Say and Seal, Volume I

Faith said yes. It was a calm and clear yes; a confident yes; one that felt its foundations strong and deep; yet Faith's mother or dearest friend, if gifted with quick apprehensions, would hardly have been satisfied with it. Was Mr. Simlins so gifted?

"Not so happy you couldn't be happier?" he said in a tone that assumed it.

"No," said Faith, looking at him with a sunshiny smile;—"I want to be better, Mr. Simlins."

"Better!"—growled Mr. Simlins. "You go hang yourself!—I wish you was better. If you aint happy—I wish the Simlins' may be—an extant race!"

The extraordinary combination of wishes in this speech took awayFaith's breath for an answer. She waited for something more.

"What was that fellow doing there?" growled the farmer after a while.

"I suppose he was teaching Sunday school," Faith said after a little hesitation.

"Why, is one to be forever teaching Sunday school?" said the farmer in a discontented tone.

"Why not?" said Faith,—"as long as there are people to be taught?"

"Don't you want to take hold and teach me now?" said Mr. Simlins.

Faith did not know at all what to make of this question; and before she had found an answer that would do, she was saved making any. For Mr. Linden, with even brisker steps than theirs, came up behind them; and after a bright "Good evening, Mr. Simlins," uttered a somewhat surprised "Miss Faith!"

"Yes," said Mr. Simlins, "here she is; and I'm goin' along to see that nothing happens to her. She goes to take care o' somebody else,—and I come after to take care o' her; so we go. We all give each other a deal o' trouble in this world!"

"Am I expected to take care of you, Mr. Simlins, by the same rule?—I came after."

"Well!—I don't know," said the farmer "I guess there'll be nobody to take care of me. I'm past taking care of."

"What does that mean?" said Mr. Linden.

"How would you like the job?" said Mr. Simlins. "Think it 'ud be easy?"

"Why I should like to know a little more about the job before I express any opinion."

"I have an opinion," said Mr. Simlins, "that you don't know much o' farming. Guess it's correct, aint it?"

"What kind of farming?" inquired Mr. Linden again.

"I don't know more'n one kind. Tillin' the earth, to bring out the produce of it."

"I have seen something of another kind," said Mr. Linden; "it is this:—'Sow to yourselves in righteousness, reap in mercy; break up your fallow ground: for it is time to seek the Lord, till he return and rain righteousness upon you.'"

Mr. Simlins wasn't quick to answer that, and there was silence for a minute or two, only broken by their footsteps.

"Well—" he said slowly at length,—"suppos 'n a piece o' ground bears as good a crop as it has soil for, hadn't you ought to be contented with it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Linden; "but I never saw such a piece of ground, yet."

Mr. Simlins paused.

"Do you believe some folks can be better than they air already?" he asked.

"I believe all folks can."

"You believe in cameras, then. How're you goin' to work?"

"To make people better?—set them to work for them selves, if I can."

"What sort o' ploughs and harrows would you want 'em to take hold of?"

"They'll find out, when they set to work in earnest to make the ground yield the right sort of fruit," said Mr. Linden.

"What do you call the right sort?" said the farmer, now thoroughly engaged. "Aint as good as a man can do, the right sort?"

"Why yes," said Mr. Linden again, "but I tell you I never saw that sort of fruit ripe—and I'm not sure that I ever shall in this world. For the best fruit that the ground can yield, includes not only the best seed and cultivation, but the perfect keeping down of every weed, and the unchecked receiving of all sweet heavenly influences."

"That's a camera!" said Mr. Simlins something shortly. "You can't have all that in this world."

"The fact that people cannot be perfect in this world, does not hinder their being better than they are."

"Well, I say, how're you goin' to work to make it, when they're doin' the best they can do, already?"

"Who is?"

"I am inclined to be of the opinion you air," said Mr Simlins slowly."I won't say I be—but I don't know how to do no better."

"Thank you, Mr. Simlins—" was the somewhat sorrowful reply,—"you may see what I do, but you do not see what I know. And for you, my friend—pray to know!—there can be no mistakes in the advice that comes from heaven."

There was a minute's silence, till they came to a turning.

"I'd be glad to see you," said Mr. Simlins in a somewhat lowered tone,—"ary one of you—down to my house, any time. You can take care of her the rest of the way. Good night!"—

He turned off abruptly down a road that led his way.

They had been walking with slackened steps during this conversation, and the lingering memory of it still checked the pace of the two now left together:

"Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,   They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,"

had all retreated. And when Mr. Linden spoke, it was not in his own words.

"'I thank thee, uncreated Sun,
That thy bright beams on me have shined!
I thank thee, who hast overthrown
My foes, and healed my wounded mind!
I thank thee, whose enlivening voice
Bids my freed heart in thee rejoice!

"'Thee will I love, my joy, my crown!
Thee will I love, my Lord, my God!
Thee will I love—beneath thy frown