"I think you must be Salome Petherick?" she said. "Yes, I am sure you are!"
"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, accompanied by a shy glance of pleasure.
"My little girl has spoken of you so often that I seem to know you quite well," Mrs. Fowler remarked. "Come and sit down on the wall by my side, I want to talk to you."
Then as Salome complied willingly, she continued, "Does it not tire you to climb here every evening, as they tell me you do, to listen to the organ? The church is a good step from where you live. That is your home, is it not?" and she indicated the cottage nearest to the sea.
"Yes," Salome assented, "it does tire me a little to come up the hill, but I love to hear music. After Miss Margaret has had her organ lesson, Miss Conway generally plays something herself."
"Does she? Then I hope she will do so to-night. But my little daughter is still at the organ, so we will remain where we are until she has finished. Meanwhile we will talk. They tell me you live with your father, and that he is often away fishing. You must lead a lonely life."
"Yes, ma'am, indeed it is very lonely sometimes," Salome acknowledged, "but I don't mind that much. I have plenty to do, keeping the cottage clean and tidy, and preparing father's meals, mending his clothes, and seeing to the flowers in the garden."
"How busy you must be. And you have lost your mother, poor child."
Salome pointed to a green mound at a little distance, whilst her brown eyes filled with tears.
"She was such a good mother," she said softly, "oh, such a very good mother! And I was such a fretful, tiresome child. I used to grieve her so often, and I can't bear to think of it now."