"Did your old antiquary send this to me, Endecott?" she said looking down at it again.—"To you, darling."
"I have seen nothing so good to-day, Endy. I am very glad of it."
"Do you remember, Sunbeam, the time when I told you I liked stones? and you looked at me. I remember the look now!" So did Faith, by the conscious light and colour that came into her face, different from those of three minutes ago, and the grateful recognition her eyes gave to Mr. Linden.
"I don't know much more now," she said, in very lowliness, "about stones, but you can teach me, Endecott."
"Yes, I will leave no stone unturned for your amusement," he said, laughing. "Faith, if I were not so much afraid of you I should tell you what you are like. What else have you seen?"
"Tell me what I am like, Endecott."
"What sort of consistency is that—to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?"
"It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it."
"Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune.
"O wat ye wha that lo'es me,
And has my heart in keeping?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rosebuds steeping;
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her!"