"He said you must have none but real flowers," Miss Linden said—too softly to call for a look in answer.
That dress was what not even Miss Bezac had been able to make Faith look at in imagination—and there it lay before her! Perhaps, to tell the truth, she had been hardly willing to realize to herself the future necessity of such a thing. The blood came deeper to her cheeks, then left them in another moment pale. Faith laid her face in her hands on the edge of the trunk,—for once overcome. Again Miss Linden's quick impulse was to come to Faith's side, and again she checked herself; thinking perhaps that she was too new a friend to have her words pleasant just then—feeling that there was but one person who could say what ought to be said. So she sat quite still, nor even turned her eyes towards Faith except now and then in a quick glance of sympathy and interest; both which were shewn in her folded hands and averted head. But very soon Faith was softly doing the parcel up again in its white ribbands; and then she began to lay the things back in the trunk, with quick hands but dainty. Half way through, Faith suddenly stopped.
"Shall I put these back here for the present?"—she said, looking towards Miss Linden.
"For the present, dear?—I am not sure that I understand."
"Just now—till I can arrange some other place to put them."
"I have nothing to do with 'this place'," said Miss Linden smiling,—"it came with my trunks, that is all."
Faith coloured again and went on with what she was doing. Miss Linden watched her.
"Faith," she said, "don't finish that work just now,—sit still there and read Endy's letter—won't you, darling? I am going down to pay your mother a visit." And with a kiss and embrace she was gone.
Faith's hands stopped their work as the door closed, and she sat still, looking at the voiceless messages of love, care, thought, and anticipation, which surrounded her. Looking dreamily, and a little oppressed; and when she moved her hand it was not first to get her letter, but to draw out the locket from her bosom and see Mr. Linden's face; as if she wanted his look to authenticate all these messages, or to meet her own heart's answer. At any rate it was not till after a good study of the little picture that Faith put it away and took out her letter.
It was not just like having him there to talk or caress away her discomfort—and yet it was like it, though the pages were well on their way before the trousseau was even alluded to. But the words, the atmosphere of the letter made Faith breathe easier,—it was like the wand of the Fairy Order, smoothing out the little tangled skeins of silk. And when that subject came up, it was touched so lightly, so delicately, yet with such evident pleasure,—there was such mingling of play and earnest in the charge given her to be ready before he came, and such a strong wish that he could have saved her all the work,—the terror of the trousseau could not stand before it. And at the hope that her taste would be suited, Faith's heart made a spring the other way. She drank in every word of the letter; and then feeling healed, though tender-spirited yet, she finished putting away her riches and went down stairs.
Mrs. Derrick having gone off to attend to dinner preparations, Miss Linden sat alone, singing to herself softly in company with the March wind and the fire, and (of all things!) at work upon one of Miss Bezac's mantillas. Faith's two hands were laid upon the one which held the needle. "Not to-day—" said the silver voice which Miss Linden must learn to know.
"Yes—unless you'll give me somewhat else to do!" she said leaning her sunshiny head back against Faith. "I was out of patience with myself because I could not do what no one but Endecott could—so in my woman's pride I took up something which he couldn't. What are you going to do, darling?"
Faith thought she knew why she was called "Pet"—but she only kissed her. "I shall have to ask you a great deal about those things up stairs," she said;—"but to-day I want to see you What would you like?"
The thing Miss Linden liked best, was to see some of her brother's old haunts; and a notable drive the two had that afternoon. Wherein, under the light of a Spring day, Miss Linden saw Pattaquasset, the Quapaw people, (part of them) and not least of all, Faith herself, who shewed herself very much as the Spring day. And of Mr. Linden his sister talked the while, to her heart's content, and Faith's—in the full joy of that affection which can never say enough, speaking to that which can never hear too much.
It would be long to tell how the trousseau was made up. Mrs. Iredell came from Pequot and established herself in a farmhouse at Pattaquasset; and the two future sisters put their heads and their hands—a good deal of their hearts too—into the work that was done in Faith's blue-wainscotted white room. There they sat and sewed, day after day; while the days grew warm, and the apple blossoms burst, and the robins whistled. They whistled of Mr. Linden's coming home, to Faith, and sent her needle with a quicker impulse. She never spoke of it.
But Miss Linden knew whither the look went, that seemed to go no further than the apple trees; and what was the pressure that made a quick breath now and then and a hurried finger. Perhaps her own pulses began to move with accelerated beat. And when towards the end of May Mrs. Iredell found business occasion for being in Quilipeak a fortnight, Pet so urged upon Mrs. Derrick the advantages of the scheme, that she carried off Faith with her. It would break the waiting and watching, and act as a diversion, she said,—and Faith did not contradict her.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Established fairly in that great Quilipeak hotel, Faith found her way of life very pleasant. Mrs. Iredell was much in her own room, coming out now and then for a while to watch the two young things at their work. A pretty sight!—for some of the work had been brought along,—fast getting finished now, under the witching of "sweet counsel." Miss Linden declared that for her part she was sorry it was so near done,—what Faith thought about it she did not say.
Meantime, June was using her rosy wings day by day, and in another week Mr. Linden might be looked for. Just what steamer he would take was a. little uncertain, but from that time two people at least would begin to hope, and a day or two before that time they were to go back to Pattaquasset.
The week was near the ending—so was the work,—and in their pretty parlour the two ladies wrought on as usual. The morning had been spent in explorations with Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, and now it was afternoon of a cool June day, with a fresh breeze scouting round to see what sweets it could pick up, and coming in at the open window to report. On the table was a delicate tinted summer muslin spread out to receive its trimming, over which Faith and Miss Linden stood and debated and laughed,—then Faith went back to her low seat in the window and the hem of a pocket handkerchief. So—half looking out and half in,—the quiet street sounds murmuring with the rustle of the many elm leaves,—Faith sat, the wind playing Cupid to her Psyche; and Miss Linden stood by the table and the muslin dress.
"Faith," she said contemplatively, "What flowers do you supposeEndecott would get you to wear with this—out of a garden full?"
"It is difficult to tell"—said Faith; "he finds just what he wants, just where I shouldn't look for it." And a vision of red oak-leaves, and other illustrations, flitted across Faith's fancy.
"Very true," said Miss Linden,—"precisely what Aunt Iredell said when she first saw you,—but I am inclined to think, that the first day you appear in this you will see him appear with a bunch of white roses—probably Lamarques; if—"
"Why Lamarques?" said Faith sewing away. "Pet, how pleasant this wind is."
Miss Linden did not immediately answer. She stood resting her finger tips on the muslin dress, looking down at it with an intentness that might have seen through thicker stuff, the colour in her cheeks deepening and deepening. "Why?" she said abstractedly,—"they're beautiful—don't you think so?—Oh Faith!"—With a joyous clasp of the hands she sprang to the window, and dropped the curtain like a screen before her. There was no time to ask questions—nor need. Faith heard the opening door, the word spoken to the waiter,—saw Mr. Linden himself come in.
Pet sprang towards him with a joyful exclamation—an unselfish one, as it seemed; for after a moment's concentrated embrace which embodied the warmth of half a dozen, she disappeared out of the room. Mr. Linden came forward, looking after her at first with surprise,—then as if a possible explanation occurred to him, he stood still by the mantelpiece, watching the door by which she had gone. Faith had waited behind her screen—she could not have told why—utterly motionless for that minute; then a little quick push sent the curtain aside, and she came to him,
"Faith!" he exclaimed—"are you hiding from me?—My dear Mignonette—"
She hid from him then,—all her face could; for her gladness was of that kind which banishes colour instead of bringing it. He let her stand so a few minutes, himself very silent and still; then one hand brought her face within reach.
"Little bird!" he said, "I have you safe now,—you need not flutter any more!"
Perhaps that thought was hardly composing, for Faith's head drooped yet, in a statue-like stillness. Not very unlike a bird on its rest however, albeit her gravity was profound. And rest—to speak it fairly—is a serious thing to anybody, when it has been in doubt or jeopardy, or long withheld. What could be done to bring the colour back, that Mr. Linden tried.
"Faith," he said, "is this all I am to have from your lips—of any sort? Where did you get such pale cheeks, precious one?—did I frighten you by coming so suddenly? You have not been ill again?"
"No,"—she said, raising her eyes for the first time to look fairly in his face. But that look brought Faith back to herself; and though she drooped her head again, it was for another reason, and her words were in a different key. "We didn't expect you for a week more."
"No—because I didn't want you to be watching the winds. Mignonette, look up!"
Which she did, frankly,—her eyes as delicious a compound of gravity and gladness as any man need wish to have bestowed upon him. "Pet brought me here,—" she said.
"Well do you suppose I have brought an invoice of Dutch patience?"
"I don't think you are particularly patient,"—said Faith demurely,—"except when you choose. Oh Endy!—"
That last note had the true ring of joy. Her forehead touched his shoulder again; the rest of her sentence was unspoken.
"I do not choose, to-day. Mignonette, therefore tell me—do you think I have had all I am fairly entitled to?"
She flushed all over, but lifted up her head and kissed him. Mr. Linden watched her, smiling then though she might not see it.
"My little beauty," he said, "you have grown afraid of me—do you know that?"
"Not very—" she said. Certainly Faith was not good at defending herself.
"No, not very. Just enough to give us both something to do. Mignonette, are you ready for me?"
Faith's face was bowed again almost out of sight. "Don't you think," she half whispered, "that Pet must be ready to see you, by this time?"
For all answer—except a smile—she was led across the room to a seat near the window. But just there, was the table and its muslin dress! Mr. Linden stopped short, and Faith felt and understood the clasp of his arm about her waist, of his hand upon hers. But he only said laughingly, "Faith, was that what made you hide away?"
"Pet hid me," Faith said very much abashed;—"not I. She let fall the curtain."
Mr. Linden let it fall again, in effect, for he quitted all troublesome subjects, and sat down by her side; not loosing his hold of her, indeed, nor taking his eyes from her, but in the gravity of his own deep happiness there was not much to disturb her quiet.
"I sent you a telegraphic despatch this morning to Pattaquasset, dear Faith,—I did not mean to take you quite by surprise. And my stopping anywhere short of that was merely because the arrangement of trains forced me to lose an hour here on the way. I thought it lost."
"It hasn't proved so."
"There was such a doubt of my being in time for this steamer, that I would not even speak of it. Faith, I have not often heard such music as the swash of the water about her paddle-wheels as we set off."
"Didn't you hear the swash of her paddle-wheels as you came in?" saidFaith merrily.
"No!" The wistful gladness of her eye was a pretty commentary.
"Is Miss Reason in full activity yet?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—his comment.
"She has had no interruption, you know, for a great while."
"Take care of her, Faith,—she has a great deal of work before her."The look that answered this was a little conscious, but shewed no fear.
There was nothing very unreasonable in the face that bent over hers; the eyes with their deep look, lit up now and then with flashes of different feelings; the mouth wearing its sweet changeable expression. A little browner than usual, from the voyage,—a little thinner, perhaps, with hard work; Mr. Linden still looked remarkably well and like himself; though Faith felt that nameless change—that mingling of real and unreal, of friend and stranger, which a long absence always brings. One minute he was himself, as he had been in Pattaquasset,—giving her lessons, riding with her, reading to her, going off to school with one of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's white roses. The next—he was a gentleman just arrived from Europe!—from whom she could not get away. Perhaps the last impression was the most remarkable. But in spite of this, Faith was herself, every inch of her; with the exception of that one little difference which Mr. Linden had pointed out and which was not to be denied.
Some time had passed, when Faith felt Pet's little hand come round her neck—the other was round Mr. Linden. Faith's start was instant; springing up she went to the window where behind the curtain lay the work her hand had dropped. Faith gathered it up. She would have put that muslin dress out of the way then!—but there it lay in plain sight and close neighbourhood. Yet somebody must do it, and it was her business; and with cheeks of a very pretty deep rose that set off her white drapery, Faith applied herself to the due folding of the troublesome muslin. In two minutes Pet came to help her, but in a different mood, though her eyelashes were glittering.
"Endy, come here and look at this—I think it is so pretty. What flowers must Faith wear with it?"
"Carnations look very well."
"I said white roses."—
"Which will you wear, Mignonette?" said Mr. Linden.
He was favoured with a glance from two gentle eyes, which it was worth a little wickedness to get. It was only a flash. "I think Pet is right,"—she answered with great gravity.
He came close to her side, the low-spoken "you shall have them—" touched more things than one.
"What do you suppose I found her doing?" said Pet, folding down a sleeve.
"Pet!"—said Faith. "Don't touch that! Not to-night."
"Do you wish me to leave it unfolded?—the servants will perhaps sweep in the morning."
"Pet," said Faith softly,—"don't you raise a dust! We might not lay it so soon."
"Endy," said his sister, "how do you do?—you haven't told me."
"Perfectly well, dear Pet."
"Turn round to the light and let me see—You've grown, thin, child!"
He laughed—giving her a kiss and embrace to make up for that; which was only half successful. But she spoke in her former tone.
"He looks pretty strong, Faith,—I think I might tell him."
"Mr. Linden," said Faith, "won't you please ask Pet not to tell you something?"
"I will ask you," he said softly, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Faith—I think we may dispense with 'Mr. Linden' now, even before people."
She was oddly abashed; glanced up at him and glanced down, with the grave air of a rebuked child. There was nothing about it that was not pretty; and the next thing her eyes went to Pet. How lovely and precious she looked as she stood there! with her sweet shy face and changing colours. Mr. Linden held her to his breast and kissed her more than once,—but in a way that was beyond chiding.
"Why must I ask Pet not to tell me something?"
"It is nothing great!"—said Faith stammering over her words—"Only you won't like it very well—but you will have to hear it. I thought another time—that's all."
"He'll never hear it from you—what I mean," said Miss Linden, "so he shall from me. We'll see whether he likes it. Know then, Endecott, that I found this child absorbed in wedding dresses!"
"Wedding dresses!" he repeated. "More than one?"
"Oh Endy," said his sister with a sort of laughing impatience, "what a boy you are! I mean other people's." Faith stood smiling a little, letting her manage it her own way.
"Imagine it," Miss Linden went on,—"imagine this one little real flower bending over a whole garden of muslin marigolds and silk sunflowers and velvet verbenas, growing unthriftily in a bed of white muslin!" Mr. Linden laughed, as if the picture were a pleasant one.
"Mignonette," he said,—"how could you bear the sight?"
"I was trying to make the best of it."
"In whose behalf were you so much interested?"
"Maria Davids," said Faith glancing up at him. "But I was not interested,—only so far as one is in making the best of anything."
"Who is trying to make the best of her?"
Faith looked down and looked grave as she answered—"Jonathan Fax." Mr. Linden's face was grave too, then, with the recollections that name brought up.
"There is one place in the house she cannot touch," he said. "Faith, I am glad she is not to take care of him."
"I have thought that so often!"
"Do you like my story, Endy?" said Miss Linden presently.
"Very much—the subject. I am less interested in the application. Who next is to be married in Pattaquasset?"
"I don't know."—
"Aunt Iredell says she wishes you would be married here," observedPet demurely. To which insinuation Faith opposed as demure a silence.
"Oh Endecott," said his sister changing her tone and speaking in that mixed mood which so well became her,—"I'm so happy that you are here! This week Faith has been pretty quiet, by dint of being away from home; but nothing would have kept her here next week—and I had been thinking what we should do,—if the week should run on into two—or if the wind should blow!" She spoke laughingly, yet with a voice not quite steady.
"'So he bringeth them to the haven where they would be'!" Mr. Linden said. But his voice was clear as the very depth of feeling of which it told. "Aunt Iredell cannot have her wish, Pet," he added presently,—"there would be at least three negative votes."
"I suppose that! But I shall come down Saturday to hear what wishes are in progress."
"Won't you go with us, Pet, to-morrow?" said Faith earnestly. She had been standing in a sort of abstracted silence.
"No, pretty sister, I will not. But I shall keep all those ruffles here to finish, and Saturday Reuben Taylor shall escort them and me to Pattaquasset."
CHAPTER XXXIX
Things were yet in their morning light and shadow when Faith set off on this her first real journey with Mr. Linden. She felt the strangeness of it,—in the early breakfast, the drive alone with him to the station,—to stand by and see him get her ticket, to sit with him alone in the cars (there seemed to be no one else there!) were all new. The towers of Quilipeak rose up in the soft distance, shining in the morning sun: over meadow and hillside and Indian-named river the summer light fell in all its beauty. Dewdrops glittered on waving grain and mown grass; labourers in their shirt-sleeves made another gleaming line of scythe blades, or followed the teams of red and brindled oxen that bowed their heads to the heavy yoke. Through all this, past all this, the Pequot train flew on towards Pattaquasset; sending whole lines of white smoke to scour the country, despatching the shrill echoes of its whistle in swift pursuit.
Faith saw it all with that vividness of impression which leaves everything sun-pictured on the memory forever. In it all she felt a strange "something new;"—which gave the sunlight such a marked brilliancy, and made dewdrops fresher than ordinary, and bestowed on mown grass and waving grain such rich tints and gracious motion. It was not merely the happiness of the time;—Faith's foot had a little odd feeling that every step was on new ground. It was a thoughtful ride to Pattaquasset, though she was innocently busy with all pleasant things that came in her way, and the silveriest of tones called Mr. Linden's attention to them. He did not leave her thoughts too much chance to muse: the country, the various towns, gave subject enough for the varied comment and information Faith loved so much. Mr. Linden knew the places well, and their history and legends, and the foreign scenes that were like—or unlike—them, or perhaps a hayfield brought up stories of foreign agriculture, or a white sailing cloud carried them both off to castles in the air. One thing Mr. Linden might have made known more fully than he did—and that was his companion. For several times in the course of the morning, first in the station at Quilipeak, then in the cars, some friend or acquaintance of his own came to greet or welcome him. And Faith could see the curiosity that glanced at so much of her as her veil left in view,—Mr. Linden saw it too, with some amusement. And yet though all this was a little rouging, it was interesting to her in another way,—shewing her Mr. Linden as she had never seen him, among the rest of the world,—giving her little glimpses of his former life; for the bits of talk were sometimes quite prolonged.
"Mignonette," he said after one of these occasions, "some people here are very anxious to make your acquaintance."
"I am glad you don't want to gratify them."
"Why?—In the first place, I do."
"Do you!"—said Faith, somewhat fearfully.
"Certainly. I, like you, am 'a little proud of my carnations'. How do you like this way of travelling?"
"I like it such a morning as this," said Faith. "I don't think it's the pleasantest. But to-day it's delicious."
"Yes—to-day," he repeated. "What way of travelling do you like best?"
"You know I never travelled at all, except to Quilipeak and Pequot. I believe I like a wagon or a sleigh better than this,—in general."
"That is our last whistling post!" said Mr. Linden "Faith, I shall be glad to get rid of that veil. And I have so many things to say to you that cannot be said here. Is Mr. Somers in Pattaquasset still?"
"Everybody's there—" Faith answered.
The little shake of the head with which this intelligence (so far as regarded Mr. Somers) was received, Faith might understand as she pleased, for in another minute they were at the Pattaquasset station; the train was puffing off, and she standing there on the platform with Mr. Linden. A little way back was Jerry and the wagon—that Faith saw at a glance; but there too, and much nearer, was Squire Stoutenburgh—in doubt whether to handle the new corners separately or together, in his great delight.
From all this Mr. Linden rescued Faith with most prompt skill; carried her off to the wagon, shook hands with Dromy and dismissed him, and then with the reins in his own hands had her all to himself once more. And Jerry dashed on as if he knew his driver.
"Mignonette, please put back your veil," were the first words. Which Faith did, and looked at him, laughing, blushing and a little shy, all in one pleasant combination.
"What have you been doing to make yourself lovelier, little Sunbeam?"
"I have been a year without seeing you,"—said Faith with excellent seriousness.
"My presence seems to have no counteracting effect. By the same rule, I should be—marvellous! To you perceive it?"
Her eye gave one of its little flashes, but Faith immediately looked away.
"Do you know," said Mr. Linden, "I can hardly believe that this year of exile is over—and that there are none others to follow it. What do you suppose will be the first subject you and I shall consider?"
"Mr. Skip," said Faith gravely.
"Mr. Skip merits no consideration whatever. Is Miss Bezac at work on that dress?"
"Because he don't live with us any longer, Endecott."
"Does he not?—Unfortunate man!"
"And Dromy is in his place."
"My dear, my own place is the only one I can think of with any intense interest. Except yours."
"Because we have had no farm to manage this winter," said Faith; "soDromy could do what we wanted."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,—"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you—my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession.
Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other.
By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room—Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing but doing up some of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,—what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again.
"Mother—has Cindy come?"
"She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,—that's all under way."
Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for—the strawberries looked over—the cream made ready—the table set—the lettuce washed—the dishes warming for the vegetables—the pickles and bread on the table—and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,—for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;—when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder.
"My own dear little Mignonette!—Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?"
She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look—"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything."
"See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them."
Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety.
"What has been the matter?"
"You know I told you Mr. Skip had gone away?"
"Yes."
"And that he went because we hadn't any farm to manage?"
"What has the farm to do with your studies?"
"What shall I do if I make you very angry with me?" said Faith, the least touch of seriousness mingling with her words,
"You had better ask what I shall do. Has Mr. Deacon come back and taken possession?"
"Yes—And you know, Endy, we used to live by the farm. When that was gone we had to live by something else. I wouldn't tell you if I could help your knowing it."
"Mignonette, what have you been doing?"
"You know what Pet found me at?"
"Yes."—She could not tell whether he saw the whole,—he was clearly in the mind to hear it, taking both her hands in his.
"I did that," said Faith.
"Did what?"
"I got work from Miss Bezac.—She gave me lessons."
"For how long?"
"Since—about a fortnight after you went away. It was then Squire Deacon took away the farm. From that time until Pet came—" she added with a little rise of colour in her cheeks.
"And that all the daylight and candlelight hours of each day?"
"O no, not that. I had long walks to Miss Bezac's, you know—or rides—every day or two; for we kept Jerry; and I never sewed before breakfast. And in the evening I used to write letters—part of the evening."
"Child! child!"—He dropped her hands, and began to pace up and down the moderate limits of Mrs. Derrick's best carpet. Until after a few turns Faith put herself straight in his way and intercepted him, with a very innocent face.
"Faith, did no one protest against this—for me?"
"Yes, sir."—
"And you knew that I had guarded—that I had tried to guard you against any such possibility?"
Faith paused. "Yes, I knew,—but Endy, that couldn't make any difference."
"It did not—How, could not?"
"It ought not," she said softly and colouring.
"Can you tell why?"
"You know, Endy, it was better,—it was right,—it was better that I should work for myself."
"Never, Mignonette—while I could work for you. How do you expect to manage when you are my wife?—And do you think I had no right even to know about it?"
"I thought—now was the best time—" Faith said.
"Am I to learn from this and similar instances what my wife will expect of me if I chance to be sick or in trouble?"
It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair.
"Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion.
"I cannot say you did right."
"But when you could do me no good,"—said Faith very gently,—"and I should only have given you pain—for nothing?"
"It would not have given me pain to have you tell it—and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature—as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),—it can only give you pain to hear of it—so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time—what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!—till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us."