"Those poor people up on the mountain! poor as unbelief could make them. Faith, I must go there again in the morning."
"Is it far?"—"Pretty far. On the crest of the ridge."
"What about them, Endy?"
"What were you looking for, here in the embers?"—"I?" she said, the colour instantly starting as she understood his question. "I was looking for you, then."
"I was sure of it. I saw myself distinctly portrayed in a piece of charcoal."
She laughed, gaily and softly. "Wouldn't you like to have some tea, and then tell me what you saw up on the mountain?" she whispered.—"Ah, little Sunbeam," he said, "I spent some weary hours there. No, I don't want to tell you about it to-night. And so at last I came home, thinking of the scene I had been through, and of you, left alone here in this strange place. And then I had that vision of my wife."
She was silent, her face showing certainly a grave consciousness that he was tired, and a full entering into the feeling of his work; but for herself, a spirit as strong in its foundations of rest, as full of joy both in his work and in him as a spirit could be. So till her eyes met his, then the look broke in a winsome little confessing smile, and the eyes fell.
"Don't you want something better than visions?" she said.—"Is that a challenge?" He laughed and rose up, carrying her off to her place at the table, and installing her with all the honours; and still holding her by the shoulders asked "if she felt like the head of the house?"—"No indeed!" said Faith.
"What then?"—"You know," said Faith, colouring, "what I am."
"Mrs. Endecott, I suppose. I have noticed, Mignonette," said Mr. Linden as he went round to his chair, "that when ever you see fit to agree with me, it is always in your own words!"