Say and Seal, Volume II

He found the Judge there, who engaged him in not too welcome conversation; but there was no help for it. He must hear and answer the old gentleman's thanks for his great services that night—praises of his conduct and of Faith's conduct; speculations and questions concerning the evening's disaster. After a time that seemed tedious, though it was not really very long, Miss Harrison came down.

"She'll be better directly," she said. "Do sit down, Mr. Linden!—I have ordered some refreshments—you must want them, I should think; and you'll have to wait a little while, for Faith says she will go home with you; though I am sure she ought not, and Julius says she must not stir."

Mr. Linden bowed slightly—answering in the most commonplace way that he was in no hurry and in no need of refreshments; and probably he felt also in no need of rest—for he remained standing.

"How is she, dear? how is she?" said the Judge. "Is she much hurt?"

"Just now," said Miss Harrison, "she is in such pain that she cannot move—but we have put something on that will take away the pain, Julius says, in fifteen minutes; and she will be quite well this time to-morrow, he says."

"But is she much hurt?" Judge Harrison repeated with a very concerned face.

"She'll be well to-morrow, father; but she was dreadfully burned—her arm and shoulder—I thought she would have fainted upstairs—but I don't know whether people can faint when they are in such pain. I don't see how she can bear her dress to go home, but she says she will; Mrs. Derrick would be frightened. Mr. Linden, they say every body does what you tell them—I wish you'd persuade Faith to stay with me to-night! She won't hear me."

"How soon can I see her?"—The voice made Miss Harrison look—but her eyes said her ears had made a mistake.

"Why she said she would come down stairs presently—as soon as the pain went off enough to let her do anything—and she wanted me to tell you so; but I am sure it's very wrong. Do, Mr. Linden, take something!"—(the servant had brought in a tray of meats and wine)—"While you're waiting, you may as well rest yourself. How shall we ever thank you for what you've done to-night!"

Miss Harrison spoke under some degree of agitation, but both she and her father failed in no kind or grateful shew of feeling towards their guest.

"How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said when she had done in this kind all she could.

He said he had not seen the accident—only its results.

"I can't imagine how Faith got there," said Miss Harrison. "She saw the screen coming over on Nero, I suppose, and thought she could save the lamp—she made one spring from the doorway, he says, to where he stood. And in putting up her hand to the lamp, I suppose that horrid fluid ran down her arm and on her shoulder—when Nero put out the lamp he must have loosened the fastening; it went all over her shoulder. But she'll be well to-morrow night, Julius says."

"Who's with her now, my dear?" said the Judge.

"O Julius is with her—he said he'd stay with her till I came back—she wanted Mr. Linden to know she would go home with him. Now, Mr. Linden, won't you send her word back that you'll take care of Mrs. Derrick if she'll stay?"

"I will go up and see her, Miss Harrison."

That was anticipated however, by the entrance of the doctor; who told his sister Miss Derrick wanted her help, then came gravely to the table, poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His father asked questions, which he answered briefly. Miss Derrick felt better—she was going to get up and come down stairs.

"But ought she to be suffered to go out to-night, Julius?—such a night?"

"Certainly not!"

The Judge argued the objections to her going. The doctor made no answer. He walked up and down the room, and Mr. Linden stood still. Ten or fifteen minutes passed; and then the door opened softly and Faith, all dressed, cloaked, and furred, came in with her hood, followed by her friend. Miss Sophy looked very ill satisfied. Faith's face was pale enough, but as serenely happy as release from pain can leave a face that has no care behind. A white embodiment of purity and gentleness she looked. The doctor was at her side instantly, asking questions. Mr. Linden did not interrupt him,—he had met her almost before the doctor, and taken her hand with a quietness through which Faith could perceive the stir of feelings that might have swept those of all the others out into the snow. But he held her hand silently until other people had done their questions—then simply asked if she was quite sure she was fit to ride home? Then, with that passing of the barrier, look and voice did change a little.

"I mean to go,"—she said without looking at him,—"if you'll please to take me."

"She ought not,—I am sure she ought not!" exclaimed Miss Harrison in much vexation. "She is just able to stand."

"You know," Mr. Linden said,—not at all as if he was urging her, but merely making a statement he thought best to make; "I could even bring your mother here, in a very short time, if you wished it."

"O I don't wish it. I can go home very well now."

He gave her his arm without more words. Miss Harrison and the Judge followed regretfully to the door; the doctor to the sleigh.

"Are you well wrapped up?" he asked.

"I have got all my own and all Sophy's furs," said Faith in a glad tone of voice.

"Take care of yourself," he said;—"and Mr. Linden, you must take care of her—which is more to the purpose. If I had it to do, this ride would not be taken. Linden—I'll thank you another time."

They drove off. But as soon as they were a few steps from the house, Mr. Linden put his arm about Faith and held her so that she could lean against him and rest; giving her complete support, and muffling up the furs about her lightly and effectually, till it was hardly possible for the cold air to win through; and so drove her home. Not with many words,—with only a whispered question now and then, whether she was cold, or wanted any change of posture. The wind had lulled, and it was much milder, and the snow was beginning to fall softly and fast; Faith could feel the snow crystals on his face whenever it touched hers. Mr. Linden would have perhaps chosen to drive gently, as being easier for her, but the thick air made it needful. Once only he asked any other question.—

"Faith—is my care of you in fault, that it lets you come home?"

"No, I think not," she said;—"you hold me just so nicely as it is possible to be! and this snow-storm is beautiful." Which answer, though she might not know it, testified to her need of precisely the care he was giving her.

"Are you suffering much now, dear child?"

"Not at all. I am only enjoying. I like being out in such a storm as this.—Only I am afraid mother is troubled."

"No—I sent Reuben down some time ago, to answer her questions if she was up, and to have a good fire ready for you."

"O that's good!" she said. And then rested, in how luxurious a rest! after exertion, and after anxiety, and after pain; so cared for and guarded. She could almost have gone to sleep to the tinkle of Jerry's bells; only that her spirit was too wide awake for that and the pleasure of the time too good to be lost. She had not all the pleasure to herself—Faith could feel that, every time Mr. Linden spoke or touched her; but what a different atmosphere his mind was in, from her quiet rest! Pain had quitted her, but not him, though the kinds were different. Truly he would have borne any amount of physical pain himself, to cancel that which she had suffered,—there were some minutes of the ride when he would have borne it, only to lose the thought of that. But Faith knew nothing of it all, except as she could feel once or twice a deep breath that was checked and hushed, and turned into some sweet low-spoken word to her; and her rest was very deep. So deep, that the stopping of the sleigh at last, was an interruption.

The moment Jerry's bells rang their little summons at the door, the door itself opened, and from the glimmering light Reuben ran out to take the reins.

"Is Mrs. Derrick up?" Mr. Linden asked, when the first inquiry aboutFaith had been answered.

"I don't know, sir. I told her you wore afraid Miss Faith would take cold without a fire in her room—and she let me take up wood and make it; and then she said she wasn't sleepy, and she'd take care it didn't go out. I haven't seen her since."

"Thank you, Reuben—now hold Jerry for me,—I shall keep you here to-night," Mr. Linden said as he stepped out. And laying his hand upon the furs and wrappers, he said softly,—"Little Esquimaux—do you think you can walk to the house?"

"O yes!—certainly."

A little bit of a laugh answered her—the first she had heard since Campaspe; and then she was softly lifted up, and borne into the house over the new-fallen snow as lightly as if she had been a snowflake herself. The snow might lay its white feathers upon her hood, but Faith felt as if she were in a cradle instead of a snow-storm. She was placed in the easy chair before the sitting-room fire, and her hood and furs quickly taken off. "How do you feel?" Mr. Linden asked her.

She looked like one of the flakes of snow herself, for simplicity and colour; but there was a smile in her eyes and lips that had come from a climate where roses blow.

"I feel nicely.—Only a little bruised and battered feeling, which isn't unpleasant."

"Will you have anything?—a cup of tea?—that might do you good."

Faith looked dubious at the cup of tea; but then rose up and said it would disturb her mother, and she would just go and sleep.

"It won't disturb her a bit,"—Mr. Linden said, reseating her,—"sit still—I'll send Reuben up to see."

He left her there a very few minutes, apparently attending to more than one thing, for he came back through the eating-room door; bringing word to Faith that her fire and room were in nice order, and her mother fast asleep there in the rocking-chair to keep guard; and that she should have a cup of tea in no time. And with a smile at her, he went back into the eating-room, and brought thence her cup and plate, and requested to be told just how the tea should be made to please her, and whether he might invade the dairy for cream.

"If I could put this cloak over my shoulders, I would get some myself. Will you put it on for me? please.—Is there fire in the kitchen? I'll go and make the tea."

"Is there nothing else you would like to do?" he said standing before her,—"you shall not stir! Do you think I don't know cream when I see it?"—and he went off again, coming back this time in company with Reuben and the tea-kettle, but the former did not stay. Then with appeals to her for directions the tea was made and poured out, and toast made and laid on her plate; but she was not allowed to raise a finger, except now to handle her cup.

"It's very good!" said Faith,—"but—don't you remember you once told me two cups of cocoa were better than one?"

It is to be noted in passing, that all Faith's nameless addresses were made with a certain gentle, modulated accent, which invariably implied in its half timid respect the "Mr. Linden" which she rarely forgot now she was not to say.

"Dear child! I do indeed," he said, as if the remembrance wore a bright one. "But I remember too that my opinion was negatived. Faith, I used to wish then that I could wait upon you—but I would rather have you wait upon me, after all!"

Faith utterly disallowed the tone of these last words, and urged her request in great earnest. He laughed at her a little—but brought the cup and drank the tea,—certainly more to please her than himself; watching her the while, to see if the refreshment were telling upon her cheeks. She was very little satisfied with his performance.

"Now I'll go and wake up mother," she said at last rising. "Don't think of this evening again but to be glad of everything that has happened. I am."

"I fear, I fear," he said looking at her, "that your gladness and my sorrow meet on common ground. Child, what shall I do with you?"—but what he did with her then was to put her in that same cradle and carry her softly upstairs, to the very door of her room.

CHAPTER VI

The same soft snow-storm was coming down when Faith opened her eyes next morning; the air looked like a white sheet; but in her room a bright fire was blazing, reddening the white walls, and by her side sat Mrs. Derrick watching her. Very gentle and tender were the hands that helped her dress, and then Mrs. Derrick said she would go down and see to breakfast for a little while.

"Wasn't it good your room was warm last night?" she said, strokingFaith's hair.

Faith's eyes acknowledged that.

"And wasn't it good you were asleep!" she said laughing and kissingMrs. Derrick. "Mother!—I was so glad!"

"That's the funny part of it," said Mrs. Derrick. "Reuben's just about as queer in his way as Mr. Linden. The only thing I thought from the way he gave the message, was that somebody cared a good deal about his new possession—which I suppose is true," she added smiling; "and so I just went to sleep."

Mrs. Derrick went down; and Faith knelt on the rug before the fire and bent her heart and head over her bible. In great happiness;—in great endeavour that her happiness should stand well based on its true foundations and not shift from them to any other. In sober endeavour to lay hold, and feel that she had hold, of the happiness that cannot be taken away; to make sure that her feet were on a rock, before she stooped to take the sweetness of the flowers around her. And to judge by her face, she had felt the rock and the flowers both, before she left her room.

The moment she opened her door and went out into the hall, Mr. Linden opened his,—or rather it was already open, and he came out, meeting her at the head of the stairs. And after his first greeting, he held her still and looked at her for a moment—a little anxiously and intently. "My poor, pale little child!" he said—"you are nothing but a snowdrop this morning!"

"Well that is a very good thing to be," said Faith brightly. But the colour resemblance he had destroyed.

She was lifted and carried down just as she had been carried up last night, and into the sitting-room again; for breakfast was prepared there this morning, and the sofa wheeled round to the side of the fire all ready for her. How bright the room looked!—its red curtains within and its white curtains without, and everything so noiseless and sweet and in order. Even the coffeepot was there by this time, and Mrs. Derrick arranged the cups and looked at Faith on the sofa, with eyes that lost no gladness when they went from her to the person who stood at her side. Faith's eyes fell, and for a moment she was very sober. It was only for a moment.

"What a beautiful storm!" she said. "I am glad it snows. I am going to do a great deal of work to-day."

Mr. Linden looked at her. "Wouldn't you just as lieve be talked to sleep?"

She smiled. "You—couldn't—do that, Mr. Linden."

"Mr. Linden can do more than you think—and will," he said with a little comic raising of the eyebrows.

For a while after breakfast Faith sat alone, except as her mother came in and out to see that she wanted nothing,—alone in the soft snowy stillness, till Mr. Linden came in from the postoffice and sat down by her, laying against her cheek a soft little bunch of rosebuds and violets.

"Faith," he said, "you have been looking sober—what is the reason?"

"I haven't been looking too sober, have I? I didn't know I was looking sober at all."

She was looking quaint, and lovely; in the plain wrapper she had put on and the soft thoughtful air and mien, in contrast with which the diamonds jumped and flashed with every motion of her hand. A study book lay in her lap.

"How did all that happen last night?" said Mr. Linden abruptly.

"Why!"—said Faith colouring and looking down at her ring—"I was standing in the doorway and Nero was coming out with that great lamp; and when he got opposite the screen something fell on it, I believe, from the burning bookcases, and it was thrown over against him—I thought the lamp and he would all go over together—and I jumped;—and in putting up my hand to the lamp I suppose, for I don't remember, the fluid must have run down my arm and on my shoulder—I don't know how it got on fire, but it must have been from some of the burning wood that fell. The next I knew, you were carrying me to the drawing-room—I have a recollection of that."

He listened with very grave eyes.

"Were you trying to take the lamp from Nero?"

"O no. I thought it was going to fall over."

"What harm would it have done the floor?"

The tinge of colour on Faith's cheek deepened considerably, and her eyes lifted not themselves from the diamonds. She was not ready to speak.

"I did not think of the floor"—

"Of what then?"

She waited again. "I was afraid some harm would be done,"—

"Did you prevent it?"

"I don't know"—she said rather faintly.

Gently her head was drawn down till it rested on his shoulder.

"Faith," he said in his own low sweet tones, "I stretched a little silken thread across the doorway to keep you out—did you make of that a clue to find your way in?"

She did not answer—nor stir.

There were no more questions asked—no more words said; Mr. Linden was as silent as she and almost as still. Once or twice his lips touched her forehead, not just as they had ever done it before, Faith thought; but some little time had passed, when he suddenly took up the book which lay in her lap and began the lesson at which it lay open; reading and explaining in a very gentle, steady voice, a little moved from its usual clearness. Still his arm did not release her. Faith listened, with a semidivided mind, for some time; there was something in this state of things that she wished to mend. It came at last, when there was a pause in the lesson.

"I am glad of all that happened last night," she said, "except the pain to you and mother. There is nothing to be sorry for. You shouldn't be sorry."

"Why not, little naughty child?—and why are you glad?"

"Because—it was good for me,"—she said, not very readily nor explicitly.

"In what way?"

"It was good for me,"—she repeated;—"it put me in mind of some things."

"Of what, dear child?"

It was a question evidently Faith would rather not have answered. She spoke with some difficulty.

"That there are such things in the world as pain—and trouble. It is best not to forget it."

Mr. Linden understood and felt; but he only answered, "It will be the business of my life to make you forget it. Now don't you think you ought to put up this book, and rest or sleep?"

"I dare say you ought," said Faith,—"and I wish you would. I want to work."

He gave her a laugh, by way of reply, and then gave her work as she desired; watching carefully against her tiring herself in any way, and making the lessons more of talk on his part and less of study on hers. They were none the less good for that, nor any the less pleasant. Till there came a knock at the front door; and then with a little sigh Faith leaned back against the sofa, as if lessons were done.

"There is Dr. Harrison."

"And I shall have to be on my good behaviour," Mr. Linden said, quitting the sofa. "But I suppose he will not stay all the rest of the day." And as Cindy was slow in her movements, he went and opened the door; Faith the while fitting on a glove finger.

"First in one element, and then in another—" Mr. Linden said, as the doctor came in from a sort of simoon of snow.

"This one for me!" said Dr. Harrison shaking herself;—"but I should say you must be out of your element to-day."

"Wherefore, if you please?" said Mr. Linden, as he endeavoured to get the doctor out of his.

"Unless you live in a variety! I thought you were in your element last night." And the doctor went forward into the sitting-room. The first move was to take a seat by Faith and attend to her; and his address and his inquiries, with the manner of them, were perfect in their kind. Interested, concerned, tender, grateful, to the utmost limit of what might have been in the circumstances testified by anybody, with equal grace and skill they were limited there. Of special individual interest he allowed no testimony to escape him—none at least that was unequivocal. And Faith gave him answers to all he said, till he touched her gloved finger and inquired if the fire had been at work there too. Faith rather hastily drew it under cover and said no.

"What is the matter with it?"

"There is nothing bad the matter with it," said Faith, very imprudently letting her cheeks get rosy. The doctor looked at her—told her he could cure her finger if she would let him; and then rose up and assumed his position before the fire, looking down at Mr. Linden.

"There isn't much of a midge about you, after all," he said.

"I suppose in the matter of wings we are about on a par. What is the extent of the damage?"

"It is nothing worth speaking of—I think now," said the doctor. "But we are under an extent of obligation to you, my dear fellow,—which sits on me as lightly as obligation so generously imposed should;—and yet I should be doubly grateful if you could shew me some way in which I could—for a moment—reverse the terms on which we stand towards each other."

"I don't think of any generous imposition just now," said Mr. Linden smiling. "How are your father and sister?—I was afraid they would suffer from the fright, if nothing else."

"Strong nerves!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders. "We all eat our breakfast this morning, and wanted the chops done as much as usual. Sophy did suffer, though; but it was because Miss Faith would do nothing but get hurt in the house and wouldn't stay to be made well."

"I am sure I did something more than that," said Faith, to whom the doctor had looked.

"You don't deserve any thanks!" he said sitting down again beside her;—"but there is somebody else that does, and I wish you would give me a hint how to pay them. That young fellow who says he is no friend of yours—he helped us bravely last night. What can I do to please him?"

"Mr. Linden can tell best," said Faith looking to him. The doctor turned in the same direction.

"Thank you!" Mr. Linden said, and the words were warmly spoken, yet not immediately followed up. "Thank you very much, doctor!" he repeated thoughtfully—"I am not sure that Reuben wants anything just now,—next summer, perhaps, he may want books."

"I see you are his friend?"

"Yes—if you give the word its full length and breadth."

"What is that?" said Dr. Harrison. "Don't go off to 'Nought and All.'"

"I suppose in this case I may say, a mutual bond of trust, affection, and active good wishes."

"There's something in that fellow, I judge?"

"You judge right."

"A fisherman's son, I think you said. Well—I share the 'active good wishes,' at least, if I can't assume the 'affection'—so think about my question, Linden, and I'll promise to back your thoughts. What do you do with yourself such a day? I was overcome with ennui—till I got out into the elements."

"Ennui is not one of my friends," said Mr. Linden smiling—"not even an acquaintance. In fact I never even set a chair for him, as the woman in Elia set a chair for the poor relation, saying, 'perhaps he will step in to-day.' I have been busy, doctor—what shall I do to amuse you? will you have a foreign newspaper?"

The doctor looked dubious; then took the newspaper and turned it over, but not as if he had got rid of his ennui.

"This smoke in the house will drive us out of Pattaquasset a little sooner than we expected."

"Not this winter?"

"Yes. That's nothing new—but we shall go a few days earlier than we meant. I wish you were going too."

"When to return?" said Mr. Linden. "I mean you—not myself."

"I?—I am a wandering comet," said the doctor. "I have astonished Pattaquasset so long, it is time for me to flare up in some other place. I don't know, Linden. Somebody must be here occasionally, to overlook the refitting of the inside of that library—perhaps that agreeable duty will fall on me. But Linden,"—said the doctor dropping the newspaper and turning half round on his chair, speaking gracefully and comically,—"you astonish Pattaquasset as much as I do; and to tell you the truth you astonish me sometimes a little. This is no place for you. Wouldn't you prefer a tutorship at Quilipeak, or a professor's chair in one of the city colleges? You may step into either berth presently, and at your pleasure,—I know. I do not speak without knowledge."

There was a stir of feeling in Mr. Linden's face—there was even an unwonted tinge of colour, but the firm-set lips gave no indication as to whence it came; and he presently looked up, answering the doctor in tones as graceful and more simple than his own.

"Thank you, doctor, once more! But I have full employment, and am—or am not—ambitious,—whichever way you choose to render it. Not to speak of the pleasure of astonishing Pattaquasset," he added, with a smile breaking out,—"I could not hope to do that for Quilipeak."

"Please know," said the doctor, both frankly and with much respect in his manner, "that I have been so presumptuous as to concern my mind about this for some time—for which you will punish me as you think I deserve. How to be so much further presumptuous as to speak to you about it, was my trouble;—and I ventured at last," he said smiling, "upon my own certain possession of certain points of that 'friend' character which you were giving just now to Reuben Taylor—or to yourself, in his regard."

"I am sure you have them!—But about Reuben,—though I know reward is the last thing he thought of or would wish,—yet I, his friend, choose to answer for him, that if you choose to give him any of the books that he will need in college, they will be well bestowed."

"In college!" said the doctor. "Diable! Where is he going?"

"Probably to Quilipeak."

"You said, to college, man. I mean, what is college the road to, in the youngster's mind?"

"I am not sure that I have a right to tell you," said Mr. Linden,—"it is in his mind a road to greater usefulness—so much I may say."

"He'll never be more useful than he was last night. However, I'm willing to help him try.—What is Mignonette going to do with herself this afternoon?"—said the doctor throwing aside his newspaper and standing before her.

"I don't know," said Faith. "Sit here and work, I suppose."

"I'll tell you what she ought to do," the doctor went on impressively. "She ought to do what the flowers do when the sun goes down,—shut up her sweetness to herself, see and be seen by nobody, and cease to be conscious of her own existence."

Faith laughed, in a way that gave doubtful promise of following the directions. The doctor stood looking down at her, took her hand and gallantly kissed it, and finally took himself off.

"There is a good little trial of my patience!" Mr. Linden said. "I don't know but it is well he is going away, for I might forget myself some time, and bid him hands off."

At which Faith looked thoughtful.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to live at Quilipeak?"

The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted.

"Well?" he said smiling—though she felt some other thread in the voice. "What did you think of the words that passed between the doctor and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?"

"You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I couldn't wish anything else."—

He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and affection, as if she were very, very precious.

"My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do it, it would be you!—and yet I cannot."

She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing.

"You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so sure that you would feel with me!—I know it so well! I have a long story to tell you, dear Faith,—some time, not now," he added, with a sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own time? I know it is asking a good deal."

"It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best."

He passed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it too,—then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the room.

But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons—under careful guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest, and listen,—first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the light faded—the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden, who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face her.

"How do you feel to-night?" he asked.

"Perfectly well—and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last night to make it pleasant to lie still."

"You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with me on a shining expedition?"

"On what sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing.

"A shining one—I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest places I can find."

There was an alternation of amusement and a grave expression in her face for a minute, one and the other flitting by turns; but then she said quietly, "When, Mr. Linden?"

"What shall I do with you?" he said,—"shall I call you Miss Derrick?"

"No indeed!" she said colouring. "I don't often forget myself."

"No, I shall not do that, for it would punish myself too much, but I shall do something else—which will not punish me at all, and may perhaps make you remember. What do you suppose it will be?"

"I don't know"—she said flushing all over.

"Nothing worse than this"—he said, bending his face to hers. "Faith! I did not mean to frighten you so! I'll tell you where I want to take you.—You know Monday is the first of January, and I want to go with you to those houses in the neighbourhood where the wheels of the new year drag a little, and try to give them a pleasant start. Would you like it?"