The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections--he could not forget it though he talked of other things.

Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.

Subjects started of themselves--in numbers somewhat like the little b.u.t.terflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,--about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the sh.o.r.e. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.

"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"

"No, Endecott."--

"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."

"What's that story!"--said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.

"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."

"How did he?"

"Got her consent first--(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)--ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."

"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?--" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.

"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."

"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."

"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune--but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."

"That's the story--but what do you mean, Endy?"

"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."

Faith jumped up. "Do you!"--

"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."

Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.

"But Endecott--"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"

"You haven't a wooden horse!"--she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.

"Are you sure of the fact?--and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"

The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure--" she said. "I thought so."

"What is the point of the remark?"

She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy--if that were so,--I don't want to go!"

"How did your royal pride get turned about?--that you will look at none _but_ a wooden horse?"

She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.

"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,--not yet. Besides, the horse--of whatever sort--will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,

Being in the air, Will not care How they fare!"--

Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the sh.o.r.e, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.

"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months--though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."

"But where are you going, Endy?"

"That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,--the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some sh.o.r.e where you can see real surf--and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way."

Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island sh.o.r.e, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!--with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!--She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too.

"I thought I should go right to work," she said,--"to study--to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?"

"As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?"

"It is made up,"--she said gently, after a minute's hesitation.

"How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,--"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child--I want to consult you about various things."

Faith sat down and looked--like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy.

"I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves."

A flush rose, but she looked steadily.

"You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed--where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town--it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely.

"How large is the town, Endy?"

"Ten or fifteen thousand--I do not know precisely."

"And no other churches?"

"Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority."

Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely.

"An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring--Mrs. Linden!--to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once."

Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks.