Salome's burden

by Eleanora H. Stooke

"Oh, I expect she'll soon be better!" Gerald remarked confidently.

"I hope so," the lame girl replied dubiously. "But the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs."

"Does that ever kill people, Salome?"

"Yes, Master Gerald, very often."

"But Margaret won't die, will she? You don't think that, do you?"

"No one can tell—but God. We must ask Him to take care of her. Oh, Master Gerald, see what has come of your ill conduct!"

"What do you mean?" he inquired in amazement. "It isn't my fault that Margaret's ill."

"Oh, yes, indeed it is! If you had not gone down to the beach on the night of the storm, she would not have got drenched to the skin and have caught such a dreadful cold. Oh, yes, it was your fault!" And Salome looked at him severely.

His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and his rosy cheeks paled as he gasped, "Oh, I never thought—I never thought—"

"No, I don't suppose you did, Master Gerald, or if you did, it was yourself you thought of and no one else," Salome cried indignantly. "You 're the most selfish little boy I know."