went to the breakfast-room to arrange
and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching
her--she did not know how,--she only knew how he talked.

But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and
stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words.
And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up
into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he
bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.

CHAPTER XVII.

When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the
deserted room.

It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the
summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple
shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one
cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The
chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except
only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now
her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the
books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple
leaves floating in--the dancing flames in the chimney--her lessons by
the side of that couch--her first exercise, which she had been sent to
do at that table;--all that and everything beside seemed to make its
passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on
the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous
tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a
little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak
connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the
only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she
left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.

Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called
off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed.
There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with
which she had written that first one--and which she had used so many
times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to
Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he
had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and
thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by
the table read it.

MY