"There—Mr. Stoutenburgh,—don't go any further," said his wife.
"Not in that direction," said the Squire. "Now my dear, if Sam Deacon will amuse himself in this way, as I said, what will you do? Do the farm and the house about counterbalance each other most years?"
Faith never knew how she separated the two parts of her nature enough at this moment to be practical, but she answered. "We have been able to pay the interest on the mortgage, sir, every year. That's all. Mother has not laid up anything."
The Squire took a turn or two up and down the room, then came and stood before her again. "My dear," he said, "you can't tell just yet what your plans will be, so I won't ask you to-night, but you had better let me deal with Sam Deacon, and the new tenant, and the hay, and everything else. And you may draw upon me for something more solid, to any amount you please."
"Something more solid than yourself!—O Mr. Stoutenburgh!" his wife said, though her eyes were bright with more than one feeling.
Faith was silent a minute, and then gave Mr. Stoutenburgh a full view of those steady eyes that some people liked and some did not care just so to meet.
"No, sir!—" she said with a smile and also a little wistful look of the gratitude she did not speak,—"if the hay will pay the rent, I don't want anything else. Mother and I can do very well. We will be very much obliged to you to manage Mr. Deacon for us—and the hay. I think I can manage the rest. I shall keep the cows and make butter,"—she said with a laughing flash of the eye.
"O delicious!" cried Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "(I mean the butter,
Faith)—but will you let me have it?"
"You don't want it," said Faith.
"I do!—nobody makes such butter—I should eat my breakfast with a new appetite, and so would Sam. We never can get butter enough when he's in the house. I'll send down for it three times a week—how often do you churn, Faith?"