Volume Ii Part 78 (1/2)

”Only your eyes, like those power-gla.s.ses.--Not for size!” said Faith, laughing now herself.

”Ah little Mignonette,” he said smiling, ”some things can be seen without microscopic vision. And do not you know, my child, that carnations must draw attention to the particular point round which they bloom?”

”Endy, you shall know what I was thinking of,” she said. ”You touched it already. It was only--that perhaps sometime you _would_ be a little proud even of those little things in me--because--Now you can punish me for being proud in earnest!”--It was said in great confusion; it had cost Faith a struggle; the white and red both strove in her downcast face. Mr. Linden might not fathom what was not in a man's nature; but Faith had hardly ever perhaps given him such a token of the value she set upon his pleasure.

”Punish you?” he said, leaving Jerry to find the road for himself for a minute,--”how shall I do it?--so? And how much punishment do you require? I think a little is not enough. 'Because' what, love?”

”Endy!--” she said under her breath,--”you know!--don't ask me.”

”Then--if I exceed your limits--you will not blame me?”

”Limits of what?”

”Limits of this species of executive justice.”

”I don't think you would keep limits of anybody else's setting,” said Faith with a little subdued fun. ”Look, Endy!--we are coming to Miss Bezac's.”

”Most true,” said Mr. Linden,--”now shall you see (perhaps!) one of the innocent sorts of pride that I keep for myself. What have we come for?”

he added laughing, as Jerry trotted up the side hill to the cottage,--”is it b.u.t.ter, or carnations, or dressmaking?--they all make a rare combination in my mind at present.”

”She is at home!” said Faith,--”if she wasn't, the window-curtains would be down. Now she is going to be pleased,--and so am I, for she will give me something to eat.” Faith looked as if she wanted it, as she softly opened the door of the dressmaker's little parlour, or workroom, and softly went in. The various business and talk of the afternoon had exhausted her.

Miss Bezac, having in her young days been not only rich, but also a firstrate needlewoman, now that she was older and poor plied her needle for a different purpose. Yet something of old habits clung to her still; she would not take the common work of the village; but when Mrs.

Stoutenburgh wanted a gay silk dress, or Miss De Staff a delicate muslin, or Mrs. Somers an embroidered merino--then Miss Bezac was sure to have them go through her hands; and for these ladies she took the fas.h.i.+ons and dispensed them exceeding well. Strangers too, in Pattaqua.s.set for the summer, often came to her,--and had not Miss Bezac made the very first embroidered waistcoat that ever Squire Deacon wore, or Sam Stoutenburgh admired himself in? So her table was generally covered with pretty work, and on this particular afternoon she was choosing the patterns for a second waistcoat for the young member from Quilipeak, a mantilla for his mother, and a silk ap.r.o.n for Miss Essie, all at once. In deep cogitation Faith found her, and Faith's soft salutation,--

”Dear Miss Bezac, will you let strangers come in?” How gloriously Faith blushed.

”Strangers!” cried Miss Bezac, turning round. ”Why Faith!--you don't mean to say it's you?--though I don't suppose you mean to say it's anybody else. Unless--I declare I don't know whether it is you or not!”

said Miss Bezac, looking from her to Mr. Linden and shaking hands with both at once. ”Though if it isn't I ought to have heard--only folks don't always do what they ought--at least I don't,--nor much of anything.”

”It is n.o.body else yet,” said Mr. Linden smiling. Whereat Miss Bezac laid one hand on the other, and stepping back a little surveyed the two ”as a whole.”

”Do you know,” she said, ”(you wouldn't think it) but sometimes I can't say a word!”

”You must not expect Faith to say much--she is tired,” said Mr. Linden putting her in a chair. ”Miss Bezac, I brought her here to get something to eat.”

”Well I don't believe--I don't really believe that anybody but you would ever do such a kind thing,” said Miss Bezac. ”What shall I get?

Faith--what will you have? And you're well enough to be out again!--and it's so well I'm not out myself!--I'll run and see if the fire ain't,--the kettle ought to be boiled, for I wanted an early cup of tea.”

”No, dear Miss Bezac, don't!” said Faith. ”Only give me some bread and milk.”

Miss Bezac stopped short.

”Bread and milk?” she said--”is that good for you? The bread's good, I know, baked last night; and the milk always is sweet, up here with the cowslips--and most things are sweet when you're hungry. But ain't you more hungry than that?--and somebody else might be, if you ain't--and one always must think of somebody else too. But you do, I'll say that for you. And oh didn't I say long ago!--” A funny little recollective pause Miss Bezac made, her thoughts going back even to the night of the celebration. Then she ran away for the bread and milk,--then she came back and put her head in at the door.

”Faith, do you like a cup or a bowl?--I like a cup, because I always think of a cup of comfort--and I never heard of a bowl of anything. But you can have which you like.”

”I like the cup too,” said Faith laughing. ”But even the bowl would be comfort to-day, Miss Bezac.”