by morning light.

It seemed no time to exercise faith upon the mountain, for a haze
covered it, and one could not feel even the near presence of a thing
one could not see, so why attempt to address a command to it to be
removed; to all intents and purposes it was removed when it was out
of sight.

Marian thought all this over as she trotted down the village street
to Mrs. Hunt's. Hers was one of a line of long low white houses set
back among trees. A border gay with nasturtiums, sweet peas, and
marigolds flourished each side the front door, but Marian did not
pause there; she went around to the kitchen where she knew Mrs. Hunt
would be this time of day. There was a strong odor of spices,
vinegar and such like filling the air. "Mrs. Hunt is making
pickles," said Marian to herself; "that is why she was gathering
cucumbers the last time I was here. I would rather it were cookies
or doughnuts, but I suppose people can't make those every day."

True enough, Mrs. Hunt was briskly mixing spices, but she turned
with a smile to her little visitor. "Well, chickadee," she said,
"how goes it to-day?"

"Oh, very well," returned Marian vaguely. "Mrs. Hunt, how big is a
mustard seed?"

For answer Mrs. Hunt put her fingers down into a small wooden box,
withdrew them, opened Marian's rosy palm, and laid a pinch of seeds
upon it. "There you are," she said. "I wish I could get at all the
things I want to see as easy as that."

Marian gazed curiously at the little yellow seeds. "They're not very
big, are they?" she said.

"Not very."

"Then you wouldn't have to have much faith," Marian went on,
following out her thought.

Mrs. Hunt laughed. "Is that the text that's bothering you? What are
you, or who are you, trying to have faith in? Tippy? Has she fooled
you again by hiding another batch of kittens?"

"No, Mrs. Hunt," Marian shook her head "it isn't Tippy; she is all
right, and so is Dippy, but you know if you want a thing very much
and don't see anyway of getting it ever, till you are grown up and
won't care about it, why it makes you feel as if--as if"--she
lowered her voice to a whisper and looked intently at her listener,
"as if either you were very wicked or as if--that about the mustard
seed--as if"--she hesitated, then blurted out hurriedly, "as if it
weren't true."

"Why, Marian Otway, of course it must be true," declared Mrs. Hunt.

"Then I'm very wicked," returned Marian with conviction.

"Why, you poor inno