"I thought that was Salome's," Raymond said, taking up the newspaper, and sitting down with it on the sofa, soon appeared to be absorbed in it.
Salome went on quietly arranging her daffodils, and then as quietly left the room. She went upstairs to her mother's room, and then, after much thought and prayer, determined to speak at once to Raymond. For how could she doubt that he had taken the necklet? A shudder of pity and deep pain at this deed of her brother's thrilled through her. But it seemed all clear. The necklet was hers, and he had talked to her about it; and she had said, when he asked if it could be sold, "I do not know if it would be right." Then there arose before her the past six months, and the pains she had taken to cover her brother's sin. Had she been right to do this? Would it not have been better to have gone direct to her Uncle Loftus and confided in him?
Poor Salome! The same doubts and fears have at times beset us all; and the question is a hard one to answer. Desire to shield those we love from exposure may not be the truest kindness to them, and yet loving hearts shrink from inflicting pain, especially when, as in Salome's case, the frank avowal of Raymond's sin must bring sorrow on his mother, already so heavily tried and burdened with grief and trouble.
But Salome was now determined to be brave, as far as Raymond himself was concerned; and that night, when her mother and Reginald had both gone to their rooms, she tapped gently at Raymond's door, and said,—
"Please let me in. I want to speak to you."
The door was opened at once, and Raymond, looking straight at his sister, said,—
"Well, what is the matter?"
"Raymond," Salome said, closing the door behind her and clasping her little hands tightly together, "I am come to speak to you about my necklet set with emeralds."
"You had better have up Pryor, and—"
He faltered, for Salome's clear, steadfast eyes were fixed on his face as if she could read his thoughts.