; looking from one to the other anxiously,--the Squire himself was not very intelligible.