"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or—I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough.
"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"
"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?—but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest—he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended.
August went on,—Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,—Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids.
"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired.
From Germany news came at last,—but it was of the sort that one can bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her. And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America, there was but one thing he could do—finish his course in a German University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No question now of fall or winter or spring,—summer was the first time that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was beginning his work anew in a foreign land.
It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet.
Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet meant—it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again.
"And I sha'n't see him again till——." It gave Faith a great pang. That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too very happy."—And after a few such talks with herself Faith went straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as cheerfully.
It was not long after this, that passing Mr. Simlins' gate one afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not prevent his carrying her off into the house.