"A sunbonnet?" Miss Bezac repeated,—"I should be sorry if I couldn't, and badly off too. But I'm afraid you'll be, for a pattern,—all I've got are as common as grass. Not that I wish grass was uncommon, either—but what's the stuff?"
"When I came out this morning," said the lady, glancing at Faith and then down again, "I did not expect to come here. And—I have brought no stuff. Can you send some one down to the village?—this young lady, perhaps.—May I take her with me now?"
"Why of course you may!" said Miss Bezac delightedly.—"Just as much as if I was glad to get rid of her—which I aint,—and am too,—for she's tired to death, and I was just wishing somebody that wasn't would take her home. Or some horses."
There was a sweet amused play of the lips in answer to this lucid statement of facts, and then turning towards Faith, the stranger said, "Will you go?"—the words were in the lowest of sweet tones.
"Where do you wish me to go?" said Faith, coming a step forward.
"With me—down into the village."
"I will go," said Faith. "Then I will take these two mantillas, Miss
Bezac,—and you shall have them the day after to-morrow."
The straw bonnet and shawl were put on in another minute, and not waiting for her gloves she followed the "blue bird" to the carriage, rather pleased with the adventure.
The little ungloved hand took firm hold of hers as they stepped out of Miss Bezac's door, and but that the idea was absurd Faith would have thought it was trembling. Once in the carriage, the two side by side on the soft cushions, the orders given to the footman, the coach rolling smoothly down the hill, the stranger turned her eyes full upon Faith; until the tears came too fast, quenching the quivering smile on her lips. Her head dropped on Faith's shoulder, with a little cry of, "Faith, do you know who I am?"
A sort of whirlwind of thoughts swept over Faith—nothing definite; and her answer was a doubtful, rather troubled, "No."—