"I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you--and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!--it is you who confer the favour."

"Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy--very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure--a very great pleasure--a--I a.s.sure you, sir. It's profitable for--a--people to have a change--they listen--ha!--they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,--and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news.

How long are you going--a--to remain in Pattaqua.s.set?--But I don't know," added he laughing,--"as I ought to ask!"

Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out.

"And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir."

"No--certainly. I was--a--premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,--as you have so kindly--a--consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?"

The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,--talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went.

Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,--then a clear--not loud-spoken--"Mignonette--where are you?"

Faith sprang back through the pa.s.sage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers.

"What are you about, little Sunbeam?--are you busy?"

"No."

"Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,--do you want the same with me?--or are you tired?"

"No--yes;--I'm not tired a bit."

"Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room.

"No!" she said laughing a little,--"did you ever think I was, Endecott?"--But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely.

"I am going to try you--" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes."

There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed a.s.suredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined.

Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour--which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour.

Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments--then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her.

"Mignonette, when may I put it on again?"

There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers.

"Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"--she said in a very low voice.

"No, darling--not certainly."

"Then--do you want to know this yet?"

"Very much."

Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key.

"What do you wish?"

"What I have been waiting for all these years."

"But as to time?"

"As little as possible."

"I know,--but what is that, Endy?"--she said with very timid intonation.

"'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,--"the words hardly need explanation--I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette--but I do not know what is possible for you."

What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides.

"I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother."

"No, with you," said Mr. Linden,--"what do you please? Am I to repeat the pa.s.sage of Quapaw creek?"

She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not.

"You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,--is that done?"

"Yes nearly."

"'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,--"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'--Shall we say a week from to-day?"

She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.

"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,--"Faith, you shall not look pale about it.

This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific--and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"

There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.

"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."

"Yes, Endy,"--she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying--much as he had done at Quapaw creek--"Are you afraid, dear child?"

"No--" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.

"Then it only needs my seal.--In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,--so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty--are you ready for your walk?"

CHAPTER XL.

It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a b.u.t.terfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,--with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.

Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the sh.o.r.e that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,--it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else pa.s.sed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,--more lively indeed, and active--taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette.