"Oh, yes," Salome replied. She had never been inside the doors of Greystone in her life, though she had often desired to see what the house was like, having been told it was a fine place.
"Then that is settled. I shall expect you."
Mrs. Fowler nodded and turned away, followed by Miss Conway, and Margaret who looked back to wave her hand in farewell as she disappeared through the churchyard gate. The Vicar accompanied them thus far, then turned back to speak a few words to Salome. The village lad who had been employed to blow the organ had taken a short cut homewards over the low wall.
"You sang remarkably well to-night," Mr. Amyatt said, "I felt quite proud of my pupil. You showed excellent taste, too, in the hymn you chose. It was most suitable for the occasion. I wonder if you know the circumstances under which that hymn came to be written?"
"No," Salome rejoined, shaking her head, "I don't know, sir."
"Then I will tell you. It was composed more than fifty years ago by a sick clergyman of the name of Lyte, at a little fishing town called Brixham, in South Devon. He had become so seriously ill that the doctors had ordered him abroad for his health's sake, and, after service on the Sunday evening, prior to his leaving England, he went down to the sea-shore, sad at heart, for he was convinced that he had spoken to his parishioners, who were very dear to him, for the last time. He was sorrowful and low-spirited, but, by-and-by, the remembrance that his Saviour was ever near to help and sustain him brought him consolation. After watching the sunset, he went home, and immediately wrote the beautiful hymn you sang to-night."
Salome had listened with deep interest, and she exclaimed earnestly: "Oh, Mr. Amyatt, I am glad you have told me this. I shall love 'Abide with Me' better than ever now."
The Vicar smiled, then pointed towards the sea, over which a soft summer mist was creeping.
"It is time for you to go home," he reminded her. "Where is your father this evening?"
"At the 'Crab and Cockle,' sir."