"There you may take what you like," he went on, with a smile that was both amused and encouraging, "and I shall be none the wiser—unless you tell me yourself. If you do tell me, I shall be very glad. Now Miss Faith—what shall we do about Judge Harrison?"
Faith hesitated, and struggled perhaps, for it did not seem very easy to speak with that deep flush on her brow; and then she said rather low,
"I am not ungrateful, Mr. Linden."
"Neither am I—but this proposal of his gives me some trouble. I think if he would have all the fun, without any of the shewing off, it would answer every good purpose and avoid all the bad ones. And if you will intimate as much to your mother, Miss Faith, and persuade her to convey the information to Judge Harrison, it will perhaps be the best way of reply. Of course as trustee he has still the right of doing as he likes."
"Mother, do you hear?" said Faith, "or do you want me to repeat it?"
"No, child,"—said her mother abstractedly; "I didn't hear, to be sure,—how should I? Faith—what do you suppose makes Cindy break the noses off all our milk pitchers?"
This was an irresistible question. Faith's own face came back, and during the rest of supper-time she was like herself, only with a shade more than was usual upon her brow and manner.
The short September day had little twilight to lengthen it out. The cool western horizon still outshone the setting stars with its clear light, but in the east and overhead others came out, 'silently, one by one.' Mr. Linden went to take his evening walk, Faith to light the lamp in the parlour, watched and gazed at by her mother the while.
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick, "what makes you stay upstairs so? I never thought of it till I went to call you to see Reuben—but seems to me you are up there a great deal."
Faith smiled a little and also looked grave, as she was putting on the shade of the lamp.
"Yes, mother"—she said,—"I am."
"What for, pretty child?" said her mother fondly.
Faith was pretty, in the look with which she answered this appeal. Her smile dropped its gravity, and only love came in to make the confession.
"Mother, I am trying to learn. I want to be wiser."
"Learn!" said Mrs. Derrick in utter astonishment, and rousing out of her resting position. "Trying to learn, child?"
"Yes, mother—what about it? I don't know anything; and I want to know—a great deal!"
"Why you know everything now!" said Mrs. Derrick. "What don't you know,Faith?—I should like to!"
Faith smiled.
"Mother, I don't know anything!"—and then she added more brightly,"I've begun with arithmetic, for one thing."
"Arithmetic!" said Mrs. Derrick; and she paused, and leaned back in her chair, rocking gently to and fro, with a shade of soberness stealing over her face.
"You never did have much chance,"—she said at length, "because I couldn't give it to you then. My heart was broke, Faith, and I couldn't bear to have you out of my sight for a minute. But somehow I thought you knew everything." And she sat still once more, looking at Faith as if trying to reinstate herself in her old opinion. Nor altogether without success; for with a little smile coming over her face, Mrs. Derrick added,
"You won't be any sweeter—learn as much as you will, child,—you needn't think it;" and the rockers would have certainly come into play again if Cindy had not opened the door and claimed attention.
"I s'pose likely you don't want to go down to Widder Stamp's?" she said. "'Cause she wants you to come. I'm free to confess she's got the high-strikes wonderful."
"Mother," said Faith, giving her one or two kisses as Mrs. Derrick rose to prove the contrary of Cindy's supposition, "I shall be a great deal happier;—and I am getting along nicely."
Which sent Mrs. Derrick off in triumph. But when she was gone, Faith did not take her basket of stockings, nor yet her arithmetic; but sat down by the table with her head in her hands and sat very still. Still, until Mr. Linden came in, laid one paper on the table at her side, and sat down to read another. Faith's darning-needle came into play then, and worked quick and silently. Mr. Linden glanced towards it as he laid down his paper.
"I see you evaded my question last night," he said,—"there could not be such a constant supply, if there were not also a constant demand."
"Mr. Linden," said Faith, her colour a little raised and her voice changing somewhat,—"I want to ask you something—if you are not busy about anything."
"I am not but you might ask just as freely if I were."
"I couldn't," said Faith. She drew her hand out of her stocking and put her thimble on the table.
"Mr. Linden," she said without looking at him,—"a while ago, when you were speaking of faith and a cloudy day, and I told you I wasn't like that,—you said I must read the Bible then, and do what that said. I have been trying to do it."—
Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at her—as if waiting to hear more.
"And I don't understand it," she said.—"I don't know how to get on."
"Do you mean, with the Bible? Is it that you do not understand?"
"I don't understand some things—I don't know exactly what I ought to do."
"In what respect?—where is the difficulty? Some things in the Bible you never will understand, perhaps, in this world, and others you must learn by degrees."
"I don't understand exactly what makes a Christian—and I want to be one."
It was spoken low, and timidly; but Faith was in earnest. Mr. Linden sat silent a minute, without changing his position.
"A Christian is one, who trusting in Christ as his only Saviour, thenceforth obeys him as his only King."
Faith hesitated and thought. "I don't understand," she said folding her hands, "—about the trusting."
"Suppose there was something you wanted done too hard for your strength but not for mine,—would you know how to trust it in my hands?"
She bowed her head and said, "Yes!"
"Suppose I consented to do it only upon condition that for the rest of your life my will and pleasure should be your only rule of action,—would the great work still be yours or mine?"
"Why, yours," she said, still looking at him.
"Cannot you see Christ—standing between God and man, offering his own blood where justice demands ours, and with his perfect righteousness covering our imperfect obedience? So 'that God may be just, and yet the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus.' Can you apply any words? Can you see that Christ only is 'mighty to save'?—Are you willing to trust yourself in his hands?"
Faith dropped her eyes for a minute or two, but the lines of her face were changing.
"I know what you mean now," she said slowly. "I couldn't see it before." Then with a little smile she went on—"Yes, Mr. Linden, I am willing. But what must I do?"
"'Only believe—'" he answered. "Do what you say you are willing to do."
"But," said Faith, looking at him with a face which certainly spoke her near the 'little child' character which Christians do bear,—"there must be something else. I must not be like what I have been. I want to know what I ought to do."
"Christ's own words tell you better than I can,—'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me'—that is the description of a Christian on earth. And then it follows—'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'"
There was silence; and then Faith said,
"But how am I to follow him?"
"How did the people do to whom he said those words when he was on earth?"
"I