"That God made me lame for some good purpose. I think myself He did it because I should stay at home, and keep house for father," Salome said simply. "Perhaps if I was able to get about like other people, I might neglect father, and be tempted—"
She had been about to say "be tempted to leave him," but had stopped suddenly, remembering that the strangers knew nothing of her father; and she earnestly hoped they would never understand how miserable he made her at times.
"As it is," she proceeded, "I do all the housework—I can take as long as I please about it, you know—and I attend to my flowers besides."
"And have you always lived here?" Margaret asked.
"Yes, miss, I was born in this cottage."
"Doesn't the sea make you mournful in the winter?"
"Oh, no! It's grand then, sometimes. The waves look like great mountains of foam. This is a very wild coast."
"So I have heard," Miss Conway replied. "I should like to see a storm, if no ship was in danger. I suppose you never saw a wreck?"
"Yes," said Salome with a shudder; "only last autumn a coasting vessel ran ashore on the rocks, and the crew was lost. You will notice in the churchyard many graves of people who have been drowned."
"We have always lived in London until now," Margaret explained, "so we shall find life in the country a great change. I don't know that I shall dislike it during the summer, and Gerald is simply delighted with the beach; I expect he'll insist on going there every day, so you'll often see us passing here. Gerald generally gets his own way, doesn't he, Miss Conway?"