"He has gone," was the smiling reply. "Precious?—yes,—everybody is precious in one sense."
"You haven't been to college for nothing," said Miss Danforth, who would talk about anything. "I should like you to find out in what sense I am precious. I've a good many friends—but there isn't one of 'em that wouldn't eat and drink just as well with me out of the world as in it."
He smiled a little—though rather soberly, and stood watching the changing colours of clouds and sky for a minute or two without speaking. Then, half to himself as it were, low but very distinctly, he repeated—
"'And they shall be mine, saith the Lord, in the day when I make up my jewels.'"
The answer to this was only in pantomime, but striking. Miss Danforth did not speak, and instead thereof turned her head over her shoulder and looked away steadily over the meadows which stretched north of the house into the distance. Faith's eyes fell to the floor and the lids drooped over them; and as plain a veil of shadow fell upon her face. Mrs. Derrick's eyes went from one to the other with a look which was not unwonted with her, and a little sigh which said she thought everybody was good but herself.
"Bain't ye never comin' in to supper?" said Cindy, framing herself in the doorway. "I want to get out after supper, Miss Faith," she said dropping her voice,—"I do, real bad."
"Is all ready, Cindy?"
"Yes marm," said Cindy. "I'm free to confess there's a pile o' cakes baked."
"Miss Faith, when do you mean to shew me the shore?" said Mr. Linden turning round.
"You have been so busy all the week," said Faith,—"and then you didn't speak of it, Mr. Linden—I can go any time."