Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision.
"Mother," she said, "I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins—I shall be home in time for my ride." So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down.
Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, "fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken," but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke.
"Well,—why haint you been to see me before?"
"I have been sick, sir."
"Sick?" said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. "Sit there and let me see.—I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!" He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose.
"Don't you know," said he settling himself back in his chair,—"I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways—you aint but the half of my Zodiack."
"What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith willing to interrupt him.
"Well—you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too," said Mr. Simlins doubtfully.—"It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh—and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it." His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about.
"What shall I do to stop it, sir?"