her head was drawn down till it rested on his shoulder.
"Faith," he said in his own low sweet tones, "I stretched a little silken thread across the doorway to keep you out—did you make of that a clue to find your way in?"
She did not answer—nor stir.
There were no more questions asked—no more words said; Mr. Linden was as silent as she and almost as still. Once or twice his lips touched her forehead, not just as they had ever done it before, Faith thought; but some little time had passed, when he suddenly took up the book which lay in her lap and began the lesson at which it lay open; reading and explaining in a very gentle, steady voice, a little moved from its usual clearness. Still his arm did not release her. Faith listened, with a semidivided mind, for some time; there was something in this state of things that she wished to mend. It came at last, when there was a pause in the lesson.
"I am glad of all that happened last night," she said, "except the pain to you and mother. There is nothing to be sorry for. You shouldn't be sorry."
"Why not, little naughty child?—and why are you glad?"
"Because—it was good for me,"—she said, not very readily nor explicitly.
"In what way?"
"It was good for me,"—she repeated;—"it put me in mind of some things."
"Of what, dear child?"
It was a question evidently Faith would rather not have answered. She spoke with some difficulty.
"That there are such things in the world as pain—and trouble. It is best not to forget it."
Mr. Linden understood and felt; but he only answered, "It will be the business of my life to make you forget it. Now don't you think you ought to put up this book, and rest or sleep?"
"I dare say you ought," said Faith,—"and I wish you would. I want to work."
He gave her a laugh, by way of reply, and then gave her work as she desired; watching carefully against her tiring herself in any way, and making the lessons more of talk on his part and less of study on hers. They were none the less good for that, nor any the less pleasant. Till there came a knock at the front door; and then with a little sigh Faith leaned back against the sofa, as if lessons were done.
"There is Dr. Harrison."
"And I shall have to be on my good behaviour," Mr. Linden said, quitting the sofa. "But I suppose he will not stay all the rest of the day." And as Cindy was slow in her movements, he went and opened the door; Faith the while fitting on a glove finger.
"First in one element, and then in another—" Mr. Linden said, as the doctor came in from a sort of simoon of snow.
"This one for me!" said Dr. Harrison shaking herself;—"but I should say you must be out of your element to-day."
"Wherefore, if you please?" said Mr. Linden, as he endeavoured to get the doctor out of his.
"Unless you live in a variety! I thought you were in your element last night." And the doctor went forward into the sitting-room. The first move was to take a seat by Faith and attend to her; and his address and his inquiries, with the manner of them, were perfect in their kind. Interested, concerned, tender, grateful, to the utmost limit of what might have been in the circumstances testified by anybody, with equal grace and skill they were limited there. Of special individual interest he allowed no testimony to escape him—none at least that was unequivocal. And Faith gave him answers to all he said, till he touched her gloved finger and inquired if the fire had been at work there too. Faith rather hastily drew it under cover and said no.
"What is the matter with it?"
"There is nothing bad the matter with it," said Faith, very imprudently letting her cheeks get rosy. The doctor looked at her—told her he could cure her finger if she would let him; and then rose up and assumed his position before the fire, looking down at Mr. Linden.
"There isn't much of a midge about you, after all," he said.
"I suppose in the matter of wings we are about on a par. What is the extent of the damage?"
"It is nothing worth speaking of—I think now," said the doctor. "But we are under an extent of obligation to you, my dear fellow,—which sits on me as lightly as obligation so generously imposed should;—and yet I should be doubly grateful if you could shew me some way in which I could—for a moment—reverse the terms on which we stand towards each other."
"I don't think of any generous imposition just now," said Mr. Linden smiling. "How are your father and sister?—I was afraid they would suffer from the fright, if nothing else."
"Strong nerves!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders. "We all eat our breakfast this morning, and wanted the chops done as much as usual. Sophy did suffer, though; but it was because Miss Faith would do nothing but get hurt in the house and wouldn't stay to be made well."
"I am sure I did something more than that," said Faith, to whom the doctor had looked.
"You don't deserve any thanks!" he said sitting down again beside her;—"but there is somebody else that does, and I wish you would give me a hint how to pay them. That young fellow who says he is no friend of yours—he helped us bravely last night. What can I do to please him?"
"Mr. Linden can tell best," said Faith looking to him. The doctor turned in the same direction.
"Thank you!" Mr. Linden said, and the words were warmly spoken, yet not immediately followed up. "Thank you very much, doctor!" he repeated thoughtfully—"I am not sure that Reuben wants anything just now,—next summer, perhaps, he may want books."
"I see you are his friend?"
"Yes—if you give the word its full length and breadth."
"What is that?" said Dr. Harrison. "Don't go off to 'Nought and All.'"
"I suppose in this case I may say, a mutual bond of trust, affection, and active good wishes."
"There's something in that fellow, I judge?"
"You judge right."
"A fisherman's son, I think you said. Well—I share the 'active good wishes,' at least, if I can't assume the 'affection'—so think about my question, Linden, and I'll promise to back your thoughts. What do you do with yourself such a day? I was overcome with ennui—till I got out into the elements."
"Ennui is not one of my friends," said Mr. Linden smiling—"not even an acquaintance. In fact I never even set a chair for him, as the woman in Elia set a chair for the poor relation, saying, 'perhaps he will step in to-day.' I have been busy, doctor—what shall I do to amuse you? will you have a foreign newspaper?"
The doctor looked dubious; then took the newspaper and turned it over, but not as if he had got rid of his ennui.
"This smoke in the house will drive us out of Pattaquasset a little sooner than we expected."
"Not this winter?"
"Yes. That's nothing new—but we shall go a few days earlier than we meant. I wish you were going too."
"When to return?" said Mr. Linden. "I mean you—not myself."
"I?—I am a wandering
