She practised for an hour, then dismissed the boy who had blown the organ for her, and was leaving the church when she caught sight of a small figure huddled up in a corner of a pew near the west door. It was Salome.
"Is it you, Salome?" Margaret cried, hastening to her side, and laying her hand tenderly upon her shoulder. The lame girl lifted her bowed head, and in the dim light, Margaret saw she had been weeping, though there were no tears in her brown eyes now, and her lips were curved in a smile.
"I've been asleep," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go without speaking to me, Miss Margaret. I came in whilst you were practising, and I was tired. I—I had little rest last night."
"I know—I've heard," Margaret returned hurriedly, as the other paused in confusion.
"Have you, miss? I'm glad of that, for now I shan't have to tell you, and I'd rather not talk of it."
"Of course you would rather not."
"I was tired," Salome proceeded; "so tired and worn out, that I couldn't help crying. My poor legs ached so—but oh! not so badly as my heart. The pain here—" clasping her hands against her breast—"was almost more than I could bear. Then I fell asleep, and I was dreaming when you awoke me."
"I hope it was a pleasant dream," Margaret said softly.
"Oh, very pleasant! I thought it was evening time—getting almost dark as it is now—and service was going on in the church. I could hear father's voice singing with the choir. You can't imagine what a deep, beautiful voice father has, Miss Margaret. I was listening to it when you awoke me. But I'm glad you happened to catch sight of me, though you did disturb my dream. Is anything wrong, miss?" And the lame girl's brown eyes peered anxiously at her companion.
"I am not happy," Margaret confessed with a sigh.