Say and Seal, Volume I

"Nay, you may choose: sense is of universal application."

"If I should say what was uppermost," said Faith, "it would be, How very pleasant what we are doing now, is!"

"Which part?"

"Both parts!—Every part! One makes the other more pleasant." AndFaith's happy face looked so.

"Very sensible words!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "I agree to them perfectly,—which is, you know, in every mind, the great test of sense. The picture, Miss Faith, we have before us."

"Yes,—isn't it lovely to-day, Mr. Linden? and hasn't it been lovely ever since we set out? Except that broken harness—and I don't think that has hurt anything, either."

"No, I am not sure that even the harness was much the worse. And 'it' has been very lovely. As for the poem, Miss Faith, you cannot be trusted with that—and must resign yourself to hearing it read. What shall it be?"

"I don't know," said Faith. "I know hardly any poetry, Mr. Linden, except what I have heard you read. Will you read some, perhaps, this evening?"

"Yes—every evening, if you like,—if we are to follow Göthe's rule.Just before tea is a good time, don't you think so?"

"Yes indeed!" said Faith, whose colour rose from pure pleasure, as her thought went back to L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. "I don't think there is any time pleasanter for it. But they're all pleasant—I've dropped my whip, Mr. Linden!"—

"I will get it for you," he said checking his horse, "if you will promise not to run away! I am afraid of your 'enterprising' spirit, Miss Faith."

But her look at him was a little touched and deprecating. They turned their horses together and went back a few steps. There was no trouble in finding the whip, for just where it had been dropped, a boy stood holding it on high for Faith's acceptance The boy was Phil Davids.

"Thank you, Phil!" said Faith, surprised and grateful.

"I see it go out of your hand," said Phil.

"Yes," said. Mr. Linden—whose smile and word of thanks had accompanied Faith's,—"Phil has singularly quick eyes. They have done me good service before."

As they turned again, Farmer Davids stood at their horses' heads. They were just at the farmer's door, and he so entreated them to come 'in and rest,' that there was no refusing his hospitality. It was large, and various—Pumpkin pies and cider, and much pouring forth of gratitude and admiration for Mr. Linden's success with Phil.

"What have you done to that fellow?" his father remarked admiringly to Mr. Linden. "You never see such an alteration in a boy. He used—oncet—to talk hard words agin you, sir;—you won't mind hearing it now; but he's come all about, and lately there's nothing to Phil's mind can equal up to Mr. Linden. He don't say much about it, sir, but it's evident. And he's been at me and his mother this fortnight or two, to give him something to make a present to you—the boys do, he says; and he wants the best thing on the farm should go, and so do I, sir, if we knowed oncet what would be most favourable. It would be a kindness, sir, as I should be grateful for,—if you'd say what would do you most service or be most pleasure—of anything that is on the farm;—fruit or vegetables or dairy. We're plain folks, sir; I say what I mean. Take some pie, Mr. Linden!—some cider, sir?"

Answering these various questions and demands as best he might, Mr. Linden contrived to convince Mr. Davids that Phil himself was the thing "on the farm" that he cared most about; and his goodwill, better than any special manifestation thereof; giving at the same time full and grateful thanks for the other things that had come to him when he was ill.

"Yes," said Mr. Davids, smiling one of his grim and rare smiles,—"all that don't help our difficulty, you see. Well, Phil and I'll have to put our heads together. But there's one person can send nothing that will tell half his good feelings of gratefulness to you,—and that's me." And a very unwonted softening of the stern man's eye and brow shewed that he spoke a gentle truth.

Kind words answered him,—words of personal kindness and interest, and deep pleasure too; but Mr. Davids knew it was a pleasure, an interest, a kindness, that had each (like Samuel Rutherford's hope) "a face looking straight out unto that day!"

Truly, "a city that is set on an hill, cannot be hid!"

And the farmer felt it, and his manner softened, and his interest grew more wistful and intent with every minute they stayed.

Faith was on horseback and Mr. Linden about to follow, when FarmerDavids arrested him with a low remark and question.

"She's a fine-faced girl—looks as her father needn't ha' been ashamed of her. Looks good—like he did. Is she going to marry the son of Judge Harrison, sir?"

"Dr. Harrison has told me nothing of the kind."

"I heerd it"—said the farmer. "I didn't know nothing, how it might be. Good day, sir! I hope you'll come again." And they trotted off at last, with again the renewed feeling of liberty and pleasure of motion. But the sun had descended perceptibly nearer to the horizon than he was when they dismounted. However there was nothing to do but to ride, for the proposed route was a circuit and they were passed the first half of the way already.

"That was good, Mr. Linden," said Faith.

"Which part of it this time?"

"I don't mean the pumpkin pie and the cider," she said smiling.

"Do you feel rested?"

"Oh yes! Rested and tired too. At least, quite ready to move on again."

"Yes, so am I. But do you know Göthe left out one very important item in his daily directions?"

"What was that?"

"One should, if possible, every day give some one else a little pleasure."

"Yes!" said Faith. "And it's so true, and so easy. How much you gave there just now, Mr. Linden!"

"It was rather of their taking than my giving. But Miss Faith,

—'How necessary is it now-a-days,
That each body live uprightly in all manner ways?'"

"Yes, Mr. Linden! What are you thinking of?"

"Just that—" he said smiling. "A thought of the darkness makes one want to trim the lights. Did you ever notice, Miss Faith, that many things which were written in a mere worldly sense, will bear a very sweet Christian application? Take this for instance:—

'Thus would I double my life's fading space,
For he who runs it well, runs twice his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,
But boldly say each night,—
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them;
I have lived to-day.'"

She listened with a bright face at first; then as the quotation was ended her face flushed, she turned her eyes away, and a grave look of sorrow crept over her lips. But in a little while she looked again.

"How many books do you carry about in your head, Mr. Linden?"

"If I should tell you, Miss Faith, then you would know—and then I could never delude you any more! Now we must quicken our pace, or we shall scarce get our poem before tea."

For awhile the trotting was pretty brisk, then they drew bridle again and went gently on, but now towards the setting sun, whose bright rays were caught and held by the white sails that gleamed here and there in the distance. Now they met lines of cattle, driven by some bare-footed boy or sun-bonneted girl, and ploughmen trudged along the road behind their teams. Thicker curls of smoke from wayside chimneys spoke of supper, and where a house stood in the shadow of some bit of forest, lights were already gleaming from the windows.

"How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise, and true perfection!"