She had never seen him look so—never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels—if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes.
"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,—I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all—but I was weak and not well." Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel.
His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again—as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words—and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.
"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden. "Mignonette—have my words grieved you? they need not—there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind."
"I didn't think it, Endy."
"What are you thinking of, my child?"
"Nothing—Never mind me,—" she said deprecatingly.
"Tell me, Faith," he repeated.
But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a one as might without any force have been given to an angel.
"Faith, what will make you speak?—this?—Tell me what you were trembling about—I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me."