"It's an old thing,"—said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up."
"But since I have brought it—won't you indulge me?"
The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,—if I told it to you.—Won't you let me let it alone?"
"I should like to hear you tell it."
"He made one or two rude speeches"—said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;—"that was all."
"That I knew before."
"Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?"
There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her mufflers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question.
"You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell me now?—and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?"
Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,—if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,—but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find.