Stevens straightened her cap, and pulled down her white apron, and said breathlessly,—
"What a boy it is! But I would sooner, fifty times over, have a bright happy nature like his, than one that can only mope and look miserable."
"I am miserable," said poor Salome, "so I can't help looking miserable."
"Well, there's many that are worse off than you, my dear. Ruth Pryor has been telling me of a family of little children left without father or mother. The Pryors supply them with bread; and this morning, when Frank went with the loaves, he found the eldest child, scarce twelve years old, with the little ones all crying round her, and her mother only buried a month ago; and now the father was taken in a fit, and went off before the doctor could get to him."
It was the reverse of the picture to that over which Salome had been brooding,—her cousins' gaieties; Ada's happiness amongst flowers, and music, and sunshine; the lives of her old neighbours at Maplestone—the De Brettes, and the Fergusons, and many others—riding, dancing, and enjoying themselves. Stevens's words were of use. The old message seemed to be whispered to her soul: "Let patience have her perfect work." "Trust in the Lord, and be doing good ... verily thou shalt be fed."
It is not the perfect work of patience when trials are fretted at, and, as it were, resented; not the perfect work of patience when we tell ourselves we have borne a great deal, and are wonderfully brave, and that no one half appreciates us or all we do and endure. Ah no! The stuff of which the hidden saints of God are made is different to this. Theirs is the patience of Christ's faithful ones who can smile under the smart, and be tender and gentle to others even while the sword is piercing their own souls.
The child of whom I write was very young, and no wonder that she failed at times. The burden laid on her was heavy; and I cannot be surprised that Mrs. Atherton's misapprehension was hard to bear, and that the honest and pure desire to save her mother and her brother should be the cause of her kind friend thinking less highly of her than before made it doubly bitter. Then the story, on which she had built so many hopes, copied so carefully, kept free from blot or stain,—it was hard to see it again, the familiar words looking up at her as she scanned them with tear-dimmed eyes; the headings to the chapters, the little bits of verse or hymn, so carefully chosen. All in vain all her trouble, all her pains. And if no one took her story, and paid her for it, how should she be able to satisfy Philip Percival at Christmas?
The tangle of her life looked more bewildering than ever, and the child-heart within her was sick and sore with disappointment—a form of trial which the young find harder to meet than the old, because they have not the experience of past disappointments to guide them, and do not know how the sting is often taken away, as we live to say and to feel, "It was far better as it was, though I could not see it at the time."
Mrs. Wilton's cold proved a severe one, and she had to keep her bed for several days, and Salome did not find time to go over to the vicarage. Mrs. Wilton needed a great deal of attention, and Dr. Wilton came every day to see her.
The holidays began. It was getting near Christmas, and there was an ever-increasing dread in Salome's mind about the money. It seemed strange to her that Raymond did not appear to concern himself about it. He was in excellent spirits, and altogether more agreeable than before the revelation about his debts. They hung like a fetter round his sister. And there was no news of "Under the Cedars," which had gone forth again to try its fate—this time with far different feelings, and with very little hope of success, instead of a great deal.