"I half promised her that she might come before the rest of the world to-morrow, Faith," he said. "She never saw any one married, and has the greatest desire to see you—and I said if you were willing, Reuben should bring her here at one o'clock." Faith was just then exploring the contents of a new package—or rather two: one of as many spools of white thread as she had scholars in her little class, (presented by Robbie Waters,) the other a wee far-sent carved box of curled maple. She looked up with wet eyes.
"Oh let her come, Endecott—I should like to have her here."
Faith had been living in a strange atmosphere this week. The first presents that came simply pleased and amused her to a great degree; Judge Harrison's and his daughter's she saw with a strong admixture of painful feeling. But as tokens from rich and poor began to throng in—not of respect for her wedding-day so much as of respect and love for Mr. Linden,—Faith's mood grew very tender and touched. Never perhaps, since the world stood, did anybody receive wedding presents from friends known and unknown with a more gentle and humble heart-return to the senders. There was no least thing of them all that Faith did not dearly value; it told her of something so much better than the gifts, and it signified of a link that bound her with that. How beautiful to her eyes the meanest of all those trifles did seem! and for the rest, she was as quick to be delighted with what was really beautiful and glad of what would be really useful, as any sensible child could have been. So the amusement with which the week began changed into a grave, loving, and somewhat timid appreciation of each new arrival.
Meanwhile, on Faith's table stood a little silver saucepan sent by Mrs. Somers with the sage remark that she would want it for others if not for herself; and near by, a beautiful butter cup and knife from Mrs. Stoutenburgh. With the butter cup trotted down a little mountain pony, with the daintiest saddle and bridle that the Squire could find for money.
Miss Linden's love had chosen for itself sundry channels; from the silver knives—of all sorts—which made their appearance now, to various comforts, great and small, which were to await her brother and sister in their new home. In those Mrs. Iredell too had a share; her present token was a silver tea-service, whereon the chasing developed itself in sprays of mignonette. A mark of attention which Mr. Linden at least appreciated.
CHAPTER XLIII.
It was very early indeed in the still sweet morning of Thursday, when Faith threw open the windows and blinds of the sitting-room. No one was abroad, and not even a wind moving. The leaves of the trees hung motionless; except where a bird stirred them; the dawn was growing slowly into day; sweet odours called forth by the dew, floated up to the windows, and the twitter and song of the birds floated in. The freshness and stillness and calmness of all the earth was most sweet. Faith could not read; she knelt upon a low cushion at the open window and leaned her arms upon the sill to look out, and breathe, and think and pray. The morning was not unlike her. She was as fresh, and as grave, and as still; and there was a little flutter now and then too in her heart, that went with nothing worse than the song of the birds, though it stirred something more than the leaves of the branches. So Mr. Linden found her.
So she met them all at breakfast, with the same unready eyes and lips that Mr. Linden had seen before. It was odd how Faith seemed to have put off the full realization of Thursday till Thursday came. After breakfast she was making her escape, but was detained before she reached the staircase. What it was that Mr. Linden fastened in her dress, Faith could not have told; neither did his words tell her.
"You must not think me extravagant, Mignonette,—these are some old gems of mine which I want you to wear in this form." He gave her one grave kiss and let her go. Faith sped up stairs; and with a fluttering heart went to see what Mr. Linden had done.—Yes, they were gems,—clear, steadfast, as the eternal truth which they signified, the blue sapphires shone upon Faith's white dress.
Faith was alone; and she sat before the glass an odd long while, studying the brooch where Mr. Linden had placed it. Her head upon her hand, and with much the same sort of face with which she used long ago to study Pet's letters, or some lesson that Pet's brother had set her. From the sapphires Faith turned to her Bible. She was not, or would not be interrupted, till it was time to attend to business.