“Your awful temper will be your ruin if you don’t put a curb-bit on it. See here, Salome, don’t be so utterly silly and childish! I do not wish you to go to the sea-shore this evening.”
“Please, Miss Jane, don’t order me to stay at home, because, then of course, I should feel bound to obey you, and I should not behave prettily, and you would wish me at the bottom of the sea, instead of on its brink. Let me go, and I will come back cool as a cucumber, and well-behaved as Miss Muriel Manton. Please don’t prohibit me; and I promise I will lose my evil spirit in the sea, like that Gergesene wretch that haunted the tombs. Here comes Stanley. Don’t shake your head. I am off.”
Miss Jane would not receive the proffered farewell kiss, but tears gathered and dimmed her eyes as she looked after the graceful, girlish figure, swiftly crossing the lawn; and 160 sad forebodings filled her affectionate heart when she thought of the unknown future that stretched before that impetuous, jealous, imperious nature.
Anxious that the strangers should feel thoroughly welcome and at home, she joined them as soon as possible after their return from the sheepfold, and exerted herself to keep the shuttlecock of conversation in constant motion; but her brother’s watchful eyes discerned the perturbed feeling she sought to hide; and, when she insisted, for the first time in two years, upon taking her seat and presiding at the tea-table, he busied himself in arranging her cushions comfortably, and whispered,—
“How good and considerate you are, my precious sister. A thousand thanks for this generous effort, which I trust will not fatigue you.”
He placed himself opposite, and was about to ask a blessing on the meal, but paused to inquire,—
“Where are the children, Salome and Stanley?”
“They have gone down to the beach, and we will not wait for them.”
Soon after, Muriel said,—
“I think Salome is almost beautiful. She has splendid eyes and hair. Miss Edith, does she not remind you of a piece of sculpture at Naples?”