Mr. Linden and the doctor now met not often; the doctor making his visits, as has been said, during school time. They met oftenest where the doctor went seldomest,--in those rooms where Dr. Harrison did sometimes let his profession call him, where Mr. Linden was drawn by somewhat beyond profession. Sometimes this intercourse was only of the eye,--sometimes they walked home together; the curious friendship between them deepening, as it seemed, from all sources. Come home when Mr. Linden would, his room looked as if somebody had just stepped out of it. The fire was always in its best beauty; the hearth guiltless of ashes; the temperature genial whatever the weather out of doors might be; the books, the papers, the table, in their wonted order or disorder, as fresh as if dust never fell. But the fairy of the place was always out of sight. CHAPTER XXXI. The 29th of November came on Wednesday, which permitted Mrs. Stoutenburgh to have her dinner at an earlier hour than would else have been possible. To this dinner the two older guests were invited--the boys were only to come to supper; and four o'clock was the time. Till near three, studies and reading were in full force, but then other duties claimed attention. "If I could only sit next you at dinner, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as he shut up the books, "we could talk French all the time!--but there is no hope of that. And Miss Faith--" he said as she turned to go upstairs, "do you know that all the things on my table are not in their proper place?" Very much wondering, Faith was for a moment at a loss. "What is wrong, Mr. Linden?" "I would not give it so harsh a name, Miss Faith--only I thought perhaps you would go in there before I come up and see that all is left just as usual,--if you would be so good." Faith went up, querying with herself whether Cindy could perhaps have been in there and committed some dire damage--or _what_ it could be. What could it!--if ever a room was scrupulously in order, that was; and the table--it had not been stirred, nor a book upon it, since Faith's arranging hands had been there. Even writing implements were not laid about, as they often were,--the table was just as usual. Unless---- Yes, in front of the books stood a glass of water, and therein one dark velvet rose, truly of a "Cramoisi supérieure," failing to support itself upon its own green leaves, laid its face half coquettishly and half wearily upon dark sprigs of heliotrope and myrtle. Thence it looked at Faith. And Faith looked at it, with a curious smile of recognition, and yet of doubt,--whether _that_ could possibly be what he meant. But she was to see that all things were "left just as usual;" it did not admit of a serious question. So lifting the glass and the rose, Faith and it went off together.