Reginald was miserable and lonely. The little ones—whom in a bad day of restlessness and fever Dr. Wilton had hurried off in his carriage to Aunt Betha, who begged to be allowed to have them, saying she would be answerable they were in nobody's way—were continually asking when Salome would be well. Mrs. Wilton sat hour after hour in the sick room, almost paralyzed with the fear of losing this precious child. Stevens, dear faithful Stevens would go away to hide her grief when the moans of pain were more grievous, or when Salome would talk as if she were in the old nursery at Maplestone, and address Ada or her father as if present. All these tender and loving hearts were wrung with sorrow and distress; but Raymond's pain was far greater than any of these. Mrs. Atherton and her son were unable to reach him with a word of comfort. He went sullenly off to the office, and returned with a look of utter misery on his face every afternoon, only to hear the same report—"She is no better."
One Sunday morning he was up and dressed in time, and Reginald walked with him to church. The two brothers had been so much separated since early childhood that there was little sympathy between them. But this grief about Salome seemed to draw them together.
"How is your sister? How is the young lady?" Ruth asked, as they passed her door.
"No better, thank you," Reginald replied.
"What's the use of asking?" Frank Pryor said. "Mother says she is taken for death, and you know it."
"I don't know it," said Ruth impatiently. "I don't give up hope. It is not my way. I leave that despairing about everybody and everything to your mother and you. There, Frank, I don't mean to be cross, but I feel as if I should break my heart if that child died;" and Ruth burst into tears. Puck sprang to her, whining and crying, and showing by every possible sign that he sympathized with the general sorrow for Salome.
The two brothers walked on to church, and when their sister's name was read in the list of those for whom their prayers were desired, it was not lost on them that Mr. Atherton added, "who is dangerously ill." The name, with the significant words, came as a sort of spoken declaration of the fear in both boys' hearts, and a deep sob from Raymond was heard by a man kneeling behind him, and understood. That man was Philip Percival. He waited at the door of the church after service, and gave the hand of both brothers a fervent pressure.
To his surprise Raymond said, "I want to speak with you, Percival. Will you come in?"
The two young men were going into the desolate sitting-room, where the daffodils, gathered ten days before, were hanging their pretty heads, all shrivelled and forlorn.
"The flower fadeth," thought Philip Percival, as he recalled the bright afternoon and the sunshine glowing on the daffodils and on the plaits of hair gathered round the small shapely head, as it bent over the treasures in the basket.