She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing.
"You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so sure that you would feel with me!—I know it so well! I have a long story to tell you, dear Faith,—some time, not now," he added, with a sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own time? I know it is asking a good deal."
"It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best."
He passed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it too,—then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the room.
But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons—under careful guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest, and listen,—first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the light faded—the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden, who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face her.
"How do you feel to-night?" he asked.
"Perfectly well—and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last night to make it pleasant to lie still."
"You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with me on a shining expedition?"
"On what sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing.
"A shining one—I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest places I can find."