The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way—through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree.
"Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?"
"This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!"
The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect.
Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely his home he was looking at—it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold? or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,—the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before.
Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile.
"Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little.
Mr. Linden's eyes came to her instantly, with something of their former look, but very bright; and bending off his horse he put one arm round her, with as full and earnest a kiss as she had ever had from him. "That is what I was thinking of," he said, "I was thinking of my wife, Mignonette."
"Aren't you satisfied?" she said in her former tone.—"Perfectly."
The look made a very personal application.—Faith shook her head a little, and they rode on.