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"I suppose it is useless to say 'Please give me yours'," he said smiling. "Mignonette, we have had no reading to-day—do you like this time and place?—and shall it be with you or to you?"

"It will be both, won't it?" said Faith; and she went for her Bible.

CHAPTER XXX

The day was struggling into clearness by the time dinner was over. Patches of blue sky looked down through grey, vapoury, scattering clouds; while now and then a few rain drops fell to keep up the character of the morning, and broad warm genial sunbeams fell between them. It was not fair yet for a drive; and Mr. Linden went out on some errands of business, leaving Faith with a charge to sleep and rest and be ready against his return.

He was but a little while gone when Jem Waters made his appearance and asked for Faith. Mr. Simlins had been ill—that Faith knew—but Jem brought a sad report of how ill he had been, and a message that he was "tired of not seeing Faith and wished she would let Jem fetch her down. She might go back again as soon as she'd a mind to." He wanted to see her "real bad," according to Jem; for he had ordered the best wagon on the premises to be cleaned and harnessed up, and the best buffalo robe put in, and charged Jem to bring Miss Faith "if she could anyways come." And there was Jem and the wagon.

Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision.

"Mother," she said, "I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins—I shall be home in time for my ride." So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down.

Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, "fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken," but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke.

"Well,—why haint you been to see me before?"

"I have been sick, sir."

"Sick?" said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. "Sit there and let me see.—I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!" He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose.

"Don't you know," said he settling himself back in his chair,—"I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways—you aint but the half of my Zodiack."

"What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith willing to interrupt him.

"Well—you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too," said Mr. Simlins doubtfully.—"It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh—and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it." His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about.

"What shall I do to stop it, sir?"

"Well, you can read—can't you?—or talk to me."

There was a strange uneasy wandering of his eye, and a corresponding unwonted simplicity and directness in his talk. Faith noted both and silently went for a Bible she saw lying on a table. She brought it to Mr. Simlins' side and opened its pages slowly, questioning with herself where she should read. Some association of a long past conversation perhaps was present with her, for though she paused over one and another of several passages, she could fix upon none but the parable of the unfruitful tree.

"Do you mean that for me?" said the farmer a minute after she had done.

"Yes sir—and no, dear Mr. Simlins!" said Faith looking up.

"Why is it 'yes' and 'no'? how be I like that?"—he growled, but with a certain softening and lowering of his growl.

"The good trees all do the work they were made for. God calls for the same from us," Faith said gently.

"I know what you're thinkin' of," said he;—"but haint I done it? Who ever heerd a man say I had wronged him? or that I have been hard-hearted either? I never was."

It was curious how he let his thoughts out to her; but the very gentle, pure and true face beside him provoked neither controversy nor mistrust, nor pride. He spoke to her as if she had only been a child. Like a child, with such sympathy and simplicity, she answered him.

"Mr. Simlins, the Bible says that 'the fruits of righteousness are byJesus Christ.'—Do you know him?—are you in his service?"

"I don't know as I understand you," said he.

"I can't make you understand it, sir."

"Why can't you? who can?" said he quickly.

"It is written, Mr. Simlins,—'They shall be all taught of God.'"—She shewed him the place. "And it is written, 'Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths.'—That is it. If you are willing to walk in his paths, he will shew them to you." Faith looked eagerly at the farmer, and he looked at her. Neither heart was hid from the other.

"But supposin' I was willin'—which I be, so fur's I know—I don't know what they be no more'n a child. How am I goin' to find 'em out?"

Faith's eyes filled quick as she turned over the leaves again;—was it by sympathy alone that occasion came for the rough hand to pass once or twice hastily across those that were looking at her? Without speaking, Faith shewed him the words,—"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine."

"That is the question, dear Mr. Simlins. On that 'if' it all hangs." The farmer took the book into his own hands and sat looking steadily at the words.

"Well," said he putting it back on her lap—"supposin' the 'if' 's all right—Go ahead, Faith."

"Then the way is clear for you to do that; and it's all easy. But the first thing is here—the invitation of Jesus himself."

"'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"

"You see," she went on very gently,—"he bids you learn of him—so he is ready to teach you. If you are only willing to take his yoke upon you,—to be his servant and own it,—he will shew you what to do, step by step, and help you in every one."

"I don't see where's the beginning of the way yet," said the farmer.

"That," said Faith. "Be the servant of Jesus Christ and own it; and then go to him for all you want. He is good for all."

There was a pause.

"I s'pose you've been goin' on in that way a good while."

"A good while—yes,"—Faith almost whispered.

"Well, when you are goin' to him sometimes, ask somethin' for me,—will you?"

He had bent over, leaning on his knees, to speak it in a lower growl than ordinary. Faith bowed her head at first, unwilling to speak; but tears somehow started, and the drops followed each other, as she sat gazing into the black fireplace,—she could not help it—till a perfect shower of weeping brought her face into her hands and stirred her not very strong frame. It stirred the farmer, robust as he was in spite of illness; he shifted his chair most uneasily, and finally laid down his head on his folded arms on the table. Faith was the first to speak.

"Mr. Simlins, who takes care of you?"

"Ugh!" (a most unintelligible grunt,) "they all do it by turns—Jenny and all of 'em."

"What have you had for dinner to-day?"

"Didn't want anything!" He sat up and brushed his cloak sleeve across his forehead.

"Mr. Simlins, I shall send you down something from home and you must eat it."

"The doctor said I was to take wine—but I haint thought of it to-day."

"Where is it?"

He nodded his head in the direction of the cupboard. Faith went rummaging, poured him out a glass and brought it.

"You see," said he after he had taken it—"I've been pretty well pulled down—I didn't know—one time—which side of the fence I was goin' over—and I didn't see the ground on the other side. I don't know why I should be ashamed to say I was afeard!"—There was a strong, stern, truth-telling about this speech that thrilled his hearer. She sat down again.

"You had best take some yourself," he said. "Do Faith!"

"No sir—I'm going. I must go," she answered rising to make ready.

It was strange how the door could have opened and she not heard it—neither she nor Mr. Simlins in fact,—perhaps because their minds were so far away. That the incoming steps were unheard was not so strange, nor new, but the first thing of which Faith was conscious was the soft touch of a hand on either side of her face—she was a prisoner. Faith's instant spring to one side brought her face to face with everybody. Mr. Simlins looked from one to the other, and his first remark was characteristically addressed to Faith.

"Why you didn't tell me that!"

"Has she told you everything but that?" said Mr. Linden smiling, and giving the farmer's hand good token of his presence.

"Where under the sun did you come from?" said the farmer returning his grasp with interest, and looking at Mr. Linden as if indeed one of the lights of the solar system had been out before his arrival. Faith sat down mutely and as quietly as possible behind Mr. Linden.

"From under the sun very literally just now—before that from under a shower. I have been down to Quapaw, then home to Mrs. Derrick's, then here. Mr. Simlins, I am sorry to see that you are nursing yourself instead of me. What is the matter?"

"I'd as lieves be doin' this, of the two," said the farmer with a stray smile. "There aint much the matter. How long have you been in this meridian?"

"Two days." And stepping from before Faith, Mr. Linden asked her "if she had come there in a dream?"

"Do you ever see such good-lookin' things in your dreams?" said the farmer. "My visual pictures are all broken down fences, or Jem or Jenny doin' somethin' they haint ought to do. How long're you goin' to stay in Pattaquasset, Dominie?"

"Some time, I hope. Not quite so long as the first time, but longer than I have been since that. Do you know, Mr. Simlins, your coat collar is a little bit turned in?—and why don't you give the sunshine a better welcome?—you two sick people together want some one to make a stir for you." Which office Mr. Linden took upon himself—lightly disengaging the collar, and then going to the window to draw up the shade and throw back the shutters, stopping on his way back to straighten the table cover, and followed by a full gush of sunlight from the window.

"It is so glorious this afternoon!" he said. And standing silent a moment in that brilliant band of light-looking out at the world all glittering and sparkling in the sun, Mr. Linden repeated,—"'Unto you that fear my name, shall the Sun of Righteousness arise, with healing in his wings.'—What a promise that is!"

"Where did you get those words?"—said Mr. Simlins, after the sunlight and the silence had given them their full effect.

"From the Bible—God's book of promises. Do you want to see the place?"

Mr. Simlins turned down a corner of the leaf and laid the book, still open, on the table. Then looked at Mr. Linden with a mixture of pleasure and humour in his eyes. "Are you any nearer bein' a minister than you was a year ago?"

"Nearer in one way. But I cannot lay claim to the title you gave me for another year yet, Mr. Simlins."

"You're Say and Seal as much as ever. What more fixin' have you got to do?"

"A little finishing," said Mr. Linden with a smile.

And he got up and went for Faith's shawl and gloves which were on the table. Mr. Simlins watched the shawling and gloving with attention.

"You can tell Jem he won't be wanted again, Faith," he said. "I guess you'll see him at the gate." Mr. Linden smiled, but some other thought was on his mind,—the face that he turned to Mr. Simlins shewed concern that was both grave and kind.

"What can I do for you?" he said.

"This aint the prettiest place in Pattaquasset; but maybe you'll come and see me sometimes—till I can get out my self," Mr. Simlins said considerately.

"You may be sure I will. And will you let me pray with you now, beforeI go?"

The farmer hesitated—or was silent—one instant, then with a sort of subdued abruptness said,

"I'm ready!"—

They knelt there in the sunlight; but when the prayer was over Mr. Simlins felt half puzzled to know for whose sake it had been proposed. For with the telling of his doubts and hindrances and wants—things which he had told to no one, there mingled so much of the speaker's own interest,—which could not be content to leave him but in Christ's hands.

There was not a word spoken after that for a minute,—Mr. Linden stood by the low mantelpiece resting his face on his hand. The farmer, busy with the feelings which the prayer had raised, sat with downcast eyes. And Faith was motionless with a deep and manifold sense of happiness, the labyrinth of which herself could not soon have threaded out. The silence and stillness of his two companions drew the farmer's eyes up; he read first, with an eager eye that nobody saw, the sweet gravity on one half hidden face, and the deep pure joy written in all the lines of the other; and secret and strong, though half unknown to himself, the whole tide of his heart turned that way. If not before, then at least, something like Ruth's resolution came up within him;—"thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!" Mr. Linden was the first one that moved.

"Are you ready, dear child?"

The farmer's eyes were on her too, even while he wrung Mr. Linden's hand. But he only said before he let it go,—"Give a glass of wine to her when she gets home."

Out in the sweet afternoon air, and driving through the gate which opened on the highway, with Jem Waters on hand to shut it, Mr. Linden brought Faith's face round towards him and scanned it earnestly.

"My child, how tired you are! I wish I knew whether it would do you most good to go straight home, or to breathe this air a little longer."

"I hope you won't conclude to take me home," said Faith. "I have been looking for this all day."

"Do you think you deserve to have it?" said Mr. Linden, turning Jerry's head however the way that was not straight home. "Why didn't you sleep, and wait for me to bring you down here?"

"One reason was, Endy, that I half guessed Mr. Simlins wanted to talk to me and that it might be better for him to see one than two.

"I could have left you there for a while."

"No you couldn't!" she said. "And I couldn't have driven off Jerry and left you—though that would have been better."

"You could have driven me off. What was the other reason?"

"The other reason isn't really worth your hearing. Don't you think this afternoon is too pretty to spoil with bad reasons?"—she said with gentle eyes, half fun, half confession.

"Entirely. Faith—I think you would bear the ride better if you had a sort of afternoon lunch,—shall we stop at Miss Bezac's for a glass of milk?"

"Oh no!"—she said hastily. "Oh no, Endecott! I don't want anything but to ride."

"And to hide—" said Mr. Linden laughingly. "Another bad reason, Faith?"

She gave him a little blushing look, very frank and happy, that also bore homage to his penetration.

"Stop anywhere you please, Endy," she said honestly. "I was very glad you came to Mr. Simlins'."

"Would you rather get it from Mrs. Davids?" he inquired demurely.

"No, not rather. Whichever you like, Endecott," Faith said, hiding the start which the question in this real form gave her. The afternoon sun through which they were riding was very bright; the washed leaves were brilliantly green; sweet scents of trees and buds filled the air, and opening apple blossoms were scattering beauty all over the land. Nothing could spoil that afternoon. Faith had a secret consciousness besides that the very thing from which she shrank was by no means disagreeable to Mr. Linden. She did not care what he did! And he,—in the joy of being with her, of seeing her grow stronger every hour, Mr. Linden was in a 'holiday humour'—in the mood for work or play or mischief; and took the road to Miss Bezac's for more than a glass of milk.

"Mignonette," he said, "what varieties of pride do you consider lawful and becoming?"

"I know only a few innocent sorts," said Faith,—"that I keep for myself."

"Luxurious child! 'A few innocent sorts of pride that you keep for yourself'! You must divide with me."

How Faith laughed.

"You wouldn't thank me for one of them all, Endecott. And yet—" She stopped, and coloured brilliantly on the sudden.

"Explain and finish," said Mr. Linden laconically.

"If I told you what they are you would laugh at me."

"That would not hurt me. What are they, Mignonette?"

She spoke gravely, though smiling sometimes; answering to the matter of fact, as she had been asked. "I am proud, a little, of very fine rolls of butter, or a particularly good cheese. I think I am proud of my carnations, and perhaps—" she went on colouring—"of being so good a baker as I am. And perhaps—I think I am—of such things as sewing and dressmaking;—but I don't think there is much harm in all that. I know myself sometimes proud of other things, where I know it is wrong."

"How do you know but I am proud of your rolls of butter too?" said Mr. Linden looking amused. "But Mignonette, what called forth such a display of the carnations you are not proud of? What was the force of that 'And yet'?"

It brought the colour again, and Faith hesitated and looked puzzled,Then she tried a new way of escape.

"Don't you mean to let me have any of my thoughts to myself?" she said playfully.

"Don't you mean to let me have any of them for myself?"

"You?—Haven't you them almost all?"

"My dear I beg pardon!—one for every carnation,—but I did not know that I had so nearly made the tour of your mind. I was under the impression that my passports were not yet made out—and that my knowledge of your thoughts was all gained from certain predatory excursions, telescopic observations, and such like illegal practices. I am sure all my attempts to cross the frontier in the ordinary way are met by something more impassable than a file of bayonets."

Faith looked up at him as if to see how much of this was meant for true.

"But," said she naively, "I feel as if I had been under a microscope."

"My dear!" said Mr. Linden again, with an air at once resigned and deprecating. But then his gravity gave way. "Faith!—is that your feeling in my company? I wonder you can endure the sight of me."

"Why?"—said she timidly.

"If I seem to you like a microscope."

"Only your eyes, like those power-glasses.—Not for size!" said Faith, laughing now herself.

"Ah little Mignonette," he said smiling, "some things can be seen without microscopic vision. And do not you know, my child, that carnations must draw attention to the particular point round which they bloom?"

"Endy, you shall know what I was thinking of," she said. "You touched it already. It was only—that perhaps sometime you would be a little proud even of those little things in me—because—Now you can punish me for being proud in earnest!"—It was said in great confusion; it had cost Faith a struggle; the white and red both strove in her downcast face. Mr. Linden might not fathom what was not in a man's nature; but Faith had hardly ever perhaps given him such a token of the value she set upon his pleasure.

"Punish you?" he said, leaving Jerry to find the road for himself for a minute,—"how shall I do it?—so? And how much punishment do you require? I think a little is not enough. 'Because' what, love?"

"Endy!—" she said under her breath,—"you know!—don't ask me."

"Then—if I exceed your limits—you will not blame me?"

"Limits of what?"

"Limits of this species of executive justice."

"I don't think you would keep limits of anybody else's setting," saidFaith with a little subdued fun. "Look, Endy!—we are coming to MissBezac's."

"Most true," said Mr. Linden,—"now shall you see (perhaps!) one of the innocent sorts of pride that I keep for myself. What have we come for?" he added laughing, as Jerry trotted up the side hill to the cottage,—"is it butter, or carnations, or dressmaking?—they all make a rare combination in my mind at present."

"She is at home!" said Faith,—"if she wasn't, the window-curtains would be down. Now she is going to be pleased,—and so am I, for she will give me something to eat." Faith looked as if she wanted it, as she softly opened the door of the dressmaker's little parlour, or workroom, and softly went in. The various business and talk of the afternoon had exhausted her.

Miss Bezac, having in her young days been not only rich, but also a firstrate needlewoman, now that she was older and poor plied her needle for a different purpose. Yet something of old habits clung to her still; she would not take the common work of the village; but when Mrs. Stoutenburgh wanted a gay silk dress, or Miss De Staff a delicate muslin, or Mrs. Somers an embroidered merino—then Miss Bezac was sure to have them go through her hands; and for these ladies she took the fashions and dispensed them exceeding well. Strangers too, in Pattaquasset for the summer, often came to her,—and had not Miss Bezac made the very first embroidered waistcoat that ever Squire Deacon wore, or Sam Stoutenburgh admired himself in? So her table was generally covered with pretty work, and on this particular afternoon she was choosing the patterns for a second waistcoat for the young member from Quilipeak, a mantilla for his mother, and a silk apron for Miss Essie, all at once. In deep cogitation Faith found her, and Faith's soft salutation,—

"Dear Miss Bezac, will you let strangers come in?" How gloriously Faith blushed.

"Strangers!" cried Miss Bezac, turning round. "Why Faith!—you don't mean to say it's you?—though I don't suppose you mean to say it's anybody else. Unless—I declare I don't know whether it is you or not!" said Miss Bezac, looking from her to Mr. Linden and shaking hands with both at once. "Though if it isn't I ought to have heard—only folks don't always do what they ought—at least I don't,—nor much of anything."

"It is nobody else yet," said Mr. Linden smiling. Whereat Miss Bezac laid one hand on the other, and stepping back a little surveyed the two "as a whole."

"Do you know," she said, "(you wouldn't think it) but sometimes I can't say a word!"

"You must not expect Faith to say much—she is tired," said Mr. Linden putting her in a chair. "Miss Bezac, I brought her here to get something to eat."

"Well I don't believe—I don't really believe that anybody but you would ever do such a kind thing," said Miss Bezac. "What shall I get? Faith—what will you have? And you're well enough to be out again!—and it's so well I'm not out myself!—I'll run and see if the fire ain't,—the kettle ought to be boiled, for I wanted an early cup of tea."

"No, dear Miss Bezac, don't!" said Faith. "Only give me some bread and milk."

Miss Bezac stopped short.

"Bread and milk?" she said—"is that good for you? The bread's good, I know, baked last night; and the milk always is sweet, up here with the cowslips—and most things are sweet when you're hungry. But ain't you more hungry than that?—and somebody else might be, if you ain't—and one always must think of somebody else too. But you do, I'll say that for you. And oh didn't I say long ago!—" A funny little recollective pause Miss Bezac made, her thoughts going back even to the night of the celebration. Then she ran away for the bread and milk,—then she came back and put her head in at the door.

"Faith, do you like a cup or a bowl?—I like a cup, because I always think of a cup of comfort—and I never heard of a bowl of anything. But you can have which you like."

"I like the cup too," said Faith laughing. "But even the bowl would be comfort to-day, Miss Bezac."

The cup came, and a little pitcher for replenishing, and a blue plate of very white bread and very brown bread, and one of Miss Bezac's old-fashioned silver spoons, and a little loaf of "one, two, three, four, cake", that looked as good as the bread. All of which were arranged on a round stand before Faith by Miss Bezac and Mr. Linden jointly. He brought her a footstool too, and with persuasive fingers untied and took off her bonnet—which supplementary arrangements Miss Bezac surveyed with folded hands and great admiration. Which also made the pale cheeks flush again, but that was pretty to look upon. Faith betook herself to the old-fashioned spoon and the milk, then gave Mr. Linden something to do in the shape of a piece of cake; and then resigning herself to circumstances broke brown bread into the milk and eat it with great and profitable satisfaction, leaving the conversation in the hands of the other two. The sun sank lower and lower, sending farewell beams into the valleys, and shaking out gold pieces in Miss Bezac's little brown sitting-room like the Will-o'-wisps in the "Tale of tales". Through the open door her red cow might be seen returning home by a winding and circuitous path, such as cows love, and a little sparrow hopped in and out, from the doorstep, looking for "One, two, three, four", crumbs. Faith from her seat near the fire could see it all—if her eyes chose to pass Mr. Linden,—what he saw, she found out whenever they went that way. It was not wonderful that Faith turned from the table at last with a very refreshed face.

"Miss Bezac, you have made me up," she said smiling.

"Have I?" said her little hostess,—"well that comes pretty near it. Do you know when I saw you—I mean when I saw both of you, I really thought you had come for me to make up something else? And I must say, I wish you had,—not that I haven't dresses enough, and too many—unless I had a new pair of eyes—but I always did set my heart on making that one. And I haven't set my heart upon many things for a good while, so of course I ain't used to being disappointed. You won't begin, will you, Faith?"

Faith kissed her, hastily expressing the unsentimental hope that her tea would be as good as her bread and milk; and ran out, leaving Mr. Linden to follow at his leisure. Faith was found untying Jerry.

"What do you mean?" said Mr. Linden staying her hands and lifting her in the most summary manner into the wagon. "Bread and milk is too stimulating for you, child,—we must find something less exciting. What will you see fit to do next?"

"I can untie a bridle," said Faith.

"Or slip your head through one. But you should have seen the delight with which Miss Bezac entered upon the year of patience that I prescribed to her!—and the very (innocuous) pride that lay hid in the prescription. Do you feel disposed to punish me for that, Mignonette?"

One of Faith's grave childish looks answered him; but then, dismissing Mr. Linden as impracticable, she gave herself to the enjoyment of the time. It was a fit afternoon! The sunbeams were bright on leaves and flowers, with that fairy brightness which belongs peculiarly to spring. The air was a real spring air, sweet and bracing, full of delicate spices of May. The apple blossoms, out and bursting out, dressed the land with the very bloom of joy. And through it all Mr. Linden drove her, himself in a "holiday humour." Bread and milk may be stimulating, but health and happiness are more stimulating yet; and Faith came home after a ride of some length looking not a bit the worse, and ready for supper.