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"He could at least glance over his children before they went to church and see that they were quite properly clothed. I'm tired making excuses for him, believe ME." Meanwhile, Faith's soul was being harrowed up in Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there and, as usual, in a lecturing mood.
"Because I want to get hold of the treasure discovered by the help of the Mosaical rods in Saint Faith's, which by right belonged to my husband, and which is now in Mr. Quatremain's possession," replied Judith. "I understand," nodded Chowles. While they were thus conversing, Nizza Macascree again returned, and informed them that she could not find her father.
When the children were little, their tempers often showed themselves on Sunday as well as on other mornings, but patience overcomes many obstacles, and Aunt Faith's unvarying effort had been so far crowned with success, that as they grew older, they grew to remember and even love the brightness of the Sunday morning breakfast-table.
"I've been getting married," she said with sudden boldness. "Married? A kid like you!" Peg stared. "Well," she said then bluntly, "I only hope he's some decent chap and not like the rotten sort you were having tea with the other day when I saw you." The colour died from Faith's cheeks, her heartbeats slowed down sickeningly. "What what do you mean?" she faltered.
E. F. Benson The little village of St. Faith's nestles in a hollow of wooded hill up on the north bank of the river Fawn in the county of Hampshire huddling close round its gray Norman church as if for spiritual protection against the fays and fairies, the trolls and "little people," who might be supposed still to linger in the vast empty spaces of the New Forest, and to come after dusk and do their doubtful businesses.
It is hard for little ones to get all the lines of relationship, and this being Faith's true home it seemed as if her right must be best. But now they are at peace and will be pleasant enough on the morrow. They did nothing worthy of punishment." Faith was glad enough of the chance to escape, for she had already smarted from the rod in the resolute hands of her aunt.
He could hear nothing, except the peals of thunder rolling through the valleys. He took a candle, and walked cautiously to the door of Faith's chamber, to see if she were asleep. The door was ajar, for the purpose of ventilation, and, shading the light with his hand, Armstrong could see the face of his sleeping daughter without waking her.
And what has sustained the spirits, animated the hopes, and filled with exulting joy, the confessors, witnesses and martyrs of Jesus, but faith's realizing views of the King in his beauty, and the glories of Immanuel's land? For this peculiarity the disciples of Christ have been as speckled birds, men wondered at, in all generations.
How shall the bottomless pit, if we fall into it, be a pathway to the everlasting rock? David tells us, "Out of the deep have I cried unto Thee, O God." He cried to God not to himself, his own learning, prudence, talents to pull him out of that pit. Not to doctrines, books, church-goings not to the dearest earthly friend not to his own experiences, faith's assurances, frames and feelings.
And then, sighing as the thought of her aunt came into her head, she went off to find her and bring her down. Fleda's brow was sobered, and her spirits were in a flutter that was not all of happiness, and that threatened not to settle down quietly. But as she went slowly up the stairs, faith's hand was laid, even as her own grasped the balusters, on the promise
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