"When, Endecott?"
"Leave that point," he said,—"I want to tell you about the story. Ferdinand, whom I represent, was a prince cast away upon a desert shore—which shore was inhabited by the princess Miranda, whom you represent. Naturally enough, in the course of time, they came to think of each other much as we do—perhaps 'a little more so' on the part of Miranda. But then Miranda's father set Ferdinand to carrying wood,—as you—acting conscientiously for Mrs. Derrick—do me."
"I wonder if I ever shall understand you!" exclaimed Faith desperately, as her laugh again broke upon the sweet air that floated in from the Mong. "What has my conscience, or Mrs. Derrick, to do with our lunch fire? Why was the other prince set to carrying wood?"
"For the same reason that I am!" said Mr. Linden raising his eyebrows.
"To prove his affection for Miranda."
How Faith laughed.
"You are mistaken—O how mistaken you are!" she exclaimed. "It shews that though you know books, you don't know everything."
And running away with her own armful of sticks and leaves, back to the rock spoken of near where the vessel lay, Faith was stopped and relieved of her load, with such an earnest—
"'No, precious creature,
I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo'—"
that she could do nothing but laugh, till the sticks were fairly on the rock. Then Faith went to laying them daintily together.
"I hope you've no objection to my making the fire," she said; "because I like it. Only, Endecott! the matches are in the basket. Could you get them for me? Indeed I shall want the basket too out of the boat."