"But what can I do, sir?" she cried distressfully. "Oh, you cannot imagine what a trouble it is to me!"
"I think I can; but you must not lose heart. Prayer and patience work wonders. Ask God to show your father his sin in its true light—"
"I have asked Him so often," Salome interposed, "and father gets worse instead of better. It's not as though he had an unhappy home. Oh, Mr. Amyatt, it's so dreadful for me! I never have a moment's peace of mind unless I know father is out fishing. He isn't a bad father, he doesn't mean to be unkind; but when he's been drinking, he doesn't mind what he says or does."
"Poor child," said the Vicar softly, glancing at her with great compassion.
"Do you think, if you spoke to him—" Salome began in a hesitating manner.
"I have already done so several times; but though he listened to me respectfully, I saw my words made no impression on him. I will, however, try to find a favourable opportunity for remonstrating with him again. Cheer up, my dear child. You have a very heavy cross to bear, but you have not to carry it alone, you know. God will help you, if you will let Him."
"Yes," Salome agreed, her face brightening. "I try to remember that, but, though indeed I do love God, sometimes He seems so far away."
"He is ever near, Salome. 'The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.' The everlasting arms are of unfailing strength and tenderness. See! Is not that your father coming?"
Salome assented, and watched the approaching figure with anxious scrutiny.
Josiah Petherick was a tall, strong man, in the prime of life, a picture of robust health and strength; he was brown-haired and brown-eyed, like his daughter, and his complexion was tanned to a fine brick-red hue. He liked the Vicar, though he considered him rather too quick in interfering in other people's affairs, so he smiled good-humouredly when he found him with Salome at the garden gate.