"I think it will be the very best thing for Raymond. I do not know what poor mother will say about it, she is so fond of Raymond. Still, she would bring herself in time to it. When would you go?"
"The first week in July,—this day month."
"Shall I tell mother about it when she comes in, or will you tell her?"
"I think I shall ask you to tell Mrs. Wilton," he said, rising to leave her. "Good-bye."
"You will come and see me again very soon, won't you?"
"If you wish it."
"I do wish it very much," she said. "And then there is the money. Mr. Darte will send it to me now, I suppose, if I write to him. Will you come for it some day?"
"No," he said, "I shall never come for that. If you wish to please me, you will not mention that subject again; it hurts me and pains me. Let us never speak of it again." He spoke vehemently, almost roughly, and taking one of the little white thin hands in his, he said, "Give me one of the books, and write my name in it; and do not forget me."
The next minute he was gone, and Salome was left in a maze of delight, surprise, and happiness, through which there seemed to run a golden thread, bright and shining, as she repeated softly to herself, "So good, so noble, so brave! And I think he cares for me, and I think—"
What Salome thought I shall not write here, but leave her to her book and her dream, while the sun, nearing the west, comes in at the open window and touches the little short curls which cluster over her head till they shine like the aureola round the foreheads of Fra Angelico's maidens in the old pictures of a bygone time.