It moved him. The happiness to which his look bore witness was of a kind too deep for words.
"Do you know, love, if we had been going at once to our work in the mountains, I should have asked a great many people to come here to-day."
"Would you? why, Endy?"—"To let them see my wife. Now, I mean to take her to see them."
Faith was willing he should take her where he pleased, though she made no remark. Her timidity moved in a small circle, and touched principally him. Mingling with this, and in all she did, ever since half past one o'clock to-day, there had been a sort of dignity of grave happiness; very rare, very beautiful.
"I wonder if you know half how lovely and dear you are?" said Mr. Linden, studying the fair outlines of character, as well as of feature. But Faith's eye went all down the pattern of embroidery on her white robe, and never dared meet his. "Have you any idea, little Mignonette of sweetness, after what fashion that proverb is true?"
She looked up, uncertain what proverb he meant; but then immediately certain, bent her head again. Faith never thought of herself as Mr. Linden thought of her. Movings of humility and determination were in her heart now, but she knew he would not bear to hear her speak them, and her own voice was not just ready. So she was only silent still.
"What will make you speak?" said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I am like Ali Baba before the storehouse of hid treasure. Is this the 'Sesame' you are waiting for?" he added, raising her face and trying two or three persuasive kisses.
"There was nothing in the storehouse," said Faith laughingly. "No words
I mean."—"I am willing to take thoughts."
"How?"—"Which way you like!"
"Then you will have to wait for them, Endy."