Salome's burden

by Eleanora H. Stooke

Salome assented. She liked Mrs. Fowler, who had always been very kind to her, and admired her as much as she had ever done; she considered her the nicest, prettiest lady she knew.

So one afternoon, a few days later, found the lame girl entering the Greystone grounds. She approached the house slowly, marking the havoc the late gales had worked, and went around to the back door, where she inquired of the servant who opened it in response to her knock, if Mrs. Fowler was at home. She was answered in the affirmative, and invited into the big, front kitchen to wait, whilst it was ascertained if the mistress was disengaged at present.

"Sit down, my dear," said the cook—a stout, middle-aged woman, with a round, red face, and a pair of sharp though not unkindly eyes. "There, take that easy-chair and rest yourself; maybe the pull up the hill has tired you."

She fetched a glass of milk and a big slice of cake, which she placed before her visitor. "You'll be better after a little refreshment," she added. "I know the mistress would wish you to have it."

"Oh, thank you!" Salome replied gratefully, flushing with pleasure, for she had had a scanty dinner. She drank the milk and ate the cake, and did certainly feel better afterwards.

"Miss Margaret's out," the cook remarked. "She's gone for a walk with Miss Conway and Master Gerald. But I daresay, she'll be back before long. She'd be sorry to miss you, my dear, for you're a rare favourite of hers, I can tell you."

Salome smiled happily, as she replied, "I am so glad to hear you say that, for I love her dearly. I expect you're very fond of her yourself, aren't you?"

"I believe she's a general favourite—but no, I'm wrong there. There's one in the house who doesn't appreciate her, and that's her own mother. Yes, you may well look surprised, but I assure you it's true. Mrs. Fowler doesn't make half as much of Miss Margaret as she does of Master Gerald—tiresome boy that he is. She wanted to take him to town with her, if you please, but the master won't allow that. I heard them talking about it in the garden. 'We'll take Margaret, if you like,' he said. 'No,' said she, 'I don't want Margaret.' She never does want her, and that's the fact, and yet, I believe there's not anything Miss Margaret would not do for her."

The cook, who was an extremely garrulous person, paused breathlessly for a few moments, then proceeded: "And such a pretty, nice-mannered little girl Miss Margaret is too. I declare it's a shame her own mother shouldn't love her more. It puzzles me, that it does, why it should be so."

Salome had listened in pain and surprise, wondering if this accounted for the sad expression which she had so often noticed on Margaret's pretty face. Was this the trouble that could not be told?