A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a pa.s.sage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.

Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her st.i.tching and on her housework and on her b.u.t.ter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the b.u.t.ter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.

Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had pa.s.sed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business.

"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle.

"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what _that_'ll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."

"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"

"Nothing at all," said the Squire,--"not a cent."

"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.

"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,--"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."

"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--I mean about the house. We can pay for it."

"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough--if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,--I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?"

"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read.

"No my dear, I don't--though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybe _you_ did. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it--what do you suppose is the reason?"

"I don't think there can be any, sir."

"Must be!" said the Squire,--"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,--it was always, 'Hush, Mr.

Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!--My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know--will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

Faith found that sewing and housework and b.u.t.ter-making took not only her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs.

Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down to the sh.o.r.e for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company than usual, this summer.

By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither worse nor better,--there was no news to send. Everything else the letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.

So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often took some little skirt or sleeve) n.o.body would have guessed why the needles were at work.

There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply Mr. Skip's place--he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for the first month,--that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,--the morning light shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.

The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly, the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw--that lay idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him, Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr.

Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her voice joined in.

For a minute Reuben did not hear her,--then in some pause of arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling it. But he did not speak--nor even thought to say good morning; only pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence.

"Reuben!"--said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very att.i.tude as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!--her knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith."

Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him.

"Reuben--what are you about?"

"Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"--with a half laugh then.

"I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.)

"I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith."

"Now you are caught and found--do you know what your punishment will be?"

Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess.

"You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every morning."

"O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,--"thank you very much, Miss Faith."

"It is necessary," said Faith gravely;--"and you are not to thank me for what you don't like."

"It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching up a stick of hickory.

"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or--I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough.

"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"

"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?--but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest--he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended.

August went on,--Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,--Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaqua.s.set, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids.

"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired.

From Germany news came at last,--but it was of the sort that one can bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her.

And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America, there was but one thing he could do--finish his course in a German University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No question now of fall or winter or spring,--summer was the first time that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was beginning his work anew in a foreign land.

It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet.

Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet meant--it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again.

"And I sha'n't see him again till----." It gave Faith a great pang.

That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too very happy."--And after a few such talks with herself Faith went straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as cheerfully.

It was not long after this, that pa.s.sing Mr. Simlins' gate one afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not prevent his carrying her off into the house.

"'Twont hurt you to rest a minute--and 'twont hurt _me_," said he. "Why I haint seen you since----How long do you s'pose folks can live and not see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins to give us something good for tea."