There was neither that nor any other existing reason, to judge by the quiet grace with which Faith drew near to give the required good morning, or rather to permit Mr. Linden to take it; and then placed her hand in his, as willing to have so much aid from him as that could give. He held it fast, and her too, for a minute, while his other hand busied itself with fastening in her belt a dewy, sweet, sonsie looking little sprig of May roses.
"How do you feel this morning?" he said when he was gravely considering the effect.
"Very much like Spring!"—Faith looked so, with her other hand full of primroses.
"And otherwise?"
"I don't feel otherwise!" said Faith laughing; the first really free merry look of laughter he had seen on her face since he came home.
"You are the sweetest of all spring blossoms," Mr. Linden said, carrying her off with perfect disregard of the supposed fact of her being able to walk. At the foot of the stairs, however, she was permitted to find her feet again. "Where will you go, dear child?—the orchard is very wet, but you may venture as far as the door."
"No, I have something to do," said Faith.
"What have you to do?"
"What I used to take care of—part of it. I'm so glad to do it again."
"Not to-day—you ought not!—nor to-morrow. You must come in here and sit quiet till breakfast, and for a few days more be content to be 'Love in idleness' as well as Mignonette. Will you promise?" he said, seating her in the easy-chair, with open window, and breakfast table, and a gay little fire to make the captivity pleasant.