the stream. How pretty it was! the winding river above, with its woody banks, and villages, and spires; and its broader bends below, towards the Sound. They were about midway in the stream when Reuben suddenly cried out—
"Look, Miss Faith!"—
And there came the great wagon, at not the slowest possible rate, over the long marsh road.
The first sight of the ferryboat and her freight was the signal for a simultaneous shout from the whole wagon load—which long Tim took for a summons to himself.
"'Taint no sort o' use hollerin' like that," he said, with a little turn of his steering oar; "'cause I aint a goin' back till I get somewheres to go back from—nor then neither mabbe. I kin count dollars whar they kint count cents, neow."
And 'neow' the little wagon was beyond pursuit,—up the hill from the ferry, on over the farm road, drove Mrs. Derrick—somewhat at the quickest; until the old untenanted house rose just before them, and Reuben sprang down to take the reins and help the ladies out.
It was a pleasant old farmhouse that, in spite of its deserted condition. They went to the kitchen, bright with windows looking out to grass fields and trees. Mrs. Derrick stood at open door and window, recalling scenes and people she remembered there, or watching for the big wagon to make its appearance; while Reuben and Faith went to the outhouses, and finally by dint of perseverance found a supply of wood in an old rotten tumbled-down fence. Mrs. Derrick proclaimed that the wagon was coming, as the foragers returned; but there was a splendid blaze going up chimney before the aforesaid conveyance drew up at the door, and the whole first party turned out to see it unload.
The wagon was unloaded in the twinkling of an eye; then came rummaging for baskets; then so many boys and so many baskets hopped and hummed round, like a little bevy of wasps—with nothing at least of the bee business-character about them.
"Mr. Linden, be we going to stop here?"—
"Is here where the trees be, Mr. Linden?"—
"Mr. Linden, Joe Deacon aint behaving nohow!"
"Mr. Linden, will we leave our baskets and come back to the house? or will they be to go along?"—inquired a more sober tongue.
While others were giving their opinion in little asides that it was 'prime'—and 'fust-rate'—and arguing the comparative promise of chestnut and hickory trees. And one of the bigger boys of the party, not distinguished for his general good qualities, sidling up to Reuben, accosted him under breath with a sly,
"So you druv Mr. Linden's sweetheart. Aint you spry!"
If Reuben had been in that line, he would probably have sent the offender head first down the bank,—as it was, he said quietly,
"I wouldn't let Mr. Linden hear me say that, Phil, if I was you."
"Don't mean ter. Aint you great! But I say,—Joe Deacon says you did."
"Joe Deacon's made a mistake for once in his life," said Reuben rather contemptuously—"and it isn't the first, by several."
"Reuben," said Mr. Linden approaching the group, "you may all go and find where the best trees are, and then come back and report to me. I put you in charge. Understand"—he added, raising his voice a little, "Reuben Taylor is leader of the search—whoever does not obey his orders, does not obey mine."—And in a minute the courtyard was clear. Then Mr. Linden turned and walked up to the house.
"Now what are you ladies going to do with yourselves?" he said. "Will you come out and sit under the trees and look on—taking the chance of being hit by a stray nut now and then?"
"We can't go wrong to-day," said Faith, with whom the spirit of enjoyment was well at play. "When mother feels in the mood of it we'll come. We can find you—we know where to look. Weren't you obliged to us for doing the waiting at the ferry?"
"And for looking so picturesque in the distance,—it was quite a thing to be grateful for. I think you will have no difficulty in finding where we are—there will be noise enough to guide you. I hope you have not brought a book along, Miss Faith."
"Why, Mr. Linden?"
"The 'running' brooks are good letter-press," he said—"and the grey stones, and that white oak in the meadow. And is not that woodpecker a pretty illustration?"
"I have looked at them often," said Faith. "I don't know how to read them as you do. There isn't any brook here, though, that I know of, but Kildeer river. You'll like Neanticut, Mr. Linden. I'm so glad you let us come. I'll read everything—that I can."
"I don't know how long everything'll last you, child—at the rate you've gone on lately," said Mrs. Derrick who stood in the doorway.
Faith smiled again, and shook her head a little at the same time as her eye went from the woodpecker to the green leaves above his head, then to the bright red of some pepperidge trees further off, to the lush grass of the meadow, and on to the soft brownish, reddish, golden hues of distant woodland. Her eye came back as from a book it would take long to read thoroughly.
"I am so glad it is such a day!" she repeated.
"I see my boys are coming back," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which hardly belonged to them,—"I must go and get their report. Au revoir, Miss Faith." And he went forward into the midst of the little swarm—so manageable in his hands, so sure to sting anybody else.
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick, looking over Faith's head from her more elevated position of the door-sill (looking at it too); "Child, why don't you get—" and there, for the first and last time in her life, Mrs. Derrick stopped short in the middle of a sentence.
"What, mother?"
But Mrs. Derrick replied not.
"What do you want me to get, mother?"
"I don't know as I want you to get anything,—child you've got enough now for me. Not that he wouldn't like it, either," said Mrs. Derrick musingly—"because if he wouldn't, I wouldn't give much for him. But I guess it's just as well not." And Mrs Derrick stroked her hand fondly over Faith's head, and told her that if she stood out there without a bonnet she would get sunburnt.
"But mother!" said Faith at this enigmatical speech, "what do you mean? Who wouldn't like what?"
"What does it signify, child?—since I didn't say it?"
"But mother," persisted Faith gently, "what had I better get that I haven't?"
"I don't know as you had better get it, child—and I never said he wouldn't like it, I'm sure," said Mrs. Derrick with a little self-vindication.
"Who, mother?"
"Why—nobody," said Mrs. Derrick,—"who's talking of anybody?"
"Dear mother," said Faith, "don't you mean to tell me what you mean?"
"I guess it's just as well not," her mother repeated. "The fact that he'd like it don't prove anything."
Faith looked at her, coloured a little, laughed a little, and gave up the point.
The morning passed on its pleasant way in quietness; at least with the old farmhouse and its two occupants. Mrs. Derrick was not without her knitting, and having come from the door sat comfortably click-clacking her needles together—and her
