"Thank you, Reuben," she said. "O yes, maybe it will."
Words of consolation Reuben did not presume to offer, but there was a great deal in his face and quiet low-spoken "Can I do anything to-night, Miss Faith?"
"No," she said cheerfully. "There's nothing. Isn't it time Mr. and Mrs.
Roscom had some fresh eggs, Reuben? Mother will give you them."
Reuben only said he would stop there and see them.
The letter did not come next day. Reuben came, as usual, in the afternoon, but only to tell his bad success. He had not the heart to bring cowslips again, and ventured no words to Faith but about some of her poor people. That subject Faith went into fully. After Reuben was gone she lay quiet a while; and took her indemnification in the evening by getting Mrs. Derrick to read to her one or two of those strings of passages which Faith called ladders. Whether she could mount by them or not just then, her mother might; and hearing them Faith went to sleep. She said nothing about her letters, except to tell Mrs. Derrick they had not come.
That day and the next were quiet days, being the days of Dr. Harrison's absence. And if some accident had befallen Wednesday's letter, there was good hope of one Friday. And as Friday wore away, Faith did not know that she was counting the hours, and yet could at any time have answered any question as to the time of day. It was one of those calm days, within doors and without, which ebb away so noiselessly, that only the clock tells their progress. Faith's little clock—(Mr. Linden had amused himself with sending her one about as big as a good-sized watch on a stand)—ticked musically on the table, suggesting a good many things. Not merely the flight of time—not merely that the train would soon be in, not merely that she might soon have a letter; nor even that it, the clock, had seen Mr. Linden since she had. All these thoughts mingled, but with them something else. They would tick on, those minutes, relentlessly, no matter what they were to bring or take away,—steady, unalterable, unchecked,—like the old idea of Fate. She tried to be steady too—tried to have that fixedness of heart which says confidently, "I will sing and give praise." But she was weak yet, with the effect and even the presence of fever, and through all her thoughts she seemed to feel those minutes tracking with light steps across her breast. She lay with her hands clasped there, to still them.
The sun began to slant his beams in at the window, and then with one long screeching "Whew!"—the afternoon train flew through Pattaquasset, tossing out the letter bag on its way. Then Faith waited—watching intently for Reuben's step on the stairs.
Reuben on his part had watched the letter-bag from the moment it was thrown out, had followed it to the office, and there posted himself near the window to have the first chance. But his prize was a blank.
Sick at heart, Reuben drew back a little, giving way before Mintie's rather sharp "I tell you no, Mr. Taylor," and other people's earnest pressing forward to the window. But when the last one had gone—those happy people, who had got their letters!—Reuben again presented himself, and braved Mintie's displeasure by further inquiries; which produced nothing but an increase of the displeasure. He turned and walked slowly away. It might have been any weather—he might have met anybody or heard anything; but when Reuben reached Mrs. Derrick's the whole walk was a blank to him. What was the matter—how would Miss Faith bear it—these two questions lay on his heart. In vain he tried to lay them down,—for the very words which told him that "the Lord doth not afflict willingly," said also that he doth afflict; and Reuben's heart sank. He stood for a moment in the porch, realizing "how people live who do pray"—then went in and straight upstairs, walked up to Faith's couch when admitted, and without giving himself much time to think, told his news.
"Dear Miss Faith, you must wait a little longer yet. May I write by to-night's mail and ask why the letter hasn't come?—it may have been lost."