Faith turned into the sitting-room. It
was warm and bright, Mrs. Derrick having only lately left it; and
taking off hood and cloak in a sort of mechanical way, with fingers
that did not feel the strings, she sat down in the easy chair and laid
her head on the arm of it; as very a child as she had been on the night
of that terrible walk;--wondering to herself if this were Christmas
day--if she were Faith Derrick--and if anything were anything!--but
with a wonder of such growing happiness as made it more and more
difficult for her to raise her head up. She dreaded--with an odd kind
of dread which contradicted itself--to hear Mr. Linden come in; and in
the abstract, she would have liked very much to jump up and run away;
but that little intimation was quite enough to hold her fast. She sat
still drawing quick little breaths. The loud voice of the clock near
by, striking its twelve strokes, was not half so distinct to her as
that light step in the hall which came so swiftly and quick to her side.

"What is the problem now, pretty child?" Mr. Linden said, laying both
hands upon hers,--"it is too late for study to-night. You must wait
till to-morrow and have my help."

She rose up at that, however gladly she would have hidden the face her
rising revealed; but yet with no awkwardness she stood before him,
rosily grave and shy, and with downcast eyelids that could by no means
lift themselves up to shew what was beneath; a fair combination of the
child's character and the woman's nature in one; both spoken fairly and
fully. Mr. Linden watched her for a minute, softly passing his hand
over that fair brow; then drew her closer.

"I suppose I may claim Mr. Stoutenburgh's privilege now," he said. But
it was more than that he took. And then with one hand still held fast,
Faith was put back in her chair and wheeled up to the fire "to get
warm," and Mr. Linden sat down by her side.

Did he really think she needed it, when she was rosy to her fingers'
ends? But what could she do, but be very still and very happy Even as a
flower whose head is heavy with dew,--never more fragrant than then,
yet with the weight of its sweet burden it bends a little;--like that
was the droop of Faith's head at this minute. Whither had the whirl of
this evening whirled her? Faith did not know. She felt as if, to some
harbour of rest, broad and safe; the very one where from its fitness it
seemed she ought to be. But shyly and confusedly, she felt it much