"Jumping at conclusions again!" he said. "What sort of a little green book was it?"
"I don't know! I suppose you can tell me."
"Do you suppose I will?"
"Why not? What did you expect me to do with it, Mr. Linden?"
"Find out what sort of a book it is."
"You know I can't read a word of it," said Faith rather low.
"Look at that old house," said Mr. Linden.
They were passing a cleared field or two, one of which seemed yet under cultivation and shewed corn stalks and pumpkin vines, but the other was in that poverty-stricken state described by the proverb as 'I once had.' The house was a mere skeleton. Clapboards, indeed, there were still, and shingles; but doors and windows had long since been removed—by man or Time,—and through the open spaces you could see here a cupboard door, and there a stairway, and there a bit of partition wall with its faded high-coloured paper. No remnant of furniture—no rag of old clothes or calico; but in the dooryard a few garden flowers still struggled to keep their place, among daisies, thistles and burdocks. The little field was bordered with woodland, and human voice or face there was none. The sunbeams which shone so bright on the tinted trees seemed powerless here; the single warm ray that shot through one of the empty window frames fell mournfully on the cold hearthstone.
"Yes," said Faith.—"I don't know who ever lived there. It has stood so a good while."
The road grew more solitary still after that, passing on where the trees came close upon either hand, and arched their branches overhead, casting a deep and lonely shadow. The flowers dwindled, the briars and rank grass increased.