"Yes," said Mr. Davids, smiling one of his grim and rare smiles,—"all that don't help our difficulty, you see. Well, Phil and I'll have to put our heads together. But there's one person can send nothing that will tell half his good feelings of gratefulness to you,—and that's me." And a very unwonted softening of the stern man's eye and brow shewed that he spoke a gentle truth.
Kind words answered him,—words of personal kindness and interest, and deep pleasure too; but Mr. Davids knew it was a pleasure, an interest, a kindness, that had each (like Samuel Rutherford's hope) "a face looking straight out unto that day!"
Truly, "a city that is set on an hill, cannot be hid!"
And the farmer felt it, and his manner softened, and his interest grew more wistful and intent with every minute they stayed.
Faith was on horseback and Mr. Linden about to follow, when Farmer
Davids arrested him with a low remark and question.
"She's a fine-faced girl—looks as her father needn't ha' been ashamed of her. Looks good—like he did. Is she going to marry the son of Judge Harrison, sir?"
"Dr. Harrison has told me nothing of the kind."
"I heerd it"—said the farmer. "I didn't know nothing, how it might be. Good day, sir! I hope you'll come again." And they trotted off at last, with again the renewed feeling of liberty and pleasure of motion. But the sun had descended perceptibly nearer to the horizon than he was when they dismounted. However there was nothing to do but to ride, for the proposed route was a circuit and they were passed the first half of the way already.
"That was good, Mr. Linden," said Faith.
"Which part of it this time?"