ly in answer to his last
words.--"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame
for me to remind you of anything--but don't you know, Endecott--'all
things are ours'? _both_ 'things present and things to come?'" And her
eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile.

Bear it alone?--yes, he could have done that--as he had borne other
things,--it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that
look come back--to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so
long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her
through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile
that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright
efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was
the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both
points. And he knew--almost better than she did--how much she depended
on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave
submission as Faith had never seen him wear.

"My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by
itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear
Faith,--and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the
mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than
that each has sufficient good--if it be only sought out. There cannot
much darkness live in the light of those words."

"How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,--"to find the
good of these days?"

"You are quick at conclusions"--said Mr. Linden,--"how far do you think
it is between us at present?"

"Endecott"--she said gravely--"it will never be further!"

He laughed a little--with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping
her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that
I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good
measurement."

"You know," she said, "you have told me two things to-night, Endecott;
and if one makes me sorry, the other makes me glad."

"I was sure of that!--And it is such great, great pleasure to think of
the times of coming back--and of leaving you work to do, and of writing
to you about it,--and then of finding out how well it is done! You must
keep my books for me, Mignonette--mine, I say!--they are as much yours
as mine--and more."

"Your books?"--she said with a flush.

"Yes--there are but a few of these that I shall want with me,--the most
of _my_ study