She paused, but, encouraged by the sympathy on her companion's face, she continued, "She used to be so patient with me when I was naughty and grumbled because I was not able to run about and play like other children. And, until she lay dying, I never thought how sorry I must have made her, and what a selfish girl I'd been. Then, I would have given anything if I'd been different, but it was too late." And the repentant tears streamed down Salome's cheeks.
"Don't grieve," said Mrs. Fowler, a little huskily, for she was much touched at the other's evident remorse.
"I am sure Miss Margaret never treated you, ma'am, as I used to treat my mother!" Salome exclaimed.
Mrs. Fowler was silent as she acknowledged to herself that Margaret had always been patient and considerate when she had been an exacting invalid.
"I suppose your father is out in his fishing boat?" she asked by way of changing the conversation.
"No, ma'am," Salome replied, the look of grief deepening on her face.
"Let us go into the church and hear Miss Conway play," Mrs. Fowler said, rising as she spoke. "I hear Margaret's lesson is at an end. Ah, here comes the Vicar. How do you do, Mr. Amyatt?"
"I am glad to see you are better, Mrs. Fowler," the Vicar exclaimed. "What, you here, Salome? Don't go away; I want Mrs. Fowler to hear you sing."
Salome smiled, and blushed. She followed the others into the church and seated herself in a pew near the door, whilst the Vicar pointed out beauties in the architecture of the building to his companion, which she had failed to notice. Miss Conway was at the organ, playing "The Heavens are telling," and when the last notes died away the Vicar beckoned to Salome, who swung herself up the aisle on her crutches, and, at his request, consented to sing.
"I will play the accompaniment," Miss Conway said, smiling encouragingly at the lame girl, who felt a little shy at being called upon to sing alone. "What shall it be?" she inquired.