"I tired?—Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother—and don't fear," she added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet—and be there and back again in a little while."
The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone, the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the implication of that one year of reprieve which she must ask for. How should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she could.
Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was, but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs. Stoutenburgh—looking very pretty in her light summer dress—was half reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's Miss Faith."
"Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing the young ones,—"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!—My dear other child, how do you do?—and what sweet corner of your little heart sent you up here to-night? You have not—no, that can't be,—and you wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"—and she was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith answered.
"And you haven't had tea yet,"—she said remorsefully. "I came to give Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble—but I can do it in three minutes." Faith looked towards the Squire.
"My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!"
"But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh—"here comes the tea, and you can't go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,—and nothing qualifies him for business like a contented state of his appetite!"
Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so.
"My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what fine weather we have had, eh?"
"Beautiful weather!"—Faith responded with a little energy.