"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained—not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression.
"What has been the matter, my dear child?"
Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,—but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison—every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."
"No."
"And Endy,—he used to talk to me."
"Yes,"—the word was short and grave.
"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."
"Well?—He used to do that long ago."
"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that—I remembered it all the while,—and yet he did talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott—the things were in my head—and I could not get them out!"—The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work.
Mr. Linden did not start—but Faith felt the thrill which passed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly this was not what he expected.