She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.
"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,—"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific—and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"
There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.
"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."
"Yes, Endy,"—she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying—much as he had done at Quapaw creek—"Are you afraid, dear child?"
"No—" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.
"Then it only needs my seal.—In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,—so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty—are you ready for your walk?"
CHAPTER XL.
It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.
Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.