 Volume 1 Chapter 8 of Say and Seal by Susan and Anna Warner. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The decision of Mr. Linden on the school question was duly communicated to Judge Harrison, and the time fixed was Thursday, the 5th of October. The place chosen, after much care, was the judge's own house and grounds adjoining, which were spacious enough, and afforded good opportunity for setting tables, and also for spreading them. So all that was fixed, and all Patequacet was a tiptoe, and Mr. Linden submitted to what he could not help with as good a grace as he might, and September was sliding off into October with the gentlest, sunniest, softliest grace. With much the same sort of grace, Faith Derrick walked up and down in her mother's household, from the dairy where she made her butter, to Mr. Linden's room, which it was her care to keep in order, and where she might if she chose amuse herself with Mr. Linden's books. If she did, it was unknown to their owner. He surely found every volume lying where he left it. There was chance enough for Faith, in his long absences from the house, and the books offered temptations. There were a good many of them, stowed in old-fashioned corner-and-window cupboards, good editions in good bindings, and an excellent very-choice selection of subjects and authors. There were books in various languages of which Faith could make nothing but size. In her own mother tongue there were varieties of learning and literature enough to distract her. All however that the owner could know of other hands about his books, was that there was no dust upon them. Perhaps he had a mind to know more, or that there should be more to be known. For about this time two remarkable things happened. One was that Faith found a little French book ensconced among the stockings in her basket, and the very next morning, as Mr. Linden was setting up for school, he stopped at the threshold and inquired, "'Miss Faith, whereabouts are you in Prescott?' That same color flushed in Faith's face. It did not rise to her temples this time, but glowed richly in her cheeks. She looked down and up and down. Words seemed confounded in their utterance. "'You do not mean that you have finished it already,' he said, with an excellent look of astonishment. "'I have almost,' said Faith. "'Mr. Linden, how could you tell? I don't know what makes me do so,' she said, putting both hands to her cheeks. There's no shame in it.' I didn't suppose there was,' he said, smiling, and closed the door. Very oddly, in spite of morning duties, Faith's next move was to go to her basket, pull out that little French book, and examine it all over inside and out. Not one word of it could she read. Not one sign of it did she know. What was the meaning of its place in her basket?' Faith pondered that question, probably, while her cheeks were coming back to their usual tint. Then the book was slipped back again, and she hurried away to help her mother with the dishes. "'You needn't come, child,' said Mrs. Derrick, what do you think I'll make of such a handful of things as that? To be sure, Cindy's cleaning up to-day, but I'm pretty smart yet. Go off and study arithmetic if you want to. Haven't you got through that yet?' "'Almost through, mother,' Faith answered, smiling. "'Well, why don't you go and finish?' said her mother. "'Man, I finished these first,' said Faith, through whose fingers in the towel the cups and saucers slipped with the dexterity, that was, to say the least of it, pretty. "'Why, mother, you were not so keen after her arithmetic the other day.' "'Keen after it,' said Mrs. Derrick. "'Law, child, I don't pretend to be keen. But I never could bear to see a thing half-done. I'd rather do it twice over.' There was something else running in Faith's mind, for after abstractedly setting down one after another several saucers, polished from the hot water and huckaback, she dropped her towel and flung both arms round her mother's neck. "'Mother, there is one thing I want you to do. I want you to be a Christian.' There was persuasion in the soft head that nestled against her, if Faith's words lacked it. To the words her mother gave no answer, but she returned the caress with interest, wrapping Faith in her arms, and drawing her down to the next chair, as if, literally, she could not stand that. "'Pretty child,' she said, and more than one tear fell upon Faith's bright hair. "'You're the best child that ever was, and always were.' "'No, mother,' said Faith, kissing her. "'But will you?' "'I don't know,' said Mrs. Derrick. "'That's what your father used to say, Faith, and I used to think I'd like to, to please him. But somehow I never did.' "'Never wished it for your own sake to your mother?' "'Yes, sometimes, when I saw him die,' said Mrs. Derrick. "'Hush, child, don't say another word to me now, for I can't bear it.' And giving Faith an embrace which took off all thought of roughness from her words, Mrs. Derrick rose up and went about her dishes again. And Faith tried to do as much, but the dropping tears were too fast for her towel. Her hands sought in vain to forbid their coming. She laid down her work and went away. Truth, however, is always at one with itself, and so is right-feeling, and so is duty. Faith, as well as her mother, had plenty of business on hand that morning, and it was not long before she was as hard at work in the kitchen as if there were no other interests in the world. There was bread to make. That was done. There was an elaborate chicken pie to concoct for dinner, which Faith would not leave to her mother to-day. There was a certain kind of muffins which Mrs. Derrick suggested Mr. Linden would be apt to like, and which they had never had since he was in Patacuasa. To hear was to obey, and Faith compounded the muffin. Then fresh yeast must be made, and Faith always did that. Let it not be thought that Mrs. Derrick was idle while thus indicating flowery fields of exertion to her daughter, very far from it. There was all the house and all the rest of the dinner to see to, besides Cindy, who was one woman's work. The butcher was to be met, and farm-questions settled with the farmer, and Mrs. Derrick was still deep in vegetables when Faith quit at the kitchen. How much time she had left for study before dinner it doesn't appear. After dinner this day there was small study chance, or at least small chance to get books, for it was Wednesday, and Wednesday was in every Patacuasa school a half-holiday. Indeed that arrangement of things extended beyond the schools, and on this particular Wednesday Mrs. Derrick devoted the holiday time to a far-off neighbor, declaring that she felt like a good long walk. And after her departure the dreaminess of a warm fall afternoon settled down upon the house and its inhabitants. She sat sewing by the parlor window, or reading, stealthily, for Mr. Linden with his book sat in the porch not three feet from her, but it is not too much to say that neither made great progress. Who could read, or work, or think, vigilantly in that hazy sunshine? The very bees took a siesta on the wing, and rocked to and fro in the soft air. About the middle of the afternoon a small white-headed boy was seen revolving down the main street of Patacuasa. I say revolving, for the slight suggestion of a small stone in the road, or a spot of particular dustiness, was enough to make the boy break the monotony of his walk with a summer set, by which style of progress he at last arrived at Mrs. Derrick's door, entered the gate, and came up the steps. There he paused and gazed at Mr. Linden. What is your name? inquired that gentleman, with the benevolent idea of sending the boy's thoughts in motion in a straight line. Charles Twelfth, replied the boy promptly. Charles Twelfth, said Mr. Linden, are there eleven more of you? The boy put his finger in his mouth, but brought forth no answer. Miss Faith, said Mr. Linden, are you the planet which has attracted the small star out of its usual orbit? Faith came to the door. Who are you, little fellow? said she, eyeing the dusty whitehead. Who be you? said the boy. The center of your solar system at present, said Mr. Linden. Is that the way satellites generally ask questions? What a queer man, said the boy, looking at Mr. Linden. What a queer boy, said that gentleman gravely. What do you want? said Faith, biting her lips and laughing at both of them. The boy gazed at her, but he also gazed at the scraper, and the attraction of that was irresistible. Down went his whitehead and over went his dusty feet, and then Charles Twelfth was himself again. My ma kept your ma to supper, he said, and she says you may come too if you want to, and bring him. We've got lots of pies. And stimulated by this recollection, the boy turned without delay and began his revolution's homework. Faith ran down the two or three porch steps and laid hold of the little invader. Here, you, Charles Twelfth, who are you, and where does your ma live? She lives down to our house. Where's that? Down the woody road, said the boy. Next after you come to Captain Samp's Blackberry Field, there's some flowers in front. Then you are Mrs. Seacum's boy? Very well, said Faith, letting him go. Mr. Linden, there is an invitation for you. Is there a carriage road into Sweden, or do we walk? he replied. Sweden, said Faith. It is in the woods, two or three miles from here. A woman lives there at the widow of a man that used to sail with my father. My father was captain of a ship, Mr. Linden. Mr. Seacum was one of his mates, and very fond of him, and we go to see Mrs. Seacum once in a while. I don't think perhaps you would like it. It's a pretty ride. That is a kind of ride I do like. But I don't know whether you would like it all. If you say so, I will have up the wagon. Thank you, that I should not like. I prefer to have it up myself, Miss Faith, if you will have up your bonnet. Faith's face gave way at that, and the bonnet and the wagon were up accordingly. The way led first down the high road, bordered with gardens and farms and the houses of the village, if village it were called, where the neighbors looked at each other's distant windows across wide tracts of meadow, orchards, and grain field. The road was reasonably dusty in the warm drafts of September. Nevertheless, the hedgerows that grew thick in many places showed gay tufts of autumn flowering, and the mellow light lay on every wayside object and sober distance like the reflection from a butterfly swing. Except the light all changed when they got into the woody road. It was woody indeed, except where it was grassy, and woods and grass played hide-and-seek with each other. The grass grown road, its thicker grass borders, where bright fall flowers raised their proud little heads. The old fence broken down in places where bushes burst through and half filled the gap. Bright hips on the wild rosebushes, tufts of yellow fern leaves, brilliant handfuls of red and yellow, which here a maple and there a pepperage held out over the road. The bushy, bosky look which the uncut undergrowth gave the wood on either hand. The gleams of soft green light, the bands of shadow, the deeper thickets where the eye looked twice and came back unsatisfied, over all the blue sky with forest leaves for a border. Such was the woody road that afternoon. Fox of little birds of passage flitted and twittered about their nights lodging, or came down a feast on winter green or cedar berries, and Mrs. Derek's old horse walked softly on, as if he knew no one was in a hurry. With what a glory comes and goes the year, Mr. Linden said, And stays all the while, don't it? said Faith rather timidly, and after an instant's hesitation. Yes, and a sort, though to my fancy the other seasons have rather beauty and splendor, while autumn keeps the glory for itself. I think it is glorious all the year round, said Faith. Though to be sure, she added with a sudden check, perhaps I don't use the word right. Yes, it is glorious, but I think glorious and glory have drifted a little apart upon the tide of human speech. Glory always seems to my mind a warm, glowing effulgent thing, but ice peaks may be glorious. The old painters encircled the heads of their saints with a glory, and you could not imagine that a cold light. Faith listened, with the eyes of one first seeing into the world of wonder and beauty hidden from common vision. She did not answer, till her thoughts came back to the road they were travelling, and catching her breath a little, she said, This isn't a cold light. No, truly. And just so far as the saints on earth walk in a cold light, so far I think their light is less glorious. I don't see how they can, said Faith timidly. They do, sometimes, standing aloof like those ice peaks. You can see the white garments, but no glory transfigures them. Such a face as Stephen's, Miss Faith, is worth a journey to see. Faith thought so, wondered how many such faces he had seen. Her meditations plunged her too deep for words. What are you musing about, if I may ask? Mr. Linden said presently. She colored, but answered, I was thinking what one must be, to have a face like Stephen's. That is the promise, you know, from glory to glory. From grace to glory must come first. What one must be, yes, that is it. But it is good to measure the promises now and then. Faith laid that last remark up in her heart, and shrining it in gold, as it were. But she said nothing. How is it with you, he said, turning his eyes full upon her? You have not told me lately. Are the clouds all gone? Her look met his, wistful and simple as her answer. I see the light through. On to the perfect day, Mr. Linden said, his smile, slight as it was, bringing a sort of illumination with it. After a few minutes he turned to her again. Miss Faith, one whom Christ has called into his army, should wear his uniform. What, sir? She said, the color starting readily. With the private vows of allegiance there should be also a public profession. Yes, she said. I suppose so. I am willing. I am ready. Timid, modest even shrinking as she was, more in view of the subject than of her advisor, her face was as frank as the day. His hand quitted the reins a moment, taking hers and giving it a sort of right hand of fellowship clasp. Glad and warm and earnest as was his look. I am not going to ask you any more questions, he said. You will tell me if there are any you wish answered. Her, thank you, was a little breathless. For a while the old horse jogged on in his easy way, through the woods and the fall flowers and the sunny glow, and the eyes of the two travelers seemed to be busy therewith. Then Faith said with a little timid touch upon her voice. Mr. Linden, I suppose it was you that put that little green book in my basket last night? Jumping at conclusions again, he said. What sort of a little green book was it? I don't know. I suppose you can tell me. Do you suppose I will? Why not? What did you expect me to do with it, Mr. Linden? Find out what sort of a book it is. You know I can't read a word of it, said Faith rather well. Look at that old house, said Mr. Linden. They were passing a cleared field or two, one of which seemed yet under cultivation and showed corn stalks and pumpkin vines, but the other was in that poverty-stricken state described by one proverb as, I once had. The house was a mere skeleton. Clatboards indeed there were still, and shingles, but doors and windows had long since been removed, by man or time, and through the open spaces you could see here a covered door and there a stairway, and there a bit of partition wall with its faded high-colored paper, no remnant of furniture, no rag of old clothes or calico, but in the dooryard a few garden flowers still struggled to keep their place among daisies, thistles, and burdocks. The little field was bordered with woodland, and human voice or face there was none. The sunbeams which shone so brightly on the tinted trees seemed powerless here. The single warm ray that shot through one of the empty window frames fell mournfully on the cold hearthstone. Yes, said Faith. I don't know who ever lived there. It has stood so a good while. The road grew more solitary still after that, passing on where the trees came close upon either hand and arched their branches overhead, casting a deep and lonely shadow. The flowers dwindled, the briars and rite grass increased. As to the philisoph sula toat misfe, said Mr. Linden, touching the horse with his whip, there are just two things to be said. In the first place, with the help of another book or two which are not beyond reach, you may make his acquaintance quite comfortably by yourself. In the second—no, I shall not tell you the second, that you may find out by yourself, too. There is Charles Twelfth, and all his subjects one might judge. For on Captain Samp's Blackberry Hill, albeit Blackberries were bygone things, a troop, a flock of children, were scattered up and down picking flowers. Goldenrod and Asters and Moonshine filled the not too clean little hands, and briars and wild roses combed the unkempt hair somewhat roughly. White-headed youngsters all of them, looking, but for small patterns of blue calico and nanking, not unlike a droop of little pigs. Next appeared an imposing array of sunflowers, below which Princess Feather waved in crimson splendor, and the little brown capital of Sweden stood revealed. Or I should say partially, for the house stood in the deepest corner of the shade, just where the road took a sharp turn towards the sunlight, and Mr. London alighted and tied his horse to a tree, with little fear that anything would happen to him unless the darkness put him to sleep. Charles Twelfth has the best of it just now, Ms. Faith, he said, as he opened the gate for her. Why do people build houses where they cannot see the sun? They were met at the door by Mrs. Seacum. Do tell, she said, why if this ain't you? But what made you come so late, and how slow your horse did come when he was about it? I've been watching you this age. Well, Faith, I declare you're as pretty as a posey, and this is the teacher, I suppose. Guess likely you ain't been down this way a force, sir. It's a good ways and the road's lonesome, but it's a fine place when you're here, so retired and shady. All Mr. London's command of countenance only enabled him to answer the last remark with a strong affirmative. Yes, sir, said Mrs. Seacum. It is, and there's a good many of the trees as evergreens, so the shade never goes off. I do suppose if I could keep the children more to home, they wouldn't get as nice and brown as they do. But if I was to run out in the lot and whip them home every half hour, they'd be back again before I could count one. Now, Genevieve, she'd just stay round under the trees a good deal, but then she's fond of flowers. She'll be real glad to see you, Faith, and so will your mother. And Mrs. Seacum at last got her visitors into the parlor. The parlor was as brown as the rest of the house. The visitors had not time to remark more particularly, for their attention was claimed by a tall girl of about Faith's age, with a loosely built, strong-jointed frame, in, as marked contrast as possible, to the clean outline and soft angles of the other. She shook hands very cordially with Faith, but made a reverence to the teacher. Won't you take a chair, sir, she said, setting one for the gentleman. Ain't it an age since we've looked at you, Faith? Your mother's been here a long spell. Ma was proud to see your comment. You ain't been here, seems to me, ever before. How do you do, Genevieve? I'm respectable well. Can't do nothing uncommon, you know, down in this occlusion. I guess it's as good to see company as Blackberry's. We don't get it, though. I hope you don't mind a lonely situation, sir. The last words with deep gravity and a bending head. It agrees well with a contemplative mind, replied the gentleman, resolving that the young lady should not talk high English alone. It does, said Genevieve admiringly, taking him all in with her eyes. There is always something to look at to make you contemplate. Then you don't think it's an objection, sir, to live so far away from society as this? I have lived further away from society than this, said Mr. London. I have seen regions of country, Miss Seacum, where you could not even hear of anybody but yourself. I declare, and weren't it awful still, sir? It was beautiful still, said Mr. London. I reckon it was. At this juncture Charles Twelfth made his appearance, and Mr. London at once turned to him. Well, sir, how are the Turks? To which Charles Twelfth, being taken much by surprise, replied. They're pretty well. Genevieve said her mother, if you'll make yourself agreeable, I'll go hurry tea for the rest of the children comes. They will all come to table, and there's so many. And Mrs. Derek, as in duty bound, followed her to help. I'll go tell them, said Charles Twelfth, as Miss Seacum went out. No, you will not, said Mr. London. You will not go out of the house again till I give you leave. Why don't you come to Sunday school and learn to behave yourself? What else, said Charles Twelfth? What else, said Mr. London. That will take you some time. Afterwards you will learn all the lessons your teacher gives you. Who will he be, said Charles Twelfth, coming a little near? You? No, indeed, said Mr. London. I have quite enough to do now. I daresay this lady will take you into her class if you ask her politely. It was worth while to see Faith's face now, for the little stir in the flush and the sweet gravity that was in it. Not so much as a glance went to Mr. London, but leaning forward towards the young enemy of Peter the Great, she said in her sweet tones. Will you come? Charles Twelfth looked up at her rather earnestly, though his finger was in his mouth a while, and then having ended his scrutiny gave a grave little nod of assent, and moved round and stood at her side. Look here, said Faith. Don't you want to show me how the sunflower's growing your garden? They baint mine, said Charles Twelfth. I'll show you my house, if you'll let me go. That difficulty being got over, Charles Twelfth trotted out of the front door and on through the long grass to a remarkable edifice of clam shells, broken earthenware, moss, and corncobs, which was situated close by the fence. Faith commented and asked questions, till she had made herself slightly familiar to the young woodsman's mind, and then it was agreed that he should come Sunday morning bright and early to Mrs. Derrick's, and he and Faith would go to Sunday school together. By the time this arrangement was thoroughly entered into, the summons came to tea. Now, do just set down and make yourselves at home, said Mrs. Seacum, and eat as if you were home, too. Faith, she added in a good-sized whisper, I did like to forget all about it, and your mother could have told me, too, but you'll do just as well. Does he always take cold pork and potatoes to his supper? Faith's eyes involuntarily opened. Then, as the meaning of this appeal broke upon her, she answered with a very decided, no, ma'am. "'Cause we've got some handy,' Mrs. Seacum said. Now, Mr. Simpson, he stayed with us a spell, and he couldn't do without it. If I had pound cake and plum cake and mince pie for supper, it made no differ, and if there weren't but one cold potato in the house, it made none either. He wanted that just the same, to be sure he was easy suited. And I didn't know, but all school teachers was the same way. I never had much experience of them. Genevieve just locked the front door, and then the children can't get in. The back door is locked. I do take to peace and quiet. "'Is Charles Twelfth much like his brothers and sisters, ma'am?' said Mr. Lyndon. "'Well, no,' said Mrs. Seacum, dealing out Blackberry Jam. He always was an uncommon child. The rest's all real-sponsible, but there's none of them alike, but America's best butchers. It's fresh faith. The children picked the Blackberries and Captain Samp's Law. Charles Twelfth does act sometimes as if he was helped. I thought he took a turn a while ago to behave like the rest, but he's reacted. And having emptied the dish of jam, Mrs. Seacum began upon the cheese. "'Which is America's?' said Faith. "'Is he older or younger than Charles Twelfth, Mrs. Seacum?' "'Well, he's older,' said Mrs. Seacum. "'That's him,' she added, as a loud rattling of the back door was followed in an incredibly short space of time by a similar rattling at the front, after which came the clatter of various sticks and clods at the window. "'I guess you won't care about seeing him near,' said Mrs. Seacum, stirring her tea composably. "'Only don't nobody open the door. I do love peace and quiet. They won't break the window, because they know they'd catch it if they did.' "'Children is a plague, I do suppose,' remarked Genevieve. "'Is your tea agreeable, sir?' Which questioned Mr. Lindenwave by asking another, and the meal proceeded with a peace and quietness which suited no ideas but Mrs. Seacum's. At last tea was over, the ladies put on their bonnets again, and the old horse being roused from his meditations, the party set forward on their pleasant way home. Doubly pleasant now, for the sun was just setting, the air was fresher, and the glow of the sunset colors put new glory upon all the colors of earth, and light and shadow made witching work of the woody road as long as the glow lasted. Then the colors faded, the shadows spread, gray gathered where orange and brown had been. That glory was gone, and then it began to be shown little by little, as the blue also changed for gray, that there is another glory of the stars. And then presently, above the trees that shaded Mrs. Seacum's retreat, the moon rose full and bright and laid her strips of silver under the horse's feet. Were they all exhausted with their afternoon work? Or was this shifting scene of color and glory enough to busy their minds? Mr. Linden found his way along the road silently, and the two ladies behind him seemed each to be wrapped in her own thoughts, and moonlight and starlight favored that, and so on they jogged between the shadowy walls of trees tipped and shimmering with light, and over those strips of silver on the road. Out of the woods at last, on the broad, full-lit highway, past one farm and house after another, lights twinkling at them from the windows, and then their own door with its moonlit porch. The old horse would stand, no fear. The reins were thrown over his back, and the three went in together. As Mrs. Derrick passed on first and the others were left behind in the doorway, Faith turned and held at her hand. Thank you, Mr. Linden, she said softly. He took the hand and inquired gravely whether she was taking leave of him for the rest of his natural life. Faith's mood had probably not been precisely a merry one when she began, but her low laugh rung through the hall at that, and she ran in. End of Chapter 8 CHAPTER IX Mr. Simlins stood on his doorstep and surveyed such portion of his fair inheritance as his eye could reach from that point. Barnes and outhouses already in good order. Mr. Simlins favored with a metal coat of paint. Fences were put up and gate posts renewed, likewise in imagination. Imagination went further and passed from the stores of yellow grain concealed by those yellow clappards to the yellow stubble fields whence they had come, so that on the whole Mr. Simlins took rather a glowing view of things, considering that it was not yet sunrise. The cloudless October sky above his head suggested only that it would be a good day for digging potatoes. The white frost upon the ground made Mr. Simlins guess it was about time to be looking after chestnuts. The Twitter of the Robbins brought to mind the cherries they had stolen. The exquisite careering of a hawk and the high blue ether spoke mournfully of a slaughtered chicken. The rising stir of the morning wind said plainly as a wind could, in its elegant language, that if it was going to blow at that rate it would be plaguey rough going after round clams. With which reflection Mr. Simlins turned about and went into his early breakfast of pork and potatoes, only as he was not a teacher. They were hot and not cold. Thus pleasantly engaged, discussing his breakfast, Mr. Simlins was informed by one of his help that a boy wanted to see him, which was no uncommon occurrence for all the boys about patequassa like Mr. Simlins. Just as leave see him as not, said Mr. Simlins, if you don't want my breakfast, come in there, you. And Dromy Tuck presented himself. Early bird catches the worm, said Mr. Simlins. Don't want my breakfast, Dromy, do you? Had mine before I started, replied Dromy. But the things here, Mr. Linden says, is how we want your nuts off of them trees over to Niantica, and he says if you don't want them, why it'll fit, he says, and if you do, why you may keep them, that's all. What's Mr. Linden going to do with the nuts, supposing he gets them? He ain't going to get them, said Dromy. It's us, us and him. You see, we did something to please him, and so now he said as how he'd like to do something to please us, if he only know what it was. And there won a boy of the whole on them as didn't say he'd rather go after nuts than any other living thing, what some'd ever. Now, I suppose you're asking for them particular nuts to please me. It's a round game we're on, said Mr. Simlins. How are you going to get to Niantica? Same way Jack went up his bean won't pay. He didn't tell, said Dromy. He don't say everything to once it commonly. When you going? Don't know, sir. Mr. Linden said as how we'd better go for the nuts did, and Saturday ain't fur off. Saturday? Well, you tell Mr. Linden if he'll send Ruben Taylor here Saturday morning he can take the big wagon. It'll hold the hull on you, and I guess I'll do without the team. And if he wants to go into the old house and make a fire in case you want something to eat before you get home, there's not a soul in it and no wood another, but you can pick it up, and I'll give Ruben the key. Now don't you splice the two ends of that together by the way. Great was the stir in a certain stratum of patequacet that day. Many in startling were the demands for pies, cheese, and gingerbread to be answered on the ensuing Saturday. Those good housewives who had no boys at school or elsewhere thought it must be real good fun to help them get ready for such a frolic. Those who had boys wished they had none. As to the rest the disturbance spread a little, as disturbances are wont, from its proper sphere of action. Two boys even invaded Mrs. Derek's peaceful dwelling and called down faith from conquering Peru. These were Ruben Taylor and Joe Deacon, for Joe, with a slight variation of the popular adage, considered that, once a scholar, always a scholar. Ruben seemed inclined on his part to leave the present business in Joe's hands, but a sharp nudge from that young gentleman's elbow admonished him not only to speak but to speak quickly. Ruben modestly preferred his modest request, guiltless of any but the most innocent arrangement of his words. We boys are all going over to Neantica nutting next Saturday Miss Faith, he said, and we thought as Mr. Linden was going maybe you'd like to go too and we'd all enjoyed a great deal more. There ain't room in the wagon, put in Joe, but I suppose you can fix that. Joe, said Ruben, flushing up. There's plenty of room Miss Faith. There isn't one of us that wouldn't find it somehow. I could walk easy enough, I know that. Faith flushed up too on her part a little, unconsciously, and asked who else was going. Sam ain't, said Joe, as if that was all he cared about. Only the boys miss Faith, said Ruben with another glance at his comrade, but it's a pretty place over there and so's the ride. There's room for Mrs. Derek too if she'd like it, Ruben added. I suppose we shall be gone all day. It's very good of you to come and ask me, both of you, said Faith, evidently in perplexity, and I should like dearly to go if I can, Ruben, but I am afraid I can't. I am glad if the wagon's big enough to hold you all without me. You'll have a great time. You may say that, said Joe, while Ruben looked down, disappointed. We didn't know whether you would, he said, but Mr. Linden said you wouldn't be displeased with our asking. We asked him first, Miss Faith, or we shouldn't have made so free, and you shall have some of the nuts anyway. A little cheered with which view of the subject Ruben made his bow, and Joe Deacon whistled after him out of the gate. Faith looked after them, disappointed too. There was a grave set with the lines for a mouth, and it was with rather a thoughtful face that she looked down the road for a minute. Then remembering the volume of Prescott in her hand, which her fingers still kept open, she went upstairs again and set herself down to finish her treasure. Faith's reading place, it must be known, was no other than a deep window seat in Mr. Linden's room. That was a large old-fashioned room, as has been said, with brown wainscottings and corner and window cupboards, and having on two sides a pleasant exposure, the light generally made it a winsome place to look at. Now in this October weather it came in mellow and golden from a softened sun and changing foliage. The brown wood and white walls and dark old furniture and rich bindings of books all mingled in the sunlight to make a rich sunny picture. There were pictures outside, too, and pleasant ones. From the south window, straight down the street, the houses and trees and the brown spire of the Methodist Church stretched away, roofs and gable ends and the enormous tufty heads of the elm trees that half hung over them. At the back of these houses the eye went uninterruptedly over meadows and fields to the belt of woods, which skirted at a little distance the line of the shore from the lighthouse to Barley Point. Here and there a breakthrough which a schooner might be seen standing up or down the sound, elsewhere only its top sails might be discerned above the woods. The western window took in the break where Barley Point lay, and further on, in the south-west, a distant glimpse of the sound, with the little brown line of Manangatasic Point. The lane leading to the shore ran off due west, with houses, gardens, orchards bordering it and spotting the country generally. A fair country, level and rich, all the range west and northwest was uninterrupted smooth fields. The eye had full sweep to the wide horizon, the dotting of trees, barns and houses only enriched it, giving the sweet air of peaceful and happy occupation. Faith's place was the deep low sill, or seat, of that western window. There often Faith's book rested, while on the floor before it the reader sat. This time the book was near finished, and a few more leaves turned over changed the near into quite. Faith stood then considering the books. The name of Prescott on another volume had tempted her, for she had taken it down and considered the title page. Before settling to it Faith laid her hand on one of another set, not yet much examined, a set of particular outside beauty. But what was the inside? For Faith stood by the cupboard door, not looking here and there, but leaf by leaf walking into the middle of the book. Faith rested the volume on the shelf and turned over more leaves, and at last dropped down by her window-seat, laid the book there, put her cheek on her hand as usual, a cheek already flushed, and lost herself in the very beams of the afternoon sun. It might have been a dream, it might have been a vision, only that vision it was not, it might have been reality. Wrapped up in her book, what should Faith know? Yet when some crisis was turned over with the leaf, and the real world began to supplant the unreal, Faith started up and looked round. Had she heard a step? A rustling of paper on the table? The door was firmly shut, the shadowy corner nearby had lost the sunbeams, but was else unchanged. The table looked just as before unless— Had there been a letter lying there when she came in? Faith never could tell. The door opened now, however, and Mrs. Derrick entered, peering in somewhat anxiously. Why here you are, pretty child! She said, I began to think you were lost! Mrs. Somers has been here and so has Miss Harrison, and they wanted to see you ever so much. I don't think that's a good cheese we cut last night, Faith. I guess I'll cut another. Faith was an image of innocent guilt, and without daring to ask if it was tea time, she ran downstairs. Her mother followed and stood by, not with any thought of overseeing, but for the pleasure thereof. Well, child, she said, are you learning all the world up? What's in the oven now? Don't you think that is good? The question had reference to the freshly cut cheese, of which Faith presented her mother with a small morsel. Mrs. Derrick tasted, critically, but the first topic was the most interesting. What's made your cheeks burn, she said, laying her hands softly against the rose-color? If you're going to study yourself into a fever, Faith, I'm not going to stand by and see it. No fear, mother, I forgot myself. Is Mr. Linden come in? He must be. He always is, by this time. Miss Harrison says the doctors got back, Faith. Faith took up her cheese and walked in with it. The tea-table stood alone, but the tea-hour being come, and Mr. Linden known to be surely there within five minutes of the tea-hour, the tea was made, and not a minute too soon. Faith was not on this occasion talkative nor anybody else. The meal proceeded rather silently. Spoons spoke in low tones, knives made themselves busy, and Cindy put her head in at the door and withdrew it with the mental ejaculation. My, if they ain't sitting there yet! At this point Mr. Linden spoke. And so, Miss Faith, you have no fancy for nuts to crack? Faith flushed a little and hesitated. I didn't say so, Mr. Linden. Have you any dislike to Niantica? Not the least, she said, laughing. I dare not go further and inquire as to the company. Don't you know how to drive, Miss Faith? And what if I do, said Faith? Is there any insuperable objection to your driving, Mrs. Derrick, over to Niantica Saturday morning? It would be so comfortable to know there were people there, and fires, in case it was a cold morning, said Mr. Linden immediately. I could send Ruben with you, and the key. Oh, that's good, cried Faith, clapping her hands. Mother, will you go? Why don't I always just where you want me to, child? said her mother. I should like to go to Niantica besides. I haven't been there in this long while, but I guess you and I can open the house, Faith, without Ruben Taylor. After all, Mr. Linden said, Faith, there is a great objection to my driving, mother, over there, because she'll drive me. There is a great objection to your opening the house, for Ruben has the key, or will have it, and keys, you know, are matters of trust and not transferable. I don't know but Mr. Simlins would make an exception in your favour, but I shall not ask him. I am glad to have Ruben along, said Faith, and I suppose we must take our dinner with us, Mr. Linden. I have no doubt there will be dinner enough from other quarters, he answered, but how much of it will be like Mrs. Seacum's tea, I cannot say. I think it would be safe to take a very little basket, such as would suffice for two ladies. Oh, with Ruben we can manage nicely, said Faith joyously. He looked at her, pleased with her pleasure. Don't make any grand preparation for me, he said. You know I must eat in commons, for the same reason that I cannot offer to drive you over. Does that mean that you will have to take a piece out of everybody's basket? As near as possible. Faith shook her head, but made no further remark. Early Saturday morning, before any other steps had brushed the dew from the grassy roadside, Ruben Taylor was on his way from the rocky coast point where he lived, to the smooth, well-ordered abode of Mr. Simlins. Receiving from that gentleman the key of the old house at Neanticat, and having harnessed the horses to the big wagon under his special directions, Ruben drove down to the village, put horses and wagon in safekeeping, and reported himself at Mrs. Derrick's. All things there being in readiness, that small turnout was soon on its way, leaving Mr. Linden to look after his own much larger consignment. And despite the presence of Ruben, Mrs. Derrick chose to drive because, as she said, when she had the reins in her own hands she knew which way the horse was going. The road for a while went on towards Mrs. Seacum's, but passing the turn into the woods kept on its uneven way to the ferry. The natural hedges, all glittering with dew, showed little color but in the leaves. The fair Clethora and the sweet Climatis had ended their short reign and were gone, and high-colored sumacs flamed out in insurrection. Now the country became more hilly, and where the eastern portion of Patecquasset lay close upon the mong, the road went down by a succession of seat pitches to its shore. Then the road ran on through a sort of half-drained marsh, varied in its course by holes and logs and a little bridge, and then they were at the ferry. Now the ferry between Patecquasset and the Antiquate was, and is, as I trust it will always be, propelled by wind power. No plotting horses to distract one's eyes from the surrounding peace, no puffing steam to break with its discord the sweet rush of the water, but a large flat-bottomed boat, a white sail, and a Yankee steersman. The only evil attendant upon these advantages is that the establishment cannot be upon both sides at once, and that the steersman, like other mortals, must take his dinner. This time it happened to be breakfast, for having been much interrupted and called for at the hour when he should have taken that refreshment, longed him declared he would have it now and no mistake. The little fact that two ladies were waiting for him on the other side did not in the least affect his appetite or his deliberation. Faith said her mother when they had waited about a quarter of an hour. If Totherwagon should catch up we shouldn't get there first. Faith laughed and said, Well, mother. Well, child, said her mother cheerfully, while Rubin waved fresh signals to the abjurt ferryman. I'm sure I don't mind if you don't. He's coming out now, said Rubin, or his wife is, and that's just as good. And so it appeared, for a short vision of a red petticoat and blue jacket on the other bank was followed by the ferryman himself. The white sail rose up above the little boat, and she floated smoothly over. Then Mrs. Derrick drove carefully across the boat bridge, and longed him pushed off into 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 Rubin 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 side of the ferry boat in her freight was the signal for a simultaneous shout from the whole wagon load, which Long Tim took for a summons to himself. Paint no sort of use holler and like that, he said with a little turn of his steering oar, because I ain't going back till I get somewheres to go back from. Neither then, neither, maybe. I can count dollars where they can't count since Neo. And Neo, 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 Rubin 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 Rubin 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 around 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 ain't behaving know-how. 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 of size that it was prime and fussed-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 Rubin, accosted him under the breath with a sly, so you drove Mr. Linden's sweetheart, ain't you, spry? If Rubin had been in that line, he would probably have sent the offender headfirst 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 to, ain't you great? But I say, Joe Deacon says you did. Joe Deacon's made a mistake for once in his life, said Rubin rather contemptuously, and it isn't the first by several. Rubin, 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 and raising his voice a little. Rubin Taylor is the 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 today, said Faith, with whom the spirit of enjoyment was well at play. When Mother feels in the mood of it will 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 gray stones and that white oak in the meadow. And it's 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 killed to your river. You'll like the etiquette, Mr. Linden. I'm so glad you let us come. I'll read everything that I can. I don't know how long everything will last, you child, at the rate that 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 pepperage trees further off, to the lush grass of the meadow, and on to the soft brownish-ruddish 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 the report, or of Wama's 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 at 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 sunburned. 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 never said he wouldn't like it, I'm sure, said Mrs. Derrick with a little self-indication. 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, colored 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 thoughts too, perhaps, before the cheerful plays of the fence sticks. Faith had a book with her, a little one, with which she sat in the kitchen doorway, which looked toward the direction the nut-party had taken, and apparently divided her attention between that volume and the one Mr. Linden had recommended. For she looked down at the one and looked off at the other by turns, in a sort of peaceful musing and note-taking, altogether suited to the October stillness and beauty. Now and then she got up to replenish the fire, and then the beauty in her musing got the better of the reading, and Faith sat with her book in her hand, looking out into the dream-provoking atmosphere. No sound came from the far-off nut-trees. The crickets and grasshoppers and katydids alone broke the stillness of the unused farm. Only they moved, and the wind stirred leaves, and the slow creeping shadows. When these last were but an hour's length from the tree-stems, Faith proposed an adjournment to the nut-trees before the parties should come back to lunch. The fire was mended, the pot of coffee put onto warm, and they locked the door and set out. It was not hot that day, even under the meridian sun. They crossed an orchard and one or two farm-fields, on the skirts of which grew single trees of great beauty. White oaks that had seen hundreds of years, yet stood in as fresh and hailed green youth as the upstart of twenty, sometimes a hemlock or white pine stretching its life branches far and wide and generously allowed to do so in despite of pasture and crops. Then came broken ground, and beyond this a strip of fallow, at the further border of which stood a continuous wall of woodland, being in fact the crest of the bank of the little river Faith had referred to. And now, and truly for one or two fields before, the shouts and cries of the nut-hunters rang through the air. For just edging, and edging into the border of the trees last spoken of, were the great chestnuts and hickories, and underneath and among them many little dark spots were flying about, which spots, as Mrs. Derek and Faith came up, and lodged into the familiar outlines of boys' caps, jackets, and trousers, and ran about on two legs apiece. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Sand Seal This is LibriVox Recording, all LibriVox recordings on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Suzanne Mason. Recorded on February 16, 2018. Sand Seal By Susan Warner Chapter 10 The two ladies paused at a safe distance. There seemed to be nothing but boys' astir, boys' and nuts, and these last not dropping from the tree, but thrown from hand to hand, hand to head would be more correct, of the busy throng. Some picking up, some throwing stones to bring down, others at some flat stone shucking, others still filling their baskets, and four boys out of five cracking and eating whatever else they were about. The grass trodden down by the many feet, lay in prostrate shadow at the foot of a great tree, and the shadows of other trees fell and met in soft, wavy outline. From the side of one old tree, a family of gray squirrels looked out to see the besiegers lay waste the surrounding country. In the top of another, a tall hickory, full clad with golden leaves, Mr. Linden sat, to view the same country himself, well knowing that he had given the boys full occupation for at least fifteen minutes. He was not very visible from below, so thickly did the gold leaves close him in, but Faith heard one of the boys call out, You, Johnny Fax, if you throw stones in that tree, you'll hit Mr. Linden. Trust Johnny Fax for not never throwing so high as he is, said Joe Deacon. I don't want to, said Johnny Fax, I don't want to fetch him down. Whereupon there was a general shout and, Guess you'd better not, Johnny, he might come if you didn't just hit him, vociferated from various quarters. My, Mrs. Derrick said, surveying the golden hickory, How on earth did he ever get up? And how do you suppose Faith he'll ever get down? Faith's low laugh was her only answer, but it would have told anybody who would thoroughly have translated it, Faith's mind on both points. Apparently he was in no haste to come down, certainly meant to send the nuts first, for a sudden shower of hickory nuts and leaves swept away every boy from the tree near which Faith and her mother stood, and threw them all into its vortex. Drop, drop, the nuts came down, with their sweet patter upon the grass, while the golden leaves fell singly or in sprays, or floated off upon the calm air. Child, said Mrs. Derrick, how pretty it is, I haven't seen a sight since, since a long while ago, she added with a sobering face. I want to be there under the tree, said Faith, looking on enviously. No, mother, and I haven't seen it before in a long time either. It's as pretty as can be. For in a long then, child, said her mother, Only take care of your eyes, why shouldn't you? I don't want to pick up nuts myself, but I'll go down and pick you up. Faith, however, kept away from the crowd under the hickory tree, and went peering about under some others where the ground was beaten and the branches had been, and soon found enough spoil to be hammering away with a stone and a rock like the rest. But she couldn't escape the boys so, for little runners came to her constantly. One brought a handful of nuts, another a better stone, while a third told her of lots under the other tree, and Reuben Taylor was ready to crack her climb as she chose to direct. If you'll come down the other side, Miss Faith, said Reuben. Down by the bank you could see it all a great deal better. Faith seized two or three nuts and jumped up, and Reuben led the way through the leaf-strewn grass to the other side of the mob. But mobs are uncertain things. No sooner was Faith seen approaching the hickory, though yet full three feet from the utmost bound of its shadow, then a sudden pause in the great business of the day was followed by such a tumultuous shout of, Three cheers, Miss Faith Derek, the prettiest girl in Pentecostate, that she was well and eye-deafened, and promptly upon that Joe Deacon stepped up to Reuben and whispered, That'll fetch him down. Faith did not hear the words, she only heard Reuben's indignant, Joe Deacon behave yourself, or makes you always leave your manners home, that big basket of yours could have held them all easy. I didn't know but Sam might want him, replied the unabashed Joe, dashing back into the midst of his compartments, while Reuben at last reached the pretty look-out on the edge of the woods, where Faith could see the whole meadow and its scattered trees, and having placed her there ran off again, standing half hidden by the oaks and chestnuts, she could see the whole group clustering about the climber now, for he had come down from his high post. Boys, he said, I'm going back to the house for dinner, any boy who prefers nuts to dinner may stay and pick him up. A sudden recollection came over Faith that her fire was probably well down, and coffee not in a state presentable. Taking a survey of the ground and calculating that so large a company would not a little time to get under way, she slipped round to where her mother sat, giving her a word, set off fleetily and skillfully, under the cover of some outstanding chestnuts across the follow. If she had known it, Faith need not have shunned to show her running, for prettier running could not be, she was soon hidden in the further woodland. The rest of the party took it more leisurely, so their outrunner easily gained her point, and having put her fire in order stood at the door to watch the progress of the coming invasion. It looked enough like that, for though excellent order of the march had been kept for most of the way, the main body of the troops maintaining a proper position in the rear of their captain, who was quietly escorting Mrs. Derrick over the meadows. No sooner did the whole bend come inside a distant place of lunch baskets, then it became manifest for the hundred thousandth time that liberty too long enjoyed leads to license. Scattering a little from the direct line of march, the better to cover their purpose or evade any check there too, as if by concert, first one and then another, set off in a run, sprang the orchard fence, and by the time the mid-orchard was reached, all of Mr. Linden's force, with the exception of one or two or the very steadiest, were ahead of him and straining in full run, if not in full cry, for the now-neared hand farmhouse quarry. Beyond all call or hinderance, standing at the kitchen door, Faith watched there coming, but discerning beyond their runners, the one or two figures that did not indeed bring up the rear, but that covered it, and supposing that the invader's object was to storm the wagon in which the lunch baskets were hid, she stood her ground till she perceived that the four most of the bend were making straight for the kitchen door, and all the rest in their order. Faith gave back a little, and the whole hoard poured in. The fire was in a brisk blaze, the table had a nice white cups and nappery on it, the nose of the coffee-pot was steaming. It looked altogether an inviting place. Downland hats and caps on the floor, from some of the party, and the whole of them with flushed faces and open mouths took the survey. I need jolly here. I wonder if we'll let us take our dinner in here, there's lots of room. It's good shady. It's a long sight better than under the trees. Coffee, I'm blessed, said a fifth speaker bending over the fireplace, while a sixth began slyly to inspect what lay under Faith's napkins on the table. Charlie, said Mr. Linden's quiet voice from the doorway, did Mr. Derek desire you to uncover her dishes? The hand slipped from what it had touched, as stealthily the boy's eye went to the face of the speaker, in the one place, if not in the other, to see what there might be. I will bear witness that you have carried the house, Mr. Linden went on. Now I should like to see you carry the wagon. It will be more useful enterprise than this, only remember that one of the first duties of a surprise party is to go forth softly. Where will we carry the wagon to, sir? inquired one at the party. As far from the house as you can, said Mr. Linden, with a little glance at Faith, come, be off. Great enterprises are never finished till they are begun. I'd like to begin dinner anyhow, said one, catching up his cap and leading off. As quick and more quick than it had been filled, the room was cleared, and laughing Faith watched the busy swarm as they poured towards their magazine. Then remembered her own and came back to offer it. You may as well rest, Mr. Linden, said Faith, as she offered him a cup of coffee. I'm sure they are all comfortable. Besides, you particularly desired a fire, and somebody in the house, you know. Miss Faith, he said, taking the cup, however. I'm afraid your notions of duty are very slack. What sort of a caption would you make to a beleaguered city? I shall make you read the story of Catherine Douglas. Will you? said Faith, looking very pleased. And what is beleaguered, Mr. Linden, in the meantime? Beleaguered means to be beset with a swarm of invaders who want to come in and ought to be kept out. I didn't know I ought to keep them out, said Faith, laughing, or I'd have done it. Mr. Linden shook his head doubtfully. I saw you give way, he said. I doubt whether there was even a show of resistance. Now, Catherine Douglas, but I must go. No, don't tempt me with apple pie. You have no idea of the pies in that wagon. Perhaps if I successfully threw them, I'll come back and dispose of yours. What are you reading today? Le philosophy? A little soberness came over Faith's smile as she shook her head and said no. I can't stay to ask a question upon that, but I'll ask you to buy and buy to pay for it. And he went out to that little cluster of life that hung about the great wagon, making himself at once the centre of pleasure and interest, and even fun, as Faith's eye and ear now and then informed her. It was pretty, the way they closed in about him, wild and untutored as they were, pretty to see him meet them so easily on their ground, yet always enticing them towards something better. Mrs. Derrick thought so too, for she stood in the doorway and smiled very pleasantly. He's a real nice man, Faith. She said, I don't wonder the boys like him. Faith did not wonder at it, but she did not answer. Though she too stood looking. The ladies had finished their lunch, and Mr. Linden had perhaps not finished his, for he came in again to take another cup of coffee while the boys were disposing of that very ragged piece of time, which the end of the boys' feast invariably is. So much peace and quietness he gave himself, if he did not give himself a sandwich, of which I am not certain. Mr. Linden, said Faith, I want to ask something. Will you tell me if you don't like it? Don't like to have you ask me? Do you mean I do like it? Then, said Faith, half laughing, will you tell me if you don't quite like what I mean? I'll see. Mr. Linden replied with a smile. It's not safe for teachers to commit themselves. But I must commit myself, said Faith. I want to go and pick up nuts with the boys under the trees. May I? She looked for her answer with an eye that thought he might possibly find an objection where she saw none. He paused a little before he replied. I think you may. If I could be among them an answer for their good behaviour, I should not think about it. But you know a man loses power when he is too far above the heads of his audience. Yet I think I may trust them, and you, he added with a little smile, especially as the first tree touched this afternoon is yours. What does that mean, said Faith? Her doubt all gone. Do you think I shall so far forget my office as to let them pick up nuts for nobody but themselves? Therefore the first tree this afternoon is for you, or if you please, for your mother. The second for Mr. Simlins, is that we'll take away your desire for the fun, why I cannot help it. I have no objections to pick up nuts for a mother, not even for Mr. Simlins, said Faith, smiling. And I'm not afraid of the boys. I know half of them, you know. Thank you, Mr. Linden. You might, if I could take you up into the treetop. There is fine reading on those upper shelves. Her eyes shooed instantly that she liked the higher fun best. Not the treetop verily, but the reading. That she could not get at. Yet for Faith there were charms plenty below the treetops, in both kinds, and she looked very happy. Well, Mr. Linden said, as the successful meeting of one emergency always helps us in the next, and it is quite impossible to tell what you may meet under those nut trees. Let me give you a little abstract of Catherine Douglas, before you read it and before I go. The said lady wishing to keep the door against sundry lords and gentlemen who came with murderous intent against her sovereign, and finding her no bar to aid her loyal endeavors, did boldly thrust her own arm through the stanchions of the door. To be sure, the brave lady's arm was soon broken. But after all, what did that signify? And with a laughing gesture of farewell, he once more left the house. With which cessation of murmuring voices Mrs. Derrick awoke from her after dinner nap in the rocking-chair. Faith was standing in the middle of the floor, smiling and looking in a puzzle. Mother, will you go over to the nutting again? I'm a great deal more likely to go to sleep again, said Mrs. Derrick, rubbing her eyes. It's the sleepiest place I ever saw in my life, or else it's having nothing to do. I don't doubt your half-sleep-two, Faith, only you won't own it. The decision was that Mrs. Derrick preferred to sit quiet in the house, and she said she would maybe run down by and by and see what they were at. So Faith took her son Bonnet, kissed her mother, and went forth with light step over the meadow, in through the orchard. The nutting-party she found a little further on in the same edge of Woodland. It seemed that they had pitched upon a great chestnut for her tree, and Faith was half-concerned to see what a quantity of work they had given themselves on her account. However, the proverb of many hands was verified here. The ground under the chestnut tree was like a colony of ants, while the capacious head of the tree, their captain, established quite at his ease, was whipping off the burrs with a long pole. Faith took a general view as she came up, and then fell upon the chestnut burrs like the rest of them, and no boy there worked more readily or joyously. There seemed little justification of Mr. Linden's doubts of the boys or fears for her. Faith was everything among them, and making Ruben's prophecy true, that they would all enjoy themselves a great deal better for her being there, throwing nuts into the baskets of the little boys in pleasant words at the heads of the big ones, that hit softly and did gentle execution, giving sly handfuls to Ruben, and then hammering out for some little fellows the burrs that her hands were yet more unfit to deal with than his, and doing it all with a will that the very spirit of enjoyment seemed to have moved. She, in any danger of rude treatment from those boys, nothing further from the truth, and so her happy face informed Mr. Linden when he at last ascended to terra firma out of the stripped chestnut tree. He did not say anything, but leaning up against the great brown trunk of the chestnut took a pleased survey of the whole, and then went to work with the rest. Boys, he said, aren't there enough of you to open these burrs as fast as Miss Derrick cannot pick out the nuts? You should never let a lady prick her fingers when you can prick yours in her place. There was a general shout in rush at this, which made faith give way before it. The burrs disappeared fast, the brown nuts gathered into an immense heap. That tree was done. Hurrah! For Mr. Simlins shouted all the boys, throwing up their caps into the air, then turning summer sets, and wrestling, and rolling over by way of further relief to their feelings. The chestnut beyond that red maple for him, said Mr. Linden, flinging a little stone in the right direction, at which, with another shout, the little tornado swept away. Will you follow, Miss Faith, or are you tired? No, I'm not tired yet. I must do something for Mr. Simlins. Well, don't handle those burrs, he said. They're worse than dawning needles. Have you seen Kill Deer River yet, Mr. Linden? I have had a bird's eye view. Faith looked a little wistfully, but only said, We must look at it after the nutting is done. That's a bit of reading here about. You ought not to pass over. I mean to read everything I can, too, he said, with a smile as they reached the tree. Now Mr. Linden, said Joe Deacon, this tree's a whapper. How long do you suppose it'll take you to go up? About as long as it would you to come down. Everyone knows how long that would be. Stand out of my way, boys, catch all the burrs on your heads, and don't let one fall on Mrs. Derrick. In the midst of general laugh, Mr. Linden swung himself up into the branches in a way that made his words good, while Joe Deacon whistled and danced Yankee Doodle around the great trunk. Half at least, if Mr. Linden's directions to the boys obeyed, they caught all the burrs they well could. On their own heads. Faith was too busy among them to avoid catching some on her own bright hair, whenever her son Bonnet declined to stay on, which happened frequently. The new object lent this tree a new interest of its own, and boys, being of an untiring species of animals, the sport went on with no perceptible flagging. When this tree, too, was about half cleared, Faith withdrew a little from the busy Russian bustle, left the chestnuts and chestnut burrs, and sat down in the bank to rest and look. Her eye wandered to the further woodland, softest of all in hazy veils, to the nearer brilliant vegetation, the open fallow, the wood behind her, where the trees closed in upon each other, oftenest of all at the wapper of a tree in which Mr. Linden still kept his place, and at the happy busy sight and sound of all under that tree. And so it happened that when in time Mr. Linden came out of Mr. Lissimmon's chestnut, besides the boys he found nobody there but Mr. Lissimmon's himself. Well, said that gentleman after a cordial grasp of the hand, I reckon in the matter of nuts you're going to produce me to penurisness. How you like Neandicate? It's a fine place, said Mr. Linden, and for the matter of nuts, you need not take the benefit of the bankrupt act yet, Mr. Simlins. Over there to see a man on business, Mr. Simlins went on an explanation, and thought I'd look at you, by the way. Don't you want to take this form of me? I might want to do it, and yet not be able, was the smiling reply, while in one of the smallest boys pulling the tail of the grey coat which Mr. Simlins wore on business, and pointing to the heap of nuts, said succinctly, Them's yarn. Mine, said Mr. Simlin. Well, where's your yarn? What have you done with Miss Faith Derrick? Why, we ain't done nothing to her, said the boy. She's done a heap to us. What has she done to you, you green hickory? Why, she's run round first right, said little Rob, and she's helped me shuck. So some of you's thanked her. To want you, here you, sir, said Mr. Simlins, addressing this time Joe Deacon. What have you been doing with Miss Faith Derrick? I banked Sam, was Joe's rather cool rejoiner, with a slight relapsing into Yankee Udall. Hollow, said Mr. Simlins, I thought you'd learned all school could teach you, and give up to come. Only the last part is true, Mr. Simlins, said Mr. Linden, who, while Joe spoke, had spent himself speaking to one of the other boys. Mr. Simlins grunted. School ain't all nuts to him. He said with a grim smile. Well, which one of you was it? Twas a pillow about as big as you here, you sir, addressing in a more assured tone another boy who is a swaggering ne'er. You, what have you been doing to Miss Faith? It was you. Twant me another, said the boys surly. Nora, I ain't done nothing, but mind in my own business. In a tone which implied that Mr. Simlins was not acting on the same laudable principle. What has been done, said Mr. Linden, and certainly his tone implied that he was minding his own business. Well, said Mr. Simlins, I don't know if they've done much of anything, but I'd guessed they'd been giving her some sass or vexing her somehow, and as she's a kind of favourite, oh, mine, it riled me. I was too fur to hear which was. Where is she? She was round yonder, not fur. There had been some sort of scrimmage, I guess, between the two of them. A little one in this fellow, and she parted them. She had hold of this one, and I see him first. You couldn't have done it better, said Mr. Simlins with a sly cast of his eye. You can set her to be your vice, when you want one. I was coming up from the river, you see, and came up behind them, and I couldn't hear what they had said. When she let them go, I see her kind of give a sheer look around this way, and then she put up her hand to her cheek and cleared for home like a gazetteer. Said Mr. Simlins, who had given his information in an undertone. Made straight tracks for the house, I tell ye. A little one, and which one, was the next inquiry. Mr. Simlins went peering about among the crowd, and finally laid hold of the identical shoulder of little Johnny Fax. Ain't it you, said Mr. Simlins? Ain't that red basket yawn? Johnny nodded. I knowed the basket, said Mr. Simlins, returning. That's about all that makes the difference between one boy and another. What sort of a basket he carries? The other fellow is the one I was speaking to first. I could swear to him, the big one. Mr. Linden took out his watch. Thank you, Mr. Simlins, he said. Boys, it's half past four. Get your nuts and baskets, and bring them up to the house. Ruben Taylor, do you see that it is done? With which words Mr. Linden also made tracks for the house, and straight ones, but with not too much notice-taking of the golden leaves under his feet? The truth about faith was this. While sitting on the grass taking the pleasure of the place and time, the piece was at length broken by discordant sounds in her neighborhood, sounds of harsh voices and scuffling. Looking round for the cause and meaning of all this, she found that the voices came from behind a thicket of cimic and laurel at her back, and belonged to some of the boys. Faith went round the thicket. There were a big boy and a little boy tugging at a casket, both tugging, the little boy folding onto it, the little fellow holding to it with all his might, while the big boy, almost getting it from him with one hand, was laying the other very freely about his ears and shoulders. Faith heard the little one say, I'll tell, and the other, a boy whose name Faith had learned only that morning, shouted an answer. You tell, you tell if you dare, you tell and I'll kill you. Leave hold. A round blow was given with the words, which told, but the little boy still held on to his basket. For shame, Phil Davids, you big boy, said Faith. There was a stay of proceedings while they looked at her, both parties keeping fast hold, however, and both tongues at once combating for hearing and belief. The little boy, Johnny Fax himself, said that the nuts were his, which the elder denied. Let him have his nuts, Phil, said Faith gently. He must have them. They belong to him. He ain't going to though, said Davids, and you can't do nothing. If you air Mr. Linden, sweetheart, you air. Mr. Deacon says you be. Leave hold, you. Thinking Faith clubbed, perhaps. Phil began the struggle again fiercely, with grappling and blows, but Faith laid hold suddenly on the arm that was rising the second time, and bade the boy sternly behave himself and let the basket go. It was not immediately done. He had strength much more than hers, but something withheld him from exerting it. Nothing withheld his tongue. Ain't you Mr. Linden, sweetheart, he said insolently? Joe Deacon says you be. No sir, said Faith, and you are a bad boy. Joe Deacon says you be, but Faith did not relax her hold and spoke with a steady voice for that time, at least with a steady eye of command which was obeyed. Let him go. Johnny, run off with your basket and be quiet. That's a good boy. David, you'll be quiet the rest of the day for your own sake. The boys parted solemnly, Johnny to run off as she had bitten him, and Faith turned from the green bank, the nut trees in the frolic, and laying one hand upon the cheek that faced that way as if to hide it from burning the eyes too far off to see it. She went into the house. She put the brands together which had burnt out and built the fire on the strictest principles, though no fire was wanted at present. The day had mellowed into warmth. Perhaps Faith recollected that after she had got through, for she left the fire to take care of itself, and sat down again on the doorstep looking towards the nut tree field. For a good while her cheek warrants and troubled flush, her hand went up to it once or twice as if to cool it off, but her brow bespoke her using other and more effectual measures. It cooled at last into complete quietness and sweetness, and Faith's face was just like itself when the first of the party came back from the nut field. The first one as we have seen was Mr. Linden. He found both the ladies in the farmhouse kitchen, Mrs. Derrick very comfortably at her knitting. Faith was doing nothing, but when she looked up with just her own face, not certainly in the happy gloat he had seen under the nut tree, nor with the sparkle of busy pleasure it had worn in the morning, but as it was every day at home. Mr. Linden arranged the fire and then stood considering it, or something, for a minute in silence, until Mrs. Derrick inquired, if he had found as much as he expected, but upon his replying somewhat dryly, rather more, the conversation dropped again. You ought to be tired now, Mr. Linden, said Faith gently. I'm afraid you are. No, she said, I'm not at all. Well then, why shouldn't we have a look at Kildia River? You said we must. Oh, if you like it, said Faith, a bright little tinge of pleasure coming onto her cheek, and her sun-bonnet was in hand immediately. But aren't you tired? she added doubtfully as they were passing out of the door. You have been hard at work. You will have to pay for saying you are not, Ms. Faith. I mean to make you run all the way down to the bank. And holding out his hand to her, Mr. Linden half made his threat good, for though his own pace was not much more than a quick walk, by means of skillful shortcuts and long steps, Faith had a gentle little run, a good part of the way. Not down through the crowd of boys and baskets, but skirting the meadow, passing from the shelter of one great tree to another, till they reached the bank, and saw the blue waters of Kildia River at their feet. There she was permitted to sit down and rest, a little laughing and a little flustered. Her happy look was almost brought back again. But she sat and gazed down at the pretty stream and its picturesque banks, without saying anything, letting Mr. Linden take his own view of them. His own view is a peculiar one, to judge by his words. Ms. Faith, I suppose you are not much acquainted with law forms, yet you perhaps know that an important witness, in an important case, is sometimes put in prison until his evidence is obtained. Faith looked up at him in pure astonishment, the corners of her mouth indicating that she expected another puzzle, or rather was already engaged in one. The look made his gravity give way a little. I thought you might like to know your position at present, he said. I don't know it yet, Mr. Linden. It is that of the unfortunate prisoner to whom I referred. A prisoner, said Faith, looking up at him very much amused. Well, Mr. Linden, he looked amused too, yet with a difference. Well, Ms. Faith, you are a prisoner for political purposes. There is no practicable way for you to get back to the house, save through the witness-box. Where is the witness-box, said Faith? Are you in a hurry to be in it? No, said Faith, with a very unshadowed smile. I am not in a hurry for anything. Then tell me what you have been reading today, he said, throwing himself down in the grass beside her. She looked at him, hesitated, then said with a lowered tone. I have been reading what you told me to read, and my testament. Mr. Linden shifted his hat a little, replaced it, rather more down over his brows than before, looking steadily down and killed Dear River the while. Why did you look grave when I asked you if you had brought Le philosophy? I didn't know I did, said Faith, simply. I had brought only my testament. Only, Mr. Linden repeated. Well, from only a testament, and only such a scene, a skillful reader may get much. Then turning and looking her full in the face, he said, Miss Faith, what have those boys done to vex you? A sudden, painful, startled flush, answered him. She did not look now, and said, she said honestly, Please, Mr. Linden, don't speak of it. I must know, was his only answer. No, she said gently but troubled, you mustn't know, and there is no need you should. There is no need, she repeated eagerly. There is another true little witness I can call upon, but I would rather have your account. How did you know? How did you know anything about it? Said Faith, facing round upon him in her turn. Gentlemen of what Miss Dunforth is pleased to call my profession, must know things occasionally, said Mr. Linden. What do you think you know? She said a little timidly. His answer was gentle, though resolute. I don't think I know anything. What I know, I know. What I do not, I will. Faith's head half dropped for an instant, and the flush which had faded came back painfully. Then she looked at him again, and though the flush was there, she spoke as usual. You won't try, Mr. Linden, because I'm going to ask you not. It is nothing you need take up. It was nothing, but perhaps I was foolish to mind. I don't mind it now much. But there was a grave falling off in the tone of that much. She felt it herself, for she rallied and said in her own quiet, frank smile. I shall not mind it at all tomorrow. Mr. Linden looked at her while she spoke, gravely and intently enough. But then he looked away at the river again, and probably read problems in its soft, rippling waters. For he spoke not. Overhead, a hawk sailed noiselessly to and fro on spread wings. In the trees closed at hand, a squirrel chattered and barked with its mouth full. The afternoon light left kill the river step by step, and the shadows crept after. Now the one white speck of cloud reflected on that peaceful stream was no break in its beauty. It marred nothing, nay, even brought a little glow of its own to replace the sunbeams. Yet at that speck did Mr. Linden take aim, sending his pebble so surely, so powerfully, that the mirror itself was shattered to the remotest shore. Then he stood up and announced that it was time to go. Faith stood up, but stood still, and waited somewhat anxiously upon the answer to her question. Then, Mr. Linden, will you not speak of it any more? The witness is discharged, he answered lightly and walking on. She sprang after and placed herself directly in his way. Mr. Linden, please give me your promise. He looked down at her with eyes that were a little moved. Miss Faith, he said, please give me yours. For what, said Faith? That you will trust me and not ask what I do. Yes, said Faith, but you must trust me, Mr. Linden, she said, smiling at him. And believe me that this is nothing for you to take up, mere nonsense, nothing at all tomorrow. It is nothing to me now. I want your word. She wanted it very much. It was easy to see, but beyond that her faith did not belie her words. I don't suppose Mrs. Derrick ever called you naughty child, said Mr. Linden, but if ever she did she might tonight. Look where the sun is and where I am, and guess where those boys are. Come. And it was not easy to resist the hand that again took hold of hers, nor the quick pace at which he went forward. For some fields length Faith yielded and went as fast as he pleased. Then, as he stopped to put up a bar-place, she said again, very gently, but firmly too, standing before him. Mr. Linden, I think I have a right to ask this. I know what I ask, but you do not. I never questioned your right, Ms. Faith. Then you'll not deny it to me. What is your idea of trust? said Mr. Linden, replacing the last bar. That it is something I ought to have just now, said Faith, smiling a little. He stood leaning on the bars and looking at her, a kind look that she might well trust. Child, he said, you don't know what you were talking about, and I do, and if you will not trust me any further than you can see me, you don't deserve to be called Ms. Faith any longer. Now, don't you think I have a right to get home and attend to my duties? She yielded utterly at that, but with a set of her lip, which he had never seen before, it was trembling. She was turning to go on, when, as if to make amends for that, or to ask forgiveness generally, or to give assurance of the trust he had claimed, she stretched out her hand to him and went by his help again, until the orchard was reached and other eyes might be expected to be on the outlook for them. Do you like to read letters written from other countries by people you have never seen? Mr. Linden said when they reached that point. Faith's eyes opened slightly, as was their way when suddenly astonished, and a little color started too, of surprise or pleasure. I never did read any, she said, I should like it. Well, Ms. Faith, I think Mrs. Derrick and Ruben can manage that brown horse, especially as he has had no oats today, and I want you to take possession of the whole of the back seat, put yourself in a comfortable position, and spend the rest of the daylight in Italy with my sister. When it gets dark you may go to sleep, and here is the talismanic paper by whom help you must make the journey. What a color thanked him, what a rosy flush of pleasure and gratitude. To say thank you, Faith nearly forgot, but it was said. There was no more delay of any kind after that. Wagons were ready in baskets and boys, also Mrs. Derrick, and Faith was ready, first of all. So the two parties now getting underway went fairly homewards by an evening sky and a night full of stars. Only one incident need be recorded. The ferry was past, and four of the six miles between that and the central town of Patacasset, when Mr. Linden suddenly checked his horses, turning half round and laying a pretty imperative hand on the collar of Phil Davids, he dropped him outside the wagon, like a walnut from its husk, remarking that he had seen enough of him for one day and did not wish to hear of him again until next morning. Little Charles XII did not come to meet his Sunday school teacher, as had been arranged the Sunday preceding the Nantica expedition. Faith waited for him in the morning, waited and hoped, but it was not greatly surprised to find that she had waited in vain. Charles XII, whether or not he was to follow during life the erratic and willful course of his namesake, was that day at least not to be led by her. So Faith went to church, meditating a sometime descent upon Mrs. Seacum's shady domain, there to meet and recapture the heart of her little charge, for so he seemed to her now, but on her return from the morning service she found Charles XII crestfallen and repentant in his turn waiting for her. The matter was, his brother America's Vespucius had shut him up so that he couldn't come, and as soon as he was set free Charles XII had used his freedom and his legs in making tracks to use Mr. Simlin's expression. For Mrs. Derek's abode, and on this occasion he made many fewer tracks than the afternoon of his previously recorded invasion, as being somewhat burdened in spirit he had stopped for no summer sets, and had been lured aside by no tempting invitations of a dusty place or a mud puddle. Faith heard his story gravely and sympathizingly, comforted him up, encouraged him to hope that the discoverer of America would not prove so adverse to his making discoveries another Sunday, gave him a little talk in a good dinner, and sent him home cheerful and determined. The very mood for success, accordingly the next morning after this return from Niantikit, being Sunday Charles XII presented himself at the house in brave good time, and Faith and her little charge, for the first time in their lives both of them, went to Sunday school. The child very important and expectant, the teacher very gentle and very grave indeed. Faith had made her arrangements the Sunday before, so she and Charles XII proceeded at once to the place assigned her. At the opening services the king of Sweden stared mightily. Faith looked at nothing. She had a feeling that other children and other teachers were nearer to her than she wished they were, and she was a little uncertain how best to take hold of the odd little piece of humanity entrusted in her care. However when the reading and singing were over Faith began a long, low talk to him about some Bible story, diverging as she went on, to an account of the other world, and the two ways that lead to it, and the two sorts of people that travel them, and becoming exceedingly interested herself she fastened the eyes of Charles XII in a way that shooed his thoughts were cleaving to hers. Faith's own thoughts were cleaving elsewhere. The things she said were simply said, her words were the plainest, her illustrations just at his hand, but the voice in which they were given would alone have won the ear of a child, and whatever other impression her words made upon his mind the fixed conclusion in which he was left at the ending was that whatever way she was travelling was the right one. It was a beautiful fair first day of October, still and sunny, but if it did not, it would probably have been a fair day to Faith after that beginning of it. She looked as if it was, in the church, and on the way home, and at the quiet dinner table. Her face was a transcript of the day, still and sunny. It seemed to be true, her promise that the annoyance of yesterday would be nothing to her today. There was no shadow of it in sight. If there was a shadow anywhere at the table, it was upon Mrs. Derrick, a half jealous fear that her child would be less hers by becoming a Christian, a half uneasy feeling of the new state of things, did cloud her heart a little, though almost unknown to herself, that she would not have confessed to any such cloud, and practically it was not there. No straw of hindrance did she put in Faith's way. Indeed, she seemed rather fearful of touching the matter in any wise. It was rather from curiosity than anything else that she said, as they were both getting ready for afternoon church. Well, child, how did you like going to Sunday school? Faith's answer was subdued, but earnest. I liked it very much, mother. How many's in your class, said Mrs. Derrick, tying her bonnet? Only one yet, but that was enough for me to begin with. I hope I shall get some more soon. Only one, said Mrs. Derrick. Besides you do, mean child. Mother, said Faith. Then smiling, she added, Yes, mother, only one besides me. That one is little Charlie Seacome, and I'm trying to teach him. Why, I thought you were in Mr. Linden's class, said Mrs. Derrick, facing round. But Faith's face flushed, and what was very uncommon with her, the tears came too. So I am, mother, she said. But I am one that he teaches at home. I have learned all I know from him. She said, covering her eyes with both hands. Why, child, hush! said her mother softly. I didn't mean to say anything. But how should I know? So you're teaching Charlie Seacome, hey? Well, I'm sure he wants it bad enough. I guess I'd better go, too, next Sabbath. It was real lonesome with you all gone. And that makes me think, child, I wonder if you could go a little away from me after meeting. Go to Sunday school, mother, said Faith, showing her bright, wet eyes. Will you teach him some children, mother? Written letters don't give the intonation of these words. I guess they could teach me some of them, said her mother. But I thought maybe, Faith, you take Sally Lundez some medicine. She sent word for it, and I don't know as I can get so far to-day. Mr. Linden does have a class, don't he? I can go just as well as not, and I like it very much, mother. Oh, yes, he has a class, of course. A class of some of the biggest boys. A large class. I wonder what he does with himself after meeting, said Mrs. Derrick. Folks do say he goes strolling around, but I don't believe it. Mother, folks say everything I believe. He knows what he does. Maybe you wouldn't like to be seen out on Sabbath, said Mrs. Derrick with a sudden thought, because if you wouldn't, Faith, I'll go myself to Sally's. Can or no can. No, mother, she said brightly. I would like to go. If I know I'm doing right, I don't mind about being seen. I wish people had as good reason for telling tales about me as they have for some others. I guess your class will fill up, said her mother, with her fond, wispful look at the only thing she had in the world. It was the fairest, still, sweet afternoon, when after church Faith got the medicine for our Sally Lundus, and set out to take it to her. So fair and lovely, that Faith hardly considered much the features of the road she travelled. In that light any piece of ground was beautiful. The road was very lonely after a little part of the village had been gone through. It left the Main Street, then bid farewell to a few scattering distant houses, and approached what was called Barley Point, a barren piece of ground from which a beautiful view of the sound and the ocean line, and perhaps purposes, could be had. But at the foot of this field the road turned, round the end of that belt of woods spoken of, and getting on the other side of it ran back eastward towards the lighthouse point. Between the woods and the sea, on this side, was a narrow down that the farmers could make little love, and here the road, if desolate, had a beauty of its own. On Faith's right was the strip of tolling-downs, grown with nothing but short grass and low blackberry vines, and close at hand, just beyond its undulating line, the waves of the sea beating in. Very little waves today, everything was so quiet. At the lighthouse point, a mile or more on, was a little settlement of fishermen and others, but only one house stood on the way, and not hardly disturbed the monotony or the solitude. It was so little, so brown, and looked so of a peace with the barren country. That was little Sally Loondis's house. Faith met nobody till she got there. When Faith came out of the house, the son's place warned her that she would have no time to spare to get home. She set off with quicker pace, though no wise concerned about it. There was no danger of anything in Patacosids. But she had gone only a little part of her wild homeward way, when she met Mr. Simlins. Now, Mr. Simlins was accustomed to take an afternoon Sunday stroll, and sometimes a long one, so it was no matter of surprise to meet him, nor even to meet him there, for Mr. Simlins was an independent in his choice of a walk, as in everything else. But he was surprised. Hello, my passenger pigeon! he exclaimed. Why are you here all alone in this infrequent place? It's a very nice place, said Faith, and it's not disagreeable to be alone, though I am willing to meet you, Mr. Simlins. Haven't you been quarreling with anybody, have you? No, said Faith, giving an amused look to this view of the subject. Do I look quarrelsome, Mr. Simlins? I don't know how you look, said the farmer. I ain't anything of an exposition. You'll have to ask somebody else. There are some words too hard for me to spell and pronounce. Where have you been? Just to carry Sally Lund as some medicine mother had for her. Where are you going now? Home. Going alone? Why, yes. Why not? Don't know, said Mr. Simlins. Only I'm going partway, and I'll see nothing happens to you so long as I'm in your consort. It was a wild place enough to make company pleasant. Dark clumps of forest trees on one hand grew nearer together, and the spaces between, though cleared, looked hardly less wild. For vines and stomach and ferns had taken possession. The sun's rays yet lay warm on the rolling downs, the sear grass and the purplish blackberry vines, and speckled on the waves beyond. But when Mr. Simlins and Faith struck into the woods for a shortcut, the shadowy solitude closed them in on all sides. Softly their steps moved over the fallen pine leaves, or rustled through the shreds of autumn finery that lay beneath oak and maple, and nothing else but birds and squirrels broke the silence till they were near the further edge of the wood. There they heard a soft murmur of voices. Who lives here? said Mr. Simlins. But Faith held her breath. There's mortality here, or I thought there was nothing but animals and vegetation, said Mr. Simlins, stepping softly and cautiously forward. Let's see. Don't make no noise, more in the leaves will let you. I shouldn't think anything would come to meet in here but a woodchuck, and they're skeered if they see a shadow. On that side the trees ceased abruptly, and the open sunshine of a little clearing replaced them, and there were the speakers. Tell us among the group sat Mr. Linden, and around him in various attitudes of rest or attention, a dozen boys basked in the sunshine. Most of them were a size or two smaller than his morning class at the Sunday school, though several of those were stretched in the grass at the outskirts of the circle, as honorary members. Little Donnie Fax, established in Mr. Linden's lap, divided his attention pretty evenly between the lesson and the teacher, although indeed to his mind the separate interest did not clash. The little glade was very green still, but sprinkled with the autumn leaves which came floating down at every breath, and the bordering trees stood some in deep green hemlock, and some in paler pine, and thrust out here and there a glowing arm into the sunlight. The boys, listening and looking, some playing the part of the young Nebuchadnezzars, some picking and breaking up the asters and golden rod within their reach, giving little side nods of assent to each other, or bending a more earnest gaze on Mr. Linden, pushing back their caps, or pulling them down with a quick brush across the eyes, the hand with which Johnny Fax stroked back from Mr. Linden's forehead, any stray lock of hair which the wind displaced, or laid on his shoulder, when there was nothing else to do, made altogether a picture the like of which Mr. Linden's had not seen before, nor even faith. The sun might leave the clearing and be take itself to the treetops, and thence to the clouds. There was light there, which came from a higher source. Not faith's silent attention was more silent and motionless than that of her companion. He did not move or stir, but her deep, deep, wrapped gravity formed part of the subject of his contemplations, for one or two keen, side-long glances fell upon it. Else his eyes were busy uninterruptedly with the scene, and took in the whole effect of it, hers hardly wavered from one point. A little stir among the boys roused both the lookers on from their muse, but they stood still again at the first note of a hymn, as Mr. Linden's deep voice began, and the young choir with its very treble chimed in. I want to be an angel, and with the angels stand, a crown upon my forehead, a harp within my hand. There, right before my savior, so glorious and so bright, I'd wake the sweetest music and praise him day and night. I never should be weary, nor ever shed a tear, nor ever feel a sorrow, nor ever feel a fear, but blessed, pure, and holy, I dwell in Jesus's sight, and with ten thousand thousand praise him both day and night. I know I'm weak and sinful, but Jesus will forgive, for many little children have gone to heaven to live. Dear savior, when I languish and lay me down to die, oh send a shining angel to bear me to the sky, oh there I'll be an angel, and with the angels stand, a crown upon my forehead, a harp within my hand, and there before my savior, so glorious and so bright, I'll wake the sweetest music and praise him day and night. The two listeners stood still while the hymn was singing, still is the air. But Mr. Simlins got no more sight of Faith's face. They stood still when the hymn was finished, as if they lingered where the last vibrations had been. But as a general stir among the hymn party proclaimed that they would soon be on the move, the two who'd watched them, as if by consent, turned short about and silently picked up their way back through the darkening wood to the nearest point of road they could reach. It was far from home, and even out of the wood the light was failing. They walked with quick steps. Mr. Simlins could get glances now at Faith's face, but though it was quiet enough, he seemed for some reason or other in a disagreeable state of mind. It made itself manifest at length in a grunt of considerable power. Ugh, this is a complexious sort of world to live in. Was his not very clear remark? The contrast of the tone of the next words was striking. Dear Mr. Simlins, there is something better. What do you call me dear for? he growled. You never did before. I don't know, said Faith, because I want you to be as happy as I am. Be you so happy? said the farmer inquisitively. Faith said yes. It was a calm and clear yes. A confident yes, one that felt its foundation strong and deep. Yet Faith's mother, or dearest friend, if gifted with quick apprehensions would hardly have been satisfied with it. Was Mr. Simlins so gifted? Not so happy you couldn't be happier? he said in a tone that assumed it. No, said Faith, looking at him with a sun-shiny smile. I want to be better, Mr. Simlins. Better? growled Mr. Simlins. You go hang yourself. I wish you was better. If you ain't happy, I wish the Simlins may be an extant race. The extraordinary combination of wishes within this speech took away Faith's breath for an answer. She waited for something more. What was that fellow doing there? growled the farmer after a while. I suppose he was teaching Sunday school. Faith said after a little hesitation. Why is one to be forever teaching Sunday school? said the farmer in a discontented tone. Why not? said Faith, as long as there are people to be taught. Don't you want to take hold and teach me now? said Mr. Simlins. Faith did not know at all what to make of this question, and before she had found an answer that would do, she was saved making any. For Mr. Linden, with even brisker steps than theirs, came up behind them, and after a bright good evening, Mr. Simlins, uttered a somewhat surprised Miss Faith. Yes, said Mr. Simlins. Here she is, and I'm going along to see that nothing happens to her. She goes to take care of somebody else, and I come to take care of her. So we go. We all give each other a deal of trouble in this world. Am I expected to take care of you, Mr. Simlins, by the same rule? I came after. Well, I don't know, said the farmer. I guess there'll be nobody to take care of me. I'm past taking care of. What does that mean? said Mr. Linden. How would you like the job? said Mr. Simlins. Think it'd be easy why I should like to know a little more about the job before I express any opinion. I have an opinion, said Mr. Simlins, that you don't know much of farming. Guess it's correct, ain't it? Oh, kind of farming, inquired Mr. Linden again. I don't know more than one kind, till in the earth to bring the produce of it. I've seen something of another kind, said Mr. Linden. It is this. Sew yourselves in righteousness, reap in mercy, break up your fellow ground, for it is time to seek the Lord to leave return and reign righteousness upon you. Mr. Simlins wasn't quick enough to answer that, and there was a silence for a minute or two only broken by their footsteps. Well, he said slowly, at length, supposing a piece of ground bears as good a crop as it has soil for, hadn't you ought to be contented with it? Yes, said Mr. Linden, but I never saw such a piece of ground yet. Mr. Simlins paused. Do you believe some folks can be better than they are already? he asked. I believe all folks can. You believe in cameras, then? How are you going to work? To make people better? To set them to work themselves, if I can. What sort of plows and harrows do you want them to take all of? They'll find out, when they set to work in earnest, to make the ground yield the right sort of fruit, said Mr. Linden. What do you call the right sort? said the farmer, now thoroughly engaged. Ain't as good as a man can do the right sort. Why, yes, said Mr. Linden again, but I tell you, I never saw that sort of fruit ripe, and I'm not sure that I ever shall in this world, for the best fruit that the ground can yield includes not only the best seed and cultivation, but the perfect keeping down of every weed, and the unchecked receiving of all sweet heavenly influences. That's a camera, said Mr. Simlins, something shortly. You can't have all that in this world. The fact that people cannot be perfect in this world does not hinder their being better than they are. Well, I say, how are you going to work to make it, when they're doing the best they can do already? Who is? I'm inclined to be of the opinion you air, said Mr. Simlins, slowly. I won't say I be, but I don't know how to do no better. Thank you, Mr. Simlins. Was the somewhat sorrowful reply? You may see what I do, but you do not see what I know. And for you, my friend, pray to know, there can be no mistakes in the advice that comes from heaven. There was a minute's silence till they came to a turning. I'd be glad to see you, said Mr. Simlins, in a somewhat lowered tone. Area of you, down to my house, any time, you can take care of her the rest of the way. Good night. He turned off abruptly down a road that led his way. They had been walking the slackened steps during this conversation, and the lingering memory of it still checked the pace of the two now left together. Silence accompanied, for beast and bird, they to their grassy couch, these to their nests, had all retreated. And when Mr. Linden spoke, it was not his own words. I thank thee, uncreated sun, that thy bright beams on me have shined, I thank thee who hast overthrown my foes and healed my wounded mind, I thank thee whose enlivening voice bids my freed heart in thee rejoice, thee will I love, my joy, my crown, thee will I love, my lord, my god, thee will I love beneath thy frown or smile thy scepter or thy rod. What though my flesh and heart decay, thee shall I love in endless day. The silence of the evening fell again unbroken, unless a breath caught somewhat interruptedly, so gentle a break might be said to break in. Faith said nothing, except by that caught breath. Mr. Linden's step was the only one heard. Silently then he gave her his arm, and they went on at a quicker pace. After a while Faith broke the silence. She spoke in a very quiet voice as if choosing her words, and hesitated a little sometimes as if timidity checked her. Mr. Linden, I want to ask you about something that troubles me. I don't know what is right. I know I know very little. I know I cannot say much or can't say it well, but I feel sometimes as if I must speak to everybody I can reach, and tell them what I do now, and beg them to be safe and happy, and then something tells me that if I do so people will think me crazy, or be offended that it is not my business and I can't do it well, and that I had better not try to do it at all. Is that something, right or wrong? Let them that hear this say come, Mr. Linden replied. It is part of the sailing orders of every Christian to speak every other vessel that he can, which does not mean that he should go out of his own proper course to meet them, nor that he should run them down when met. Nor, I suppose, said Faith, that he should trouble himself about his voice being very low or very hoarse. I thought so. Thank you, Mr. Linden. The voice of true loving interest is generally sweet, and rarely gives offence, he said. If people never spoke of religious things but from the love of them, there would be an end to can't and bad taste in such matters. She said no more. How does Charles 12th behave? said Mr. Linden as they neared home. Has he reacted again, or does he give you both hands full? He behaved nicely, said Faith. As to filling my hands, I suppose they wouldn't hold a great deal today, but I hope to have them fuller before long. Then I may send you another scholar. Oh, yes, said Faith. Have you one for me? Perhaps two if circumstances make my hands too full. Do I know them? I'm not sure how well, nor whether you know them at all by name, but you will like to teach them for different reasons, at least I have. I don't know, said Faith. If you have taught them, Mr. Linden, they will be very sorry to come to me. Then you may have the pleasure of making them glad. She laughed a little, but soberly, and they reached their own gate. It was past the usual Sunday tea-time, and soon the little party were gathered at that pleasantest, quietest of tea-tables, that which is spread at the close of a happy Sunday. It had been such to two, at least, of the family sitting there, albeit Faith's brow was unusually grave, and it had not been unhappy to Mrs. Derrick. She entered, by hope and sympathy, too earnestly, and thoroughly into everything that concerned Faith, rested too much of her everyday life upon her to be unhappy when she smiled. After tea, as he often did, Mr. Linden went out again, and the two were left alone. Mrs. Derrick occupied herself with reading in the Old Family Bible, where she turned over a leaf after leaf, but Faith, on a low seat, sat looking into the remains of the little fire which had been kindled in the upper room. Looking at the glowing coals and grey flickering ashes with a very grave, meditative, thoughtful gaze. Mother, she said at length, turning her face toward Mrs. Derrick's Bible. Well, child, said her mother a little abstractedly, I wish, mother, you would ask Mr. Linden to read and pray at night, and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in. Why, Faith, said Mrs. Derrick, now fully roused, how you talk, child, wish I do this, and wish I'd let Tother, don't I let you and Mr. Linden do pretty much what you have in mind, too? It was incomprehensible to Faith that her mother's permission should have to do with any of Mr. Linden's actions. But she merely repeated, I wish you'd ask him, mother. I guess I will, said Mrs. Derrick. When I do, you'll know it, and he, too. Ask him yourself, pretty child. She added, looking at Faith with a very unbent brow. But, mother, said Faith with a little tinge in her cheeks, it would be much better that you should ask him. You are the person to do it. I should like to see you make that out, said Mrs. Derrick. I don't think I'm such a person at all. Only because you are the head of the family, mother, Faith said with a little fainter voice. Well, if I'm the head of the family, I'll do as I like for once. Said Mrs. Derrick, I'd like to hear him, I'm sure. Child, it would seem like old times, but I wouldn't ask him for a kingdom. Faith looked at her, half laughing and grave, too, but gave up the point, seeing she must. And while you're at it, Faith, can you just ask him to make the boys behave? Sam Stotenberg did nothing all meeting time but look at you, so I guess the sermon didn't do him much good. Faith went back to the contemplation of the fire. However, she apparently had not made up her mind that she was the person, or else was not ready to act upon it. For when Mr. Linden was heard opening the front door, Faith ran away, and came down no more that night.