"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation--and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."

Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up.

"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr.

Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed."

Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled.

At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.

"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear, I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"

A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then--bright and stirred.

"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."

"You?--Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.--"No, sir; never!" said Faith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. The Colonel smiled at her.

"My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no, George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home."

And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had.

CHAPTER XLVII.

October's foliage had lost its distinct red and purple and brown, and had grown merely sunburnt; but the sky overhead still kept its wonderful blue. Down the ravines, over their deep shadow, October breathed softly; up the mountain road, past grey boulders and primeval trees and wonderful beds of moss, went the stage waggon. The travellers were going by a somewhat long and irregular route, first up one of the great highways, then across to that spur of the mountains where they were to live. Mrs. Derrick was to follow in a few weeks with Mr.

Stoutenburgh.

It was late and dusky when the stage waggon transferred the travellers to Mr. Olyphant's carriage, which was waiting for them at a certain turn of the road. Mr. Olyphant himself was there, with extra wrappings for Faith; and m.u.f.fled in them she sat leaning in the corner of the carriage, tired enough to make the rest pleasant, awake enough to hear the conversation; feeling more like a bird than ever, with that unwonted night air upon her face, and the wild smell of woods and evergreens and brooks floating about her.

At Mr. Olyphant's they were received with warm wood fires and excellent supper, the welcome spending itself in many other ways. But though Mr.

Linden did take her to the door for one minute to hear a pouring mountain torrent, she could see nothing that night. The stars overhead were brilliant, the dark hill outline dim--the rushing of that stream--how it sounded! Faith's whisper was gleeful.

"Endy, I can't see much, but it feels lovely! I am so glad to be here!"

The morning was wonderful. Such a sunlight, such an air, such rejoicings of birds and brook and leaves. Mr. Olyphant's house stood on one side of a woody slope, rocks and trees crowned to the very top; in the ravine below, the brook Faith had heard. She could see it now, foaming along, quieting itself as it came into smoother circ.u.mstances.

The most of its noise indeed seemed to be made in some place out of sight, higher up. This slope was not very high, other ridges before and beyond it looked down, not frowningly, in their October dress. Not much else could be seen, it was a mere leafy nest. A little faint line of smoke floated over the opposite ridge, glimpses of mountain paths here and there caught the sunlight, below Faith's window Mr. Linden stood, like some statue, with folded arms.

Faith hastily finished her dressing. As soon as that was done she knelt at her window again, to look and to pray. Those hills looked very near the sky; life-work there seemed almost to touch heaven. Nay, did it not? Heaven bent over the glorious earth and over the work to be done there, with the same clear, fair, balmy promise and truth. Faith could almost have joined the birds in their singing; her heart did; and her heart's singing was as pure and as grave as theirs. Not the careless glee that sees and wants nothing but roses in the way; but the deep love and gladness, both earthly and heavenly, that makes roses grow out of every soil. So she looked, when Mr. Linden first discerned her, venturing from the hall door and searching round for him.

"O little Sunbeam!" he said, "how you 'glint' upon everything! there is a general illumination when you come out of the door. How do you feel this morning?--rested?"--

"As if I never had been tired." And Faith might have said, as if she never would be tired again; but only her eye revelled in such soft boasting. "Where is our home now, Endecott?"

The ridge before them, on the other side of the ravine, rose up with swifter ascent into the blue air, and looked even more thick set with orange trees: but where it slanted down towards the more open country, a little break in the trees spoke of clearing and meadow and cultivation. The clearing was for the most part on the other side, but a bit of one green field, dotted with two or three dark objects, swept softly over the ridge line.

"Are you in the sight-seeing mood?" said Mr. Linden, with a look as gladsome as her own.--"Yes; and seeing sights too. But where is that, Endy?"

"I shall take you there by degrees; wait a moment," and he went in for the gla.s.s. "Now, Mignonette," he said, adjusting it for her, "I wish to ask your notice for a little black spot on that bit of clearing. But first, what does it look like to you, a hut or a summerhouse?"--"It's too far off; it looks like nothing but a black spot."

"Now, look," said Mr. Linden, smiling. O wondrous power of the gla.s.s!

the black spot remained indeed a black spot still, but with the improvements of very decided horns, black tail, and four feet.

"Somebody lives there," said Faith. "It's a cow."--"Most true! What cow do you suppose it is, Mrs. Linden?"

Faith put down her gla.s.s to laugh at him. "It's no friend of mine," she said. "I have a few friends among cows, but not many."

"My dear Mrs. Linden, you always were rather quick at conclusions. If you look again, you will see that the cow has a surrounding fence of primeval roots, which will keep even her from running away."

Faith obeyed directions, carefully. "Endy," she said in an oddly changed tone, "is it my black heifer?"--"It is not mine," said Mr.

Linden.

"But I didn't know she had come!" said Faith; then putting up her gla.s.s again to scan the far-off "black spot" and all around it, with an intenseness of feeling which showed itself in two very different spots on her cheeks.

"Put down your gla.s.s, Faith," said Mr. Linden, "and look up along the ridge to that faint blue wreath over the yellow treetops; that is your first welcome from my study."

She looked eagerly, and then a most delighted bright smile broke over her face as it turned to Mr. Linden.

"How do you know it is in your study, Endecott?--and who has lighted it?"--"Some one! We'll go over after breakfast and see."

At breakfast many things were discussed besides broiled chicken. And afterwards there came to the door two of the rugged, surefooted, mountain horses, saddled and bridled for the expedition. On the porch steps a great lunch basket told of Mrs. Olyphant's care; Faith was up stairs donning her habit. Mr. Linden ran up to meet her.

"Faith," he said, laughingly, "Malthus has just confided to me, that 'if Mrs. Endecott has any things to take over,' they would make the way wonderfully pleasant to him."

"Who is Malthus?"

The shy blush on Faith's cheek was pretty to see.

"He is an old servant of mine, who has been with Mr. Olyphant, and is coming to me again."

Faith thought it was good news, and as good for Malthus as anybody. An important little travelling-bag was committed to him, and the cavalcade set forth.

The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way--through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree.

"Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?"

"This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!"

The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect.

Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely _his_ home he was looking at--it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold?

or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,--the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before.

Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile.

"Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little.