JULIUS HARRISON."
PATTAQUASSET, Nov. 15, 18—.
Mr. Linden read the note more deliberately than Faith had done, but his face, the while, she could not read; though (fascinated by the difficulty) her glances changed to a steady gaze. It was quietly grave—that was all and not all,—and the note was given back to her with a smile that spoke both "thoughts" of the doctor, and pleasure for any pleasure Faith might have from his basket. But then some of the deeper feeling came out in his comments—and they were peculiar. He had stood still for a second after reading the note,—his eyes looking down at the cake—gravely; but then they came to her; and suddenly taking her in his arms Mr. Linden gave her—it would be hazardous to say, as many kisses as Dr. Harrison had gold pieces—but certainly as many as he had put in the basket, and more. Faith did not read them, either, at first,—till the repetition—or the way of it, told what they were; the glad saying that she was his, beyond any one's power to buy her,—more than all, an indemnification to himself for all the gold he could not lay at her feet! There needed no speech to tell her both.
A word or two had answered his demonstrations, first a wondering word, and then afterwards a low repetition of his name, in a tone of humble recognition and protest. Now she looked up at him with a child's clear face, full of the colour he had brought into it.
"Little darling," he said, "you will have your hands full of business!"
"Oh Endy—I am very sorry!"
"Sorry?" Mr. Linden said. "What about?"
"I'm sorry that basket has come here!"
"It gives you the means of making other people glad."
"Yes—but,"—Faith looked uncomfortably at the basket. Then brought her eyes back to Mr. Linden's face. "What ought I to do, Endecott?"
"The most good and the least harm you can in the circumstances."
"How shall I,—the last?"—she said with a manner like a beautiful child, truth struggling through embarrassment.
"If you could contrive to make yourself disenchanting!"
Faith passed that, and waited, her eyes making a grave appeal. Mr.
Linden smiled.
"I am afraid you can only be yourself," he said. "And if Dr. Harrison will not remove himself to a safe distance, there is not much to be done, except with the money. Let him understand that you consent for once to be his almoner, merely because you know better than he where the need is,—that you take from him, as from anybody, a donation for your poor and sick neighbours."
"Must I write?"
"No."
"But, Endecott—is that all?"
"All that I need say. You never did encourage him, Faith,—it may be a long time before he gives you a chance to _dis_courage. There is one thing I can do, if you wish."
She had stood with an awakened, sorrowful look, the colour burning all over face and brow. Now she startled and asked "What?"
"Something you do not wish. I can tell him that you belong to me."
But that indeed Faith did not wish.
"Oh no, Endecott—I would rather manage it some other way. Now don't let us lose any more of our afternoon with it—but come and tell me what will be the best things to do with this money."
"It is hard to tell all at once," Mr. Linden said as they once more took their seats by the fire. "What have you thought of yourself?"
"I know where one or two blankets are wanting. And O, Endy! there is one place where I should like to send a rocking-chair—ever so common a one, you know."
"And if Ency Stephens had one of those little self-locomotive carriages, she could go about by herself all day long."
"How good that would be! as soon as the spring opens. You could send one up from New York, Endecott. Do they cost much?"
"I think not. And what do you say to taking a little portion of this for the beginning of a free library for the poor people? If the thing were once begun, Mr. Stoutenburgh would give you what you please to carry it on,—and Mr. Simlins would help,—and so would I."
"I was thinking of books!" said Faith, her eye dancing in an unknown "library";—"but these would be books to lend. I think a great many would like that, Endecott! O yes, we could get plenty of help. That is a delightful plan!—I don't think I ought to be sorry that basket came, after all," she added smiling. Mr. Linden smiled too—she was a pretty Lady Bountiful!
"Faith," he said, "suppose (it is a very presumptuous supposition, but one may suppose anything) suppose when my hands are free to take care of my Mignonette, that I should have the offer of two or three different gardens wherein to place her. How should I choose?"
She coloured and looked at him somewhat inquiringly, then turned away with a kept-in but very pretty smile. "I know," she said, "how you would choose—and you would not ask me."
"Yes I should, little unbeliever—I ask you now."
"You would go," she said gravely—"where your hands were most wanted."
"There spoke a true Sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. But perhaps the word—or something in the changing light of the afternoon—carried his thoughts on to the night train which was to bear him away; for he left Dr. Harrison, and baskets, and schemes, in the background; and drawing her closer to his side talked of her affairs—what she had been doing, what she meant to do, in various ways,—trying to leave as it were a sort of network of his care about her. Then came twilight, and Mrs. Derrick and tea; with Faith's light figure flitting to and fro in preparation; and then prayers. And then—how fast the clock ticked! how fast the minutes began to run away!
The storm did not rest,—it blew and beat and poured down as hard as ever, eddying round the house in gusts that made every word and every minute within doors seem quieter and sweeter. And the words were many, and the minutes too—yet they dropped away one by one, and the upper glass was empty!