The town clock had struck four, all counted, when Jerry dashed off from the door with the little sleigh behind him. No other sleigh-bells were abroad, and his rang out noisily and alone over the great waste of stillness as soon as they were quit of the village. The air happily was very still and the cold had not increased; but low, low the sun was, and sent his slant beams coolly over the snow-white fields, glinting from fences and rocks and bare thickets with a gleam that threatened he would not look at them long. The hour was one of extreme beauty,—fair and still, with a steady strength in its stillness that made the beauty somewhat imposing. There was none of the yielding character of summer there; but a power that was doing its work and would do it straight through. "He giveth forth his ice like morsels; who can stand before his cold?"—thought Faith.
The sleighing was excellent; the roads in perfect condition.
"How long is it since you were here?" Mr. Linden said as the house came in sight, shewn only by its twinkling panes of glass.
"Not since before I went to Pequot—not since a day or two after that ride we took with Dr. Harrison, when you rode 'Stranger' the first time."
"How was she then?"
"Not much different from what she had been before—she didn't say much—she seemed to like to listen to me, or to see me, or both. That was all I could be sure of."
"Try not to let her spend her strength in examining the past state of her mind. Bid her lay hold of the promise now. A present hold will answer all her questions—and is all the oldest Christian can rest in."
"I wish you could speak to her instead of me," said Faith. "Perhaps she will let you."
"It is not you nor I, my child.—Fix your heart upon Christ, and let him speak,—fix your eyes upon him, and let his light shine."
"I know it. O I do!—" she said, looking up at him with an humble, moved face.