At this point Faith drew a rather quick breath. She was on her knees before the trunk, and shielding her face a little from Miss Linden, she sat looking in—steadfastly at bits of French needlework and lappings of the daintier texture, lifting now and then, also daintily—the end or fold of something to see what lay underneath. There was so much food for meditation, as well as for industry, in this department, that Faith seemed not likely to get through it. How clearly she saw any one thing might be doubted. She made no progress.
"You may see Endecott in everything, Faith," said Miss Linden. "In the matter of quantity I could sometimes give him help, but every colour and style had to be matched with the particular pattern in his mind. I wish you could have seen it!—it was one of the prettiest things I ever saw. Those three days in Paris!—I told you they were pretty days."
Faith gave her a swift look, very flushed and very grave. A pretty picture of wonder and humility she was; and something more was borne witness to by those soft eyes, but Miss Linden had only a second's look of them.
The racks seemed to hold the light varieties, each done up by itself. There was the little French parasol in its box; the fan box, with most pretty contents. There was the glove box, beautifully filled, and holding among the rest the prettiest of riding gauntlets—all of just the right size, by some means. At the other end to keep this in countenance, was a little French riding hat in its own pasteboard container. The riding whip Mr. Linden had given her long before. There were stockings in pretty variety; and handkerchiefs—not laced and embroidered, but of fine material and dainty borders. The various minor things were too many to mention.
Faith was in an overwhelmed state, though she hardly shewed that. Her fingers made acquaintance almost fearfully with the various items that lay in sight; finally she laid both hands upon the edge of the rack.
"It is exactly like him!—" she said in profound gravity. His sister laughed—a gay, pleased little laugh.
"He said they were all like you, Faith. His fear of touching your individuality was comical. Do you know he says he shall expect you always to have a brown merino?—so you will find one there."
But first, at the bottom of the rack, under all the others, was the flat mantilla box; and its contents of muslin and silk, in their elegant simpleness, left Miss Bezac's "nowhere". How Faith would have liked to shut up the trunk then and run away—nobody knew! For she only quietly lifted out the rack and took the view of what came next. It was not the brown merino!—it was something made up,—the gayest, prettiest, jauntiest dressing gown; with bunches of tiny carnations all over it, as bright as Faith's own. Though that be saying much, for at this hers reached their acme.
"How beautiful—" she said gravely, while her poor fluttering thoughts were saying everything else. "How perfectly beautiful!—"
And as delicately as if it had been made of silver tissue, Faith laid it off on the rack. Laid it off to find the next stagc in the shape of morning wrappers, also made up. "They fit so loosely at best—" Miss Linden explained,—"and Endecott knew your height."