"And I little thought when I first saw you leaning over the garden gate, Salome, how much you would do for me."
"I!" cried the lame girl, opening her dark eyes wide in astonishment. "Why, I've done nothing, I've had no opportunity—"
"Ah, you don't know all! I've learnt a great deal from you, I have indeed, though you mayn't know it—a great deal besides knitting," Margaret said with a smile. "It was you who taught me, by your self-sacrificing love for your father, what love ought to be—faithful and long-suffering. That was a lesson I never learnt till I met you."
Salome looked earnestly at her companion's expressive face, and was emboldened to put a question that had trembled on her lips many times of late:
"That trouble you spoke to me about, Miss Margaret—is it gone?"
Margaret nodded in silence.
"I'm so glad," said Salome, simply.
"Do you remember Mrs. Lute, the lady who stayed with us at Greystone last summer?" Margaret questioned presently. "Yes. Well, we are expecting her to visit us again. And mother says she hopes your father will be able to take us out boating frequently, because Mrs. Lute is so fond of being on the water. And mother feels safer with your father than with anyone else, because he knows the coast so well. You know, mother is still a little nervous at times."
"But she is wonderfully better, isn't she?"
"Oh, yes. Look! Surely I see Miss Conway and Gerald talking to your father on the beach. When they pass here, I'll join them, and we can walk home together."