SORROW AND SIGHING.
TO Salome's great relief, she remembered there were no school-room lessons that afternoon. Miss Barnes had to take Ada into Fairchester in the pony-carriage for a music lesson. Carl and Hans were full of their birthday party, and had possessed themselves of a heap of decayed finery, which they were sorting in their spacious old nursery. Raymond had taken Captain, and Salome saw him trotting quickly down the drive, from the staircase window when she passed on her way to the library. She saw Reginald, too, lingering about on the lawn, and at last stretch himself full length under a spreading cedar, with his cap tilted over his eyes, and Puck, a little white dog, lying near him. She wished she could only tell Reginald. It was better Ada should not know; but Reginald was so different. Reginald lying there so unconscious of coming trouble; Raymond riding off on the very horse which had been forbidden; the little pony-carriage wheeling away to Fairchester, Ada whipping up the fat gray pony, and turning out on the road with a grand flourish; Carl and Hans singing over their wreaths of faded flowers, worn by their mother in young, happy days; nurse's voice in occasional remonstrance; and the loud singing of a canary,—all these sounds and sights told of life at Maplestone going on as it had done for so long, and only she—Salome—knew that all things were on the very brink of change. There, as she stood thus thinking, some words came to her soul in that strange, mysterious way which all of us, young and old, must have recognized sometimes as coming from some One higher and holier than ourselves—"With God is no variableness, neither shadow of turning;" and then, as if in answer to all her day-dreams, there came the memory of other words, left as a beacon pointing heavenward to all young hearts,—
"Be good, dear maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble deeds, nor dream them all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever
One grand sweet song."
"I want to do what is right," she sighed. "I want to help them,—father, and all of them,—but oh, I must pray God to help me and make me patient!" Then, with a quiet, slow step she went to the library door and tapped gently. There was no answer. Then Salome opened the door and went in.
Her father was sitting in his arm-chair, with his back turned towards her. Salome went up to him and touched his arm.
"Papa."
Mr. Wilton turned his face towards her at last, and said, almost roughly,—
"What do you want, Salome?"
"Mother has told me all, and I am come to tell you how I love you, and I will try to help you, if I can."
"My dear—my dear child," Mr. Wilton said, "no one can help me now; I am ruined! But your mother promised not to tell you. You might as well have had another night of peace,—just as well. I told her to keep it from the children."