ead.

"How should it be better, sir?"

"My dear, in general, what is needless can be spared."

"I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do
nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do it
_without help_." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with
as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning
known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a
smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point.

"Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more
than you've been doing--everybody knows that's enough. In the first
place, my dear, you are your father's child--and that's all that need
be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next
place--shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs.
Stoutenburgh?"

"I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely.

"Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all,
and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I
have it under hand and seal to take better care than that."

"Than what, sir?"--said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged
bearing.

"I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what
you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your
dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand,
Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie
would'--that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such
instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire
stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers.

No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of
intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less
emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find
any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings
than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a
little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she
spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a
most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were
after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked
smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells.

"You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!--not that way. Take care of me
every other way;--but I'll not have--of that sort--a bit of