"I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,—and can't have,—except to wish you well, which I do heartily."
"That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?"
"No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "Squire
Deacon, I want to see you in heaven."
And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of the wagon.
Squire Deacon took it for a moment—then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger prevailed Faith could not tell, he said—
"Well—I don't blame you,—never did and never shall. Cunning's been too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in the wagon again.
"Dear mother!" said Faith,—"why didn't you come sooner!"
"Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the matter?—why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome."
Faith was silent.
"What's the matter?" repeated her mother,—"have you been getting sick after all I said to you?"