Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in the easy-chair.
"No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore you must not keep her standing."
"I won't keep her—nor you neither—long," said the Squire. "Miss Faith, I hope you'll keep him—standing or kneeling or something—all summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?"
"Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken.
"Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad as if you were my own daughter—and you'll let me say that, because your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere expression of feeling the Squire went off.
"You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair, "who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had been after cream."
"No I haven't, Endy,"—said Faith lifting up her face which was in a sort of overwhelmed state.
"What is the matter?" he said smiling.
"Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half ashamed of myself—I shall be better in a day or two."
"How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?"