And whether for that reason or needing no fresh one, the doctor having stated so much went on to tell about other things, and made a long visit. The talk came upon the Bible again, Faith didn't know how, and grew very animated. Dr. Harrison had brought with him this morning one of his pleasantest moods, or manners; he thought yesterday that Faith's eyes had given him a reproof for slander, and he had no intent to offend in the like way again. He was grave, gentle, candid, seemingly—willing to listen, but that he always was to Faith; and talked sense or feeling in a most sensible and simple way. Yet the conversation ended with giving Faith great pain. He had asked her to read something confirmatory or illustrative of the statement she was making, out of the Bible; and Faith had complied with his wish. That was nothing strange. She had often done it. To-day the reading had been followed by a little observation, acutely put, which Faith felt raised a barrier between him and the truth she had been pressing. She felt it, and yet she could not answer him. She knew it was false; she could see that his objection was foundationless—stood on air; but she did not see the path by which she might bring the doctor up to her standing-point where he might see it too. It was as if she were at the top of a mountain and he at the bottom; her eye commanded a full wide view of the whole country, while his could see but a most imperfect portion. But to bring him up to her, Faith knew not. It is hard, when feet are unwilling to climb! And unskilled in the subtleties of controversy, most innocent of the duplicities of unbelief, Faith saw her neighbour entangled, as it seemed, in a mesh of his own weaving and had not power to untie the knot. It distressed her. Other knots of skepticism or ignorance that he had presented to her she had cut easily with the sword of truth if she could not untie; he had offered her one to-day that she could cut indeed as easily for herself,—but not for him. To do that called for not better wits, but for far greater controversial acumen and logical practice than Faith knew. He did not press his point, not even for victory; he gave the objection to her and left it there; but while to her it was mere rottenness of reasoning, she knew that for him it stood. It grieved her deeply; and Mrs. Derrick saw her worn and feverish all the day, without knowing what special reason there had been. She tried to stop Faith's working; but though not fit for it, Faith would not be stopped. She dared not trust Mr. Linden with any more excuses or put-offs; and a feverish cheek and hand that day and the next went over her exercise and letter. And enjoyed both, in spite of fever. But when they were done, late in the next day, Faith lay down wearily on the couch and consoled herself with the thoughts of the letter to come; it was the evening for one.
It was the evening for one and yet one came not. Other letters came—the great leather bag was tossed out on the station-house steps, and thence borne off to the post-office, where five minutes later Reuben Taylor came to wait for his share of the contents. But when with the assurance which has never yet known disappointment, Reuben applied at the window, Mintie gave him a rather coquettish—
"No, Mr. Taylor—you're not in luck to-day,—there's nothing for you."
In his surprise Reuben tried every means to make himself and her believe that she was mistaken; and urged a new examination of all the letters, till Mintie made—or feigned to make—it, with the same success.
Reuben turned away from the office in real sorrow of heart. He had not now to learn what store was set by those letters—especially now, when Faith was sick,—he had noticed her holding of that very last one which had come. And then, not merely to lose the pleasure, but to have the disappointment!—Then too, what had hindered the letter? One sometimes came out of time, but the expected one had never yet failed. Was Mr. Linden sick?—and what would Miss Faith think?—the letter might fail from other causes (hardly, Reuben thought) but what would she think?—herself so far from well. And then, should he go at once and tell her—or let her find it out from his non-appearance?
That last idea was promptly rejected,—she should at least not be in suspense, and Reuben was soon at her door, as soon admitted. But he came in very quietly, without that spring of step which had so often brought a letter, and standing by her chair said gently,—
"Miss Faith, I didn't find anything to-night—but I thought I'd come and tell you, for fear you'd be expecting."
"Not find anything!"—said Faith raising herself half up, with the start of colour into her pale cheeks.
"No, ma'am,—they said at the office there was nothing. Maybe it will come to-morrow."
It hurt him to see the little patient droop of each feature as Faith laid herself down again.