before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,--with the same
sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of
feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of
purpose,--his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his
face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing--her eyes had not
been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as
she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her
as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing
of nothing else.

"It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an
atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can
compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious
worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly
love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it
was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That
was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the
jewelled hand in his,--"when I used to see them not more busy among
things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to
the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature
describes and taste shrinks from!--But I used to think," he said
speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick
moving, as when it was at work for me."

Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the
flash all gone.

"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed
partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had
graduated from a German University, but before I went away
again--almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was
silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and
resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he
looked up and spoke quietly as before.

"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to
take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived
together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,--living where I
lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very
good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was
some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors--or some
complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but
we were left without much more than enoug