"I'll tell you what she ought to do," the doctor went on impressively. "She ought to do what the flowers do when the sun goes down,—shut up her sweetness to herself, see and be seen by nobody, and cease to be conscious of her own existence."
Faith laughed, in a way that gave doubtful promise of following the directions. The doctor stood looking down at her, took her hand and gallantly kissed it, and finally took himself off.
"There is a good little trial of my patience!" Mr. Linden said. "I don't know but it is well he is going away, for I might forget myself some time, and bid him hands off."
At which Faith looked thoughtful.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to live at Quilipeak?"
The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted.
"Well?" he said smiling—though she felt some other thread in the voice. "What did you think of the words that passed between the doctor and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?"
"You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I couldn't wish anything else."—
He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and affection, as if she were very, very precious.
"My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do it, it would be you!—and yet I cannot."