"No, not rather. Whichever you like, Endecott," Faith said, hiding the start which the question in this real form gave her. The afternoon sun through which they were riding was very bright; the washed leaves were brilliantly green; sweet scents of trees and buds filled the air, and opening apple blossoms were scattering beauty all over the land. Nothing could spoil that afternoon. Faith had a secret consciousness besides that the very thing from which she shrank was by no means disagreeable to Mr. Linden. She did not care what he did! And he,—in the joy of being with her, of seeing her grow stronger every hour, Mr. Linden was in a 'holiday humour'—in the mood for work or play or mischief; and took the road to Miss Bezac's for more than a glass of milk.
"Mignonette," he said, "what varieties of pride do you consider lawful and becoming?"
"I know only a few innocent sorts," said Faith,—"that I keep for myself."
"Luxurious child! 'A few innocent sorts of pride that you keep for yourself'! You must divide with me."
How Faith laughed.
"You wouldn't thank me for one of them all, Endecott. And yet—" She stopped, and coloured brilliantly on the sudden.
"Explain and finish," said Mr. Linden laconically.
"If I told you what they are you would laugh at me."
"That would not hurt me. What are they, Mignonette?"
She spoke gravely, though smiling sometimes; answering to the matter of fact, as she had been asked. "I am proud, a little, of very fine rolls of butter, or a particularly good cheese. I think I am proud of my carnations, and perhaps—" she went on colouring—"of being so good a baker as I am. And perhaps—I think I am—of such things as sewing and dressmaking;—but I don't think there is much harm in all that. I know myself sometimes proud of other things, where I know it is wrong."