Faith met them sometimes as she went about her charitable errands among the cottages; she would turn a little pale and pass on somewhat hurriedly. Dr. Stewart never stopped her on these occasions; he would go on with his talk, casting shrewd kindly glances under the girl's shady straw hat. Poor Faith would look at them wistfully, with a shy, deprecating smile; she would have a certain sinking of heart for hours afterwards. "He admires her, I knew he would," she would say to herself a little sadly. Poor Miss Faith! it may be doubted if this revival of an old intimacy were a source of unalloyed pleasure. True, the changeless monotony of her days was broken up; but the new interest and excitement had their draw-backs. Time, after its usual kindly fashion, had to a certain extent healed her wound; the passionate yearning of ten years ago had merged into sad serenity. Faith treasured the remembrance of those few fleeting months, as women will treasure their one romance; those unfinished hopes and fears were buried tenderly in her breast. She had ceased to suffer, but she had not ceased to remember; the sacred impression had stamped her whole life. And now, when the freshness of youth had passed, she had met her ideal again; but was the girl's ideal likely to be the woman's reality? did she fully recognize in Dr. Stewart the dark young surgeon in that Carlisle hospital, whose soft looks and words had won her heart? Faith winced secretly at these questions, as she did at Dr. Stewart's brusque remarks. His experience, his knowledge of the world, his laxity and breadth of church views, daunted the simple woman; once or twice his roughness of argument hurt her. "Ah, I am a poor creature!" she said to him once. "I am not one of the clever ones, like you and Cara." "No; you are only so so, Miss Faith; your knowledge of the world is not in any way remarkable; you are not one of the strong-minded women," with a little dry chuckle, with which he would conclude his remarks. But, though he hurt and disappointed her, there were times when a sudden softening of voice or look brought back the past with strange vividness. Now and then he let fall a word that showed that he too had not forgotten, some chance allusion to old scenes, some memory of her tastes. "Ah, you used to like this, Miss Faith," or some such speech, that brought a flush of pleasure to her face. Dr. Stewart looked very benign as he glanced at the homely group before him on the afternoon in question. "This is better than twenty feet by eighteen of stuffiness," he said in his concise way.