CHAPTER XLIII
It was very early indeed in the still sweet morning of Thursday, when Faith threw open the windows and blinds of the sitting-room. No one was abroad, and not even a wind moving. The leaves of the trees hung motionless; except where a bird stirred them; the dawn was growing slowly into day; sweet odours called forth by the dew, floated up to the windows, and the twitter and song of the birds floated in. The freshness and stillness and calmness of all the earth was most sweet. Faith could not read; she knelt upon a low cushion at the open window and leaned her arms upon the sill to look out, and breathe, and think and pray. The morning was not unlike her. She was as fresh, and as grave, and as still; and there was a little flutter now and then too in her heart, that went with nothing worse than the song of the birds, though it stirred something more than the leaves of the branches. So Mr. Linden found her.
So she met them all at breakfast, with the same unready eyes and lips that Mr. Linden had seen before. It was odd how Faith seemed to have put off the full realization of Thursday till Thursday came. After breakfast she was making her escape, but was detained before she reached the staircase. What it was that Mr. Linden fastened in her dress, Faith could not have told; neither did his words tell her.
"You must not think me extravagant, Mignonette,—these are some old gems of mine which I want you to wear in this form." He gave her one grave kiss and let her go. Faith sped up stairs; and with a fluttering heart went to see what Mr. Linden had done.—Yes, they were gems,—clear, steadfast, as the eternal truth which they signified, the blue sapphires shone upon Faith's white dress.
Faith was alone; and she sat before the glass an odd long while, studying the brooch where Mr. Linden had placed it. Her head upon her hand, and with much the same sort of face with which she used long ago to study Pet's letters, or some lesson that Pet's brother had set her. From the sapphires Faith turned to her Bible. She was not, or would not be interrupted, till it was time to attend to business.
The first business was presented for her attention by Miss Linden, who came in, basket in hand. There was no need to ask what it was, such a breath of orange flowers and roses filled the room. She found Faith ready; her hair dressed as it always was; her mind too, to judge by appearances. Only Faith was a little more quiet than usual. With the very quietness of love and sympathy, Pet did her part; with the swiftest fingers, the most noiseless steps. Silent as Mrs. Derrick or Faith herself, only a sparkle of the eyes, a pretty flush on the cheeks, said that she viewed the matter from a greater distance. And yet hardly that, so far as one of the parties was concerned. Never putting her hand forward where Mrs. Derrick's liked to be, it was most efficient in other places. Both used their skill to put the soft muslin safely over Faith's smooth hair, but then Mrs. Derrick was left to fasten and adjust it—Pet applied herself to adjusting the flowers. How dainty they were: those tiny bunches! sprays of myrtle and orange flowers, or a white rose-bud and a more trailing stem of ivy geranium; the breast-knot just touched with purple heliotrope and one blush rose. Kneeling at her feet to put on the rosetted slippers, Pet looked up at her new sister with all her heart in her eyes. And Faith looked down at her—like a child.
She had been dressed in Pet's room—her own, as being larger and more commodious than the one where Faith had stowed herself lately; and when the dressing was done she sat down by the open window, and with the odd capriciousness of the mind at certain times, thought of the day when Mr. Linden had thrown her up the cowslip ball,—and in the same breath wondered who was going to take her down stairs!
But she sat quiet, looking as fair in her soft robe with its orange flowers as if they and she had been made for each other. Faith's hair, in its rich colour, was only dark enough to set off the tender tints of her flowers and dress; it wanted neither veil nor adornment. The very outlines of her figure betokened, as outlines are somewhat apt to do, the spirit within; without a harsh angle or line. And nothing could be too soft, or strong, or pure, to go with those eyes. She sat looking out into the orchard, where now the noonday of summer held its still reign—nothing there but the grass and the trees and the insects. The cowslips were gone; and Mr. Linden–
Pet finished all that had been left unfinished of her own dress, then in her rose-coloured summer silk, white gloves in her hand, white flowers on her breast, she came and stood by Faith. Mrs. Derrick had gone down stairs. It was close upon one o'clock now; the shadows were losing their directness and taking a slant line, the labourers were coming back to their work, standing about and taking off their coats, waiting for the clock to strike. Miss Linden stood drawing on her gloves. Faith gave her one swift glance, which rested for a second on her face with a look of loving gratitude. A flush rose to her cheek, as if it might have been the reflection of Miss Linden's dress; but it was not that, for it paled again.
One o'clock!
It would have seemed a less weird sort of thing if the clock had made a little more fuss,—twelve strokes, or even eleven, would have been something tangible; but that one clang—scarce heard before it was gone, dying away on the June breeze,—what a point of time it seemed! The waves of air were but just at rest, when Mrs. Derrick opened the door and came in; her black dress and white cap setting off a face and demeanour which, with all their wonted sweet placidness, and amid all the tender influences of the day, kept too their wonted energy.
"Come, pretty child!" she said.
Faith was ready, and followed her mother without a question. In the hall Mr. Linden stood waiting for her, and she was given into his care; though again Faith lost the look which passed between the two,—she saw only the startling white of Mr. Linden's gloves. He handed her down stairs, then gave her his arm and took her in; Mrs. Derrick going first, and Pet following.
There were but six or eight people there. On one side sat Mrs. Iredell in her rich dress; the rest were standing, except little Ency Stephens, who was in one of her perched-up positions by the window. Mr. Somers was lingering about his position, his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh were opposite to Mrs. Iredell. Reuben Taylor furthest back of all, in the shadow of Ency's window. Her little cry was the only sound as they came in, and that hardly louder than a sigh of delight.
Faith did not hear it nor look at anybody. Yet she did not look dismayed at all nor abashed. A piece of very timid gravity the person nearest her knew her to be; but hardly any person further off. A very lovely mingling of shy dignity and humility was in her face and air as she stood before Mr. Somers; those who saw it never forgot.
Except I must that same Mr. Somers! He saw only a pretty bride, whose orange flowers and roses were very sweet. He had seen many pretty brides before, and orange flowers were not new to him. And he pronounced his part of the service which followed, with gratification, certainly. Mr. Somers was always gracious, and to-day he was admiring; but yet with no more sense of what he was about than when a hundred times before he had pronounced it for—very different people!
However, there is a great system of compensations in this world; and on this occasion there was in other members of the party so much sense of what was doing, that it mattered little about Mr. Somers' want of it. It mattered nothing to Faith, how his words were spoken; nobody that heard them forgot how hers were—the sweet clear sounds of every syllable; only that once or twice she said "yes" where by established formula she should have said the more dignified "I do." Perhaps "yes" meant as much. Those who heard it thought it did.
For Mr. Linden, his senses not being troubled by shyness, just because his own heart was so thoroughly in what he was about he did perceive the want of heart in Mr. Somers. And, in the abstract, it did not suit his notions that even a man who had married five hundred other people should put such questions to Mignonette, or to him, in a commonplace way. So far his senses perceived, but Mr. Somers could reach no further. One touch of Faith's hand had banished the officiate to another planet; and the vow to love, cherish, and honour, was taken, word for word, deep in his own heart; the grave, deliberate accents of assent seeming to dwell upon each specification. Yes, he took her "for better for worse, in sickness or health, for richer for poorer," every word was like the counting over of gold to him, it was all "richer." Even the last words, the limit fixed, shone with light from another world. "Till death shall you part;" yes, but to them death would be but a short parting. And standing side by side there with the blessing of his earthly life, Mr. Linden thanked God in his heart for the future "life and immortality" to which He had called them both.
Mysterious is the way in which events are telegraphed from the inside of a house to the exterior thereof. Hardly were Mr. Somers' last words spoken, Faith was not yet out of Mr. Linden's hands, when there came a peal from the little white church as if the bell-ringing of two or three Sundays were concentrated in one. Much to the surprise of Mr. Somers; who, to speak truth, rather thought the bells were his personal property, and as such playing truant. But in two seconds the other bell chimed in; and all that could ever be known, was, that Phil Davids and Joe Deacon had been seen in closer attendance on the two churches than they were wont to be week days. Meantime the bells rang.
It was done; and those downcast eyes must be lifted up, if they could. But Faith was not unlike her usual manner. The slight air of timidity which sat with such grace upon her was not so very unusual; and that besides touched only or mainly one person. With blushing quietness she let her friends kiss and congratulate her. It was rather kiss and caress her; for they came about her, that little bevy of friends, with a warmth that might have thawed Mr. Somers. Mrs. Derrick and Pet glad and silent, Reuben Taylor very shy, the Stoutenburghs in a little furor of interest which yet did not break pretty bounds. And then Faith went up to Ency where she sat by the window, and gave her two kisses, very grave and sweet.
"How beautiful you are, ma'am!" was the child's truthful comment.
"Do you know who 'Miss Faith' is now, Ency?"—"Yes sir," the child said, then shy of speaking it out, "Stoop down and I'll tell you."
Mr. Linden bent his head to hear the whisper, giving her a kiss in return, and then carried Faith off to the next room; where presently too the little lame girl was perched up at such a table as she had never dreamed of before.
It was a pretty gathering, both on the table and around it. The party of friends, few enough to be choice, were good and different enough to be picturesque; and had among them a sufficient amount of personal advantages to be, as Ency said, "beautiful." The table itself was very plain with regard to china and silver; but fruit is beautiful, and there was an abundance of that. Coffee of course; and cream, yellow as gold, for coffee and fruit both. There were more substantial things, to serve as substitutes for dinner, attesting Mrs. Derrick's good housekeeping at once, and the loving remembrance of friends. There had been little need to do much in the house. Mrs. Iredell had taken the wedding cake into her charge, which Mrs. Stoutenburgh not knowing had taken it into hers, and into her hands as well; so Faith had both the bought cake, of the richest and best ornamented to a point, and the home-made; with plain icing indeed, but wherein every raisin had been put with a sweet thought.
"This is—ha!—a very agreeable occasion!" said Mr. Somers, smiling at the ornamented plum cake which was before him. "I—a—really, I don't see, Mrs. Derrick, how anything could be improved for the pleasure of the party. We have done a good thing, and to good people, and it's been well done;" (Mr. Somers vaunted himself), "and in a good time,—ha—this is the prettiest month in the year, Mr. Linden; and now we are all enjoying a pleasant sight, before us and around us, and I enjoy my coffee also very much, Mrs Derrick. The only bad thing about it is—ha—that it rather spoils one for the next occasion. I assure you I haven't seen anything like it in Pattaquasset, since I have lived here! I wasn't married here, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, take notice."
"I hope you don't mean to say you saw anything that was on the table the day you were married, Mr. Somers!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh irreverently.
"Let's hear what you mean by well done,—let's hear, Mr. Somers," said the Squire.
"He means securely," said Mrs. Somers.
"I feel sure," said Mr. Somers with exquisite significancy, "I feel sure that part of my audience were at no loss for the meaning of my words. Experience, somebody says, is the best commentary—hey, Mr. Linden? is it not so?"—"What, sir?"
Mr. Somers laughed, gently. "I see you coincide with me in opinion, sir."
"I coincide with him in the opinion that it was well done to ring the bells," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Reuben, I guess that was your doing."
"Never mind whose it was," said the Squire, "the bells were never put to a better use, week days, I'll venture. Mr. Linden, won't that lady by you let me give her another piece of chicken?"—"No, sir," came in a low voice that had a private chime of its own.
"Little bird," said Mr. Linden, softly, "do you know that all your compeers live by eating?"—"Crumbs" said Faith with equal softness.
"But of proportionate size!"—"Yes," said Faith.
"You know," he said in the same low voice, "to go back to our old maxim those bells may stand for the music, and we have certainly spoken a few sensible words; but if you do not look up how will you find the picture?"—She raised her eyes, but it was for a swift full glance up into his face; she looked nowhere else, and her eyes went back to her plate again. The involuntary, unconscious significance of the action made Mr. Linden smile.
"I have had mine now, Mignonette, and Ency spoke true."
"How long does it take people to get married," came in a good-humoured kind of a growl from the room they had left, the door to which was ajar. "Ain't it done yet?"
"There's Mr. Simlins, Endecott," whispered Faith, colouring.
"Come in and see," said Squire Stoutenburgh. "Who wants to know?" Wherewith the door was pushed open, and Mr. Simlins long figure presented itself, and stood still.
"What are you uneasy about, Mr. Simlins?" the Squire went on. "You may go and shake hands with Mr. Linden, but don't congratulate anybody else." The farmer's eye rested for a moment on Faith; then he went round and shook hands with the bridegroom.
"Is it done?" he asked again in the midst of this ceremony.—"Yes."
"Past all help, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Somers.
"I am glad, for one!" Mr. Simlins answered. "Mayn't I see this cretur here? I wish you'd stand up and let me look at you."
Faith rose up, he had edged along to her. He surveyed her profoundly."Be you Faith Derrick?" he said.—"Yes, sir."
He shook her hand then, holding it fast. "It's the true, and not acounter," he remarked to Mr. Linden. "Now, if you'd only takeNeanticut, I could die content, only for liking to live and see you.Where are you going to take her to?"—"I am not sure yet."
"I guess I don't want you at Neanticut," said the farmer, taking a cup of coffee which Faith gave him. "Last Sunday fixed that. But there'll a bushel of Neanticut nuts follow you every year as long as I'm a Simlins, if you go to the Antipathies. No, I don't want anythin' to eat—I've done my eatin' till supper-time."
The door-knocker warned the party that they must not tarry round the lunch-table, and before Mr. Simlins had a chance to say anything more he had on his mind, the principal personages of the day were receiving Judge Harrison and his daughter in the other room. Mr. Simlins looked on, somewhat grimly, but with inward delight and exultation deep and strong. Miss Sophy was affectionate, the judge very kind; the congratulations of both very hearty; though Judge Harrison complained that Mr. Linden was robbing Pattaquasset, and Sophy echoed the sorrow if not the complaint. In the midst of this came in Miss Essie de Staff, with a troop of brothers and sisters; and they had scarcely paid their compliments when they were obliged to stand aside to make room for some new comers. Miss Essie's eyes had full employment, and were rather earnest about it.
"She's beautifully dressed," she remarked to Mrs. Stoutenburgh, evidently meditating a good deal more than her words carried.
"Why, of course!" was Mrs. Stoutenburgh's quick response, "and so is he. Don't be partial in your examinations."
"Oh he, of course!" said Miss Essie, in the same manner.
"I never saw two people set each other off better," said Mrs.Stoutenburgh.
"Set each other off?" repeated Miss Essie. "Why he'd set anybody off! I always admired him. Look at her! she hasn't an idea how to be ceremonious." Faith had been speaking to Mrs. Iredell. Just then a rosebud having detached itself from her dress, she went round the room to Ency by her window and gave it to her. Near this window Miss Linden had placed herself; the table before her covered with wedding cake and white ribbon, Reuben Taylor at her side to cut and fold, her little fingers daintily wrapping and tying up. Ency already held her piece of cake and white ribbon, and with the promise of other pieces to take home, watched Miss Linden's proceedings with interest. It was a busy table, for thither came everybody else after cake and white ribbon. Thither came Mrs. Stoutenburgh now, quitting Miss Essie.
"Faith, what do you think Mr. Stoutenburgh asked me Sunday?"—"I don't know. What?" asked Faith, with her half-shy, half free, very happy face.
"You should have heard him!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, laughing, but speaking in the softest of whispers. "You should have heard the dismal way in which he asked me if Mr. Somers would go anywhere else, if he could get a chance."
Faith smiled, but evidently to her the question whether Mr. Linden should stay in Pattaquasset had lost its interest.
"O I can find her, never fear!" said Miss Bezac, followed by Mr. Linden in Faith's direction. "Though I don't suppose you ever did fear anything. And I do suppose, if I've thought once I have fifty times how she'd look to-day, and I was right every time. Don't she look! I always told her she didn't know what she wanted—and I'm sure she don't now." With which Miss Bezac gave Faith as hearty a congratulation as she had yet received. "Well," she said, turning to Mr. Linden, "do you wonder I wanted to make it?"—"Not in the least."
"But what do I want, Miss Bezac?" said Faith laughing and looking affectionately at her old friend and fellow-work-woman.
"Why I should think nothing," said Miss Bezac. "So it seems to me. And talking of seams—didn't I do yours! Do you know I should have come before, but I never can see two people promise to love each other forever without crying—and crying always makes rusty needles—so I wouldn't come till now, when everybody's laughing." Faith was an exception, for her amusement grew demure. And Miss Essie approached.
Now Miss Essie's black eyes, although bright enough, were altogether gracious, and in a certain way even propitiatory. They were bent upon the gentleman of the group.
"Mr. Linden," said the lady with her most flattering manner, "I want to know if you have forgiven me all my dreadful speeches that I made once."
"Miss Essie, I never questioned your right to make them, therefore you see my forgiveness has no place." Miss Essie looked as if her "study" of Mr. Linden hadn't been thorough.
"That's very polite," she said; "too polite. But do you think Mrs.Linden will ever let me come into her house?"
"Why not? It cannot be worse than you imagined."
"Because," said Miss Essie, earnestly, "I want to come, and I am afraid she will not ask me. I go everywhere, and wherever you are I shall be sure to come there some time; and then I want to see you and see how you live, and see if my theory was mistaken. But I drew it from experience!"
"Did you ever hear of the ice palace the little brook built for himself?" said Mr. Linden.—"Lowell, oh yes!"
"Mrs. Linden thinks she would like to try that."
If ever black eyes were thoroughly puzzled, that were Miss Essie's. She glanced from Mr. Linden to Faith, who had fallen back towards another part of the room, but whose cheek gave token of her having heard and noticed. Miss Essie's eyes came back; she looked a little mortified.
"I see you have not forgiven me," she said. "But, Mr. Linden, I only spoke of what I had seen. I had been unfortunate; and I am sure I needn't confine myself to the past tense! I knew nothing, you know."
"Miss Essie," he said, smiling, "your frame for the picture may be correct, but the picture will be different. As you will see when you come."
"Then you will let me come?"—"I will let you come. Only if you hear that Faith is not at home, do not feel sure of the fact till you have looked in my study."
Miss Essie's face for a moment was notable. She was in a certain way satisfied, and yet it wore a sort of compound mortification inexplicable very likely, to the lady herself, and perhaps, that only an acute eye of another would have read.
Before this dialogue had reached so much of a culmination, Mr. Simlins, who had been standing looking at everything like a good-humoured bear, made his way across the room, and through the people to Faith, where she had shrunk back out of the way.
"I can't stay here all the afternoon!" said he, "and I s'pose it aint expected of me. Can't you step over yonder and let a man have a chance to say a word to you, before I go?"
Faith agreed to this proposition, not knowing that it was going to take her literally into a corner; but to one of the further corners of the room Mr. Simlins strode, and Faith went after him; and there he sat down and she was fain to do likewise. Then he wasn't ready.
"I had somethin' to say to you," said he, "but I don't know how to say it!"—"Try, Mr. Simlins," said Faith, smiling.
"How does the dominie manage to talk to you?" said he, looking at her. "I don't see how he can get on with it."
Faith grew crimson, and grave.
"Well," said the farmer, smiling a bit, "I s'pose I'll have to get it out somehow. You see, Faith, the thing is, in my mind, I want you to have something that'll make you—you and him too—think of Pattaquasset and me once in a while. Now I'm goin' to give you that black heifer. If you can, I hope you'll take her with you whereever you're goin'—if you can't, why you may turn her into cash; but I guess you can. She's a real Simlins—she'll run, if you don't keep a fence round her; but if you treat her right, she'll give you all your dairy'll want for some time to come; and the very plague you'll be at to keep her shut up, will make you think of me."
"Dear Mr. Simlins!" Faith said with her eyes full, "there is no danger about that!"—
"No!" said he rising; "and when you think of me I know you'll do something else for me. Good-bye, till you get back again." Off he went. Other people followed. The room had thinned a little, when Pet left her table in Reuben's charge and came to Faith's corner.
"Poor child," she said, "you must be tired. Faith, I shall defy ceremony, and put you in Aunt Iredell's chair; she is going to lie down. Oh! how did that man get here?—and George Alcott!" Pet faced round upon Faith, folding her hands with an air of dismayed resignation.
"What's the matter, Pet?"—"I thought I was safe here," said MissLinden. "Faith, I did not suppose ubiquitous people found their way toPattaquasset. You'll have to run the gauntlet of that man'scompliments, child, however, Endy is a pretty good safeguard."
Before Faith could see much of what was going on, Mr. Linden was at her side. "Mrs. Linden—Mr. Motley," was all he said; and Faith found herself face to face with one of those two well-remembered strangers. So well remembered that a slight glance at him was arrested, by what at first she did not recognize, and unconsciously she gave Mr. Motley for a second a look sufficiently like what he had seen before to identify her. That second brought it all back. A blush of most rosy beauty came upon Faith's face, and her eyes fell as if no one was ever to see them again. Mr. Motley's eyes, on the contrary, expanded. But the whistle which rose politely to his lips, was held in polite check—by Mr. Linden's presence or some other consideration—and with no further sign than an under breath "Linden!" Mr. Motley gave the bride his hand, claiming that privilege in easy, musky words, on the score of old acquaintanceship with the bridegroom.
"I trust Mrs. Linden has been well since I last (and first!) had the pleasure of seeing her? Apart from the occasion—it seems to me that she is looking even better than then—though then I should not have believed that possible."
"It is a long time, sir," Faith said gravely.
"Linden," said Mr. Motley in a sort of aside, "even your symmetrical taste must be satisfied!"
"With what?" said Mr. Linden. Which rather shortly—put question brought Mr. Motley to a stand. Much as when one pushes on into daylight through the filmy finespun work of a spider, that respectable insect looks about, considering where he shall begin anew.
"It is so long," said Mr. Motley with soft emphasis, "that I could hardly have hoped to be remembered."
"If I recollect right," said Mr. Linden, "if you did not misstate the case, it was the charms of your conversation that made the impression."
"You are the most inconvenient person to talk to!" said Mr. Motley with a glance at the handsome face. "Like a quicksand—closing around one. Mrs. Linden, do you not find it so? Ah George!—talking to Miss Pet as usual. Permit me—Mrs. Linden, Mr. Alcott. George, you cannot have forgotten Mrs. Linden?" That George had not was very clear.
And that Faith had not forgotten, was very clear. She lifted her eyes once more, to see if the second was the second; and then stood with the most exquisite cheeks, though perfectly quiet. Her gloves had not been put on again since the lunch, and the hand that held them bore also the ring which had been the gentlemen's admiration.
"Now what do you think, George," said Mr. Motley, "of Linden's letting me tell Julius Harrison that whole story, and never giving the least hint that he knew the lady referred to? Except, yes once indeed, I do remember, Mrs. Linden, his face took a warm reflection of the subject, but I thought that was due to my powers as a colourist."
"You couldn't high-colour that picture," said Mr. Alcott, in a toneFaith remembered well. "Mrs. Linden, I hope we are to see you atNewport."
Faith felt in a tumult with all these "Mrs. Lindens." But all that seemed unquiet about her, besides her cheeks, was the flashing ring.
"Well, we must tear ourselves away from this place of fascination," said Mr. Motley. "I believe, Mrs. Linden, we ought to apologize for our intrusion, but it was an old saying among this gentleman's friends that he never would submit to 'bonds and imprisonments'—(there goes the Bible again!) and some of them had a long-standing permission to come and believe their eyes if such an event ever should take place. I can hardly, now!"
"Why do you, sir?" Faith asked simply.
"Really, madam, because I can't help it! One look at you, Mrs. Linden, is enough. In some circumstances all a man can do is to surrender!"
"He needn't till he's summoned," said George Alcott shortly. Though whether he had acted so wisely himself was a question, as Mr. Linden said amusedly after they were gone.
Faith turned away, feeling as if she had rather more than enough, and occupied herself with Reuben and Ency again. Then came in Farmer Davids and his wife, and Phil. Phil was forthwith in a state of "glamour;" but Faith brought him to the table and gave him cake and discoursed to him and Reuben; while Mrs. Davids talked to Mrs. Derrick in wonderful delighted admiration; and the farmer as usual fixed upon Mr. Linden.
"We had the uncommon pleasure of hearin' you speak last Sunday, sir," said Mr. Davids with great seriousness. "I sha'n't forget it, what you said. And you don't know where you're going to fix yourself, sir?"
"Not certainly."
"I would rather than half what I sell off the farm, that it was going to be where I could be within reach of you, sir! But wherever 'tis Phil, and I, we consulted how we could contrive to show our sense of this day; we're plain folks, Mr. Linden, and we didn't know how to fit; but if you'll let us know where you're goin' to be, Mrs. Davids she wants to send your wife a cheese, and there's some of Phil's apples, and I want you to have some Pattaquasset flour to make you think of us. And if you'll only think of us every year as long as they come, it's all I ask!" It was said with the most honest expression of struggling regard, and respect, that wanted to show itself.
Then Mr. Linden was claimed by a new comer. Sam Stoutenburgh, fresh from College, Quilipeak, and the tailor, presented himself. Now it was rather a warm day, and trains are not cool, and haste is not a refrigerator, nevertheless Sam's cheeks were high coloured! His greeting of Mr. Linden was far less off-hand and dashing than was usual with this new Junior; and when carried off to Mrs. Linden, Sam (to use an elegant word) was "flustered."
"Miss Faith," he began. "No I don't mean that! I beg your pardon, but I'm very glad to see you again, and I wish you were going to stay here always."
Faith laughed. "Will you stay here always yourself, Sam?"