"You, Salome! My dear," said her mother sadly, "what could you do?"

"Take care of the boys; teach the little ones; save the expense of a governess; help you to do without so many servants," Salome said promptly.

"Ah, Salome, we shall want no servants, for we shall have no home. Maplestone must be sold, and all the dear old pictures;—but I must not go over this part of it. Mr. Stone happened to meet your father in Fairchester, and thought him looking so ill that he brought him home. He told me he was very anxious about him, and I was by no means to allow him to go back to Fairchester to-day. I heard him order the dog-cart round at three o'clock, and he ought not to go; yet how can I stop him?"

"May I go and see father?" Salome asked. "I will be very quiet, and not worry him."

"I hardly know. He said none of the children were to be told to-day—that I was to keep the trouble from you; that is why I dared not come in to luncheon. And the De Brettes and Fergusons dine here to-night. They ought to be put off; but he won't hear of it. Miss Barnes saw Mr. Stone leading your father across the hall. I was obliged to tell her about it; but she said she would keep it from the children."

"I am not a child now, mother," Salome said; "I am nearly sixteen. Somehow," and her voice faltered—"somehow I don't feel as if I should ever be a child any more if—If you come upstairs and lie down in your sitting-room, I will go and see father, and try to persuade him not to go to Fairchester. Now, mother."

For the first time in her life Salome felt that she must think for others as well as for herself. It was a sudden awakening. Long years after, she recalled that last dreamy noon-tide by the little lake, and all her visions and illusions: the fairy web of youthful weaving, which some of us remember, was so delicious and so sweet. Now, when she had drawn down the venetian blinds and left her mother to rest, if rest were possible, she paused before she could summon courage to turn to the library and see the father she so dearly loved in his sore trouble.


CHAPTER II.