"I don't mope," said poor Salome, half-offended. "To-day, I have—" Tears were just beginning to fall again, when Reginald caught sight of a book on the floor.
"Is not this Mrs. Atherton's paper you promised to send back this morning, Salome? I say, she said she must have it to post to a friend. Shall I run over with it to the vicarage?"
"Oh dear, how careless I am," Salome sighed. "I should like to go with it myself, Reginald. It is not quite dark, not nearly dark out of doors. Will you come for me in half an hour? I do feel as if the run, and seeing Mrs. Atherton, would do me good."
"All right," said Reginald good-naturedly; "only, be quick, for I want tea over early this evening. I have no end of work to get through."
Salome raced upstairs, and snatching up her jacket and hat, and thrusting her hands into a muff, with the newspaper crushed up mercilessly, she was out of the house in no time, and was very soon at the vicarage.
If she could only find Mrs. Atherton at home, she thought, and alone. She stood in awe of Mr. Atherton, the grave, dignified man, who looked as much older for his years as his mother looked younger, and by reason of this had led to much confusion in the parish when he and Mrs. Atherton first came to St. Luke's.
Yes, Susan thought Mrs. Atherton was at home. Would Miss Wilton walk in?
Salome was shown into the drawing-room, which was empty; and Susan, after throwing a log on the fire, and remarking that "it was quite wintry weather," left her.
That bright, cheerful room, full of the signs of the life of those who inhabited it, always gave Salome a sense of home. Books on all sides; a little picture on an easel in one corner; needle-work; a carefully-arranged writing-table in one recess by the fire, a work-table in the other. Nothing fine or grand, no aspirations after "high art," though a few old china plates were hung against the wall, and the large square of crimson carpet was surrounded by polished dark boards. A room used and loved already, though the vicarage was a new house, and there was not the charm of association with the past to make it dear.
Salome had waited for a few minutes, lost in a day-dream by the fire, and forgetting her vexation and trouble, when the door opened and Mr. Atherton came in.