"You must begin very gently, Miss Faith," said her companion as they walked their horses up a little hill. "Look how those topsails mark the water line!"
"Yes—don't you like to see the white sails peeping over the trees? I always do. But Mr. Linden, I don't get tired easily—you needn't be afraid. I can go just as fast as you like." She looked enough in the mood.
"You know I am interested in the matter,—if I should come home to-morrow and find you gone to sleep at midday—I should lose my French lesson! Now you may have another run."
This run was rather a long one, yet came to an unexpected end, for turning a woody point in the road the two riders saw a wagon before them, so directly in their way, that the run changed to a walk even before they perceived that the wagon was in distress. Some bit of harness, some pin, had given way, and the driver had dismounted to repair damages. But moody, or intent upon his work, Faith's horse was close upon him before he looked up—then she saw it was Squire Deacon. He looked down again as suddenly, with only a slight motion of his hand to his hat.
Faith's first impulse would have been to rush on; but she checked that. Her next would have been to wait and leave somebody else to speak first; but she overcame that too. So it was her very clear gentle voice that asked,
"Are you in trouble here, Mr. Deacon?"
The Squire had no time to give his answer, and scarce a moment wherein
to concoct it, for Mr. Linden had dismounted and now came between
Faith's horse and the wagon, with,—"What is the matter, Squire
Deacon?—can I help you?"
The Squire looked up them, full, with a face that darkened as he looked.
"It's you, is it?" he said slowly. "I thought it was Dr. Harrison!"
"Can I help you?" Mr. Linden repeated—and the tone was a little peremptory.