CHAPTER XXI
The spring came, with all its genial influences. Not now with such expeditions as the last spring had seen, but with letters to take their place, and with walks of business and kindness instead of pleasure. Yes, of pleasure too; and Faith began to find her "knight" not only a help and safeguard, but good company. Reuben was so true, so simple and modest—was walking in such a swift path of improvement; was so devoted to Faith and her interests, besides the particular bond of sympathy between them, that she might have had many a brother and fared much worse. The intercourse had not changed its character outwardly—Reuben's simple ceremonial of respect and deference was as strict as ever; but the thorough liking of first acquaintanceship had deepened into very warm affection on both sides. With Dr. Harrison Reuben gained no ground—or the doctor did not with him. Though often working for him and with him, though invariably courteous with the most respectful propriety, Faith could see that Reuben's old feeling was rather on the increase.
With the spring thaw came a freshet. It came suddenly, at the end of the week; every river and stream rising into a full tide of insurrection with the melting snows of Saturday, and Saturday night bridges and mill dams went by the board. Among the rest, one of the railway bridges near Pattaquasset gave way, and a full train from the east set down its freight of passengers in Pattaquasset over Sunday. They amused themselves variously—as such freight in such circumstances is wont to do. Faith knew that the church was well filled that Sunday morning, but the fact or the cause concerned her little—did not disturb the quiet path of her thoughts and steps, until church was out and she coming home, alone that day, as it happened. Then she found the walk full and her walk hindered. Especially by two gentlemen—who as the others thinned off, right and left, still went straight on; not fast enough to get away from Faith nor slow enough for her to pass them. They were strangers, evidently, and town bred. One of them reminded Faith of Dr. Harrison, in dress and style—both belonged to a class of which she had seen few specimens. But she gave them little heed (save as they detained her,) nor cared at all for their discussion of the weather, or the place. Then suddenly her attention was caught and held.
"By the way!" said one—"this is the very place where Linden was so long."
"Who? Endecott Linden?" said Dr. Harrison's likeness. "What was he here for?"
"Teaching school."
"Teaching school!" echoed the other,—"Endecott Linden teaching school!—Pegasus in pound!—How did the rustics catch him?"
"Pegasus came of his own accord, if I remember."
"Pshaw, yes!—but Linden. For what conceivable reason did he let himself down to teach school?"
"He didn't—" said the other a little hotly. "He wouldn't let himself down if he turned street-sweeper."
"True—he has a sort of natural dais which he carries about with him,—I suppose he'd make the crossing the court end. But I say, what did he do this for?"
"Why—for money!" said the first speaker. "What an ado about nothing!"
"Inconceivable! Just imagine, George, a man who can sing as he does, teaching a, b, ab!"
"Well—imagine it," said George,—"and then you'll wish you were six years old to have him teach you."
"How cross you are," said his friend lazily. "And despotic. Was there nothing left of all that immense property? I've just come home, you know."
"Not much," said George. "A little—but Endecott wouldn't touch that—it was all put at interest for Miss Pet. He would have it so, and even supported her as long as she staid in the country. What he works so hard for now I don't understand."
"Works, does he? I thought he was studying for the church—going to bury himself again. It's a crying shame! why he might be member, minister, Secretary, President!"
"He!" cried George in hot disdain,—"he soil his fingers with politics!No—he's in the right place now,—there's no other pure enough for him."
"I didn't know you admired the church so much," said his friend ironically.
"I don't—only the place in it where he'll stand. That's grand."
"And so he's at work yet?"
"Yes indeed—and it puzzles me. That year here ought to have carried him through his studies."
"Why what can he do?—not teach school now,—he's no time for it."
"He can give lessons—and does. Makes the time, I suppose. You know he has learned about everything but Theology. Olyphant was telling me about it the other day."
"What a strange thing!" said the other musingly, "such a family, so swept overboard! What a house that was! You remember his mother, George?"
"I should think so!—and the way Endecott used to sing to her every night, no matter who was there."
"Yes," said the doctor's confrère—"and come to her to be kissed afterwards. I should have laughed at any other man—but it set well on him. So did her diamond ring in his hair, which she was so fond of handling. How did he make out to live when she died?"
"I don't know—" said George with a half drawn breath—a little reverently too: "I suppose he could tell you. But all that first year nobody saw him—unless somebody in need or sorrow: they could always find him. He looked as if he had taken leave of the world—except to work for it."
"How courted he used to be!"—said the other—"how petted—not spoiled, strange to say. Do you suppose he'll ever marry, George? will he ever find any one to suit his notions? He's had enough to choose from already—in Europe and here. What do they say of him off yonder—where he is now?"
"They say he's—rock crystal,—because ice will melt," said George. "SoI suppose his notions are as high as ever."
"You used to admire Miss Linden, if I remember," said his friend. "What a ring that was!—I wonder if she's got it. George—I sha'n't walk any further in this mud—turn about."
Which the two did, suddenly. Both stepped aside out of Faith's way, in surprise—her light footfall had not made them lower their voices. But in that moment they could see that she was a lady; in acknowledgment of which fact the one gentleman bowed slightly, and the other lifted his hat. Faith had thrown back her veil to hear better what they were saying, not expecting so sudden an encounter; and as she passed, secure in being a stranger, gave them both a view of as soft a pair of eyes as they had either of them ever looked into, which also sought theirs with a curious intentness, borne out by the high bright tinge which excitement had brought into her cheeks. Both of them saw and remembered, for swift as it was, the look was not one to forget. But the glance added little to what Faith knew already about the strangers, and she went on her way feeling as if a stricture had been bound tight round her heart.
The words about Mr. Linden's fastidiousness she knew quite enough of him to verify; and in the light of these people's talk it almost seemed to Faith as if there had been some glamour about her—as if she should some day prove to be "magician's coin" after all. But though the old sense of unworthiness swept over her, Faith was not of a temper to dwell long or heavily upon such a doubt. Her heart had been strangely stirred besides by what was said of his mother, and his old way of life, and his changes. She knew about them of course before; yet as a trifle, the touching of a single ray, will often give a new view of an old scene,—those side words of strangers set all Mr. Linden's time of joy and sorrow with such vivid reality before her, that her heart was like to break with it. That effect too, more or less, passed away from her mind,—never entirely. Another thing staid.
"What he works so hard for now"—Then he was working hard! and doing his own studies and correcting her French exercises, and giving her lessons all the while, as well as to other people; and bringing her gifts with the fruit of his work! And not an atom of it all could Faith touch to change. She pondered it, and she knew it. She doubted whether she could with any good effect venture so much as a remonstrance; and the more Faith thought, the more this doubt resolved itself into certainty. And all the while, he was working hard! Round that fact her thoughts beat, like an alarmed bird round its nest; about as helplessly.
Mrs. Derrick thought Faith was more grave and abstracted than usual that day, and sometimes thought so afterwards; that was all Faith made known.
Dr. Harrison thought the same thing on the next occasion of his seeing her, and on the next; or rather he thought she held off from him more than usual; what the root of it might be he was uncertain. And circumstances were unfavourable to the exactness of his observations for some time thereafter.
It was yet early in March, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh took a very troublesome and tedious fever, which lasted several weeks. It was reckoned dangerous, part of the time, and Mrs. Derrick and Faith were in very constant attendance. Faith especially, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh liked no one else so well about her; and gratitude and regard made her eager to do all she might. So daily and nightly she was at Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedside, ministering to her in all the gentle offices of a nurse, and in that line besides where Mr. Linden had declared Dr. Harrison but half knew his profession. And there, and about this work, Dr. Harrison met her.
Their meetings were of necessity very often; but no lectures, nor discussions, nor much conversation, were now possible. Faith felt she had a vantage ground, and used it The doctor felt he had lost ground, or at the least was not gaining; and against some felt but unrecognized obstacle in his way his curiosity and passion chafed. He could see Faith nowhere else now; she contrived not to meet him at home. She was out with Reuben—or resting—or unavoidably busy, when he came there. And Dr. Harrison knew the resting times were needed, and could only fume against the business—in which he sometimes had some reason.
One day he found her at her post in the sick room, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh had fallen asleep. It was towards the end of the afternoon. An open Bible lay on the bed's side; and Faith sat there resting her head on her hand. She was thinking how hard Mr. Linden was working, and herself looking somewhat as if she were following his example.
"What are you doing?" said the doctor softly.
"I have been reading to Mrs. Stoutenburgh."
"Feverish—" whispered the doctor.
"No;—she has gone to sleep."
"Tired her!—"
"No," said Faith with a smile, "it's resting. The Bible never tired any one yet, that loved it—I think."
"Well people—" said the doctor.
"Sick people! You're mistaken, Dr. Harrison. Sick people most of all."
"Do you know that you will be sick next," said he gravely, "if you do not take more care?"
A fair little smile denied any fear or care on that subject, but did not satisfy the doctor.
"I do not approve of what you are doing," said he seriously.
"Reading this?"
"Even the same."
"But you are mistaken, Dr. Harrison," she said gently. "There is nothing so soothing, to those that love it. I wish you loved it! Don't you remember you confessed to me once that somebody had told you you had but half learned your profession?"
Faith trembled, for she had said those last words wittingly. She could not have spoken them, if the light in the room had not been such as to hide her change of colour; and even then she dared not speak the name she alluded to. But she had said it half as a matter of conscience.
It drew forth no answer from the doctor, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh just then stirred and awoke. And Faith little guessed the train she had touched. There were no indications of manner; and she could not, as Dr. Harrison went leisurely down the stairs, see the tremendous bound his mind made with the question,—
"Is it that book that stands in my way?—or HE!"
CHAPTER XXII
Mrs. Stoutenburgh got well. And it was in Faith's mind then, by some means to see very little more of Dr. Harrison till Mr. Linden should be in Pattaquasset again. So much for human intentions. Faith fell sick herself; and instead of being kept at a distance Dr. Harrison saw her twice at least in the twenty-four hours.
It was a doubtful privilege to see those soft eyes lustrous with fever and a steady glow take place of the changing and flitting hues which were as much a part of Faith's language, at times, as the movements of a horse's ears are part of his. But as after a few days it became evident that there was nothing dangerous about Faith's attack, it is probable that the doctor rather enjoyed his position than otherwise. The freedom and authority of his office were a pleasant advance upon the formalities of ordinary intercourse; and to see Faith and speak to her and touch her hand without any ceremonial but that of friendship, was an advantage great enough to desire the prolonging thereof. Faith was a gentle patient; and Dr. Harrison's care was unbounded; though it was not alarming, even to Mrs. Derrick, as he assured her there was no cause.
For a week however Faith kept her bed, and even Dr. Harrison was glad when at the end of a week she was able to be up again. Especially perhaps as it was only in her wrapper and an easy chair; his office was not at an end; the fever, in a remittent or intermittent form, still hung about her and forbade her doing anything but taking care of herself.
Not precisely in this category of duty were the letters Faith had written all that week. She had written them, how was best known by an aching head and burning fingers and feverish vision. But an interruption of them would have drawn on Mr. Linden's knowing the reason; and then Faith knew that no considerations would keep him from coming to her. It was towards the end of the study term; he was working hard already; she could not endure that any further bar should be placed in his way. None should for her. And so, bit by bit when she could do but a bit at a time, the letters were written. Exercises had to be excused. And Faith was at heart very thankful when at the end of a sick week, she was able to get up and be dressed and sit in the easy-chair and see the diamonds sparkling against her brown wrapper again.
It was April now, and a soft springy day. A fire burned gently in the chimney, while a window open at a little distance let in Spring's whispers and fragrances; and the plain old-fashioned room looked cosy and pretty, as some rooms will look under undefinable influences. Nothing could be plainer. There was not even the quaint elegance of Mr. Linden's room; this one was wainscotted with light blue and whitewashed, and furnished with the simplest of chintz furniture. But its simplicity and purity were all in tone with the Spring air and the cheer of the wood fire; and not at all a bad setting for the figure that sat there in the great chintz chair before the fire; her soft hair in bright order, the quiet brown folds of the wrapper enveloping her, and the flash of the diamonds giving curious point and effect to the whole picture. Faith was alone and looking very happy.
It wanted but a few weeks now of Mr. Linden's coming home,—coming home for a longer rest and sight of her; and Faith had not seen him since January. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's illness and Faith's consequent fatigue had in part accounted to him for the short letters and missing French exercises, but she could see that such excuse would not long be made for her,—his last one or two letters had been more anxious, more special in their inquiries: how glad she was that he need have no further cause for either. Partly musing on all this, partly on what she had been reading, Faith sat that afternoon, when the well-known single soft knock at her door announced Reuben Taylor. He came in with a glad face—how sad it had lately been Faith had seen, sick as she was,—and with both hands full of pleasant things. One hand was literally full, of cowslips; and as he came up and gave her his other hand, it seemed to Faith as if a great spot of Spring gold was before her eyes.
"Dear Miss Faith," Reuben said, "I wonder if anybody can ever be thankful enough, to see you better! You feel stronger than yesterday, don't you, ma'am?"
"I can't be thankful enough, Reuben—I feel that to-day. How good you are to bring me those cowslips! O yes,—I am stronger than I was yesterday."
That Faith was not very strong was sufficiently shewn by the way her hands lay in her lap and on the arm of the chair, and by the lines of her pale quiet face. Bodily strength was not flourishing there. Reuben looked at her wistfully, with a half-choked sigh, then knelt down beside her chair, as he often did.
"I didn't bring them all, Miss Faith—I mean, I didn't pick them all. Charlie and Robbie saw me in the meadow, and nothing would do but they must help. I don't think they always knew which to pick—but I thought you wouldn't mind that," he said as he laid the cowslips on the table, their fair yellow faces shewing very fair in the sick room. Faith's face was bright before, but it brightened still.
"They look lovely to me—tell Charlie and Rob I will thank them when I can. I don't thank you, Reuben,"—she said turning from the flowers to him.
"No, ma'am, I should hope not," he said, answering her smile gratefully. "But that's not all, Miss Faith—for Ency Stephens sent you one of her rosebuds,"—and Reuben took a little parcel carefully from his pocket. "It's only wrapped up in brown paper, because I hadn't time to go home for white. And she told me to tell you, Miss Faith," he added, both eyes and cheek flushing—"that she prays every day for you to get well and for Mr. Linden to come home."
The smile died on Faith's face and her eyes fell. "He ought to have this," she said presently, with a little flush on her own cheek. "I don't feel as if it should come to me. Reuben, does she want anything?" It was very rare, even now, for Faith to speak directly to Reuben of Mr. Linden, though she was ready enough to hear Reuben speak of him.
"No, ma'am, I think not," he said in answer to net question. "You know—did you ever hear, Miss Faith?—that when Mr. Linden first went there she was kept in the house the whole time,—nobody knew how to take her out—or took the trouble; and Mr. Linden carried her half a mile down the lane that very first day. And you can guess how he talked to her, Miss Faith,—they said she looked like another child when she came back. But is there anything I can do for you, ma'am, before I go to the post-office?—it's almost time."
"If you'll fill that glass with water for me, Reuben—that I mayn't let my sweet cowslips fade—that's all. They'll do me good all to-morrow."
Reuben went off, his place presently supplied by Mrs. Stoutenburgh; who against all persuasion had insisted upon coming down to see Faith. And then Faith was left to the calm companionship of her cowslips till Reuben came back from the post-office.
He came up to Faith's chair, and taking out the letter broke the outer seal, (a ceremony he generally performed in her presence) and was just removing the envelope when the doctor came in for his evening visit. The doctor saw a tableau,—Faith, the cowslips, and Reuben,—Mrs. Derrick by the window he hardly saw, nor what the others were about. But that he had interrupted something was clear—the very atmosphere of the room was startled; and though Reuben's position hid both letter and hands, it was certain the hands were busy. What was in them, and what became of it, the doctor could not tell. Before he was fairly in the room the letter had retreated to Reuben's pocket, and Reuben stepped back and stood behind Faith's chair.
The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a "How do you do" as he passed; and accosted Faith with all the free kindliness which his office of physician permitted him to add to the friend. The doctor took all his advantage; he did not take more; and not Faith herself could see that there was any warmer feeling behind his pleasant and pleased eye and smile. But it is true Faith was a simpleton. She did not see that his pleasantness covered keen scrutiny. The scrutiny found nothing.
"How do you do?" he said.
"I don't suppose I need say a word to tell you," Faith answered smiling. "I am well enough to enjoy cowslips."
The doctor's eye fell slightingly upon them, which was not wonderful.
"I think you must be very well!" he said with some trifle of addenda from lip and eye. "You see you are mistaken. I shouldn't have known how well, except from your words."
"You are mistaken now, Dr. Harrison," said Faith in the slow quiet way in which she spoke to-day. "You think these are not splendid—but they are bits of spring!"
"They are not Spring's best bits, I hope," said the doctor.
"What do you think of that?"
The doctor took the rosebud and looked at it.
"If I were to tell you what I think of it," he said with a sort of grave candour, "you would dismiss me, and I should come here no more!"
"Reuben brought me that, Dr. Harrison, from the little lame girl you sent the rosebush to, in the winter. I wish you knew how much good that rosebush has done!"
"I sometimes wish," said the doctor, "that I had been born in a cottage!"
"Why, in the world?"
"It would be so pleasant to have people come and bring me rosebushes!"
"Or cowslips?" said Faith. "Then you would have a taste for cowslips."
"But then the people might get sick," said the doctor, waiving the "bits of spring;"—"so I am content. How are you to-day?" He took Faith's hand and felt it, and looked at her. The result did not seem to be unsatisfactory on the whole.
"You mustn't read too much in that book," said he, glancing over at it.
"Why not?"
"You must keep quiet."
"For how long?"
"It depends. There is a little enemy of fever hanging about your skirts, that I will oppose with something else; but all you can oppose to him is quietness."
Faith thought of the words—"The rock of my defence and my refuse"—what quietness was like that of their giving; but she said nothing to the doctor.
Dr. Harrison gave Mrs. Derrick her directions on various points; then taking his old-fashioned stand on the rug, surveyed the easy-chair and its occupant and Reuben still behind it.
"By the way, Mrs. Derrick," said he carelessly,—"I have heard a pretty story of your friend Mr. Linden." He noticed, but only that Faith had glanced at him and was to all appearance quietly looking down at her cowslips.
"I dare say, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick placidly. "I've heard a great many."
"Have you heard it?"
"Heard what?" said Mrs. Derrick. "It's an old pretty story that everybody loves him."
"I heard this only the other day," said the doctor. "It's not of that kind. But stories will be stories—and people will tell them."
How the colour flushed and paled in Reuben's cheek!—he stood resting his hands lightly on the back of Faith's chair, looking down. The colour on Faith's cheek did not change.
"Who told this?" said Mrs. Derrick.
"People that have known the family. They say, he has managed to run through a very large property, and that he leaves his sister now to live upon charity."
It was impossible to tell from the doctor's manner whether he put any faith in his story himself. It was as much like delivering a report as bringing a charge. It might have been either! He saw Reuben's colour become fixed and very high, but though the doctor could almost have sworn that there was a rush of hid tears under the boy's drooping eyelids, yet the lines about the mouth took the curl of an irrepressible smile. Mrs. Derrick picked up two stitches, made a third—then answered.
"So that's what you call a pretty story! It was hardly worth remembering to tell us, doctor,—you and I, and Reuben, and Faith, know better." Now could not the doctor tell for the life of him, whether the words were simply innocent, or—simply malicious! Mrs. Derrick was so imperturbable there, at her knitting! Neither did the doctor much care. It sounded to him just like Mrs. Derrick. He looked at Faith; and remarked lightly that "he didn't know anything!"
Faith was very quiet; he could not see that her colour had risen more than a little, and a little was not enough to judge by in her face. But in an instant more after he had spoken, she looked full and gravely up at him.
"Do you believe everything about everybody, Dr. Harrison?"
"On the contrary! I don't believe anything of anybody—Except you," he added with a little smile.
"Do you believe such a story?"
Her steady soft eyes, which did not move from him, gave him an uncomfortable feeling—perhaps of undefined remembrance. "I don't believe it," he said returning her gaze. "I don't do anything with it. Such things are said of everybody—and of almost everybody they are true. I take them as they come. But about this particular case," he said with one of his gentle looks, "I will do just what you say I must do."
Faith smiled.
"I don't say you must do anything. I am sorry for you, Dr. Harrison."
"I am glad you are sorry!" he said sitting down by her. "And there is reason enough; but what is this one?"
"You lose a great pleasure."
"What one?"—
"You don't know how to trust."
"Do I not?" said the doctor, looking at the rosebud still in his hand. "Well—you shall teach me!" And springing up he bowed to Mrs. Derrick and went off—rosebud and all.
Reuben stood still for about half a minute—then came round, and silently gave Faith her letter.
"Reuben Taylor!"—said Faith, as he was going after the doctor. "You have been standing so long—suppose you sit down for a minute?"
Whatever Reuben thought of the request, he said nothing, but obeyed her, bringing a foot cushion to her chair and bestowing himself upon it. Faith smiled at him as she spoke again, though there was an unwonted fire in her owe eyes; and the blood came fast now to her face.
"Reuben, I wanted to ask you what all that colour is in your cheeks for?"
Reuben hesitated—there seemed a stricture across his breast which made speaking hard work; but at last he said frankly, though in none of the clearest tones,
"Because I'm angry, Miss Faith—and hurt too."
Faith's next words fell like pearls—
"It isn't worth the while."
"No, Miss Faith," he answered without looking up.
"It's too much honour to something that doesn't deserve it,—and—Reuben—it's too little to something that does."
"O no, ma'am! it's not that!" Reuben said, raising his eyes to her face with the old earnest look. "But Miss Faith, there are some things he can't bear to hear said—and said so," he added a little lower, and looking down again. "And then—he's Dr. Harrison, and I'm only a poor boy and mayn't answer him—and that fretted me; and it isn't the first time, neither," Reuben said, as if he were making a clean breast of it. "Oh Miss Faith! I'd rather have had him knock me down, than speak such words!" Tears were getting the upper hand in the boy's voice.
"Dear Reuben," said Faith, very quietly, though her cheeks were two carnations,—"what I am most sorry for is Dr. Harrison."
Reuben drew a long breath, with his "Yes, ma'am—I'm sorry for him too, very often—when he talks about other things. But I don't believe even you know just—just how false that was." Reuben spoke as if the words choked him. "It's maybe never come in your way to know all he did here for everybody, and—for me."
There was a quick pulsation at that instant from Faith's heart to the hand that held her letter,—but she only said, "Tell me!"
"I couldn't begin to tell you all, ma'am," Reuben said, a smile coming over his face now,—"nobody could but himself—and he wouldn't remember. I couldn't even tell you all he's done for me; but one thing"—Reuben's eyes and voice fell and he spoke very low. "You know, Miss Faith, the rate of schooling here is fixed by the trustees. And the first day I came father told me to say he didn't know that he could find the money for more than one quarter, but he had so much all ready, and he wanted me to have so much. I thought it would be hard to ask, but it was so easy—of him," Reuben said with that same smile. "Mr. Linden didn't say much about it—only yes—but then he spoke to father (that very day we were at the shore Miss Faith) and told him I should come all the time—for the pleasure of teaching me." (Reuben thought the compliment went all to Mr. Linden, or he would not have told it.) "But father wouldn't do that,—he said Mr. Linden should have the money as fast as he could get it; and if he didn't take it I shouldn't come. And it was paid all the year, regularly. But then, Miss Faith–" there was a pause.
"What, Reuben?" she whispered.
"Then instead of keeping it for himself, he put it all in the bank for me.—And I never knew it till I opened the letter he gave me when he was going away."
The brightness of the hidden diamonds danced in Faith's face for a minute—half hidden too, but it was there.
"Reuben," she whispered, as he was starting up to go,—"what we have to do is to pray for Dr. Harrison."
"Miss Faith, how do people live who do not pray?"
"I don't know!"
But Faith's voice did not speak the thanksgiving which bounded in her heart to Reuben's words. She sat back in her chair looking tired, with her letter clasped fast in her hand. Reuben stepped forward and arranged the fire softly—then giving her another wistful look he bowed and went lightly out of the room. With gentle step Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, to kiss her and ask how she felt. Faith's eyelids unclosed.
"Very happy, mother,—and tired too. Don't you think I could have a light presently?"
"This minute, pretty child. But lie down on the couch, Faith, and I'll bring up the little table."
That was done, and then Faith read her letter, with first a rapid and then a slow enjoyment of it, making every word and sentence do more than double duty, and bring the very writer near. And then she lay with it clasped upon her bosom, thinking those flowing trains of half feverish thought which are so full of images, but which in her case flowed with a clear stream over smooth channels, nor ever met a rough break or jar. Even Dr. Harrison did not make an exception, for Faith's thought of him was constantly softened by her prayer for him. Her mother drew near when the letter was at last folded up, and watched her from the other side of the stand; but though mind and heart too were full enough, she rightly judged that Faith needed no more excitement; and so never mentioned Dr. Harrison's name, nor even asked how he came to carry off the rosebud.