[CHAPTER II.]
THE LOST MONEY.
YES, it was Salome's birthday, I remember that quite well; it was so strange that it should happen on that day, when we were all so happy and in such good spirits. It was strange that a day which began so brightly should end, at least for me, so sorrowfully.
I was awake as soon as it was light that morning, and I crept out of bed to look at Salome. She was sleeping in a little cot near me, for Bartholomew and Jude were constantly having attacks of croup, and my mother was obliged to have them in her room, lest they should be taken ill in the night, and she should not be near them. So she let me take care of Salome, and sometimes in the night she would wake, and put her little hand through the bars of her cot, that I might hold it in mine till she fell asleep again.
The bright morning sunshine was streaming through a hole in the shutter, and fell on Salome's face as she lay asleep. It made her look very pretty, I thought, and very much like the picture of a little angel which was on one of our Christmas cards. Beside her bed was my present for her, laid on a chair, that she might find it as soon as she woke. It was a wax doll. I had saved up my money for a long time to buy it, and it seemed as if Salome's birthday would never come, I had been waiting for it so long.
But it had come at last, and it was a bright beautiful day, just as I had so often hoped it might be. I was very impatient for Salome to wake; but I did not like to disturb her. However, after a time, Simon woke, and jumped out of bed, when he caught sight of the doll, and then Salome opened her eyes and saw it too. I shall never forget how pleased she was, nor how she threw her arms round my neck, and called me her own dear Peter.
SHE CALLED ME HER OWN DEAR PETER.
Then the others woke, and every one of them had a present for Salome; even little Jude had a packet of sweets for her, which he had bought with his own money.
It was hard work to leave Salome when school-time came, and we went off very reluctantly. But father would not hear of our having a holiday, and I think mother was rather glad that he would not. Our holidays were no holidays for her. Poor mother, they were her hardest days! So we kissed Salome and set off for school—Andrew, and Philip, and Bartholomew, Matthew, and Thomas, and Simon, and myself. James helped father in the shop now, for he was sixteen, and thought himself quite a man. John was apprenticed to a bookbinder in the town; but I was still at school.