He lifted her out of the sleigh and led her up to the house, where they were presently admitted; into an outer room first, where Faith could lay off her furs.
"She's some brighter to-night," the woman in attendance said, in answer to Mr. Linden's questions. "I guess she'll be real glad to see you"—this was addressed to Faith.
Faith left Mr. Linden there, and went into the sick chamber alone; where she was always received as if she had brought an olive branch, or a palm branch, or both of them, in her hand. The spirit of both, no doubt, was in her; the gentle face looked the promise of both peace and victory, as only humility can look it.
Mrs. Custers on her part looked—as the other had said—glad; if so bright a word could be applied to a face that had lost all its own light, and where no reflected light as yet shone. Yet she was quieter than when Faith had first seen her, whether from mental relief or physical prostration, and was most eager for all Faith's words,—listening for the most part in silence, but with eyes that never said "enough." As some poor exhausted traveller takes the water which he has at last reached in the desert, nor knows yet whether its bright drops can avail to save his life, but lays him down by the fountain—there to live or die. And Faith, feeling that her hand was ministering those drops of life, lost every other thought,—except to wish for a hand that could do it better. Once she ventured a proposition.
"I have a friend here, Mrs. Custers, who can tell you about all these things much better than I can. Will you let him? May I ask him to come in and see you?"
"Better?" she said slowly—"I don't believe it. Who is he? your brother?"
"No—I haven't any brother. But that don't matter. He's somebody that is a great deal better than I am. May I let him come in? He's here," said Faith very quietly, along with her flushing cheek.
There was a poor little faint smile for a moment upon the sick woman's lips while Faith spoke, but it passed and she answered in the same tone—"I'll see him—to please you—before you go. I just want the words now—and I like you best."
Faith troubled her no more with unnecessary suggestions, and gave her "the words." Gave them with the fragrance of her own love about them, which certainly is the surest human vehicle for the love above human that is in them. As on that first occasion, Faith placed herself on the side of the bed; and holding one of Mrs. Custers' hands in her own, bending her soft quiet face towards the listening eyes and ears, she gave her one by one, like crumbs of life-giving food, the words of promise, of encouragement, of invitation, of example. No answer cheered or helped her; no token of pleasure or even of assent met her; only those fixed listening eyes bade her go on, and told that whether for life and refreshment or no, the words were eagerly taken in, each after the other, as she said them. There was something in the strong sympathy of the speaker—in her own feeling and joy of the truths she told—that might give them double power and life to the ears of another. Faith reported the words of her Master with such triumphant prizing of them and such leaning on their strength; she gave his invitations in such tones of affection; she told over the instances of others' prevailing faith with such an evident, clear, satisfying share in the same;—the living words this time lost nothing of their power by a dead utterance. Of her own words Faith ventured few; now and then the simplest addition to some thing she had repeated, to make it more plain, or to carry it further home; such words as she could not keep back; such words, very much, as she would have spoken to Johnny Fax; not very unlike what Johnny Fax might have spoken to her. But there was not a little physical exhaustion about all this after a while, and Faith found she must have some help to her memory. She went into the other room.
"I want a bible," she said looking round for it—"Is there one here?"