"Brave little Faithie!" said Mr. Rushleigh, coming in with hands outstretched. "Not ill, I hope?"
"Only tired," Faith answered. "And a little weak, and foolish," as the tears would come, in answer to his cordial words.
"I am sorry. Miss Henderson, that I could not have persuaded this little girl to go home with me last night—this morning, rather. But she would come to you."
"She did just right," Aunt Faith replied. "It's the proper place for her to come to. Not but that we thank you all the same. You're very kind."
"Kinder than I have deserved," whispered Faith, as he took his seat beside her.
Mr. Rushleigh would not let her lead him that way yet. He ignored the little whisper, and by a gentle question or two drew from her that which he had come, especially, to learn and speak of to-day—the story of the fire, and her own knowledge of, and share in it, as she alone could tell it.
Now, for the first time, as she recalled it to explain her motive for entering the mill at all, the rough conversation she had overheard between the two men upon the river bank, suggested to Faith, as the mention of it was upon her lips, a possible clew to the origin of the mischief. She paused, suddenly, and a look of dismayed hesitation came over her face.
"I ought to tell you all, I suppose," she continued. "But pray, sir, do not conclude anything hastily. The two things may have had nothing to do with each other."
And then, reluctantly, she repeated the angry threat that had come to her ears.
Pausing, timidly, to look up in her listener's face, to judge of its expression, a smile there surprised her.