"Do you? I'm glad to hear you say that. Father always means to do right, I am sure. He is a teetotaler himself, you know, and so are we all, for that matter."
At this point in the conversation the garden gate clicked, and Josiah strode up the path and hurried past the little girls into the cottage. His bronzed face was crimson; and he walked somewhat unsteadily; but he was sufficiently sober to realise that his wisest plan was to take no notice of his little daughter's visitor.
Pitying Salome from the depths of her heart, Margaret rose, saying it was time for her to go home. The lame girl followed her silently to the garden gate, where they stood for a few minutes talking.
"You'll be sure to come to-morrow, won't you?" Margaret said earnestly.
"Yes, miss," was the grave reply, "if I possibly can; I hope nothing will prevent it, but—you see how it is with him sometimes," and she pointed towards the cottage.
"Yes," Margaret admitted. "Oh, I'm so sorry! He must be a terrible trial for you. May God help you, Salome."
"He does help me," the lame girl replied, "I couldn't bear it alone. Oh, how I wish my father was a teetotaler like yours."
"I wish so, too."
"I had hoped you would never find out about my poor father being a drinker, but I might have known that sooner or later you would learn the truth. Oh, miss, don't, please don't think, he's altogether a bad man. He isn't! When he's sober, there's not a kinder or better man in the world. But when the drink gets hold of him, he isn't himself at all." And Salome laid her head on the top rail of the gate and sobbed heartbrokenly.
"Oh, don't cry so!" Margaret said imploringly, her own eyes full of tears. "Oh, perhaps he'll give up the drink some day."