"Then you may have the pleasure of making them glad."
She laughed a little, but soberly; and they reached their own gate.
It was past the usual Sunday tea time; and soon the little party were gathered at that pleasantest, quietest of tea-tables—that which is spread at the close of a happy Sunday. It had been such to two at least of the family sitting there, albeit Faith's brow was unusually grave; and it had not been _un_happy to Mrs. Derrick. She entered, by hope and sympathy, too earnestly and thoroughly into everything that concerned Faith—rested too much of her everyday life upon her, to be unhappy when she smiled.
After tea, as he often did, Mr. Linden went out again; and the two were left alone. Mrs. Derrick occupied herself with reading in the old family Bible, where she turned over leaf after leaf; but Faith, on a low seat, sat looking into the remains of the little fire which had been kindled in the supper room. Looking at the glowing coals and grey flickering ashes, with a very grave, meditative, thoughtful gaze.
"Mother—" she said at length, turning her face towards Mrs. Derrick's
Bible.
"Well child?" said her mother a little abstractedly.
"I wish, mother, you would ask Mr. Linden to read and pray at night—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"
"Why Faith!" said Mrs. Derrick, now fully roused,—"how you talk, child! Wish I'd do this, and wish I'd let 'tother—don't I let you and Mr. Linden do pretty much what you've a mind to?"
It was incomprehensible to Faith that her mother's permission should have to do with any of Mr. Linden's actions; but she merely repeated,
"I wish you'd ask him, mother."