"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 Or smile, thy sceptre or thy rod! What though my flesh and heart decay, Thee shall I love in endless day!'" The silence of the evening fell again unbroken. Unless a breath caught somewhat interruptedly--so gentle a break--might be said to break it. Faith said nothing, except by that caught breath. Mr. Linden's step was the only one heard. Silently then he gave her his arm, and they went on at a quicker pace. After a while Faith broke the silence. She spoke in a very quiet voice; as if choosing her words; and hesitated a little sometimes as if timidity checked her. "Mr. Linden, I want to ask you about something that troubles me--I don't know what is right. I know I know very little--I know I cannot say much or can't say it well--but I feel sometimes as if I must speak to everybody I can reach, and tell them what I do know, and beg them to be safe and happy. And then something tells me that if I do so, people will think me crazy, or be offended,--that it is not my business and I can't do it well and that I had better not try to do it at all.--Is that 'something' right or wrong?" "'Let him that heareth, say Come,'" Mr. Linden replied. "It is part of the sailing orders of every Christian to speak every other vessel that he can,--which does not mean that he should go out of his own proper course to meet them, nor that he should run them down when met." "Nor, I suppose," said Faith, "that he should trouble himself about his voice being very low or very hoarse. I thought so. Thank you, Mr. Linden." "The voice of true loving interest is generally sweet--and rarely gives offence," he said. "If people never spoke of religious things but from the love of them, there would be an end to cant and bad taste in such matters." She said no more.