"What, dear child?"
"That you know what to think," she said, looking up with a face that evidently rested in the confidence of that fact.
"About what?" Mr. Linden said with an amused look. "I have known what to think about you for some time."
"I meant that,"—she said quietly and with very downcast eyes again.
"I am not in a good mood for riddles to-night," said Mr. Linden,—"just what does this one mean?"
"Nothing, only—" said Faith flushing,—"you said—"
She was near breaking down in sheer confusion, but she rallied and went on. "You said I had given you leave to think what you liked of me,—and I say it is a comfort that you know what to think."
Mr. Linden laughed.
"You are a dear little child!" he said. "Being just the most precious thing in the world to me, you sit there and rejoice that I am in no danger of overestimating you—which is profoundly true. My comfort in knowing what to think, runs in a different line."
It is hard to describe Faith's look; it was a mixture of so many things. It was wondering, and shamefaced; and curious for its blending of humility and gladness; but gladness moved to such a point as to be near the edge of sorrowful expression. She would not have permitted it to choose such expression, and indeed it easily took another line; for even as she looked, her eye caught the light from Mr. Linden's and the gravity of her face broke in a sunny and somewhat obstinate smile, which Faith would have controlled if she could.