"Mr. Atherton? oh! ask him to come in."
"No, Miss Wilton, it's not Mr. Atherton. He has been here often enough, I should have shown him in; but this is the gentleman who, regular as clock-work, all the time you were so bad, came at half-past eight every morning, and walked down to Harstone with Mr. Raymond, and always the last thing at night would come to the shop and hear how you was."
Salome in vain tried to stop Mrs. Pryor's long speech. Mrs. Pryor was, when once unwound, like an alarum, obliged to run off.
"It must be Mr. Percival. Yes; ask him to come in, Mrs. Pryor, please."
Salome had another moment's suspense, and then Philip Percival came in, quietly and to all appearance unconcerned, though his heart was beating so that he could almost hear it, and his emotion at the sight of that sweet pale face and large wistful eyes turned up to him was hard to conceal.
"I am so glad to see you downstairs, Miss Wilton," he began; "so very glad."
"I daresay you hardly know me," she said with a smile. "I have cut all my hair, and Mrs. Pryor says I look like a starved robin. But I am getting well now, and Uncle Loftus says I shall be able to walk soon, though my legs are still very stiff."
"I have brought you a book," Philip Percival said. "I thought I should like to give it to you myself." And he unfastened a neat parcel, and displayed a pretty book in a red and gilt cover.
"Thank you," Salome said. "What is the title? 'Under the Cedars, by S. M. W.' My book! Oh, I don't understand. How has it been done?"
"When you were ill—very ill—last March, I happened to be here when the first sheets came from the publishers. Your brothers could not correct them, and as I have had a little experience with printers, I asked leave to possess myself of them. I told Mr. Darte you were ill, and unable to attend to them yourself, and that I was to act for you. I hope you do not mind," he said half anxiously.