or every fact. You
know what friends we used to be,--it was always, 'Hush, Mr.
Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a
splendid fellow!--My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent
questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me
know--will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for
an answer.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only
her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days
glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs.
Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take
her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down
to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company
than usual, this summer.

By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and
thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the
steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming
home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither
worse nor better,--there was no news to send. Everything else the
letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.

So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and
daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often
took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the
needles were at work.

There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply
Mr. Skip's place--he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that
matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the
wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for
the first month,--that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere
seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and
one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first
getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the
yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,--the morning light
shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her
white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.

The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly,
the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but
the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw--that lay
idle;