Say and Seal, Volume II

Then there came a stir.

"What a coward!" cried George Alcott, pressing forward, "to do that to a man who you knew wouldn't knock you down!"

The young German had started up, sputtering strange things in his native tongue.

"Mr. Linden is an excellent commentator," said one young lady, who took the liberty of speech pretty freely. "How clear he makes it that 'The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass by a transgression.'"

"I really thought," said Mr. Motley, in a make-believe whisper, "when Middleton first came up, that he had been taking a glass too much, but now I see that he took just half a glass too little!"

"Sir," said Colonel Rye, stepping forward, a man of most noble character and presence both, "Mr. Linden is my guest and friend, you must answer this to me."

Before Mr. Middleton could make answer, Faith had come in between and laid hold of the Colonel's hand. She was white, and quiet, but she could not at once speak. All around stood still.

"Sir," she said, in words that were well heard for everybody held his breath, "Colonel Rye, this is Mr. Linden's affair."

"I beg your pardon, my dear young lady—it is mine."

"No, sir," said Faith he felt how eagerly her fingers grasped his, "it is in Mr. Linden's hands. He forgives Mr. Middleton entirely."

"I don't forgive him!" said the Colonel, shortly.

"Sir," said Faith, "Colonel Rye, this is not what Mr. Linden would wish. Endecott will tell you, sir, that he has passed it by. Don't undo what he has done! No true friend of Mr. Linden will make any more of this."

"I am willing to answer it to anybody," said Middleton, gruffly, but as if half ashamed of himself.

"There is nothing to answer to any one," said Faith, quitting the Colonel, and turning to him; her face was so white and gentle that it smote him, and those very steady sweet eyes had a power in them just now that broke his doggedness. "There is nothing to answer to any one, unless Mr. Middleton," (how soft her voice was), "unless you find you were wrong, and choose to tell Mr. Linden, which I dare say you will. Colonel Rye, will you see, for Mr. Linden's honour, that this goes to no harm?"—The extreme gentleness and the steady firmness of Faith ruled them all; and at her last appeal the Colonel's only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss her, an acknowledgment Faith would willingly have gone without. But it was good for a promise.

"Mr. Alcott," she said seeking him in the group, "you said we would go down the bank—." Faith did not finish her sentence, but he saw her wish to finish it by action.

She went with him till they were out of sight and away from everybody; then slipped her arm from his and begging him not to wait for her sat down on the grass. For a while she sat very still, whether her heart was fuller of petition or thanksgiving she hardly knew. She would have rejoined Mr. Alcott much sooner if she had guessed he was waiting for her—like an outpost among the trees; but all the time had not brought back Faith's colour. After a while, other steps came swiftly over the turf as she sat there, and before she had raised her head it was lifted up for her.

"My precious wife! what are you doing here?" Very low the tones were, very grave, very tender.

Faith sprang, and after an exploring glance into his face, knelt on the grass beside him and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek very close as if she would take off or share the affront that had been offered to his. That for a minute—and then changing characters—she raised her head and pushing the hair back from his brow with her soft hurried fingers, she covered that and his face with kisses—with a kind of eager tenderness that could not say enough nor put enough love and reverence into every touch. All this while she was still; she did not shed tears at all, as some women would have done; and she said not one word.

Perhaps surprise made him passive: perhaps the soothing of her caresses was too sweet and too much needed to be interrupted, even by a return. He let her have her way, nor even raised his eyes. One arm indeed was round her, but it left her free to do what she liked. If Faith needed any light on what the morning's work had been, it was furnished by those few minutes. Only at last, with a sudden motion Mr. Linden brought her lips to his, and gave her back principal and interest.

"You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"—"I should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady.

Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her, and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in general—living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy skill and interest, and—except that the lips never broke into a smile—with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of sympathy.

When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, andladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again,Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr.Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily.

"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation—and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."

Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up.

"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr. Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed."

Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled.At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.

"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear,I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"

A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then—bright and stirred.

"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."

"You?—Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.—"No, sir; never!" saidFaith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. TheColonel smiled at her.

"My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no, George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home."

And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had.

CHAPTER XLVII

October's foliage had lost its distinct red and purple and brown, and had grown merely sunburnt; but the sky overhead still kept its wonderful blue. Down the ravines, over their deep shadow, October breathed softly; up the mountain road, past grey boulders and primeval trees and wonderful beds of moss, went the stage waggon. The travellers were going by a somewhat long and irregular route, first up one of the great highways, then across to that spur of the mountains where they were to live. Mrs. Derrick was to follow in a few weeks with Mr. Stoutenburgh.

It was late and dusky when the stage waggon transferred the travellers to Mr. Olyphant's carriage, which was waiting for them at a certain turn of the road. Mr. Olyphant himself was there, with extra wrappings for Faith; and muffled in them she sat leaning in the corner of the carriage, tired enough to make the rest pleasant, awake enough to hear the conversation; feeling more like a bird than ever, with that unwonted night air upon her face, and the wild smell of woods and evergreens and brooks floating about her.

At Mr. Olyphant's they were received with warm wood fires and excellent supper, the welcome spending itself in many other ways. But though Mr. Linden did take her to the door for one minute to hear a pouring mountain torrent, she could see nothing that night. The stars overhead were brilliant, the dark hill outline dim—the rushing of that stream—how it sounded! Faith's whisper was gleeful.

"Endy, I can't see much, but it feels lovely! I am so glad to be here!"

The morning was wonderful. Such a sunlight, such an air, such rejoicings of birds and brook and leaves. Mr. Olyphant's house stood on one side of a woody slope, rocks and trees crowned to the very top; in the ravine below, the brook Faith had heard. She could see it now, foaming along, quieting itself as it came into smoother circumstances. The most of its noise indeed seemed to be made in some place out of sight, higher up. This slope was not very high, other ridges before and beyond it looked down, not frowningly, in their October dress. Not much else could be seen, it was a mere leafy nest. A little faint line of smoke floated over the opposite ridge, glimpses of mountain paths here and there caught the sunlight, below Faith's window Mr. Linden stood, like some statue, with folded arms.

Faith hastily finished her dressing. As soon as that was done she knelt at her window again, to look and to pray. Those hills looked very near the sky; life-work there seemed almost to touch heaven. Nay, did it not? Heaven bent over the glorious earth and over the work to be done there, with the same clear, fair, balmy promise and truth. Faith could almost have joined the birds in their singing; her heart did; and her heart's singing was as pure and as grave as theirs. Not the careless glee that sees and wants nothing but roses in the way; but the deep love and gladness, both earthly and heavenly, that makes roses grow out of every soil. So she looked, when Mr. Linden first discerned her, venturing from the hall door and searching round for him.

"O little Sunbeam!" he said, "how you 'glint' upon everything! there is a general illumination when you come out of the door. How do you feel this morning?—rested?"—

"As if I never had been tired." And Faith might have said, as if she never would be tired again; but only her eye revelled in such soft boasting. "Where is our home now, Endecott?"

The ridge before them, on the other side of the ravine, rose up with swifter ascent into the blue air, and looked even more thick set with orange trees: but where it slanted down towards the more open country, a little break in the trees spoke of clearing and meadow and cultivation. The clearing was for the most part on the other side, but a bit of one green field, dotted with two or three dark objects, swept softly over the ridge line.

"Are you in the sight-seeing mood?" said Mr. Linden, with a look as gladsome as her own.—"Yes; and seeing sights too. But where is that, Endy?"

"I shall take you there by degrees; wait a moment," and he went in for the glass. "Now, Mignonette," he said, adjusting it for her, "I wish to ask your notice for a little black spot on that bit of clearing. But first, what does it look like to you, a hut or a summerhouse?"—"It's too far off; it looks like nothing but a black spot."

"Now, look," said Mr. Linden, smiling. O wondrous power of the glass! the black spot remained indeed a black spot still, but with the improvements of very decided horns, black tail, and four feet.

"Somebody lives there," said Faith. "It's a cow."—"Most true! What cow do you suppose it is, Mrs. Linden?"

Faith put down her glass to laugh at him. "It's no friend of mine," she said. "I have a few friends among cows, but not many."

"My dear Mrs. Linden, you always were rather quick at conclusions. If you look again, you will see that the cow has a surrounding fence of primeval roots, which will keep even her from running away."

Faith obeyed directions, carefully. "Endy," she said in an oddly changed tone, "is it my black heifer?"—"It is not mine," said Mr. Linden.

"But I didn't know she had come!" said Faith; then putting up her glass again to scan the far-off "black spot" and all around it, with an intenseness of feeling which showed itself in two very different spots on her cheeks.

"Put down your glass, Faith," said Mr. Linden, "and look up along the ridge to that faint blue wreath over the yellow treetops; that is your first welcome from my study."

She looked eagerly, and then a most delighted bright smile broke over her face as it turned to Mr. Linden.

"How do you know it is in your study, Endecott?—and who has lighted it?"—"Some one! We'll go over after breakfast and see."

At breakfast many things were discussed besides broiled chicken. And afterwards there came to the door two of the rugged, surefooted, mountain horses, saddled and bridled for the expedition. On the porch steps a great lunch basket told of Mrs. Olyphant's care; Faith was up stairs donning her habit. Mr. Linden ran up to meet her.

"Faith," he said, laughingly, "Malthus has just confided to me, that 'if Mrs. Endecott has any things to take over,' they would make the way wonderfully pleasant to him."

"Who is Malthus?"

The shy blush on Faith's cheek was pretty to see.

"He is an old servant of mine, who has been with Mr. Olyphant, and is coming to me again."

Faith thought it was good news, and as good for Malthus as anybody. An important little travelling-bag was committed to him, and the cavalcade set forth.

The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way—through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree.

"Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?"

"This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!"

The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect.

Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely his home he was looking at—it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold? or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,—the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before.

Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile.

"Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little.

Mr. Linden's eyes came to her instantly, with something of their former look, but very bright; and bending off his horse he put one arm round her, with as full and earnest a kiss as she had ever had from him. "That is what I was thinking of," he said, "I was thinking of my wife, Mignonette."

"Aren't you satisfied?" she said in her former tone.—"Perfectly."

The look made a very personal application.—Faith shook her head a little, and they rode on.

The cottage door was very near presently: Faith could see all the minor points of interest. Malthus, who had got there by a short cut, waited to take their horses; then a white cap and apron appeared in the doorway for a second and vanished again.

"You will find another of our old dependants here, Faith," said Mr.Linden.

"Who is that?" she said quickly.—"There were three women in our house," said Mr. Linden, "that Pet and I called respectively, 'Good,' 'Better,' and 'Best,' this is Best. Hers was a name in earnest, for we never called her anything else; and it was always the desire of her heart first to see my wife and then to live with her. And I was sure she would please you."

"What must I call her?—Mrs. Best?" said Faith. "No, you must call her nothing but 'Best.'"

"That's excellent!" said Faith gleefully. "I thought there was nobody here but one friend of yours, Endecott. Now I shall get in order directly."

"That is what you thought you were coming to," he said, coming to her side to lift her down. "How would you like to be taken right back to Mr. Olyphant's?"—"Not at all!"

In answer to which she was lightly jumped down from the saddle and carried off into the house; where Mr. Linden and Best shook hands after a prolonged fashion, and the old servant—not that she was very old neither—turned glad, and eager, and respectful eyes upon her new mistress, touching that little hand with great satisfaction of heart.

"It's warmer in the study, sir," she said, "and there's a fire in the kitchen, if Mrs. Endecott would like to see that. And shall I make one anywhere else, ma'am?"

Best's white cap and apron were very attractive, and so, on the other hand were Faith's blush and smile.

The hall in which they stood, rather a wide one, cut the house from front to back, with no break of stairway. Through the open back door Faith could see the dark cliff, and hear the brook. Mr. Linden asked where "she would go first?" Faith whispered, "To the study." He smiled, and opened the one door at her left hand, and led her in.

Not yet in perfect order, the bookshelves yet unfurnished, it looked a very abode of comfort; for there were basking sunbeams and a blazing fire, there were shelves and cupboards of various size and shape, there were windows, not very large, it is true, but giving such views of the fair country below, and the brook, and the ascent, and the distant blue peaks of the range. Warm-coloured curtains, and carpet, and couch had been put here under Mr. Olyphant's orders; and here were things of Mr. Linden's which Faith had never seen—his escritoire and study table among others. Her table, with a dainty easy-chair, at the prettiest of all the windows, she knew at a glance—unknown as it was before; but the desk which she had had long ago, stood on the study table, nearer his. Mr. Linden brought her up to the fire, and stood silent, with his arms wrapped about her for a minute; then he stooped and kissed her.

"How does it look, Sunbeam?"

Faith was grave, and her eye went silently from one thing to another even after he spoke, then turned its full sunny answer upon him. Faith certainly thought he did too much for her; but she spoke no such thought, leaving it as she had once meant to leave other thoughts, for action.

"You can put your books right in, and then it will be beautiful," she remarked. "And look down the mountain, out of that window, Endecott."

She was taken over to the window for a nearer view and placed in her easy-chair to take the good of it.

"Do you see that little red speck far down at the foot of the hill?"Mr. Linden said, "in that particularly rough steep place?"—"Yes."

"That is the best thing we can get for a church at present."

Faith thought it would be a very good sort of a "thing" when he was in it; but, as usual, she did not tell all her thoughts. They came back to her easy-chair and table, and from them to Mr. Linden's face, with a look which said "How could you?" But he only smiled, and asked her if she felt disposed to go over the rest of the house.

For a house that was not in order, this one was singularly put to rights. Boxes and packages and trunks there were in plenty; rolls of carpet and pieces of bedsteads, and chairs and tables, and everything else; but they were all snugly disposed by the wall, so that the rooms could be entered and the windows reached. The inside of the cottage was, like the outside, irregular, picturesque, and with sufficient capabilities of comfort. The kitchen was in a state of nicety to match that of Best; in a piece of ground behind the house, partly prepared for a garden, Malthus was at work as composedly as if they had all been settled in the White Mountains for the last ten years.

Lunch was taken somewhat informally; then the riding habit being changed for a working dress, Faith set about reducing the rebellion among boxes and furniture. Best had reason presently to be satisfied not only with the manners but the powers of her new mistress; though she also judged in her wisdom that the latter needed some restriction in their exercise. Gentleness was never more efficient. The sitting-room began to look like a sitting-room; tables and bookshelves and chairs marched into place. Meanwhile Faith had been getting into pleasant order one of the rooms up stairs, which, with what Mrs. Olyphant had done, was easy; enjoying the mountain air that came in through the window, and unpacking linen and china. Mr. Linden, on his part, had been as busy with some of the rougher and heavier work, opening boxes and unpacking books, and especially taking care of Faith; which last work was neither rough nor heavy. She was amused (edified too) at the new commentary on his former life which this day gave her: to call upon servants when they were present, seemed as natural as to do without them when they were absent. Faith mused and wondered a little over the old habit which showed itself so plainly, thinking too of his life in Pattaquasset.

The day had worn on and faded, and Faith was still busy in a hunt for some of her wedding presents which she wanted to have on the tea-table. But Mr. Linden for some time had missed her; and entering upon a tour of search, found her in a large closet near the kitchen, with a great deal chest on one side and a trunk on the other. Between them, on her knees, Faith was laying out package after package, and pile after pile of naperies lay on the floor around her; in the very height of rummaging, though with cheeks evidently paled since the morning. Mr. Linden took an expressive view of the subject.

"Mignonette, I want my tea."

"Yes!" said Faith eagerly, looking up and then at her work again, "just so soon as I find some things—"

"I don't want 'things,' I want tea."

"Yes; but you can't have tea without things."

"I will be content with six napkins and ten tablecloths—just for to-night, as we are in confusion."

"And no spoons?" said Faith. "Here they are."

"Yes; here they are," said Mr. Linden, "and here is everything else.Just look at the state of the floor, for me to walk over."

"Not at all," said Faith; "please keep out. I will have tea ready very soon, Endy."

"You shall not have anything ready," and Faith found herself lifted from her kneeling position, and placed in a not uncomfortable nest of things, "Now, Mrs. Linden, whatever of those packages your hands may touch, shall lie on the floor all night. But as you see, my hands have a different effect." And swiftly and surely the "things" began to find corner room in the closet.

"Endy," said Faith, catching his hands, "please don't! Just go away, and leave me here for three minutes."

"Not for one. I'll turn them all out again in the morning, after the most approved fashion."

Faith sat down, the swift colour in her cheeks testifying to a little rebellion. It was swift to go, however, as it had been to come; and she sat still, looking on at Mr. Linden's work, with a little soberness of brow. That broke too, when she met his eye, in a very frank and deep smile.

"Well?" he said, laughing and leaning back against the closet door.

"Will you let me go and get tea now?" she said, with the same look.—"You pretty child! No, I want Best to get tea—and you to be quiet."

"I'll come and be quiet in three minutes, Endy, after I get rid of the dust," she said, winningly.

"Genuine minutes? If Ariel 'put a girdle round the earth' in forty, you should be able to put one round your waist in three—I suppose that is included in a feminine 'getting rid of the dust.'"

Faith's face promised faithfulness, as she ran off towards the kitchen; where in less than three minutes she and Best had proved the (sometimes) excellence of women's business faculties. Meantime a strange man lifted the latch of the kitchen door, and carefully closing it after him, remained upon the scene of action.

"How d'ye do?" he said. "Is the new man come?"—"Everybody's new here," said Faith. "Whom do you mean?"—"Couldn't tell ye the first word! But I've been after him better'n three times, if he ain't," the man spoke as if it was "worse" instead of better.

"Whom do you mean?" said Faith more gravely; "the minister?"—"Now that's what I call hitting the nail," said her visitor. "Well if he's here, just tell him to come up the mounting, will ye?"—"When?"

"Moon sets close on to nine, and its lighter afore that."

"Where is the place?" said Faith, now very serious indeed; "and what do you want the minister for?"—"I don't want him, bless you!" said the man. "If I did, I shouldn't be standin' here. It's an old soul up our way. He's got to go up to the bridge and over the bridge and 'tother side of the bridge, and so on till he comes to it. And the bridge is slippy." With which summing up, the man turned to the door, rattling the latch in a sort of preparatory way, to give Faith a chance for remarks.

"But who wants him there and what for? you haven't told me."—"Why it's old Uncle Bias. Sen he's sick he's got something on his mind, never seemed to afore, and he's in a takin' to tell it. That's all." And he opened the door.

"Why won't to-morrow do as well as to-night?"—"Wal," said the man slowly, "s'pose it might. Nevertheless, to-morrow ain't worth much to him. Nobody'd give much for it."

"Why?"—"'Taint certain he'd get what he paid for."

"Is he very sick?"—"Very enough," said the man with a nod, and opening the door.

Faith sprang forward. "Stop a minute, will you, friend, and see Mr.Linden."

"That's his name, as sure as guns," said he of the "mounting." "No, thankee, I don't care about seein' him now, next time'll do just as well, and it's time he was off."

"Then wait and show him the way, will you? how is he to find it?"—"Do tell!" said the man slowly, "if he can't find his way round in the moonlight?"—"Better than most people," said Faith; "but I think he would like to see you."

The man however chose to defer that pleasure also to "next time," and went off. Faith went to the study. Coming up behind Mr. Linden where he was sitting, and laying both hands on his shoulders, she said in a very low and significant voice, "Endy, some one wants you."

"Only that you never assert your claims," he said, bringing the hands together, "I should suppose it must be the very person whom I want."

Her head stooped lower, till the soft cheek and hair lay against his.But she only whispered, "Endy, it is some one up the mountain."

"Is it?" he said, rousing up; but only turning his lips to her cheek."Well, people up the mountain must have what they want. Is it now,Faith?"

"Endy—they say it's a dying man."

"Where? Is the messenger here?"—"I couldn't make him wait—he thought he had business somewhere else. The place is—I dare say Malthus knows—up the mountain, beyond the bridge—you are to go over the bridge and on till you come to the house. And he says the bridge is slippery." Only a fine ear could detect the little change in Faith's voice. But she knew it was noticed, from the smile on the lips that kissed her, two or three times. Then Mr. Linden disengaged himself and rose up.

"Faith," he said, "you are to wait tea for me, and in the mean time you must take one of Miss Bezac's cups of comfort and lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. Your eyes will be just as good guiding stars sleeping as waking."

She said not another word, but watched him go off and out into the half dark wilderness. The moon shone bright indeed, but only touched the tops of many a woody outline, and many a steep mountain side rose up and defied her. Faith smelled the wild sweet air, looked up and down at the gleams of light and bands of shadow; and then came back to the study where the fire blazed, and sat down on the floor in front of it; gazing into the red coals, and following in fancy Mr. Linden on his walk and errand. It took him away from her, and so many such an errand would, often; but to speak comfort to the dying and tell the truth to the ignorant.—Faith gloried in it. He was an ambassador of Christ; and not to have him by her side would Faith keep him from his work. That he might do his work well—that he might be blessed in it, both to others and himself, her very heart almost fused itself in prayer. So thinking, while every alternate thought was a petition for him, weariness and rest together at last put her to sleep; and she slept a dreamless sweet sleep with her head on Mr. Linden's chair.