"Mrs. Fowler is not ill again?" Salome questioned in concerned tones.
"No, no; she is perfectly well. We have an old friend visiting us, and that makes it pleasant for mother."
"I saw a strange lady in church with you on Sunday, miss; and father took her out in his boat with Mrs. Fowler. She treated him very handsomely, he said; but I wish she hadn't."
"Why?" Margaret asked in surprise.
"Because he spent the money she gave him in drink at the public-house, and that was the beginning of the trouble last night. There, I didn't mean to talk of it, but, naturally, it's uppermost in my mind."
"Of course it is. Did you—did you get wet last night?"
"Dripping to the skin," Salome admitted. "But Mrs. Moyle—God bless her!—took me in and gave me dry clothes, and a bed too. But oh, I couldn't sleep for wondering what father was up to at home. You can never be certain what a drunken body will not do. How selfish I am, though, to talk so much of myself. Won't you tell me what troubles you, Miss Margaret?"
"No, Salome, I can't," was the low response. "It's something I can never speak of."
"Then try not to think too much about it, miss," the lame girl advised. "If I were you, I'd tell my trouble to God, and leave it to Him. That's what I do with mine."
"By your trouble, you mean your father?" Margaret inquired diffidently.