her words.

"You said this morning I never asked you any but impossible things."

"Most sorrowfully true!--have you another one ready?"

"If I ask you something possible, what will you do?" she said, softly
touching the side of his head with her hand. It was Faith's utmost
freedom; a sort of gentle admiring touch of her fingers which the thick
locks of hair felt hardly more than a spider's feet.

"That depends so much upon the thing!" he said, half turning to give
her the look which belonged to his words. "There are such a variety of
ways in which I might deal with it--and with you."

"I am not going to ask you anything but what would be right."

"You do not doubt that my answer will be conformable?"

"Yes I do. It will be your 'right,' but it may not be my 'right,' you
know."

"If you get what is not your right, you ought to be contented," said
Mr. Linden.

"Now you have turned me and my meaning round! Endecott--you know Aunt
Dilly gave me something?--mayn't I--won't you let me lend it to you?"

Very low and doubtfully the words came out! But if Faith had any more
to say, she had little chance for a while. One quick look round at her
Mr. Linden gave, but then he sprang up and came to where she stood,
lifting her face and giving her her "right" in one sense at least.
Other answer he made none.

"Endy--have I asked a possible thing this time?" she said under breath.

"My precious child!--Do you think it possible?"

"It ought to be possible, Endecott." And if ever an humble suggestion
of a possibility was made, Faith made it then.

"I shall have to go back to my first answer," said Mr. Linden,--"I have
no words for any other. Faith, dearest--don't you know that it is not
needful? Will that content you, little sweet one?"

A soft "no."

"Why not?" he said, making good his threat. "What do you want me to
have more than I need?"

"I fear the ways you will take to make that true. I should think you
might, Endecott!"--The ellipsis was not hard to supply.

"I shall not take any unlawful means--nor any unwise ones, I hope," he
said lightly. "What are you afraid I shall do?"

"Get up early in the morning," she whispered.

"But that is so pleasant! Do you suppose I get up late now, little
bird?"

"Not late, with breakfast at seven. How early do you?"

"Philosophically early! Do you know you have not had your poem
to-day?--what shall it be? sunrise or sunset?"

"Which you please," she said gently, with