"For what?" said Faith.
"That you will trust me—and not ask what I do."
"Yes,"—said Faith,—"but—You must trust me, Mr. Linden," she said smiling at him,—"and believe me that this is nothing for you to take up—mere nonsense;—nothing at all to-morrow,—it is nothing to me now. I want your word."
She wanted it very much, it was easy to see; but beyond that, her face did not belie her words.
"I don't suppose Mrs. Derrick ever called you 'naughty child'"—said Mr. Linden,—"but if ever she did she might to-night. Look where the sun is—and where I am,—and guess where those boys are! Come—" and it was not easy to resist the hand that again took hold of hers, nor the quick pace at which he went forward.
And for some fields' length Faith yielded and went as fast as he pleased. Then as he stopped to put up a bar-place she said again, very gently but firmly too, standing before him,
"Mr. Linden, I think I have a right to ask this. I know what I ask, but you do not."
"I never questioned your right, Miss Faith."
"Then you'll not deny it to me?"
"What is your idea of trust?" said Mr. Linden, replacing the last bar.