"Efforts to see all before them, which was more than they could," said
Faith.
"What did they see? not me, nor I them, that I know."
"That was another sort of effort they made," said Faith smiling—"efforts to see what was not before them. I watched, whenever I thought there was a chance, but I couldn't see anything that looked like you. We must have gone half over the city, Endecott; Mrs. Pulteney took me all the morning, and her daughters and Mr. Pulteney all the afternoon."
"Know, O little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "that in New York it is 'morning' till those people who dine at six have had their dinner.
"Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,—
was written of country hours."
"I guess that is true of most of the other good things that ever were written," said Faith.
Mr. Linden looked amused. "What do you think of this?—
And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast—
The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps."
"I never saw the city when it was asleep," said Faith, smiling. "It didn't look to-day as if it could sleep. But, Endecott, I am sure all the pretty part of those words comes from where we have been."