"I don't think I have,—" she said very quietly.
"You are a sort of willowbranch,—so very pliant that you glide out of reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes."
"It's no confidence—" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such danger; and"—she spoke with some difficulty—"I didn't know what it would be to offend you."
"Did you think you could?"
"If I did wrong—?"
"Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,' as you say?—that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my sweet ministering spirit."
A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said.
"What is the precise bearing of that remark?"
"You might be offended—where I should have no right,—" she said with slow utterance and consideration of her words.
"But why—little Arabic poem?"