Reuben laughed a little—half in sympathy with the bright words and smile, half as if the spirit of the time had laid hold of him.
"You know, Mr. Linden," said Faith laughing, but appealingly too,—"that Reuben will get worse handling from you than he will from me!—so let him have the worst first."
"I'll bring in your basket," was all he said,—and the basket came in accordingly; Reuben feeling too bewildered to even offer his services.
Faith found herself in a corner. She jumped up and placed herself in front of the basket so as to hide it. "Wait!"—she said. "Reuben, how much of a housekeeper are you?"
"I don't know, Miss Faith,—I don't believe I ever was tried."
"Do you know how to make mince pies, for instance?"
But Reuben shook his head, with a low-spoken, "No, Miss Faith,"—a little as if she were somehow transparent, and he was viewing the basket behind her.
"Never mind my questions," said Faith, "but tell me. Could you stuff a turkey, do you think, if you tried?"
"I suppose I could—somehow," Reuben said, colouring and laughing. "I never tried, Miss Faith."
"Then you couldn't!" said Faith, her laugh rolling round the little room, as softly as the curls of smoke went up the chimney. "You needn't think you could! But Reuben, since you can't, don't you think you would let me do it once for you?"