n Faith went back to her low seat in the
window and the hem of a pocket handkerchief. So--half looking out and
half in,--the quiet street sounds murmuring with the rustle of the many
elm leaves,--Faith sat, the wind playing Cupid to her Psyche; and Miss
Linden stood by the table and the muslin dress.

"Faith," she said contemplatively, "What flowers do you suppose
Endecott would get you to wear with this--out of a garden full?"

"It is difficult to tell"--said Faith; "he finds just what he wants,
just where I shouldn't look for it." And a vision of red oak-leaves,
and other illustrations, flitted across Faith's fancy.

"Very true," said Miss Linden,--"precisely what Aunt Iredell said when
she first saw you,--but I am inclined to think, that the first day you
appear in this you will see him appear with a bunch of white
roses--probably Lamarques; if--"

"Why Lamarques?" said Faith sewing away. "Pet, how pleasant this wind
is."

Miss Linden did not immediately answer. She stood resting her finger
tips on the muslin dress, looking down at it with an intentness that
might have seen through thicker stuff, the colour in her cheeks
deepening and deepening. "Why?" she said abstractedly,--"they're
beautiful--don't you think so?--Oh Faith!"--With a joyous clasp of the
hands she sprang to the window, and dropped the curtain like a screen
before her. There was no time to ask questions--nor need. Faith heard
the opening door, the word spoken to the waiter,--saw Mr. Linden
himself come in.

Pet sprang towards him with a joyful exclamation--an unselfish one, as
it seemed; for after a moment's concentrated embrace which embodied the
warmth of half a dozen, she disappeared out of the room. Mr. Linden
came forward, looking after her at first with surprise,--then as if a
possible explanation occurred to him, he stood still by the
mantelpiece, watching the door by which she had gone. Faith had waited
behind her screen--she could not have told why--utterly motionless for
that minute; then a little quick push sent the curtain aside, and she
came to him,

"Faith!" he exclaimed--"are you hiding from me?--My dear Mignonette--"

She hid from him then,--all her face could; for her gladness was of
that kind which banishes colour instead of bringing it. He let her
stand so a few minutes, himself very silent and still; then one hand
brought her face within reach.

"Little bird!" he said, "I have you safe now,--you need not flutter any
mor