"I will walk home," she said interrupting him.

"You are not able! We are three miles, at least, from Mrs. Derrick's house. You could not bear it."

"I can walk three miles," she said with a faint, fair smile. "I will go home with Sam, and you can take care of the horses."

"That would be a tolerably backhanded arrangement!" said the doctor.--"Young man, will you bring these horses into town for me--after I get them on their legs--to Judge Harrison's, or anywhere?--I must take care of this lady and see her safe."

"Yes--I'll bring 'em into town," said Sam, "but Miss Faith's to be seen to first--if they don't get on their legs all night! _That_'ll be a work of time, I take it. Miss Faith--could you walk just a little way?--there's a house there, and maybe a wagon."

"You don't understand me," said the doctor. "I asked if you would do me the favour to bring my horses into town. _I_ will take care of the lady."

Sam considered a minute--not the doctor but things.

"Miss Faith," he said, "I can run faster than you can walk, beyond all calculation. If you'll keep warm here, I'll run till I find a wagon--for if you don't ride and tell the story some one else will,--and then there's two people will be worse hurt than you are.

You'd get home quickest so." Faith was about to speak but the doctor prevented her.

"Then you refuse to take care of my horses?" he said. "I told you I would take care of the lady."

"Bother the horses!" said Sam impatiently,--"who's to think about horses with Miss Faith here frightened to death? I'm ready to drive 'em all over creation, when I get ready, Dr. Harrison!"

Faith in her turn interposed.

"I would rather walk than wait, Dr. Harrison. If Sam knows some house near by, I would rather walk so far with him than wait for him to go and come again. We could send some one to help you then. Sam, you'll help Dr. Harrison get the horses up."

So much Sam was willing to do, and the doctor with such grace as he might, accepted; that is, with no grace at all. The horses with some trouble and difficulty were raised to their feet, and found whole. The carriage was broken too much to be even drawn into town. Faith then set out with her escort.

"How far is your house, Sam?"

But Sam shook his head at that--the nearest one of any sort was a poor sort of a place, where they sometimes had a wagon standing and sometimes didn't. "But we can try, Miss Faith," he said in conclusion.

Sam's arm was a strong one, and certainly if he could have induced his companion to lean her whole weight on it his satisfaction would have increased in proportion; as it was he gave her good help. And thus they had walked on, in the fading afternoon light, more than what to Faith was "just a little way," when the first house came in sight.

Fortunately the wagon was at home; and before it stood an old horse that one of the men said "he should like to see run!"--but for once such deficiency was the best recommendation. Another man set off on foot to find and help Dr. Harrison, and the owner of the slow horse gave the reins to Sam. The wagon was not on springs, and the buffalo skin was old, and the horse was slow!--beyond a question; but still it was easier than walking, and even quicker. Sam Stoutenburgh did his best to make Faith comfortable--levying upon various articles for that purpose, and drove along with a pleasure which after all can never be unmixed in this world! Even Sam felt that, for his long-drawn "Oh Miss Faith!"--said much, and carried Faith's thoughts (she hardly knew why) to more than one person at home.

"Sam," said Faith, "I don't want to say anything about this to-night."

"Well, ma'am--I won't say a word, if I can help it. Do you mean to _anybody_, Miss Faith?"

"Not to anybody. I mean, not to any one at home."

"I won't if I can help it," Sam repeated. "But it's my night to stay with Mr. Linden."

"Is it?--Well--what if it is?"

"I don't know--" said Sam dubiously,--"he has a funny way of reading people's faces."

"But what is going to be in yours, Sam?"

"I don't know that, neither," said Sam. "But the fact is, Miss Faith, he always _does_ find out things--and if it's anything he's got to do with you may just as good tell him at once as to fuss round."

A pretty significant piece of information! Upon which Faith mused.

It was not so late when they reached Mrs. Derrick's door, that the good lady's anxiety had got fairly under way. At that moment indeed, she had quitted the front of the house, and gone to hurry Cindy and the teakettle; so that Faith was in the house and her escort dismissed, before Mrs. Derrick appeared.

"Why pretty child!" she said--"here you are! I was very near getting worried. And I went up and asked Mr. Linden what time it was, lest the clock shouldn't be right; but he seemed to think it wasn't worth while to fret about you yet. You're tired to death!" she added, looking at Faith. "You're as pale as anything, child!"

"Yes mother--I'm very tired."

And very glad to get home, she would have said, but her lips failed it.

"Well do sit down, child," said her mother, "and I'll take your things up stairs. Tea's all ready--that'll do you good, and then you shall go right to bed."

But that did not seem what Faith was ready to do; instead of that, she preferred to sit down by her mother, and wrap her arms round her again and lay her head in her mother's lap. Even then she did not sleep, though she was by no means inclined to talk and answered Mrs. Derrick's fond or anxious words with very few in return, low and quiet, or with quiet caresses. And when her mother was silent, to let her sleep, Faith was silent too.

They had sat so motionless for awhile, when Faith changed her posture.

She got up, sat down on a chair by her mother's side, laid her head in her neck and wrapped arms round _her_ in turn.

"Mother--" she said most caressingly,--"when will you begin to follow Christ with me?--I want that, I want that!"--

CHAPTER XXV.

While Dr. Harrison was sleeping off the effects of his exertions, mental and physical, of the preceding day; and his horses in their stable realized that the reaping of wild oats has its own fatigues; Mrs. Derrick was stirring about with even unwonted activity, preparing for that unwonted breakfast up stairs. An anxious look or two at Faith's sleeping face had a.s.sured her mother that the fatigue there had been nothing very serious; and Mrs. Derrick went down with a glad heart to her preparations. There Faith joined her after awhile, and as breakfast time approached, Mrs. Derrick suggested that Faith should go up and see that the table was all right, and receive the breakfast which she herself would send up. Cindy was already there, pa.s.sing back and forth, and the door stood open to facilitate her operations.

If Faith had felt curious as to the success of Sam Stoutenburgh's efforts at concealment, her curiosity was at once relieved. The room as she saw it through the half-open door was bright with firelight and sunshine; the spoons and cups on the little table shone cheerily in the glow; and all things were in their accustomed pretty order and disorder. But the couch was empty, and Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, leaning one arm there, his face bent down and covered with his hand.

Faith had no need to knock--the door being open and Cindy in full possession; but as her light step came near the fire he turned suddenly and held out his hand to her without a word. Then gently pushing her back to the corner of the couch, Mr. Linden bade her "sit down and be quiet--" and he himself took a chair at her side. She could hardly tell how he looked--the face was so different from any she had ever seen him wear.

For a minute she obeyed orders; then she said, though with an eye that avoided meeting his,

"I mustn't be quiet, Mr. Linden--I must see to the breakfast table."

If his first motion was to hinder that, he thought better of it, and suffered her to go and give her finishing touches; watching her all the time, as she felt, but without speaking; and when Cindy shut the door and tramped down stairs, the room was very still. Only the light crackling of the hickory sticks in the chimney, and those soft movements about the table. If ever such movements were made with pleasure--if ever a face of very deep peacefulness hovered over the placing and displacing of knives and forks, plates and salt-cellars,--it was then. Yet it was not a very abstracted face, nor looked as if the _outward_ quiet might be absolutely immovable. The last touch put to the table, Faith glanced at the hickory sticks on the fire; but they wanted nothing; and then her look came round to Mr.

Linden, and the smile which could no longer be kept back, came too; a smile of touching acknowledgment.

"Miss Faith, will you come and sit down?"

She came, silently.

One deep breath she did hear, as Mr. Linden arranged the cushions and with gentle force made her lean against them, but either he did not feel himself able to touch directly what they were both thinking of--or else thought her not able to bear it. His tone was very quiet, the rest of his hand upon her hair hardly longer than it had been yesterday, as he said,

"What will my scholar be fit for to-day?--anything but sleep?"

For a moment it was a little more than she could bear, and her face for that moment was entirely grave; then she smiled up at him and answered in a tone lighter than his had been,

"Fit for anything--and more fit than ever, Mr. Linden. I only rest here because you put me here."