"Because Endecott gave me a message to you, part of which I did not understand. But I suppose you will, and that is enough."

"What is it?" said Faith eagerly.

"You would not understand the other part, to-day."

Faith went back to her thoughtfulness But as the carriage turned into the Pattaqua.s.set high street she suddenly faced round on Miss Linden, flushing again before she spoke.

"Pet," she said a little timidly--it was winning, this air of timidity that was about her,--"don't say--don't tell Mr. Linden where you found me."

"Faith! does he not know? is it something new? O dear child, I am very sorry!"--and Miss Linden's other hand came caressingly upon the one she held.

"Don't be sorry!--" said Faith, looking as fearless and sonsy as any real piece of mignonette that ever shook its brown head in the wind;--"I wouldn't tell you, only you must see it. You know, perhaps, that mother lived by a farm.--Last summer the farm was taken away and we had nothing left but the house. We had to do something, and I took to dressmaking with Miss Bezac--where you found me. And it has been very pleasant and has done very well," said Faith, smiling at Miss Linden as honestly as if the matter had been of music lessons or any other accomplishment. Miss Linden looked at her--grave and bright too.

Then with a sparkle of her eyes--"I won't tell Endecott now, but some time I _will_ tell him over what sort of a wedding-dress I found you poring. But my dear child!--" and she stopped with a look of sudden thought that was both grave and gay. Faith's eyes asked what the matter was.

"No, I will not tell him now," Miss Linden repeated,--"it is so little while--he could not know it in time for anything but his own sorrow.

But Faith! I am going to make one of those mantillas!"--and she looked a pretty piece of defiant resolution.

"You shall do what you please," Faith said gayly. "But--will you stop them?--there is the house."

The coach came to a stand before Mrs. Derrick's little gate and the two ladies alighted. Miss Linden had been looking eagerly out as they drove up--at the house, the fence, the little garden courtyard, the steps,--but she turned now to give her orders, and taking Faith's hand again, followed her in, looking at every inch of the way. Faith drew the easy-chair out before the fire, put Miss Linden in it, and took off her bonnet and shawl. She staid but to find her mother and introduce her to the parlour and her guest; and she herself ran away to Mr.

Linden's room. She knew that the brown woodbox was near full of wood which had been there since his sudden departure nine months ago. It was well dried by this time. Faith built a fire and kindled it; made the bed, and supplied water and towels; opened the blinds of one or two windows, laid books on the table, and wheeled up the couch. The fire was blazing by that time and shone warm and glowingly on the dark wood and furniture, and everything wore the old pleasant look of comfort and prettiness. Then Faith went for her guest.

"You will know where you are," she said a little vaguely,--"when you open the cupboard doors."

Miss Linden stood still for a moment, her hands folded, her lips again taking their mixed expression.

"And _that_ is where he lay for so long," she said. It was a mixed remembrance to Faith; she did not like to answer. A moment's silence, and she turned her bright face to Miss Linden.

"Let me do what I can for you," she said with that mixture of grace and timidity.--"It isn't much. What may I now, Pet?"

"You did a lifetime's work then, you dear child!--and how I used to hear of it." And putting her arm round Faith's waist Miss Linden began to go slowly about the room, looking at everything--out of the windows and into the cupboards. "If you could have known, Faith--if you could have seen Endecott in some of the years before that, you would have known a little how very, very glad I was. I hardly believed that he would ever find any one who could charm him out of the solitary life into which sorrow had led him."

"I didn't do it!" said Faith simply.

"What do you suppose did?"

"I think he charmed himself out of it,"--Faith said blushing.

Miss Linden laughed, holding her very fast. "You are clear from all charge of malice prepense," she said. "And I will not deny his powers of charming,--but they are powerless upon himself."

"Do you think so?" said Faith. "A charm comes at the rebound, doesn't it sometimes?"

"_Does_ it? How do I know?"

Faith laughed a little, but very softly. "Now shall I leave you for a little while?" she said.

"Will you be busy, or may I come down when I like?"

"I am going into the kitchen,--You wouldn't like to follow me there?"

"If I have leave--I am in the mind to follow you everywhere."

"Come then!" said Faith joyously.

Miss Linden might not be accustomed to seeing kitchens, or she might!

there was no telling from her manner. Certainly that kitchen was a pleasant one to see. And she "followed," as she had said, wherever Faith went and watched her whatever she did, conversation going on meanwhile amusingly enough. Faith was making some cakes again; and then concocting coffee, the Pattaqua.s.set fete dish in ordinary; while Mrs.

Derrick broiled the chicken. With a great white ap.r.o.n enveloping her brown stuff dress, and her arms bared, running about the kitchen and dairy in her quick still way, Faith was a pretty contrast to the "blue bird" who smiled on her and followed her and talked to her throughout.

Then the cakes were baking, and Faith came back to the sitting-room; to set the table and cover it with all dainty things that farm materials can produce. And if ever "Pet" had been affectionately served, she was that night, and if ever a room was fresh and sweet and warm and glowing, the fire-lit room where she went to sleep afterwards was such a one.

But before that, when they had done tea, and talk and motion had subsided a little, Miss Linden brought a low seat to Faith's side, and taking that left hand in hers looked silently at the ring for a few minutes,--then laid her cheek down upon it in Faith's lap. Faith's lip trembled; but she only sat still as a statue till the cheek was lifted up.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

In the early morning which Faith and her mother enjoyed next day together, Mrs. Derrick was in a contemplative and abstracted state of mind; a.s.senting indeed to all Faith's words of pleasure and praise, but evidently thinking of something else. At last the matter came out.

"Faith, how much money have we?--I mean, to last how long, suppose you didn't do anything else but the b.u.t.ter?"

"Why, mother?"

"Why child, I've been thinking--do you know how much you've got to do for yourself?--it won't do to put that off for Miss Bezac."

Faith's lips softly touched Mrs. Derrick's.

"Hush, mother, please!--Don't you think Dromy could find some water-cress at the foot of the Savin hill?"

"Yes--like enough," said Mrs. Derrick,--"Reuben could if he was here.

And child, you may say 'hush,' but things won't hush, after all." With which sentiment Mrs. Derrick gave attention to the tea-kettle, just then a practical ill.u.s.tration of her remark.

About as bright and fresh and sweet as the morning Miss Linden looked when she came down, but warmer and gentler than March in his best mood.

Her interest in everything about the house and its two tenants was unbounded, and without being really like her brother, there was enough family likeness in manner and voice to give a pleasant reminder now and then. While they were at breakfast the man came from Pequot according to order, but she went out alone to attend to him, coming back to the table with a sort of gleeful face that spoke of pleasure or mischief in prospect.

"Faith," she said, "we cannot touch those mantillas this morning."

"Can't we?" said Faith. "Which part of Pattaqua.s.set shall we go to see?"

"Suppose we go up to my room and discuss matters."--

Faith was ready. Ready as a child, or as the "bird" she used to be called, for any innocent play or work.

"My dear little sister," said Miss Linden as they ran up stairs, the glee working out at the dainty finger ends that were on Faith's belt, "don't you know that I promised you a 'message'? and don't you want to have it?--O how lovely this room is! That trunk is not lovely, standing just there. Dear Faith, you need not think all my baggage is coming after it!"

"I wish it could,"--said Faith, looking after her "message."

"I want to shew you the key of this--it has something peculiar about it," said Miss Linden searching in her bag. "Endecott said, Faith, that as you and he had been together so much in a French atmosphere, you must let him do one thing in the French style. To which message, as well as to the trunk, you will find this the key."