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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id03035" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXIV.</h3> Very early it was, when Faith's hammer was at work again on the brown moreen, and short interruption did she give herself from anything that could be spared, till the box was done. It suited her well when it was done. The cover was stuffed, old-fashioned brown binding was lapped over the edges and seams, and fastened off with rows of brass-headed nails; which made it altogether an odd, handsome, antiquated-looking piece of furniture. With this, when her morning work was done and her exercise prepared, Faith went up to Mr. Linden's room; to see it brought in and placed properly. "I shall have to put a stop to this state of things!" he said,—"that blue ribband will work me mischief yet. Miss Faith, how can you take advantage of my disabled condition?" "Are you better this morning, Mr. Linden?" "The time has not quite come yet for me to be much better. But Miss Faith, if I had known that you would wake yourself up early this morning, what do you think I should have done?" "I can't think, Mr. Linden," she said looking merry. "I should have invited you and Mrs Derrick up here to breakfast!—which I only did not do, because I could not take the extra trouble upon myself, and because I knew you ought to sleep, till this time." Faith shook her head a little, perhaps sorry to have missed the breakfast; then went off and brushed away the dust and chips left round the wood-box. Then came and sat down. "I saw almost everything, last night, Mr. Linden!" "Well before you go off to last night—will you come to-morrow morning? Now what did you see?" The bright smile and flush and sparkle answered the invitation; and perhaps Faith thought no other answer was needed; for she gave no other. "I know now," she said after an instant, "what you were doing all yesterday afternoon, Mr. Linden!" "I know what you were, Miss Faith." She smiled innocently and went on, "All that just fitted me, as you meant it should, to take the good of the evening—and I had a great deal," she said gravely. "I saw almost everything you spoke of—and other things. I saw the chalk shells, Mr. Linden!—and the circulation in a frog's foot; and different prepared pieces of skin; and the moth's plumage! and the silver scale-armour of the Lepisma, as Dr. Harrison called it; and more." "And with very great delight—as I knew you would. I am very glad!" "Yes," said Faith—"I know a little better now how to understand some things you said the other day. I am very glad I went—only for one thing.—" "What was that?" "Dr. Harrison asked such a strange thing of me as we were walking home—at least it seems to me strange." "May my judgment be brought to bear upon it?" Mr. Linden said after a moment's silence. "Yes indeed," said Faith; "that was what I was going to ask. He wants me to go with him to see a woman, who is dying, he says, and miserable,—and he wants me to talk to her. He says he does not know how." And half modestly, half timidly, she added, "Is not that going out of my way?" A quick, peculiar smile on Mr. Linden's face, was succeeded by a very deep gravity,—once or twice the lips parted, impulsively—then took their former firm set; and shading his eyes with his hand he looked into the fire in profound silence. Very soberly, but in as absolute repose of face, Faith now and then looked at him, and meanwhile waited for his thoughts to come to an end. "Dr. Harrison said," she remarked after a little while, "that you once told him he had but half learned his profession." "What did you say, Miss Faith? I mean, not to that, but to the question?" "I didn't know what to say!—I didn't want to go at all—I don't know whether that was wrong or right; but at last I said I would go. Do you think I was right, Mr. Linden?" "Did you promise to go with him?" "I didn't know any other way to go," said Faith. "I don't know where the woman lives, and he said I couldn't find it; and old Crab has a lame foot. Dr. Harrison asked me to go with him. I don't think I should have minded going alone." "Neither should I mind having you," said Mr. Linden, with a look more doubtful and anxious than Faith had often seen him wear, though it was not bent upon her. "Do you think I said wrong then, Mr. Linden? I did not like to go—but I thought perhaps I ought." "I don't think you did wrong," was the somewhat definite answer. "I wish I had been alongside of you when the request was made." A wish which he had not been the first to know. Faith was silent. "You made a fair promise?" he said—"and feel bound by it?" "I said I would go,"—she said looking at him with her fair, grave face. "If you thought it was wrong, or that I was putting myself out of my way, I would not, Mr. Linden. He asked if he might come for me at two o'clock, and I said yes." "Miss Faith—you must not make such a promise again!" She looked at him enquiringly, very soberly, and then her eyes went to the fire and mused there. Mr. Linden was looking at her then, though with eyes still shielded. Once indeed the hand came with a soft touch upon her hair, drawing it back where it had fallen a little; but the motion was quickly checked. She started, looked round with a little frank smile and colour, and instantly went back to her musing. "I'm afraid I must let you go—" Mr. Linden said presently, smiling a little too, as if it were no use to be grave any longer. "I'm afraid I have no right to hinder you. If I had, I would. Some other time I will tell you part of the wherefore, but the less I say to you before you go, the better. About that,—" he added in his usual manner,—"I think we might write another exercise." She started up, but paused. "Mr. Linden,"—she said timidly, "Dr. Harrison said he would not be here this morning. Would you like to have me first—it would be only pleasure to me, if you are not afraid,—do what he does for you?" He answered at first rather quick, as if he knew what sort of pleasure it was. "O no!—I can wait,—it cannot signify very much." And then with as quick a recognition of the real pleasure it would be, after all, Mr. Linden compounded matters. "I am afraid. Miss Faith!—I am naturally timid." "What does that mean?" said she coming before him and looking with an inquisitive smile. "I don't know, Mr. Linden!" "Do you expect me to explain such a humiliating confession?" "No, certainly.—I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't keep to it, after all." "I am a little afraid for you. What do you suppose I shall do this afternoon while you are gone?" "I don't know—" she said, looking a little wistfully. "I shall lie here and study that wood-box. You see I carry out my principles, Miss Faith—I have not thanked you for it." "I don't think you'll study it very long," said Faith,—"there isn't much in it." "Somebody has said," replied Mr. Linden, "that 'in every subject there is inexhaustible meaning,—the eye sees in it what the eye brings means of seeing.' You must not limit my power of eyesight." "If you wouldn't limit my power of something else?"—she said with gentle persistency. He looked up at her. "I will not, Miss Faith—then will you please perform your kind office at once? It will be a great comfort to me, and I shall be the better able to do something for you afterwards." And the manner almost made Faith feel as if the proposition had come from her at first. She went about it, not this first time without some trembling of heart, but with also a spirit that rose above and quite kept down that. She knew exactly and intelligently what was to be done; it was only the hands that were unwonted, and therefore she feared unskilful. But there are things that some women have by nature, and a skilful hand is one of them; and it was Faith's. Her womanly love and care were enough for all the rest; she made no mistakes, nor delays; and her soft fingers inflicted no pain that it was in the power of fingers to spare. A little longer than the doctor she was perhaps about it; not much, and not more awkward; and that is saying enough. So soon as that was done, Faith went for her exercise, and sat down as yesterday to write it. He too went on with the exercise; but watching her, lest relief might be wanted in another quarter. There was nothing of that, though. Quiet and very great satisfaction, was the result of the matter in Faith's mind; at least it was all she permitted to be seen; and now she gave herself happily to the connexion of her nouns and adjectives, and to watching against the 'german' or 'sophisticated' letters in her handwriting. The exercise indeed was fast taking a very compound character; so much so, that Faith might well begin to suspect there had been a two-fold reason for proposing it. But Mr. Linden had a peculiar way of teaching—especially of teaching her; and made her almost forget in the pleasure of learning, the fact that she had need to learn. And as for his memory on the subject, or his perception of how it might touch her,—they were out of sight: she might have been a little child there at his side, for the grave simplicity and frankness of his instructions. And so exercise and reading and philosophy followed on in a quiet train, and the surface of the earth revealed new wonders, and the little French book was closed at the end of a pretty chapter. "Whenever I get about my duties again, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I shall make one very stringent rule for our future intercourse." "What's that, Mr. Linden?" she said, with the face of quick deep pleasure she always wore when about any of her studies with him. "From the time when I come home to dinner till I go off again, I will neither speak nor be spoken to, Miss Faith, except in French. That is, you may speak—but I shall not answer." Faith started a little, looked puzzled, and looked terrified,—as much as she ever did; but rather closed with looking as if it was impossible. "I should make the rule at once," said Mr. Linden smiling, "but I foresee that you would absent yourself entirely. Now when I am down stairs you will have to see me—whether you want to or not." "But I don't know one word!" said Faith breathlessly. "I am afraid I shall not say, or hear, much, Mr. Linden." "O you shall hear a great deal—I will take that upon myself." Faith shook her head, gave the fire a final mending, and ran off; for it was again an hour past the mid-day. Mr. Linden's dinner came up, and was hardly removed before Dr. Harrison followed. "Well, Linden!" he said coming jauntily in,—"I hope you haven't missed me this morning." "Not in the least." "I am glad of that. How do you do? I will try and put you in condition not to miss me this evening—though it is benevolent!"—added the doctor, pulling off his left glove. "It is a great secret—to make oneself missed!" "It is a secret your gloves will hardly find out, by my fire," said Mr. Linden. "How well you look, doctor!—not a bit like Nought and All." "No,"—said the doctor,—"I believe I disclaimed that particular sphere of existence yesterday. One had need be One and Somewhat in this wind—if one will keep a place in a wagon, or elsewhere! But fire mustn't tempt me, Linden. I'll see to you and be off, and decide what I'll be afterwards." "You may be off without preamble." "Do you mean to dismiss me?" exclaimed the doctor raising his eyebrows. "Have I said that you must accept my poor services?" "Why no!" said Mr. Linden,—"doubly no! I am most happy to see you, doctor." "The happiness will be mutual when I have the felicity of understanding you," said the doctor, settling himself in an attitude. Mr. Linden surveyed him from head to foot. "I perceive indeed that you are One and Somewhat!" he said,—"you still need 'the four azure chains.' Do you need explanations too?" "If you'll be so good!" said the doctor. "Or—ha! you don't mean that, do you?" "My arm has been dressed," said Mr. Linden quietly. "Never trust a woman!" said the doctor wheeling round. "I thought she had got enough of that yesterday. Did she do it well?" "Excellently well." "Your face says so as well as your tongue," said the doctor, with an odd manner of despair. "I have lost—not my occupation, for I never had any!—but I have lost my power over you; and she has got it!—I don't know how to whistle, or I suppose I could take comfort in that." Mr. Linden did not whistle, nor laugh, nor speak,—all that could be said of him was that he lay there very quiet, with his eyes open, looking remarkably well. "Let a woman alone for doing what she has a mind to!" the doctor went on, in his usual manner now, putting on his gloves. "I tell you what, Linden—they're the hardest creatures to manage there are;—boys are nothing to them! Well, good morning!" "Good morning,"—said Mr. Linden. "I hope you will be able to manage the wind." The Dr. Harrison who had been up stairs was not at all the Dr. Harrison that met Faith in the hall and escorted her to the carriage. Grave, gentle, graceful, but especially grave, for some reason or other, he was; and not the less for that agreeable, she thought. Faith was in a sober mood herself; for she was about an undertaking she did not much like; and which Mr. Linden had liked even less. Faith pondered, as they drove swiftly along, what the particular objections had been which he had not chosen to tell her; and now and then thought a little uneasily of the coming interview with the doctor's patient, with Dr. Harrison himself for auditor and spectator. She did not like it; but she had honestly done what she thought right, and Mr. Linden had said she was not wrong. And she was bound on the expedition, which she could not get rid of; so though these considerations did float over and over her mind they did not shake what was nevertheless a very happy peacefulness. Faith was glad the doctor was pretty well engaged with his horses; and let her own musings run upon the pleasant things of the morning, and of yesterday, with glances at the delightful new world of work and knowledge into which she had entered, or was entering; and happy resting down on the foundation for all joy so lately known to her. Whirled along on smooth going wheels, in that bright brisk day, little interrupted with talk, these thoughts and meditations took fair little flying passages through her head; chasing and succeeding each other, put in and put out by the lights and shadows, the hills and fields, sky and trees and wind-clouds, as the case might be, and mixing up with them all. Dr. Harrison had come for her this time in an easy pleasant-going curricle, drawn by beautiful animals, and who felt beautifully in that gay wind. They looked so, certainly, every motion from ears to tail telling of life and the enjoyment of it. "You are not afraid of anything, I know," said Dr. Harrison, one time when he had been obliged to hold them in with a good deal of decision;—"or I would have brought the old family trotter for you." "What makes you think so, Dr. Harrison?" "I have had proof of it," said he looking at her. Faith shook her head a little, and could have told him several things; but did not. "You are not afraid of these fellows?" She said no. "There is no pleasure in handling what gives you no trouble;—don't you think so?" Faith sought for illustrations of the subject in her own experience; did not find them. "Now look at those fellows," the doctor went on. "They are fit to fly out of their skins; but a little bit of steel in their mouths—and a good rein—and a strong hand at the end of it—and they are mine, and not their own," said he, giving them a powerful check at the same time which brought them on their haunches;—"and they know it. Now isn't there some pleasure in this?" "It is rather a man's pleasure," said Faith;—"isn't it?" "Do you think so?" said the doctor. "Ah, you know better. Do you mean to say," he added softly, "that a woman doesn't know the pleasure of power?" "I don't think I do," said Faith meeting his eyes with a smile. He smiled too, a different smile from what was usual with him. The drive was long—much longer than Faith had counted upon, although they went so fast. "Down by the river"—the doctor had said; but it appeared not yet what part of the river he was aiming for. Still it was beautiful; the broken country, open and free, with the cloud shadows and the brilliant sunlight driving across it, and grey sharp rocks everywhere breaking it, and tufts and reaches of brown or sear woodland diversifying it, was not easy to weary of. Nor did Faith weary. The doctor's words had sent her off on a long journey of thought, while she travelled over all that open, sunlight and shadow, country. Starting from the words, "Behold we put bits in the horses' mouths, that they may obey us";—she had gone on to moral government and suasion; the means and the forces of both, not failing to illustrate largely here from personal experience; and on and up to the one great and strong hand that holds the reins of all, and makes even sunlight and shade, rock and hill, do his work and his bidding. But now in all that broad picture of life and life work, appeared a little dark spot; which, small as it was, formed for the moment the vanishing point, where every line of beauty and sunlight met and ended. For with that strange recognizing of unknown things, Faith saw before her the house where the dying woman lay,—and knew it for that, before the doctor spoke. A plain, brown, unpainted house; straight and square, with no break of piazza or window blinds; tapestried on the front with frost-bitten gourd vines, the yellow and green fruit yet unscathed. The usual little gate and dooryard common to such country houses; the usual remains of autumn flowers therein; the usual want of trees. Yet by the universal law of indemnification, the house was more picturesque than painting and architecture could have made it. Neighbours it had none, for contrast; but a low woody point of land stretched off behind it, reaching out even into the Mong. And the Mong itself—with its cool sharp glitter in the stirring wind, and the swash of its blue waves at the very foot of the little paling about the house; its white-sailed craft, its white-winged sea gulls;— "Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. 'Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still." Of the two that now entered that little dooryard, one felt all this and one did not. The one who had felt "the power of an endless life," perceived the narrow bounds of this,—to the one who had nothing beyond, its domain was vast. And as is often the case, the man went first and the angel followed. The doctor stepped up to the bedside and made some general enquiries. But it did not appear that there was much he could do. "Mrs. Custers," said he presently, "you know I promised I would bring, if I could, a lady to see you. Here she is—Miss Derrick." Faith came to the side of the bed. Little her quiet face shewed how she was trembling. In her soft sweet way she asked the sick woman how she did. And Mrs. Custers turned her head a little, and gazed up into the blooming face with strange, eager, feverish eyes—eyes that thirsted, but with no bodily thirst. Then she closed them again and turned her face away, but said nothing. "Have you been sick long?" asked Faith. She did not answer, then; though as if the tones of Faith's voice were making their way, there came presently a slight quiver of the face, and a bright drop or two that the closed eyelids could not quite keep back. But she was at that point of time where the fear of man has lost its power,—where the doctor loses his supremacy and visiters their interest: where men and things are pushed like shadows into the background, and the mind can see no object save "the great white throne." This was what the silence expressed,—it was not dislike, nor churlishness; but those surface questions failed to reach her where she stood. The next gentle and tender "What is the matter?"—was so spoken that it found her even there. Her eyes came back to Faith's face with the sort of look they had given before. And then she spoke. "Where would you be going if you were lying where I be?" Faith heeded not the doctor then, nor anything else in the world. She waited an instant; she had drawn herself up on hearing the question; then leaning forward again she said slowly, tenderly, "I should be going—to be happy with my divine Redeemer. Are not you?" "What makes you think you would?" "Because I have his word for it," said Faith. "He says that whoever believes in him shall not perish, and that every one that loves him shall be with him where he is;—I believe in him and love him with my whole heart; and I know he is true. He will not cast me away." Slowly, clearly, the words were spoken; so that they might every one enter and be received by the ears that heard. The woman looked at her,—scanned her, examined her,—looked down towards the foot of the bed at the doctor—then back at Faith. "Do you believe all that?" she said. "I know it!"—said Faith, with a tiny bit of joy-speaking smile. Again that intent look. "Well he don't," she said with a motion towards the doctor. "Which of ye am I to believe?" "Don't believe either of us!" said Faith quickly, her look rather brightening than otherwise, though the play of her lips took a complicate character.—"Believe God! Don't you know his words?" "I s'pose I do—some of 'em. I can't believe anything with him down there lookin' at me!" she said impetuously. "He said he didn't believe—and I keep thinkin' of that." "Will you believe him, rather than God?—rather than the Lord Jesus, who came and gave his very life for us, to bring us to heaven. Do you think he would tell us anything but truth after that? His words are, 'He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'" "Well I'm most dead—" said the woman in a sort of cold, hopeless tone. "Let Jesus make you live!" said Faith, in a voice as warm and loving. "The doctor said he couldn't," she answered in the same tone as before. "He believes that, anyhow." Faith answered, "'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" That same little quiver passed over the face, but it changed into an irrepressible shudder. "Sit down here on the bed," she said, looking up at Faith, "and put your face so I can't see his'n—and then you may talk." And with that fair head for a screen, as if it really warded off some evil influence, Mrs. Custers lay and listened quietly for a while; but then her hands were clasped over her face, and she broke into a low sobbing fit—as if mind and body were pouring out their griefs together. Not loud, not hysterical; but weary, subdued, overpowering; until the utter exhaustion brought sleep. Faith got off the bed then,—looked at her, looked at the doctor,—and then by an irrepressible feeling, sunk on her knees. Leave her, go out of the house with him, she could not, until she had put the cause of them all into the hand she knew her friend and wished theirs. A few moments' motionless hiding of her face, during which, as indeed during the whole conversation, Dr. Harrison was nearly motionless too, and used his eyes silently; and Faith rose from her knees. She gave another look at the poor weary face that lay there, and then led the way out of the house. The doctor followed her, having perhaps got more than enough of the result of his ride. But as he was unfastening his horses, or rather after he had done it and was waiting to hand her in, Faith addressed him. "Dr. Harrison, on whose errand do you go telling that woman that God's word is not true?" She spoke gently, yet as the doctor faced her he saw that her soft eye could be steady as an eagle's. He did not answer. "Not for God's service," she went on answering herself,—"nor for yours. See to it!" She turned and let him put her into the carriage and they set off again. But the drive homewards promised to be as silent as the drive out had been. The doctor was grave after another fashion now, with a further-down gravity, and scarce looked at anything but his horses; except when a glance or a hand came to see if Faith was well wrapped up from the wind, or to make her so. And either action was done not with his accustomed grace merely, but with even a more delicate tender care of her than ordinary. Faith was in little danger of cold for some time. Grief and loving sorrow were stirred and stirring too deeply for thought or feeling of anything else; only that beneath and with them her heart was singing, singing, in notes that seemed to reach her from the very harps of heaven,— "I thank Thee, uncreated Sun, That thy bright beams on me have shined!" As they went on, however, and mile after mile was passed over again, and the afternoon waned, the wind clouds seemed thicker and the wind more keen; Faith felt it and began to think of home The horses felt it too, and perhaps also thought of home, for they travelled well. "What are you meditating, Miss Derrick?" the doctor said at length, almost the first word he had spoken. "I was thinking, just at that minute, sir, of the use of beauty in the world." "The use of beauty!" said the doctor, looking at her; he would have been astonished, if the uppermost feeling had not been of relief. "What is its use? To make the world civilized and habitable, isn't it?" "No—" said Faith,—"I should think it was meant to make us good. Look at the horses, Dr. Harrison!" The carriage had turned an angle of the road, which brought the wind pretty strongly in their faces. The horses seemed to take it as doubtful fun, or else to be inclined to make too much fun of it. They were all alive with spirit, rather excited than allayed by their miles of quick travelling. The doctor tried to quiet them by rein and voice both. "They get a little too much oats for the work they do," said he. "I must take them out oftener. Take care of this wind, Miss Derrick; I haven't a hand to help you. What's that?—" 'That' was a bunch of weeds thrown into the road just before the horses' heads, from over the fence; and was just enough to give them the start which they were ready for. They set off instantly at full run. The road was good and clear; the carriage was light; the wind was inspiriting, the oats suggestive of mischief. The doctor's boasted rein and hand with all the aid of steel bits, were powerless to stop them. In vain he coaxed and called to them; their speed increased every minute; they had made up their minds to be frightened, and plunged along accordingly. The doctor spoke once or twice to Faith, encouraging or advising her; she did not speak nor stir. They were just hearing the brow of a hill, when an unlucky boy in the road, thinking to stay their progress, stepped before them and waved his hat over his head. Faith heard an execration from the doctor, then his shout to her, "Don't stir, Miss Derrick!"—and then she hardly knew anything else. The horses plunged madly down the hill, leaped carriage and all across a fence at the bottom of it, where the road turned, overthrew themselves and landed the doctor and Faith on different sides of the carriage, in a meadow. The doctor picked himself up again, entirely unhurt, and going round to Faith lifted her head from the ground. But she was stunned by the fall, and for a few minutes remained senseless. In these circumstances, no house being near, the doctor naturally shouted to a cap or hat which he saw passing along the road. Which cap also it happened belonged to Sam Stoutenburgh, who was on an errand into the country for his father. If ever Dr. Harrison was unceremoniously put aside, it was then. Sam had come rather leisurely at first—then with a sort of flying bound which cleared the fence like a thistle down, he bore down upon the doctor, and taking up Faith as easily as if she had been a kitten, absolutely ran with her to a spring which welled up through the long meadow grass a few yards off. There the doctor found him applying the cold water with both gentleness and skill, for Sam Stoutenburgh had a mother, and her fingers had been so employed about his own head many a time. "You're a handy fellow!" said the doctor with a mixture of expressions, as he joined his efforts to Sam's.—"That will do it!"— For Faith opened her eyes. The first word was "Mother!"—then she sat up and looked round, and then covered her face. "Are you hurt?" said Dr. Harrison after an instant. "No sir, I think not—I believe not." "Can you stand up?" With the help of his hand she could do it easily. She stood silent, supported by him, looking on the prostrate horses and shattered curricle; then turned her grave eyes on the doctor. "Don't stand too long, Miss Faith!" said Sam earnestly, with trembling lips too, for the manhood in him had not got very far. "Are you sure you're not hurt?" "Sam!" said Faith giving her hand to him.—"I didn't know it was you who was helping me." "I only wish I'd been here for you to fall upon!" said Sam, with a queer mingling of grief and pleasure. "Seems as if folks couldn't always be in just the right place." "I am not hurt," she said with a little shudder. "Now, how are you going to do to get home?" said the doctor looking much concerned. "Shall I—" "I will walk home," she said interrupting him. "You are not able! We are three miles, at least, from Mrs. Derrick's house. You could not bear it." "I can walk three miles," she said with a faint, fair smile. "I will go home with Sam, and you can take care of the horses." "That would be a tolerably backhanded arrangement!" said the doctor.—"Young man, will you bring these horses into town for me—after I get them on their legs—to Judge Harrison's, or anywhere?—I must take care of this lady and see her safe." "Yes—I'll bring 'em into town," said Sam, "but Miss Faith's to be seen to first—if they don't get on their legs all night! That'll be a work of time, I take it. Miss Faith—could you walk just a little way?—there's a house there, and maybe a wagon." "You don't understand me," said the doctor. "I asked if you would do me the favour to bring my horses into town. I will take care of the lady." Sam considered a minute—not the doctor but things. "Miss Faith," he said, "I can run faster than you can walk, beyond all calculation. If you'll keep warm here, I'll run till I find a wagon—for if you don't ride and tell the story some one else will,—and then there's two people will be worse hurt than you are. You'd get home quickest so." Faith was about to speak but the doctor prevented her. "Then you refuse to take care of my horses?" he said. "I told you I would take care of the lady." "Bother the horses!" said Sam impatiently,—"who's to think about horses with Miss Faith here frightened to death? I'm ready to drive 'em all over creation, when I get ready, Dr. Harrison!" Faith in her turn interposed. "I would rather walk than wait, Dr. Harrison. If Sam knows some house near by, I would rather walk so far with him than wait for him to go and come again. We could send some one to help you then. Sam, you'll help Dr. Harrison get the horses up." So much Sam was willing to do, and the doctor with such grace as he might, accepted; that is, with no grace at all. The horses with some trouble and difficulty were raised to their feet, and found whole. The carriage was broken too much to be even drawn into town. Faith then set out with her escort. "How far is your house, Sam?" But Sam shook his head at that—the nearest one of any sort was a poor sort of a place, where they sometimes had a wagon standing and sometimes didn't. "But we can try, Miss Faith," he said in conclusion. Sam's arm was a strong one, and certainly if he could have induced his companion to lean her whole weight on it his satisfaction would have increased in proportion; as it was he gave her good help. And thus they had walked on, in the fading afternoon light, more than what to Faith was "just a little way," when the first house came in sight. Fortunately the wagon was at home; and before it stood an old horse that one of the men said "he should like to see run!"—but for once such deficiency was the best recommendation. Another man set off on foot to find and help Dr. Harrison, and the owner of the slow horse gave the reins to Sam. The wagon was not on springs, and the buffalo skin was old, and the horse was slow!—beyond a question; but still it was easier than walking, and even quicker. Sam Stoutenburgh did his best to make Faith comfortable—levying upon various articles for that purpose, and drove along with a pleasure which after all can never be unmixed in this world! Even Sam felt that, for his long-drawn "Oh Miss Faith!"—said much, and carried Faith's thoughts (she hardly knew why) to more than one person at home. "Sam," said Faith, "I don't want to say anything about this to-night." "Well, ma'am—I won't say a word, if I can help it. Do you mean to anybody, Miss Faith?" "Not to anybody. I mean, not to any one at home." "I won't if I can help it," Sam repeated. "But it's my night to stay with Mr. Linden." "Is it?—Well—what if it is?" "I don't know—" said Sam dubiously,—"he has a funny way of reading people's faces." "But what is going to be in yours, Sam?" "I don't know that, neither," said Sam. "But the fact is, Miss Faith, he always does find out things—and if it's anything he's got to do with you may just as good tell him at once as to fuss round." A pretty significant piece of information! Upon which Faith mused. It was not so late when they reached Mrs. Derrick's door, that the good lady's anxiety had got fairly under way. At that moment indeed, she had quitted the front of the house, and gone to hurry Cindy and the teakettle; so that Faith was in the house and her escort dismissed, before Mrs. Derrick appeared. "Why pretty child!" she said—"here you are! I was very near getting worried. And I went up and asked Mr. Linden what time it was, lest the clock shouldn't be right; but he seemed to think it wasn't worth while to fret about you yet. You're tired to death!" she added, looking at Faith. "You're as pale as anything, child!" "Yes mother—I'm very tired." And very glad to get home, she would have said, but her lips failed it. "Well do sit down, child," said her mother, "and I'll take your things up stairs. Tea's all ready—that'll do you good, and then you shall go right to bed." But that did not seem what Faith was ready to do; instead of that, she preferred to sit down by her mother, and wrap her arms round her again and lay her head in her mother's lap. Even then she did not sleep, though she was by no means inclined to talk and answered Mrs. Derrick's fond or anxious words with very few in return, low and quiet, or with quiet caresses. And when her mother was silent, to let her sleep, Faith was silent too. They had sat so motionless for awhile, when Faith changed her posture. She got up, sat down on a chair by her mother's side, laid her head in her neck and wrapped arms round her in turn. "Mother—" she said most caressingly,—"when will you begin to follow Christ with me?—I want that, I want that!"— <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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