Salome's burden

by Eleanora H. Stooke

"You did not take it?" the governess interposed hastily.

"Oh, no!" A painful blush rose to Margaret's cheeks as she remembered that her mother had not declined the same offer. "Mrs. Lute said total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people," she added.

"She is quite right," was the grave response.

There was silence for a few minutes. Miss Conway was asking herself what was the reason of her pupil's evident confusion, and Margaret was hoping she would not be questioned as to its cause.

"I have been a teetotaler all my life," Miss Conway proceeded presently. "My father had a great horror of drink because his own father had been a drunkard, and he had suffered much on that account. It is sad to think that there is scarcely a family that does not possess at least one member given over to the vice of drinking to excess. Oh, Margaret! Mr. Fowler was right when he laid down the rule that no intoxicants should be brought into his house."

"I am sure he was right," Margaret agreed heartily, "though everyone does not think so. Mother calls it a fad—"

"Did your mother—" The governess hesitated momentarily, scarcely knowing how to put the question which trembled on her lips. "Perhaps you will think I have no right to ask you," she continued hastily, "but, believe me, Margaret, it is no idle curiosity which prompts me. Did your mother have any wine at Mrs. Lute's yesterday?"

Margaret nodded gravely, observing her companion anxiously in order to read by her countenance what she thought. She was prepared to see her exhibit surprise, and perhaps disapproval, but Miss Conway appeared absolutely frightened, and her very lips turned white. She made no remark in response however, but when she kissed her pupil ere they separated for the night, there was marked tenderness in her manner and in her voice as she said, "God bless you, dear Margaret. You look tired out yourself. Try to have a good night's rest."

The little girl was very sleepy, so, almost as soon as her head was on the pillow, she was in the land of dreams. But such unhappy, disturbing dreams they were. She imagined her mother was very ill, and that her father could not be sent for, because no one knew his address, and that she was in terrible grief and perplexity. At length, frightened and shaking in every limb, she awoke, and sprang out of bed with a shriek. The conviction was strong upon her that something was wrong with her mother, and she felt compelled to go and ascertain what was amiss. Lighting a candle, she took it up and hurried to Mrs. Fowler's room. A sigh of deep thankfulness escaped her lips as she found everything quiet there. Softly she stole to the bedside and saw her mother lying asleep, one hand beneath her cheek, her fair hair strewn over the pillow. Margaret thought how pretty she looked, and carefully shaded the candle with her hand as she gazed at the sleeper with love and admiration in her glance; but it would have taken more than the feeble rays of the candle to awaken Mrs. Fowler from that deep, dreamless sleep.

Margaret would have liked to have kissed her mother's flushed cheek, but feared to disturb her; so she contented herself with pressing her lips to the soft, white hand which lay outside the counterpane, then stole back to her own room as quietly as she had left it, and after putting out the candle crept back to bed. She felt she could rest with an easy mind now, and was no longer disturbed by distressing dreams.