"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,—"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you—my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession.
Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other.
By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room—Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing but doing up some of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,—what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again.
"Mother—has Cindy come?"
"She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,—that's all under way."
Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for—the strawberries looked over—the cream made ready—the table set—the lettuce washed—the dishes warming for the vegetables—the pickles and bread on the table—and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,—for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;—when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder.
"My own dear little Mignonette!—Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?"
She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look—"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything."
"See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them."
Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety.