"But that does not make it right, Reg; and I am not a bit clever, really. Think of Ada—how beautifully she works and plays and draws! and I don't do one of those things. Sometimes I think I might make a very little money by writing a story. You know I have written heaps, and torn them up, but now I shall keep the next and read it to you. I have got it all straight in my head, not a hitch anywhere. Reg, isn't it strange I can make all things in my stories go so pit-pat and right, and yet I never can keep my goods straight? Why—would you believe it?—I've already lost one of my new black kid gloves with four buttons. I can't find it anywhere. It just shows what I shall have to do to make myself orderly."
"Ah!" said Reginald, "I see; if I were you, Sal, I would have some of my hair cut off."
"I have turned it up," Salome said; "I thought I had better try to do it myself to-day."
"Yes; but there is a great pin sticking out, and a long tail hanging down, and"—Reginald hesitated—"it makes you look as if you weren't quite trim. Trim isn't prim, you know, Sal."
"No; that's right, Reginald. Tell me just what you think, won't you, and I will tell you. I suppose," she went on, "such a sorrow as ours makes us think more of God. We are forced to think of Him; but, O Reg! I have been thinking of Him before this trouble—His love and care for every tiny creature, and giving us so many beautiful things. I feel as if no loss of money could take them away—the sky, the sunshine, the flowers—all signs of God's love. And then even this comes from Him; and I know He is love, and so I try to bear it."
"You are awfully good, Salome," Reginald said in a husky voice. "You know that talk we had at Easter. I have done what you said ever since, you know. Not that I always or ever get much good from it; but I always read the verses you said you would, and try to say a real prayer in chapel. The dear old chapel," Reginald said; "fancy if I never see it again!"
The brother and sister sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Salome said, "I must go to mother now, and tell her what Uncle Loftus wishes, and try to find Raymond. Poor Ray! it is worse for him than for any of us somehow. Ray was made to be rich."
"He'll have to get a lot of nonsense knocked out of him, I expect," Reginald said, as he and Salome parted—Reginald turning off to the stables to see poor Captain, who had been brought back comparatively worthless. And Salome, going to her mother's room, met Raymond on the stairs. To her surprise he said,—
"Come here, Sal; I want to speak with you."
They went into the library together, now so full of memories to Salome that she could hardly restrain her tears; but she was always saying to herself, "I must keep up for mother's sake, and not be weak and useless."