So there came no shadow over her at all, either that day or afterwards. The clear light of her face was not clouded, and her voice rung to the same tune. There was no shadow, nor shade of a shadow. There was a little subdued air; a little additional gravity, a trifle more of tenderness in her looks and ways, which told of the simpleness of heart with which she had quietly taken what God gave and was content with it.
To Mr. Linden the trial was not new, and to sorrow of various kinds he was wonted; but it was new to him to see her tried, and to that he found it hard to accustom himself. Yet he carried out his words,—Faith could feel a sort of atmosphere of bright strength about her all the time. How tenderly she was watched and watched over she could partly see, but pain or anxiety Mr. Linden kept to himself. He set himself to work to make her enjoy every minute. Yet he never shunned the subject of his going away,—he let her become used to the sound of the words, and to every little particular connected with it—they were all told her by degrees; but told with such bright words of hope and trust, that Faith took the pain as it were diluted.
Before all this had gone far—indeed not many days after the first telling of his story, Faith had come down as usual one early morning to her work. She had been down about an hour, when she heard the door open and Mr. Linden came in. He had two seconds' view of the picture before she rose up to meet him. There was no lamp yet burning in the room. A fire of good hard wood threw its light over everything, reflected back from the red curtains which fell over the windows. In the very centre of the glow, Faith sat on a low cushion, with her book on a chair. She was dressed exactly, for nicety, as if she might have been going to Judge Harrison's to tea. And on the open pages, and on Faith's bright hair, edging her ruffles, and warming up her brown dress, was the soft red fall of the firelight. She rose up immediately with her usual glad look, behind which lay a doubtful surmising as to his errand. It was on her lips to ask what had brought him down so early, but she was prudently silent. He came forward quick and quietly, according to his wont, not at all as if she were about anything unusual, and giving her one of those greetings which did sometimes betray the grave feeling he kept so well in hand, he brought her back to the fire.
"Little bird," he said, "what straws are you weaving in at present?"
"I don't know. Not any—unless thoughts."
"Will it please you to state what you are doing?"
"I was reading. I had just got to the end of the story of Moses blessing Israel. I was thinking of these words—" and she took up her book and shewed him. "Happy art thou, O Israel, saved of the Lord, the shield of thy help, and who is the sword of thy excellency."
"Did you ever look out any of the answering passages in other parts of the Bible?"
"Not often. I don't know them. Once in a while I think of one. And then they are so beautiful!"
Mr. Linden took the book from her hand, turning from place to place and reading to her.