"Is he much hurt?"
Reuben hesitated.
"I don't rightly know, Miss Faith," he said, so low that she could scarce catch the words. "He says he's not—and Dr. Harrison says not,—I suppose I'm easy frightened."
"What makes you frightened, then?" she said quickly.
"I was frightened—" Reuben said, drawing a long breath, and with a sort of awe-stricken voice, as if the fright was upon him yet;—"and it takes a while to get over it. Maybe that's all. He wrote that, Miss Faith—" and Reuben laid a tiny folded paper in her hand. "And may I have a light, ma'am, to get some things from his room?" He spoke eagerly now, as if he grudged the moments.
Faith directed him to the kitchen, and when Reuben came up, followed him into the room and stood waiting while he sought what he wanted. Then suddenly remembered that her paper might contain a request for something else, and bent over the candle to read it. It contained more than one.
"Miss Faith," it said, "if any of my scholars are anxious about me, tell them, from me, that there is no cause. Bid them take rest—without 'waiting for it.'—I am sorry that exercise must wait!—but I shall hope to see two on Monday. J. E. L."
Faith's head was bent a long while over the candle.
"Have you got what you wanted, Reuben?" she asked at last.
Reuben had heard her voice often, but he had never heard it like that—nor any one else. What had passed through it, clearing it so? it was like the chiming of silver bells. He came at her word, bag in hand; and—with the freedom a mutual sorrow gives,—held out his other hand to her. Then ran quick and softly down the stairs.