"It was foolish to remonstrate with a drunken man," Mr. Amyatt had answered. "Had you spoken to him in his sober moments, your words might have had a very different effect. Where is Josiah now?"
"Gone home, swearing vengeance against me, sir. My great fear is, that he'll do some harm to poor Salome."
That had been the Vicar's fear, too. So, instead of going straight to the Vicarage as he had intended, he had retraced his footsteps to the Pethericks' cottage, and now stood waiting for admittance at the door.
As no one answered his knock, he rapped louder and listened. For a few moments there was silence; then came the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps, and Josiah opened the door and demanded hoarsely who was there.
"It is I, Petherick," the Vicar answered, stepping uninvited across the threshold.
"Where is your daughter?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon the fisherman, who stood staring at him in a dazed fashion.
Receiving no reply, he turned into the kitchen, an exclamation of horror and dismay breaking from his lips, as he caught sight of the small, slight figure of the lame girl lying near the fireplace. Very tenderly, he lifted her and placed her in the one easy-chair in the room, calling to Josiah to bring some water immediately.
"Water!" questioned Josiah stupidly. "What for? She's dead. She's been dead this half-hour or more; but I haven't dared touch her. Salome, Salome! I've killed you, my poor maid! Your own father's killed you, Salome;" and flinging himself on his knees at his daughter's side, Josiah wept like a child.
"Don't be foolish, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said sternly. He had been feeling Salome's pulse, and had ascertained that it beat, though feebly. "She's not dead, but she has fainted. Come, be a man. Pull yourself together, and fetch some water at once."
"Not dead," Josiah cried excitedly. "Are you sure? Then, God be thanked for that!" He rose from his knees, and went into the yard, returning in a few seconds with a basin of water.