As Salome stood leaning on her crutches at the garden gate on this beautiful summer evening, her face wore a very serious expression, for she knew her father was at the "Crab and Cockle," and longed for, yet dreaded, his return. She was a small, slight girl, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a clear, brunette complexion, which was somewhat sun-burnt, for she spent most of her spare time in the open air. Having passed the requisite standard, she had left school, and now did all the work of her father's cottage unaided, besides attending to her flowers; and Josiah Petherick was wont to declare that no man in Yelton had a more capable housekeeper. The neighbours marvelled that it was so, for they had not thought the lame girl, who had been decidedly cross-grained and selfish during her mother's lifetime, would grow up so helpful; but Mrs. Petherick's death had wrought a great change in Salome, who had promised faithfully "to look after poor father" in the years to come. Salome had endeavoured to be as good as her word; but her influence over her father had not proved strong enough to keep him in the straight path; and many an evening saw him ramble home from the "Crab and Cockle" in a condition of helpless intoxication.
"Enjoying the cool breeze, Salome?"
Salome, whose wistful, brown eyes had been turned in the direction of a row of cottages at some distance, outside one of which hung a sign-board representing on its varnished surface a gigantic crab and a minute cockle, started at the sound of a voice addressing her, but smiled brightly as she saw Mr. Amyatt, the vicar of the parish. He was an elderly man, with iron-grey hair, stooping shoulders, and a thin, clean-shaven face.
Ten years previously, he had accepted the living of Yelton, when, broken down in health, he had been forced to resign his arduous duties in the large manufacturing town where he had laboured long and faithfully. And the fisher-folk had grown to love and respect him, though he never overlooked their failings or hesitated to reprove their faults.
"I am waiting for father," Salome answered frankly. "His supper is ready for him, and I am afraid it will spoil if he does not come soon. It is a beautiful evening, is it not, sir?"
"Very beautiful. I have been on the beach for the last two hours. How well your carnations are doing, Salome. Ah, they always flourish best by the sea."
"Please let me give you some," the little girl said eagerly. "Oh, I don't mind picking them in the least. I should like you to have them." And moving about with agility on her crutches, she gathered some of the choicest blooms and presented them to Mr. Amyatt.
"Thank you, Salome. They are lovely. I have none to be compared to them in the Vicarage gardens. You are a born gardener. But what is amiss, child?"
"Nothing, sir; at least, nothing more than usual. I am anxious about father." She paused for a moment, a painful blush spreading over her face, then continued, "He spends more time than ever at the 'Crab and Cockle;' he's rarely home of an evening now, and when he returns, he's sometimes so—so violent! He used not to be that."
The Vicar looked grave and sorry, He pondered the situation in silence for a few minutes ere he responded, "You must have patience, Salome; and do not reproach him, my dear. Reproaches never do any good, and it's worse than useless remonstrating with a man who is not sober."