She looked like one of the flakes of snow herself, for simplicity and colour; but there was a smile in her eyes and lips that had come from a climate where roses blow.
"I feel nicely.—Only a little bruised and battered feeling, which isn't unpleasant."
"Will you have anything?—a cup of tea?—that might do you good."
Faith looked dubious at the cup of tea; but then rose up and said it would disturb her mother, and she would just go and sleep.
"It won't disturb her a bit,"—Mr. Linden said, reseating her,—"sit still—I'll send Reuben up to see."
He left her there a very few minutes, apparently attending to more than one thing, for he came back through the eating-room door; bringing word to Faith that her fire and room were in nice order, and her mother fast asleep there in the rocking-chair to keep guard; and that she should have a cup of tea in no time. And with a smile at her, he went back into the eating-room, and brought thence her cup and plate, and requested to be told just how the tea should be made to please her, and whether he might invade the dairy for cream.
"If I could put this cloak over my shoulders, I would get some myself. Will you put it on for me? please.—Is there fire in the kitchen? I'll go and make the tea."
"Is there nothing else you would like to do?" he said standing before her,—"you shall not stir! Do you think I don't know cream when I see it?"—and he went off again, coming back this time in company with Reuben and the tea-kettle, but the former did not stay. Then with appeals to her for directions the tea was made and poured out, and toast made and laid on her plate; but she was not allowed to raise a finger, except now to handle her cup.
"It's very good!" said Faith,—"but—don't you remember you once told me two cups of cocoa were better than one?"
It is to be noted in passing, that all Faith's nameless addresses were made with a certain gentle, modulated accent, which invariably implied in its half timid respect the "Mr. Linden" which she rarely forgot now she was not to say.