"Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" cried Faith. "If everything could only be put back as it was, in the old days before all this!"
"But that is what we can't do. Nothing goes back precisely to what it was before."
"No," said Aunt Faith, from her sofa. "And never did, since the days of Humpty Dumpty. You might be glad to, but you can't do it. Things must just be made the best of, as they are. And they're never just alike, two minutes together. They're altering, and working, and going on, all the time. And that's a comfort, too, when you come to think of it."
"There is always comfort, somehow, when there has been no willful wrong. And there has been none here, I am sure."
Faith, with the half smile yet upon her face, called there by her aunt's quaint speaking, bent her head, and burst into tears.
"I came to reassure and to thank you, Faith—not to let you distress yourself so," said Mr. Rushleigh. "Margaret sent all kind messages; but I would not bring her. I thought it would be too much for you, so soon. Another day, she will come. We shall always claim old friendship, my child, and remember our new debt; though the old days themselves cannot quite be brought back again as they were. There may be better days, though, even, by and by."
"Let Margaret know, before she comes, please," whispered Faith. "I don't think I could tell her."
"You shall not have a moment of trial that I can spare you. But—Paul will be content with nothing, as a final word, that does not come from you."
"I will see him when he comes. I wish it. Oh, sir! I am so sorry."
"And so am I, Faith. We must all be sorry. But we are only sorry. And that is all that need be said."