ing hand
into his own possession,--"Faith, you shall not look pale about it.
This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first
twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to
me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more
boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific--and the same
might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the
carpet?"

There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he
could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.

"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."

"Yes, Endy,"--she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face
round within sight, saying--much as he had done at Quapaw creek--"Are
you afraid, dear child?"

"No--" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.

"Then it only needs my seal.--In one of the northern countries of
Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at
the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,--so you see things
are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty--are you ready
for your walk?"

CHAPTER XL.

It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last
quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent
warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and
sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves
now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the
breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its
rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and
insects and roses,--with that slight extra stir which told the time of
day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.

Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her
bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven
her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small
danger of meeting any one,--it was not the time for loads of hay and
grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields
were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay
and gladsome a mood as the day,--more lively indeed, and active--taking
the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of
exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette.
The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their
perfections--he could not forge