"Yes, I should like to see him," said the doctor; "but as he is a mortal like myself, I suppose I can find him another time by the use of proper precautions."

And Dr. Harrison took his departure.

Mrs. Derrick on her part went upstairs again, and opening the door merely peeped in this time.

"What is it, mother?"

"Are you busy yet, child?"

"Not quite through."

"I thought," said Mrs. Derrick stepping softly into the room, "that we'd go down to the sh.o.r.e this afternoon, and maybe dig some clams. I don't know but it's too late for that--we might ride down and see.

You're tired, pretty child--and other people won't like that a bit more than I do."

"I'd like to go, mother--I'm almost done, and I'm not tired," Faith said with happy eyes. "There is time, I guess, for Mr. Linden don't want tea as early as usual. I'll come soon."

Mrs. Derrick withdrew softly, and again Faith was entirely lost in her business. But she had nearly done now; the work was presently finished, the books put up in order, and the papers, with the exercise on top; and Faith stood a moment looking down at it. Not satisfied, but too humble to have any false shame, too resolute to doubt of being satisfied and of satisfying somebody else, by and by. And the intellectual part of her exercise she thought, and with modest reason, would satisfy him now. Then she went down to her mother, quite ready for the beach or for anything else.

It was one of those very warm October days which unlearned people call Indian summer,--the foreground landscape yellow with stubble fields and sered forest, the distance blue with haze. So soft and still, that the faint murmur of the wheels as they rolled along the sandy road sounded as if at a distance, and the twittering birds alone set off the silence. Now and then came a farm wagon loaded with glowing corn, then the field where the bereaved pumpkins lay among the bundles of cornstalks. Sportsmen pa.s.sed with their guns, schoolboys with their nut-bags, and many were the greetings Faith received; for since the day at Neanticut every boy thought he had a right to take off his hat to her. From the midst of his cornfield, Mr. Simlins gave them a wave of his hand,--from the midst of its blue waters the Sound sent a fresh welcome.

"I declare, child," said Mrs. Derrick, as they neared the sh.o.r.e, "it's real pleasant!"

"The tide's out, mother," said Faith, who had the spirit of action upon her to-day--"we can get some clams now, if we're quick."

"I don't know but you're learning to be spry, among other things," said her mother looking at her. "I thought you were as spry as you could be, before. What haven't you done to-day, child!"

Faith laughed a little, and then jumping out of the wagon and helping her mother down, was certainly 'spry' in getting ready for the clam-digging. Her white dress had been changed for a common one and that was carefully pinned up, and a great kitchen ap.r.o.n was put on to cover all but the edges of skirts as white as the white dress, and with shoes and stockings off, basket and hoe in hand, she stood ready almost before her mother had accomplished fastening up old Crab to her satisfaction. Mrs. Derrick on her part prepared herself as carefully for work (though not quite so evidently for play) and the two went down to the flats. The tide was far out,--even the usual strips of water were narrow and far apart. Wherever they could, the little sh.e.l.l-fish scrambled about and fought their miniature battles in one-inch water; but at the edge of the tall sh.o.r.e-gra.s.s there was no water at all, unless in the mud, and the sh.e.l.l-fish waited, by hundreds, for the tide. Here was the scene of action for the two ladies. Walking daintily over the warm mud with their bare feet, which however white and twinkling at first were soon obliged to yield to circ.u.mstances; disturbing the little sh.e.l.l-fish--who in turn disturbed them, by very t.i.tillating little attacks upon the aforesaid feet,--Mrs. Derrick and Faith marched up to the edge of the gra.s.s and there sought for clam holes. The war went on after this fashion. A clam hole being found, the hoe was struck far down into the mud to _unearth_ the inhabitant; which the clam resenting, spit up into the intruder's face. But the intruder--proof against such small fire--repeated the strokes, and the clam was soon brought to light and tumbled ignominiously into the basket,--to be followed every second or two by another of his companions; for the clam holes were many. The basket was soon full, but not before the cool ripple of the tide had pa.s.sed the muscle rocks and was fast coming in-sh.o.r.e.

"Well I do think play's hard work!" said Mrs. Derrick, bringing herself once more to an erect position--"I told Dr. Harrison so this morning.

How you and Mr. Linden stand it, Faith, I don't know."

"What, mother?" said Faith, making a descent upon another promising clam sh.e.l.l. But Mrs. Derrick always preferred to go on with her remarks.

"It's good he's doing it, for his own sake, I guess," she said,--"he's done nothing but work ever since he came to Pattaqua.s.set."

"Doing what, mother?" said Faith. "What _are_ you talking of?"

"Why I'm talking of you, child!" said her mother,--"you and Mr. Linden.

One of you played all the morning and the other's going to play all the afternoon. But I think you've done enough, Faith--it won't do to get sick so long as we've n.o.body but Dr. Harrison to depend on. I don't believe _he_'s much of a doctor."

"Played all the morning?" said Faith taking up her basket,--"it was better than play to me. I wish I could do something for _him_, mother!"

Very gravely, and even a little sorrowfully, the last words were said.

"Why yes," said Mrs. Derrick stoutly. "Never tell me it's anything but play to teach you, child--he didn't look as if it was, neither. I thought he got his pay as he went along."

Faith knew he had looked so; but that was not Faith--it was Mr. Linden, in her account.

"Dr. Harrison ought to be a good doctor, mother," she remarked, leaving the subject. "He has had chance enough."

"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, untying her ap.r.o.n, "chance don't prove anything. A man may have just as good a chance to kill as he has to cure. By which I don't mean that _he_ has, for I don't know."

"The tide is coming in, mother. We came just in the very point of the time. How pretty it is!--" said Faith; standing in the blue mud, with her bare feet, and with the basket of clams in her hand, but standing still to look off at the flats and the dark water and the hazy opposite sh.o.r.e, all with the sunny stillness and the soft enveloping haze of October lying lovingly upon them. Faith thought of the 'glory' again, and watched to see how water and sh.o.r.e and flats and sky were all touched with it. One or two sails on the Sound could not get on; they lay still in the haze like everything else; and the 'glory' was on them too. She thought so. It seemed to touch everything. And another glory touched everything,--the glory of truth Faith had only for a little while come to know. She recognized it; there was 'light from heaven' in more senses than one; the glow of joy and hope unknown a while before; the softening veil of mind-peace over whatever might be harsh or sharp in actual reality. She did not run out all the parallel, but she felt it, and stood looking with full eyes. Not full of tears, but of everything pleasant beside.

Then came the drive home, with the air darkening every minute, but notwithstanding this, Mrs. Derrick stopped by the way.

"Faith," she said, "hold the reins, child--I won't be a second, but I've got something to see to in here;" and Faith was once more left to her meditations.

Not for long; for as she sat gazing out over old Crab's ears, she was 'ware' of some one standing by the wagon: it was Squire Deacon.

"I shall commence to think I'm a lucky man, after all!" said the Squire. "I was coming down to see you, Miss Faith,--and couldn't just resolve my mind to it, neither. I wanted to pay a parting visit."

"Were you?--are you going away, Squire Deacon?"

"Why yes," said the Squire, looking down at his gun--for he had been shooting,--"I've had considerable thoughts of taking a turn down to York. Cilly says she don't think it's worth my while--but I guess she don't know much more 'n her own concerns. Pattaqua.s.set's a good deal come round this season," he added, without specifying which way.

"Do you mean that you intend to forsake Pattaqua.s.set entirely?" said Faith, noticing the comfortable supply of ducks in the Squire's bag.

"Well I can't just say--I'm not free to certify," said the Squire. "I said I thought it was worth my while to go, and so I do. I should like to know from your lips, Miss Faith, whether you'll make it worth my while to come back."

Faith was very glad it was so dark.

"I don't see how I can touch the question either way, sir," she said gently and with not a little difficulty.--"Wherever you are, I hope you'll be very happy, and very good, Squire Deacon."

"I should like something a little better grown than that, ma'am," said the Squire, striking his gun on the ground. "I can't just tell whether _that_'s wheat or oats. It's likely _my_ meaning's plain enough."

Faith was dumb for a minute.

"I believe I understood you, sir," she said in a low voice. "I meant to answer you."

"Well what's to hinder your doing it, then?" said Squire Deacon.

"I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,--and can't have,--except to wish you well, which I do heartily."

"That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?"

"No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "Squire Deacon, I want to see you _in heaven_."

And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of the wagon.

Squire Deacon took it for a moment--then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger prevailed Faith could not tell, he said--

"Well--I don't blame _you_,--never did and never shall. Cunning's been too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in the wagon again.

"Dear mother!" said Faith,--"why didn't you come sooner!"

"Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the matter?--why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome."