Faith's face glowed as she listened, at the nobleness of these two; of the generous, Christian gentleman--of the coarse workman, who wore his nature, like his garb--the worse part of an everyday. Fire and loss are not all calamity, when such as this comes of them. Her own recital was soon finished. Mr. Rushleigh listened, giving his whole sympathy to the danger she had faced, his fresh and fervent acknowledgment and admiring praise to the prompt daring she had shown, as if these things, and naught else, had been in either mind. At these thanks--at this praise--Faith shrank. "Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" she interrupted, with a low, pained, humbled entreaty--"don't speak so! Only forgive me--if you can!" Her hands lifted themselves with a slight, imploring gesture toward him. He laid his own upon them, gently, soothingly. "I will not have you trouble or reproach yourself, Faith," he answered, meeting her meaning, frankly, now. "There are things beyond our control. All we can do is to be simply true. There is something, I know, which you think lies between us to be spoken of. Do not speak at all, if it be hard for you. I will tell the boy that it was a mistake--that it cannot be." But the father's lip was a little unsteady, to his own feeling, as he said the words. "Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" cried Faith. "If everything could only be put back as it was, in the old days before all this!" "But that is what we can't do. Nothing goes back precisely to what it was before." "No," said Aunt Faith, from her sofa. "And never did, since the days of Humpty Dumpty. You might be glad to, but you can't do it. Things must just be made the best of, as they are. And they're never just alike, two minutes together. They're altering, and working, and going on, all the time. And that's a comfort, too, when you come to think of it." "There is always comfort, somehow, when there has been no willful wrong. And there has been none here, I am sure." Faith, with the half smile yet upon her face, called there by her aunt's quaint speaking, bent her head, and burst into tears. "I came to reassure and to thank you, Faith--not to let you distress yourself so," said Mr. Rushleigh. "Margaret sent all kind messages; but I would not bring her. I thought it would be too much for you, so soon. Another day, she will come. We shall always claim old friendship, my child, and remember our new debt; though the old days themselves cannot quite be brought back again as they were. There may be better days, though, even, by and by." "Let Margaret know, before she comes, please," whispered Faith. "I don't think I could tell her." "You shall not have a moment of trial that I can spare you. But--Paul will be content with nothing, as a final word, that does not come from you." "I will see him when he comes. I wish it. Oh, sir! I am so sorry." "And so am I, Faith. We must all be sorry. But we are _only_ sorry. And that is all that need be said."