"I don't understand, Mr. Linden—" said Faith pausing.
"You must not expect to understand all astronomical things till you have studied astronomy," he said with a smile. "The practical application of my words is to sleep—
'That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care;
Worn labour's bath; balm of hurt minds.'"—
With which soporific potion he bade her goodnight; and Faith went to her room marvelling what could have put into Mr. Linden's head just those particular words; and whether he had a quality of vision that could see through flesh and blood; and a little in doubt whether or not in the circumstances to find the words or the surmise 'balmy.' But if she wanted rest that night, or seemed to have wanted it, she had found it the next day, for she was all like herself. To speak with her own scrupulosity, there was perhaps just a shade of quieter gravity on her face and touching her smile, than there had been the day before. And that shade she kept.
It is a notable fact, that when Pleasure with her wand has roused into lively motion the waters of some mortal lake, she straightway departs; taking with her the sparkles, the dancing foam, and leaving the disturbed waves to deposit at their leisure the sediment which she has stirred up. Withered leaves flung upon the bank, a spot here and there of discoloured froth,—these are what remain. Thus in the quiet nooks and corners of Pattaquasset were trophies not too bright of the celebration. Thus did Pattaquasset people behold some of the hidden evil in their neighbours, and likewise in themselves. The boys indeed maintained their serenity and kept Pleasure with them but in other quarters there were some heartburnings—most of all at Squire Deacon's. Relieved at first by the idea of a new rival—then by some intuitive belief thrown off that ground of comfort; the Squire was much in the condition of the man who wanted to commit an assault upon every small boy he met—for boys were to him representatives. But deprived by law of this manly way of expressing his feelings, the Squire sought some other. For the boys, they laughed at him—and at pretty much everything else; and having as I said managed to keep Pleasure with them, the faces that greeted Mr. Linden on Friday morning were unusually bright.
Yet there were one or two exceptions. Sam Stoutenburgh was a little shamefaced in broad daylight—a little afraid of being laughed at; and Reuben Taylor, the head of the blue ribbands, was under a very unwonted cloud. It even seemed as if the day (no thanks to Pleasure) had done some work for Mr. Linden: perhaps he was considering how long he should be within reach of such ceremonies; or (perhaps) how soon he could be willing to put himself out of reach. And when he came home in the afternoon, it was with the slow, meditative step which reminded Faith of his first week in Pattaquasset.
"You are tired now, Mr. Linden," she said with a smile, but the burden of her remark in her eyes, as she met him in the porch.
"Boys are an extraordinary commodity to deal with!" he said looking at her, but answering the smile too. "I think you are bewitching all mine by degrees. Why cannot you confine your conjurations to the black cats of the neighbourhood?—like some of the real, respectable Puritan witches?"
Faith blushed very much at the beginning of this speech, and laughed at the last.
"What have I done, Mr. Linden? there are no black cats in the neighbourhood."