“You don’t think of joining the Salvation Army, I hope?” exclaimed her aunt, quite beside herself at this new development of her niece’s purposes.
Salome laughed.
“I shall hardly have the time, aunty. I’ve accepted a position at the Shawsheen Mills.”
“A position?” gasped Mrs. Soule. “Oh, Salome! Who offered you—who dared offer you a position?”
“The fair owner of the mills offered it,” answered Salome, enjoying the situation to its fullest extent. “And I accepted, aunty. Marion, in me you see the agent of the Shawsheen Mills!”
Marion Shaw rose and clasped her friend closely to her bosom. She admired her splendid courage and avowed principles, and honored this woman, with money and leisure at her command, who was willing and anxious to devote her life to service for others. But not so Mrs. Soule.
She applied a delicate mull and lace handkerchief to her eyes, and wept to think to what an end had come her years of training; her careful watch, that Salome should never, by any chance, come in contact with a lower world; her life-long aim to make of Salome the perfect being prescribed by her somewhat limited and narrowed rules of ladyhood.
She begged; she pleaded; she argued; she threatened; she resorted to ridicule; but Salome stood firm, and now laughingly and then earnestly defended the course she had taken.
“It’s of no use, aunty, as you see, for us to argue the case. I do not forget all your kindness and love for me; but I must choose for myself,” she said, finally. “I am old enough to decide questions of right and wrong. Hereafter we will not argue any more. I must do this; you must submit; and that is all there is about it. Now, let’s make up and be friends,” and she bent down and kissed her aunt on both cheeks, as she used to do when she was a little girl.
“You, a child of Cora de Bourdillon’s!” murmured her aunt, softening a little.