Say and Seal, Volume II

"He had no thought of reward. Still, he would not refuse, if he supposed any part of the 'doing' was out of care for him,—and you know I cannot tell him that I think it is. But I shall talk to him about it. Not to-day: I will not run the risk of spoiling his pleasure at the sight of us. There—do you see that little beaver-like hut on the next point?—that is where he lives."

Faith looked at it with curious interest. That little brown spot amidst the waste of snow and waters—that was where the fisherman's boy lived; and there he was preparing himself for college. And for what beside?

"Will Reuben or his father be hurt at all at anything we have brought them?" she said then.

"No, they will take it all simply for what it is,—a New Year's gift. And Reuben would not dream of being hurt by anything we could do,—he is as humble as he is proud. We are like enough to find him alone."

And so they found him. With an absorbed ignoring of sleigh-bells and curiosity—perhaps because the former rarely came for him,—Reuben had sat still at his work until his visiters knocked at the low door. But then he came with a step and face ready to find Mr. Linden—though not Faith; and his first flush of pleasure deepened with surprise and even a little embarrassment as he ushered her in. There was no false pride about it, but "Miss Faith" was looked upon by all the boys as a dainty thing; and Reuben placed a chair for her by the drift-wood fire, with as much feeling of the unfitness of surrounding circumstances, as if she had been the Queen. Something in the hand that was laid on his shoulder brushed that away; and then Reuben looked and spoke as usual.

Surrounding circumstances were not so bad, after all. Faith had noticed how carefully and neatly the snow was cleared from the door and down to the water's edge, and everything within bore the same tokens. The room was very tiny, the floor bare—but very clean; the blazing drift-wood the only adornment. Yet not so: for on an old sea chest which graced one side of the room, lay Reuben's work which they had interrupted. An open book, with one or two others beside it; and by them all, with mesh and netting-kneedle and twine, lay an old net which Reuben had been repairing. The drift-wood had stone supporters,—the winter wind swept in a sort of grasping way round the little hut; and the dashing of the Sound waters, and the sharp war of the floating ice, broke the stillness. But they were very glad eyes that Reuben lifted to Mr. Linden's face and a very glad alacrity brought forward a little box for Faith to rest her feet.

"Don't you mean to sit down, Mr. Linden?" he said.

"To be sure I do. But I haven't wished you a happy New Year yet." And the lips that Reuben most reverenced in the world, left their greeting on his forehead. It was well the boy found something to do—with the fire, and Faith's box, and Mr. Linden's chair! But then he stood silent and quiet as before.

"Don't you mean to sit down, Reuben?" said Faith.

Reuben smiled,—not as if he cared about a seat; but he brought forward another little box, not even the first cousin of Faith's, and sat down as she desired.

"Didn't you find it very cold, Miss Faith?" he said, as if he could not get used to seeing her there. "Are you getting warm now?"

Faith said she hadn't been cold; and would fast enough have entered into conversation with Reuben, but she thought he would rather hear words from other lips, and was sure that other lips could give them better.

"And have you got quite well, ma'm?" said Reuben.

"Don't I look well?" she said smiling at him. "What are you doing over there, Reuben?—making a net?"

"O I was mending it, Miss Faith."

"I can't afford to have you at that work just now," said Mr. Linden,—"you know we begin school again to-morrow. You must tell your father from me, Reuben, that he must please to use his new one for the present, and let you mend up that at your leisure. Will you?"

Reuben flushed—looking up and then down as he said, "Yes, sir,"—and then very softly, "O Mr. Linden, you needn't have done that!"

"Of course I need not—people never need please themselves, I suppose. But you know, Reuben, there is a great deal of Santa Glaus work going on at this time of year, and Miss Faith and I have had some of it put in our hands. I won't answer for what she'll do with you!—but you must try and bear it manfully."

Reuben laughed a little—half in sympathy with the bright words and smile, half as if the spirit of the time had laid hold of him.

"You know, Mr. Linden," said Faith laughing, but appealingly too,—"that Reuben will get worse handling from you than he will from me!—so let him have the worst first."

"I'll bring in your basket," was all he said,—and the basket came in accordingly; Reuben feeling too bewildered to even offer his services.

Faith found herself in a corner. She jumped up and placed herself in front of the basket so as to hide it. "Wait!"—she said. "Reuben, how much of a housekeeper are you?"

"I don't know, Miss Faith,—I don't believe I ever was tried."

"Do you know how to make mince pies, for instance?"

But Reuben shook his head, with a low-spoken, "No, Miss Faith,"—a little as if she were somehow transparent, and he was viewing the basket behind her.

"Never mind my questions," said Faith, "but tell me. Could you stuff a turkey, do you think, if you tried?"

"I suppose I could—somehow," Reuben said, colouring and laughing. "I never tried, Miss Faith."

"Then you couldn't!" said Faith, her laugh rolling round the little room, as softly as the curls of smoke went up the chimney. "You needn't think you could! But Reuben, since you can't, don't you think you would let me do it once for you?"

Reuben's words were not ready in answer. But a bashful look at Faith's face—and her hands,—one that reminded her of the clam-roasting,—was followed by a grateful, low-spoken—"I don't think you ought to do anything for me, Miss Faith."

"I have had so much pleasure in it, Reuben, you'll have to forgive me;"—Faith answered, withdrawing from the basket.

"You must look into that at your leisure, Reuben," Mr. Linden said, as he watched the play of feeling in the boy's face. "Miss Faith is in no hurry for her basket."

Reuben heard him silently, and as silently lifted the basket from where it stood and set it carefully on the table. But then he came close up to Faith and stood by her side. "You are very good, Miss Faith!" he said. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Reuben!" said Faith colouring—"you mustn't thank me at all. I've just had the pleasure of doing—but it is Mr. Linden that has brought the basket here, and me too."

"And he must take you away," Mr. Linden said. "Reuben, you may thank Miss Faith just as much as you please. If I had nothing else to do, I should invite my self here to dinner, but as it is I must be off. Are you ready?" he said to Faith, while in silence Reuben knelt down to put on again the moccasins which she had thrown off, and then she followed Mr. Linden. Reuben followed too,—partly to help their arrangements, partly at Mr. Linden's bidding to bring back the net. But when there was added thereto a little package which could only mean books, Reuben's cup of gravity, at least, was full; and words of good-bye he had none.

And for a few minutes after they drove away Faith too was silent with great pleasure. She hardly knew, though she felt, how bright the sun was on the snow, and how genial his midday winter beams; and with how crisp a gleam the light broke on ice points and crests of foam and glanced from the snow-banks. The riches of many days seemed crowded into the few hours of that morning. Were they not on a "shining" expedition! Had they not been leaving sunbeams of gladness in house after house, that would shine on, nobody knew how long! Faith was too glad for a little while not to feel very sober; those sunbeams came from so high a source, and were wrought in with others that so wrapped her own life about. So she looked at Jerry's ears and said nothing.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said suddenly, "I wish I could tell you what it is to me to be going these rounds with you!"

Faith shewed a quick, touched little smile. "I've been thinking just now,—what it means."

"I should like to have the explanation of those last three words."

"What it means?"—and the slight play of her lips did not at all hinder the deep, deep strength of her thought from being manifest.—"It means, all you have taught me and led me to!—"

"You don't intend to lead me to a very clear understanding," he said playfully, and yet with a tone that half acknowledged her meaning. "Do you ever remember what you have taught me?—They say one should at the end of the year, reckon up all the blessings it has brought,—but I know not where to begin, nor how to recount them. This year!—it has been like the shield in the old fable,—it seemed to me of iron to look forward to—so cold and dark,—and it has been all gold!"

"Did it look so?" she said with quick eyes of sympathy.

"Yes, little Sunbeam, it looked so; and there were enough earthly reasons why it should. But unbelief has had a rebuke for once;—if I know myself, I am ready now to go forward without a question!"

Over what Hill Difficulty did that future road lie?—He did not explain, and the next words came with a different tone,—one that almost put the other out of Faith's head. "My little Sunbeam, do you keep warm?"

"Yes"—she said with a somewhat wistful look that came from a sunbeam determined upon doing its very best of shining, for him. But she was silent again for a minute. "There are plenty of sunbeams abroad to-day, Endecott," she said then with rare sweetness of tone, that touched but did not press upon his tone of a few minutes ago.

"Dear Faith," he said looking at her, and answering the wistfulness and the smile and the voice all in one,—"do you know I can never find words that just suit me for you?—And do you know that I think there was never such a New Year's day heard of?—it is all sunshine! Just look how the light is breaking out there upon the ice, and touching the waves, and shining through that one little cloud,—and guess how I feel it in my heart. Do you know how much work of this sort, and of every sort, you and I shall have to do together, little child, if we live?"

It was a look of beauty that answered,—so full in its happiness, so blushing and shy; but Faith's words were as simple as they were earnest.

"I wish it. There can't be too much."

Their course now became rather irregular; crossing about from one spot to another, and through a part of the country where Faith had never been. Here was a sort of shore population,—people living upon rocks and sand rent free, or almost that; and supporting themselves otherwise as best they might. A scattered, loose-built hamlet, perching along the icy shore, and with its wild winds to rock the children to sleep, and the music of the waves for a lullaby. But the children throve with such nursing, if one might judge by the numbers that tumbled in the snow and clustered on the doorsteps; and the amusement they afforded Faith was not small. The houses were too many here to have time for a visit to each,—a pause at the door, and the leaving of some little token of kindness, was all that could be attempted; and the tokens were various. Faith's loaves of bread, and her pieces of meat, or papers from the stock of tea and sugar with which she had been furnished, or a bowl of broth jelly for some sick person,—a pair of woollen stockings, perhaps, or a flannel jacket, for some rheumatic old man or woman,—or a bible,—or a combination of different things where the need demanded. But Faith's special fun was with the children.

When they first entered the hamlet, Mr. Linden brought forward and set at her feet one basket of trifling juvenile treasures, and another filled more substantially with apples and cakes and sugarplums; and then as all the children were out of doors, he drove slowly and let her delight as many of them as she chose. What pleasure it was!—those little cold hands, so unwonted to cakes and that could hardly hold apples,—how eagerly, how shyly, they were stretched out!—with what flourishes of bare feet or old shoes the young ones scampered away, or stood gazing after Jerry's little dust-cloud of snow;—ever after to remember and tell of this day, as one wherein a beautiful lady dressed up like a pussy cat, gave them an apple, or a stick of candy, or a picture book! Faith was in a debate between smiles and tears by the time they were through the hamlet and dashing out again on the open snow, for Mr. Linden had left all that part of the business to her; though the children all seemed to know him—and he them—by heart.

And good note Faith took of that, and laid up the lesson. She had been a very good Santa Claus the while, and had acted the part of a sunbeam indifferent well; being just about so bright and so soft in all her dealings with those same little cold hands and quick spirits; giving them their apples and candy with a good envelope of gentle words and laughter. Seeing that she had it to do, she went into the game thoroughly. But once she made a private protest.