It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair.
"Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion.
"I cannot say you did right."
"But when you could do me no good,"—said Faith very gently,—"and I should only have given you pain—for nothing?"
"It would not have given me pain to have you tell it—and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature—as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),—it can only give you pain to hear of it—so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time—what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!—till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us."
Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely.
"I will not do so again, Endy.—About important things, I mean,"
"You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?"
"I might like it,"—said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott."
"Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet."