Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone.
"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again—almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before.
"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,—living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors—or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together—by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe—and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented—very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes."
She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.
"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.
He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.
"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"
"Yes."
"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."
She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.