"I don't want it, mother."—And she brought everything that was on the table round her mother's plate.
"You must—" Mrs Derrick repeated. "I sha'n't, if you don't,—or else
I'll get you a glass of wine. Why child," she said, with a half sober,
half smiling look, which Faith for once did not read,—"he's better.
You ought to eat and be thankful."
"I am thankful,"—Faith said, her head sinking for a moment.
Mrs Derrick deliberately got up, went to the pantry, and fetching thence a tiny cup and plate set them before Faith.
"Eat, pretty child!" she said. "You know I'm right. If you don't look out, Mr. Linden 'll be worse scared when he comes home than he's been to-day, I guess."
Faith gave her a look, both grateful and appealing, and very innocent of belief in her statement;—and did honour the little cup so far as to fill it with tea which she swallowed. But the plate she left clean.
"I can't to-night, mother," she said in answer to Mrs. Derrick's look.
"I'll eat breakfast."
CHAPTER XIX.
It cannot be said that sleep came to Faith's eyes unbidden,—yet once come, sleep rested there sweetly, even beyond her usual time; and the first disturbing sound, in that misty Sunday morning, was the stopping of a wagon at the front door. But if Faith ran to the window with any special expectations, they were disappointed,—there was nothing at the door but Crab, his companion the little wagon, and Mrs. Derrick composedly getting out of the same. Which was at least surprising enough. The good lady's next appearance was a very noiseless one in Faith's room.
"Dear mother! where have you been?"