"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.
"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,—"Faith—it is near the dawning!—and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."
"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.
"I know—" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,—"but I think you ought not."
"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,—"that you wish me to go?"
It was hard for him to say yes—but he did.
She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled—but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.
If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness—thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there—of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then—looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.
"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."
Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again.