"Don't be sorry!—" said Faith, looking as fearless and sonsy as any real piece of mignonette that ever shook its brown head in the wind;—"I wouldn't tell you, only you must see it. You know, perhaps, that mother lived by a farm.—Last summer the farm was taken away and we had nothing left but the house. We had to do something, and I took to dressmaking with Miss Bezac—where you found me. And it has been very pleasant and has done very well," said Faith, smiling at Miss Linden as honestly as if the matter had been of music lessons or any other accomplishment. Miss Linden looked at her—grave and bright too. Then with a sparkle of her eyes—"I won't tell Endecott now, but some time I will tell him over what sort of a wedding-dress I found you poring. But my dear child!—" and she stopped with a look of sudden thought that was both grave and gay. Faith's eyes asked what the matter was.
"No, I will not tell him now," Miss Linden repeated,—"it is so little while—he could not know it in time for anything but his own sorrow. But Faith! I am going to make one of those mantillas!"—and she looked a pretty piece of defiant resolution.
"You shall do what you please," Faith said gayly. "But—will you stop them?—there is the house."
The coach came to a stand before Mrs. Derrick's little gate and the two ladies alighted. Miss Linden had been looking eagerly out as they drove up—at the house, the fence, the little garden courtyard, the steps,—but she turned now to give her orders, and taking Faith's hand again, followed her in, looking at every inch of the way. Faith drew the easy-chair out before the fire, put Miss Linden in it, and took off her bonnet and shawl. She staid but to find her mother and introduce her to the parlour and her guest; and she herself ran away to Mr. Linden's room. She knew that the brown woodbox was near full of wood which had been there since his sudden departure nine months ago. It was well dried by this time. Faith built a fire and kindled it; made the bed, and supplied water and towels; opened the blinds of one or two windows, laid books on the table, and wheeled up the couch. The fire was blazing by that time and shone warm and glowingly on the dark wood and furniture, and everything wore the old pleasant look of comfort and prettiness. Then Faith went for her guest.
"You will know where you are," she said a little vaguely,—"when you open the cupboard doors."
Miss Linden stood still for a moment, her hands folded, her lips again taking their mixed expression.
"And that is where he lay for so long," she said. It was a mixed remembrance to Faith; she did not like to answer. A moment's silence, and she turned her bright face to Miss Linden.
"Let me do what I can for you," she said with that mixture of grace and timidity.—"It isn't much. What may I now, Pet?"
"You did a lifetime's work then, you dear child!—and how I used to hear of it." And putting her arm round Faith's waist Miss Linden began to go slowly about the room, looking at everything—out of the windows and into the cupboards. "If you could have known, Faith—if you could have seen Endecott in some of the years before that, you would have known a little how very, very glad I was. I hardly believed that he would ever find any one who could charm him out of the solitary life into which sorrow had led him."
"I didn't do it!" said Faith simply.