Say and Seal, Volume II

She awoke before he got back, though the evening was long set in. Feeling refreshed, Faith thought herself at liberty to reverse orders and went to the forbidden closet again, and to further conjurations with Best. They could not have taken long; for when, some hour later, Mr. Linden was nearing the house on his return, he had a pretty view of her, standing all dressed before the fire in his study. The glow shone all over her—he could see her well, and her fresh neatness. He could see more. Faith Linden to-night was not just the Faith Derrick of old time; nor even of six months ago. The old foundations of character were all there, intact; but upon them sat a nameless grace, not simply of cultivation, nor of matured intelligence, nor even of happiness. A certain quiet elegance, a certain airy dignity—which had belonged to her only since she had been Mr. Linden's wife. She stood there, waiting now for him to come home.

The firelight caught behind her the gleam of silver, whether Mr. Linden could see it or not, where the little chocolatière stood brilliant. Faith had found that in her last rummaging. Miss Bezac's new trencher and bread knife were on the table too, with a loaf of Mrs. Olyphant's bread; and the fireshine gleamed on Mr. Alcott's saltcellars, and on the Mignonette tea service. Faith evidently had pleased her fancy. But now her fancy had forgotten it or left it in the background; and for what, was well shown by her spring as she caught the sound of the coming step. She met Mr. Linden at the door, gladness in every line and movement, and yet the same grace over all her action now, that a minute before was in all her repose. She said nothing at all.

"Watching for me, my dear child!" he said. "Faith, you have been on my heart all these hours."

She waited till he had come up to the fire, and then softly inquired,"What for?"—"'What for no?'" he said, smiling, but giving her face asomewhat earnest consideration. "Have you been asleep?"—"Yes. And thenI thought I might go after my chocolate pot, in the closet."

"Sensible child! What did you think upon the great question of setting forth to see me safe over the bridge?"—Her face changed, though smiling. She whispered—"I did see you safe over it." But his lips were grave instantly, and the eyes even flushed. And Faith could see then that he was exceedingly tired. Gently her hands rather insinuated than pushed him into the chair, and she ran away to give an order; coming back to do two or three other things for his comfort. Still silent, standing there beside his chair, she presently stooped and put her fresh sweet lips to his. Roses full of dew are not sweeter; and if roses were sentient things their kisses could not give sympathy more fragrantly, nor with more pure quiet. Holding her fast, Mr. Linden asked what she thought of her share of clerical duties, on the whole?

Faith answered somewhat quaintly, "Not much."

"You don't!—What a triumph for Miss Essie! Were you lonely, Faith?"

She was going to answer, then sprang away from him, for Malthus came to the door. And the table was spread, with as dainty exactness as if there were no disorder anywhere in Mr. Linden's household. The little chocolatière steamed out its welcome, Malthus was gone, and Faith stood by Mr. Linden's chair again.

"It is ready, Endecott."

He had watched her from under the shadow of his hand, her soft arranging steps and touches. "Faith," he said, looking up, "is this the night when I am to have sugarless tea, to remind me of the over-sweetened cup of long ago?"

Her smile and flash of the eye were conscious as well as bright. "I guess, sugar is 'potent' yet, Endy."

"You are!" he said. "Have you been lonely, my dear child? You don't answer me."

She hesitated a very little. "I felt you were away, Endy—but I didn't wish you here. No, I wasn't lonely." His eyes spoke a full understanding of both parts of her sentence. But his words touched somewhat else.

"Those poor people up on the mountain! poor as unbelief could make them. Faith, I must go there again in the morning."

"Is it far?"—"Pretty far. On the crest of the ridge."

"What about them, Endy?"

"What were you looking for, here in the embers?"—"I?" she said, the colour instantly starting as she understood his question. "I was looking for you, then."

"I was sure of it. I saw myself distinctly portrayed in a piece of charcoal."

She laughed, gaily and softly. "Wouldn't you like to have some tea, and then tell me what you saw up on the mountain?" she whispered.—"Ah, little Sunbeam," he said, "I spent some weary hours there. No, I don't want to tell you about it to-night. And so at last I came home, thinking of the scene I had been through, and of you, left alone here in this strange place. And then I had that vision of my wife."

She was silent, her face showing certainly a grave consciousness that he was tired, and a full entering into the feeling of his work; but for herself, a spirit as strong in its foundations of rest, as full of joy both in his work and in him as a spirit could be. So till her eyes met his, then the look broke in a winsome little confessing smile, and the eyes fell.

"Don't you want something better than visions?" she said.—"Is that a challenge?" He laughed and rose up, carrying her off to her place at the table, and installing her with all the honours; and still holding her by the shoulders asked "if she felt like the head of the house?"—"No indeed!" said Faith.

"What then?"—"You know," said Faith, colouring, "what I am."

"Mrs. Endecott, I suppose. I have noticed, Mignonette," said Mr. Linden as he went round to his chair, "that when ever you see fit to agree with me, it is always in your own words!"

Which remark Faith benevolently answered with a cup of cocoa, which was good enough to answer anything.

THE END