In a moment, Salome read his thoughts, and cried involuntarily, "Oh, father, not to-night! Not to-night!"
"What do you mean, child?" he asked with a decided show of displeasure in face and tone.
"I mean, I want you to stay at home with me to-night, father! Do, dear father, to please me! I—I can't bear to see you as—as you are sometimes when you come back from the 'Crab and Cockle'! Oh, father, if you would only give up the drink how happy we should be!"
"How foolishly you talk!" he cried irritably. "It is not seemly for a child to dictate to her father!"
"Oh, father, I mean no harm! You know I love you dearly! It's supper time. Aren't you hungry? I'm sure I am."
Josiah admitted he was, too, and followed his daughter into the cottage. He did not leave it again that night, for his good angel proved too strong for him; and when he kissed his little daughter at bedtime, his manner was unusually gentle, whilst the words he uttered sent her to rest with a very happy heart: "God bless you, child! I don't know what I should be but for you, Salome. You grow more like your dear mother every day you live."
[CHAPTER III.]
The Fowlers at Home.
"PULL down the blind, Margaret. The sun is streaming right into my eyes."
The speaker, Mrs. Fowler, was lying on a sofa in the handsomely furnished drawing-room at Greystone. She was a young-looking, very pretty woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; and she was most fashionably dressed. One would have thought her possessed of everything that heart could desire, but the lines of her face were discontented ones, and the tone of her voice was decidedly fretful. The only occupant of the room besides herself was her little daughter, who put down the book she had been reading, and going to the window, obediently lowered the blind.