"I have nothing to do with 'this place'," said Miss Linden smiling,—"it came with my trunks, that is all."
Faith coloured again and went on with what she was doing. Miss Linden watched her.
"Faith," she said, "don't finish that work just now,—sit still there and read Endy's letter—won't you, darling? I am going down to pay your mother a visit." And with a kiss and embrace she was gone.
Faith's hands stopped their work as the door closed, and she sat still, looking at the voiceless messages of love, care, thought, and anticipation, which surrounded her. Looking dreamily, and a little oppressed; and when she moved her hand it was not first to get her letter, but to draw out the locket from her bosom and see Mr. Linden's face; as if she wanted his look to authenticate all these messages, or to meet her own heart's answer. At any rate it was not till after a good study of the little picture that Faith put it away and took out her letter.
It was not just like having him there to talk or caress away her discomfort—and yet it was like it, though the pages were well on their way before the trousseau was even alluded to. But the words, the atmosphere of the letter made Faith breathe easier,—it was like the wand of the Fairy Order, smoothing out the little tangled skeins of silk. And when that subject came up, it was touched so lightly, so delicately, yet with such evident pleasure,—there was such mingling of play and earnest in the charge given her to be ready before he came, and such a strong wish that he could have saved her all the work,—the terror of the trousseau could not stand before it. And at the hope that her taste would be suited, Faith's heart made a spring the other way. She drank in every word of the letter; and then feeling healed, though tender-spirited yet, she finished putting away her riches and went down stairs.
Mrs. Derrick having gone off to attend to dinner preparations, Miss Linden sat alone, singing to herself softly in company with the March wind and the fire, and (of all things!) at work upon one of Miss Bezac's mantillas. Faith's two hands were laid upon the one which held the needle. "Not to-day—" said the silver voice which Miss Linden must learn to know.
"Yes—unless you'll give me somewhat else to do!" she said leaning her sunshiny head back against Faith. "I was out of patience with myself because I could not do what no one but Endecott could—so in my woman's pride I took up something which he couldn't. What are you going to do, darling?"
Faith thought she knew why she was called "Pet"—but she only kissed her. "I shall have to ask you a great deal about those things up stairs," she said;—"but to-day I want to see you What would you like?"
The thing Miss Linden liked best, was to see some of her brother's old haunts; and a notable drive the two had that afternoon. Wherein, under the light of a Spring day, Miss Linden saw Pattaquasset, the Quapaw people, (part of them) and not least of all, Faith herself, who shewed herself very much as the Spring day. And of Mr. Linden his sister talked the while, to her heart's content, and Faith's—in the full joy of that affection which can never say enough, speaking to that which can never hear too much.
It would be long to tell how the trousseau was made up. Mrs. Iredell came from Pequot and established herself in a farmhouse at Pattaquasset; and the two future sisters put their heads and their hands—a good deal of their hearts too—into the work that was done in Faith's blue-wainscotted white room. There they sat and sewed, day after day; while the days grew warm, and the apple blossoms burst, and the robins whistled. They whistled of Mr. Linden's coming home, to Faith, and sent her needle with a quicker impulse. She never spoke of it.