Volume Ii Part 47 (2/2)
Faith took a great deal more time than was necessary for the reading of this letter. Very much indeed she would have liked to do as her correspondent confessed she had done, and cry--but there was no sign of such an inclination. She only sat perfectly moveless, bending over her letter. At last suddenly looked up and gave it to Mr. Linden.
”Well?” he said with a smile at her as he took it.
”You'll see--” she said, a little breathlessly. And still holding her hand fast, Mr. Linden read the letter, quicker than she had done, and without comment--unless when his look shewed that it touched him.
”You will love her, Faith!” he said as he folded the letter up again,--”in spite of all your inclinations to the contrary!”
”Do you think that is in the future tense? But I am afraid,” added Faith,--”she thinks too much of me now.”
”She does not think as much of you as I do,” Mr. Linden said, with a look and smile that covered all the ground of present or future fear.
”And after all it is a danger which you will share with me. It is one of Pet's loveable feelings to think too much of some people whom she loves just enough.”
Humility is not a fearful thing. Whatever had been in Faith's speech, her look, bright, wistful, and happy, had no fear, truly b.u.mble though it was. ”There is no danger of my loving this letter too much”--she said as she carefully restored it to its envelope; said with a secret utterance of great gratification.
The promised half hour was much more than up, and the broadening shadow on Kildeer river said that the time which could be given to wild flowers was fast running away. Perhaps, too, Mr. Linden thought Faith had mused and been excited enough, for he made a move. Everything in the boat was put up in close order, and then the two went ash.o.r.e again, flower basket in hand.
The long shadows heightened the beauty of the woods now, falling soft and brown upon the yet browner carpet of dry leaves, and the young leaves and buds overhead shewed every tint, from yellow to green. Under the trees were various low shrubs in flower,--shad-blossom, with its fleecy stems, and azalia in rosy pink; and the real wild flowers--the dainty things as wild in growth as in name, were sprinkled everywhere.
Wind flowers and columbine; orchis sweet as any hyacinth; tall Solomon's seal; spotless bloodroot; and violets--white, yellow, and purple. The dogwood stretched its white arms athwart hemlock and service; the creeping partridge berry carried its perfumed white stars over rocks and moss in the deep shade below. Yellow bellwort hung its fair flowers on every ridge; where the ground grew wet were dog's-tooth violet and chick wintergreen. There the red maples stood, with bunches of crimson keys,--at the edge of the higher ground their humbler growing sister the striped bark, waved her green tresses. There seemed to be no end to the flowers--nor to the variety--nor to the pleasure of picking.
”Faith--” said Mr. Linden.
Faith looked up from a bunch of Sanguinaria beside which she was crouching.
”I find so much Mignonette!--do you?”
Faith's eye flashed, and taking one of those little white stars she threw it towards Mr. Linden. It went in a graceful parabolic curve and fell harmlessly, like her courage, at his feet.
”What has become of the princess?”
”You ought rather to ask after the prince!” said Mr. Linden, picking up the Sanguinaria with great devotion. ”Is this the Star of the Order of Merit?”
”I am not Queen Flora. I don't know.”
”As what then was it bestowed?”
”It might be Mignonette's s.h.i.+eld, which she used as a weapon because she hadn't any other! Endy, look at those green Maple flowers! You can reach them.”
He gathered some of the hanging cl.u.s.ters, and then came and sat down where she was at work and began to put them into her basket, arranging and dressing the other flowers the while dextrously.
”Do you know, my little Sunbeam,” he said, ”that your namesakes are retreating?”
”I know it, Endy,” she said hastening her last gatherings--”and I am ready.”
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