"Faith,"—he said,—"has he touched your faith?"
Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No—never."
"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,—"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!"
Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"—she whispered.
He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."
"I don't know how he did it"—Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;—"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,—something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether—But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it. And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy—I never doubted that—I knew they were not the truth;—yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me. It pained me by day and by night;—but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott—but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches—only I knew it was there—for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between—like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;—and often I had no good of prayer,"—she added in a yet lower voice.
"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?"
She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came—as I knew they would be."
Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,—looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time.
"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body—and how I wanted you!"