"I hope Mr. Linden won't forget about supper!"
"Why what about it?" said Faith. "Why should he forget? or what if he does?"
The last sentence seemed to puzzle Reuben.
"I don't know, ma'am," he said,—"it's better before everybody eats it up."
"Who's going to eat it up?" said Faith. "Where is he?"
"He went down on the sands with me," said Reuben, "but he didn't come up again. Maybe he has now. He liked it down there, real well."
Faith went to the shutter window and flung it open, and looked to see whether or no the missing gentleman had returned to the shore. It was a fair view that lay spread before her. The low beams of the sun gave a cool afternoon look to everything; the sloop sails shone and gleamed in the distance; down by the muscle rocks one little boat lay rocking on the advancing tide, which was fast covering the sand banks and connecting the strips of water; and the freshening breeze curled the little waves as they came dancing in, and brought a low sweet murmur to the shore. One or two gulls sailed floatingly about, and a brown mink—perceiving that the company had retreated to higher ground—came out and aired himself on one of the rocks.
But Faith saw none of these things,—for in swinging open her shutter (which the wind caught and clapped up against the house) she so nearly swung it against Mr. Linden that her first look was a startled one.
"Miss Faith!" he said, turning round, "what can you possibly be about!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Linden!"—said Faith.