"You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"—"I should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady.
Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her, and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in general—living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy skill and interest, and—except that the lips never broke into a smile—with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of sympathy.
When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, and
ladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again,
Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr.
Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily.
"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation—and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."
Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up.
"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr. Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed."
Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled.
At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.
"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear,
I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"
A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then—bright and stirred.
"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."