IT was summer time. The day had been oppressively hot; but now, as the sun disappeared like a ball of fire beyond the broad Atlantic, a cool breeze sprang up, and the inhabitants of the fishing village of Yelton came to their cottage doors and gossiped with each other, as they enjoyed the fresh evening air.

Yelton was a small, straggling village on the north coast of Cornwall. It owned but two houses of importance—the Vicarage, a roomy old dwelling, which stood in its own grounds close to the church; and "Greystone," a substantial modern residence on a slight eminence beyond the village, overlooking the sea. The fishermen's cottages were thatched, and picturesque in appearance, having little gardens in front where hardy flowers flourished; these gardens were a-bloom with roses and carnations on this peaceful June evening, and the showiest of them all was one which, though nearer the sea than the others, yet presented the neatest appearance of the lot. This was Salome Petherick's garden, and Salome was a cripple girl of fourteen, who lived with her father, Josiah Petherick, in the cottage at the end of the village, close to the sea.

Salome had been lame from birth, and could not walk at all without her crutches; with their help, however, she could move about nimbly enough. Many a happy hour did she spend in her garden whilst Josiah was out in his fishing boat. She was contented then, as she always was when her father was on the broad sea, for she felt he was in God's keeping, and away from the drink, which, alas! was becoming the curse of his life. Josiah Petherick was a brave man physically, but he was a moral coward. He would risk his life at any hour—indeed, he had often done so—for the sake of a fellow-creature in peril. He was fearless on the sea, though it had robbed him of relations and friends in the past, and if help was wanted for any dangerous enterprise, he was always the first to be called upon; but, nevertheless, there was no greater coward in Yelton, than Josiah Petherick on occasions. He had lost his wife, to whom he had been much attached, five years previously; and, left alone with his only child, poor little lame Salome, who had been anything but a congenial companion for him, he had sought amusement for his leisure hours at the "Crab and Cockle," as the village inn was called, and there had acquired the habit of drinking to excess.

As Salome stood leaning on her crutches at the garden gate on this beautiful summer evening, her face wore a very serious expression, for she knew her father was at the "Crab and Cockle," and longed for, yet dreaded, his return. She was a small, slight girl, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a clear, brunette complexion, which was somewhat sun-burnt, for she spent most of her spare time in the open air. Having passed the requisite standard, she had left school, and now did all the work of her father's cottage unaided, besides attending to her flowers; and Josiah Petherick was wont to declare that no man in Yelton had a more capable housekeeper. The neighbours marvelled that it was so, for they had not thought the lame girl, who had been decidedly cross-grained and selfish during her mother's lifetime, would grow up so helpful; but Mrs. Petherick's death had wrought a great change in Salome, who had promised faithfully "to look after poor father" in the years to come. Salome had endeavoured to be as good as her word; but her influence over her father had not proved strong enough to keep him in the straight path; and many an evening saw him ramble home from the "Crab and Cockle" in a condition of helpless intoxication.

"Enjoying the cool breeze, Salome?"

Salome, whose wistful, brown eyes had been turned in the direction of a row of cottages at some distance, outside one of which hung a sign-board representing on its varnished surface a gigantic crab and a minute cockle, started at the sound of a voice addressing her, but smiled brightly as she saw Mr. Amyatt, the vicar of the parish. He was an elderly man, with iron-grey hair, stooping shoulders, and a thin, clean-shaven face.

Ten years previously, he had accepted the living of Yelton, when, broken down in health, he had been forced to resign his arduous duties in the large manufacturing town where he had laboured long and faithfully. And the fisher-folk had grown to love and respect him, though he never overlooked their failings or hesitated to reprove their faults.

"I am waiting for father," Salome answered frankly. "His supper is ready for him, and I am afraid it will spoil if he does not come soon. It is a beautiful evening, is it not, sir?"

"Very beautiful. I have been on the beach for the last two hours. How well your carnations are doing, Salome. Ah, they always flourish best by the sea."

"Please let me give you some," the little girl said eagerly. "Oh, I don't mind picking them in the least. I should like you to have them." And moving about with agility on her crutches, she gathered some of the choicest blooms and presented them to Mr. Amyatt.

"Thank you, Salome. They are lovely. I have none to be compared to them in the Vicarage gardens. You are a born gardener. But what is amiss, child?"

"Nothing, sir; at least, nothing more than usual. I am anxious about father." She paused for a moment, a painful blush spreading over her face, then continued, "He spends more time than ever at the 'Crab and Cockle;' he's rarely home of an evening now, and when he returns, he's sometimes so—so violent! He used not to be that."

The Vicar looked grave and sorry, He pondered the situation in silence for a few minutes ere he responded, "You must have patience, Salome; and do not reproach him, my dear. Reproaches never do any good, and it's worse than useless remonstrating with a man who is not sober."

"But what can I do, sir?" she cried distressfully. "Oh, you cannot imagine what a trouble it is to me!"

"I think I can; but you must not lose heart. Prayer and patience work wonders. Ask God to show your father his sin in its true light—"

"I have asked Him so often," Salome interposed, "and father gets worse instead of better. It's not as though he had an unhappy home. Oh, Mr. Amyatt, it's so dreadful for me! I never have a moment's peace of mind unless I know father is out fishing. He isn't a bad father, he doesn't mean to be unkind; but when he's been drinking, he doesn't mind what he says or does."

"Poor child," said the Vicar softly, glancing at her with great compassion.

"Do you think, if you spoke to him—" Salome began in a hesitating manner.

"I have already done so several times; but though he listened to me respectfully, I saw my words made no impression on him. I will, however, try to find a favourable opportunity for remonstrating with him again. Cheer up, my dear child. You have a very heavy cross to bear, but you have not to carry it alone, you know. God will help you, if you will let Him."

"Yes," Salome agreed, her face brightening. "I try to remember that, but, though indeed I do love God, sometimes He seems so far away."

"He is ever near, Salome. 'The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.' The everlasting arms are of unfailing strength and tenderness. See! Is not that your father coming?"

Salome assented, and watched the approaching figure with anxious scrutiny.

Josiah Petherick was a tall, strong man, in the prime of life, a picture of robust health and strength; he was brown-haired and brown-eyed, like his daughter, and his complexion was tanned to a fine brick-red hue. He liked the Vicar, though he considered him rather too quick in interfering in other people's affairs, so he smiled good-humouredly when he found him with Salome at the garden gate.

"Good evening, Petherick," said Mr. Amyatt briskly, his keen eyes noticing that, though Josiah had doubtless been drinking, he was very far from being intoxicated at present; "you perceive I've been robbing your garden," and he held up the carnation blooms.

"'Tis my little maid's garden, sir," was the response, "an' I know well you're welcome to take what flowers you please. What a hot day it's been, to be sure!"

"Yes; but pleasanter out of doors than in the bar of the 'Crab and Cockle,' I expect," Mr. Amyatt answered meaningly.

"'Tis thirsty weather," Josiah said with a smile; "don't you find it so, sir?"

"Yes, indeed I do! But I don't take beer to quench my thirst. Beer's heating, and makes you hotter and thirstier, too. If you were a teetotaler like me, you wouldn't feel the heat quite so much."

"That's as it may be, sir. I can't argue the point; but I hold that a glass of good, sound beer don't hurt anyone."

Salome had retired into the cottage, remarking which fact, the Vicar seized the opportunity and spoke plainly.

"Look here, Petherick," he said, "if you'd lived my life, you'd be a teetotaler like me—at least, I hope you would. The big town in which I worked so long owed most of its vice and misery to drink. I was in daily contact there with men and women lower than brute beasts on account of the drink you uphold—men and women who would sell their own and their children's clothes, and allow their offspring to go hungry and almost naked, that they might obtain the vile poison for which they were bartering their immortal souls. I made up my mind there, that drink was our nation's greatest curse; and here, in this quiet village, I see no reason to make me change my opinion, and allow that a glass of 'good, sound beer,' as you call your favourite beverage, doesn't hurt anyone. Your one glass leads to more, and the result? You become unlike yourself, rough and threatening in your manner, unkind to your little daughter whom I am certain you dearly love, and whose chief aim in life is to make your home a happy one. I wish you would make up your mind, Petherick, never to enter the doors of the 'Crab and Cockle' again."

"Why, sir, to hear you talk one would think I was drunk," Josiah cried, aggrievedly.

"You are not that at this minute, I admit, but you have been drinking; and if you don't pull up in time, and turn over a new leaf, you'll go from bad to worse. Now, I've had my say, and have finished. Your supper's waiting, I know, so I'll bid you good evening."

"Good evening, sir," Josiah responded rather shamefacedly, for in his heart, he acknowledged every word Mr. Amyatt had spoken to be truth.

He watched the Vicar out of sight, then entered the cottage and sat down at the kitchen table to his supper of fried eggs and bacon.

"I hope the eggs are not spoilt," Salome remarked. "But they've been cooked nearly half-an-hour, and I'm afraid they're rather hard, for I had to keep them warm in the oven."

"Never mind, my dear," he returned. "If they're hard it's my fault, I ought to have been here before. By the way, I've brought you a piece of news."

"Have you, father?" she said with a smile.

"Yes. Greystone is taken by a rich gentleman from London, and he and his family are expected to arrive to-night. The house has been furnished in grand style, so I'm told."

"Did you hear the gentleman's name?" Salome asked, looking interested, for Greystone had been untenanted for some time. The house had been built by a speculative builder, but it had not proved a good speculation, as, beautifully situated though it was, it was very lonely. "I wonder if Mr. Amyatt knew," she added reflectively, as her father shook his head.

"Mr. Amyatt is a very nice man in his way," Josiah remarked, "an' I shall never forget how kind he was when your poor mother died, but he don't know how to mind his own business. If he likes to be a teetotaler, let him be one. If I enjoy my drops o' beer 'long with my friends at the 'Crab an' Cockle,' that's naught to do with him." And having finished his supper, he pushed away his plate, rose from the table, and strode out into the garden.

Salome stayed to wash up the supper things, then went into the garden too, but by that time her father was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying to the gate, she caught sight of his stalwart figure disappearing in the distance, and knew that he was making his way to the inn again. She stood leaning against the garden gate, sore at heart, until a chill mist from the sea crept upwards and surrounded her; then she retreated into the cottage and waited patiently, listening to the ticking of the tall, eight-day clock in the kitchen. She knew her father would not return till the doors of the inn were shut for the night.

At last she heard the click of the garden gate, and a minute later Josiah Petherick stumbled up the path, and, leaving the cottage door unlocked, crawled upstairs to his bedroom, muttering to himself as he went. Salome waited till everything was still, then she rose, locked the door, and swung herself, step by step, by the aid of her crutches, up the stairs.

Before going to her own room, she peeped cautiously into her father's, which was flooded with moonlight, the blind being up; and a sob broke from her lips at the sight which met her eyes. The man had thrown himself, fully dressed as he was, upon the bed, and had already sunk into a heavy, drunken slumber. Salome stood looking at him, the tears running down her cheeks, mingled love and indignation in her aching heart. Then the love overcame all else, and she sank on her knees by her father's side, and prayed earnestly for him who was unfit to pray for himself, whilst the words the Vicar had spoken to her that evening—

"'The eternal God is thy refuge,
and underneath are the everlasting arms.'"

—recurred to her memory, and fell like balm upon her sorrowful spirit. And she felt that she did not bear her trouble alone.

CHAPTER II.

New Acquaintances.

WHEN Josiah Petherick came downstairs to breakfast on the following morning, his face wore a furtive, sullen expression, as though he expected to be taken to task for his behaviour of the night before. On previous occasions, Salome had, by tears and sorrowing words, reproached him for his unmanly conduct; but this morning she was perfectly composed, and the meal was eaten almost in silence. Afterwards, Josiah informed his little daughter that he should probably be away all day mackerel fishing, and went off in the direction of the beach. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and he looked forward to a successful day's work.

Salome moved about the cottage with a very heavy heart. On account of her affliction, it took her longer than it would have most people to get over her household duties, so that it was past noon before she had everything ship-shape, and was at leisure. Then she put on a pink sun-bonnet, and went into the garden to look at her flowers, pulling weeds here and there, until the sounds of shrill cries made her hurry to the garden gate to ascertain what was going on outside.

Salome stood gazing in astonishment at the scene which met her eyes. A boy of about six years old was lying on the ground, kicking and shrieking with passion, whilst a young woman was bending over him, trying to induce him to get up. At a short distance, a pretty little girl, apparently about Salome's own age, was looking on, and laughing, as though greatly amused.

"Gerald, get up! Do get up, there's a good boy!" implored the young woman. "Dear, dear, what a temper you're in. You 're simply ruining that nice new sailor's suit of yours, lying there in the dust. Oh, Margaret—" and she turned to the little girl—"do try to induce your brother to be reasonable."

"I couldn't do that, Miss Conway," was the laughing response, "for Gerald never was reasonable yet. Look at him now, his face crimson with passion. He's like a mad thing, and deserves to be whipped. He—"

She stopped suddenly, noticing Salome at the garden gate. The boy, catching sight of the lame girl at that moment too, abruptly ceased his cries, and, as though ashamed of himself, rose to his feet, and stood staring at her. He was a fine, handsome little fellow, with dark-blue eyes and fair curly hair; but, as Salome afterwards learnt, he was a spoilt child, and as disagreeable as spoilt children always are. His sister, who was like him in appearance, was a bright-looking little girl; and her laughing face softened into sympathy as her eyes rested on Salome's crutches.

"I am afraid my brother's naughty temper has shocked you," she said. "He likes to have his own way, and wanted to spend a longer time on the beach instead of going home. We have been on the beach all the morning with Miss Conway—this lady, who is our governess. What a pretty garden you have. We noticed it as we passed just now—didn't we, Miss Conway?"

Miss Conway assented, smiling very kindly at Salome.

"I had no idea flowers would flourish so close to the sea," she remarked. "It is to be hoped the Greystone gardens will prove equally productive."

"Oh, are you—do you live at Greystone?" Salome questioned, much interested in the strangers.

"Yes," nodded the little girl, "we arrived last night. My father, Mr. Fowler, has taken the house on a three years' lease. My mother is very delicate; she has been very ill, and the doctors say the north coast of Cornwall will suit her."

"Let me see your garden," said the little boy imperatively, coming close to the gate, and peering between the bars.

"You should say 'please,' Gerald," his governess reminded him reprovingly.

Salome invited them all to enter, and when they had admired the flowers, Miss Conway asked if she might rest a few minutes on the seat under the porch. She was a delicate-looking young woman, and the tussle she had had with her unruly pupil had upset her. Gerald, however, was quite contented now, watching a bee labouring from flower to flower with its load of honey. His sister, Margaret, sat down by the governess' side, whilst Salome, leaning on her crutches, watched them shyly. There was a little flush of excitement on her cheeks, for it was an unusual experience for her to converse with strangers.

"Who lives here with you, my dear?" Miss Conway inquired.

"Only my father, miss. Mother died five years ago. Father's a fisherman; his name's Josiah Petherick, and I'm called Salome."

"What a quaint, pretty name," Margaret exclaimed. "And you have you no sisters or brothers?"

Salome shook her head.

"Have you—have you always been lame?" Miss Conway questioned.

"Yes, miss, always. I can't get about without my crutches."

"How dreadful!" Margaret cried with ready sympathy. "Oh, I am, sorry for you."

Salome looked gratefully at the speaker, and smiled as she made answer, "You see, miss, I'm accustomed to being a cripple. Often and often I've wished my legs were straight and strong like other people's, but as they are not, I must just make the best of them. Mr. Amyatt says—"

"Who is Mr. Amyatt?" Miss Conway interposed.

"Our Vicar, miss. He lives in that big house near the church. He's such a good, kind gentleman, you'll be sure to like him."

"Well, what does he say?" Miss Conway inquired with a smile.

"That God made me lame for some good purpose. I think myself He did it because I should stay at home, and keep house for father," Salome said simply. "Perhaps if I was able to get about like other people, I might neglect father, and be tempted—"

She had been about to say "be tempted to leave him," but had stopped suddenly, remembering that the strangers knew nothing of her father; and she earnestly hoped they would never understand how miserable he made her at times.

"As it is," she proceeded, "I do all the housework—I can take as long as I please about it, you know—and I attend to my flowers besides."

"And have you always lived here?" Margaret asked.

"Yes, miss, I was born in this cottage."

"Doesn't the sea make you mournful in the winter?"

"Oh, no! It's grand then, sometimes. The waves look like great mountains of foam. This is a very wild coast."

"So I have heard," Miss Conway replied. "I should like to see a storm, if no ship was in danger. I suppose you never saw a wreck?"

"Yes," said Salome with a shudder; "only last autumn a coasting vessel ran ashore on the rocks, and the crew was lost. You will notice in the churchyard many graves of people who have been drowned."

"We have always lived in London until now," Margaret explained, "so we shall find life in the country a great change. I don't know that I shall dislike it during the summer, and Gerald is simply delighted with the beach; I expect he'll insist on going there every day, so you'll often see us passing here. Gerald generally gets his own way, doesn't he, Miss Conway?"

"Yes," the governess admitted gravely, looking rather serious.

"My mother spoils him," Margaret continued. "Oh, you needn't look at me like that, Miss Conway, for you know it's true."

At that moment Gerald ran up to them. He was in high good-humour, for he was charmed with Salome's garden; but his face clouded immediately when Miss Conway remarked it was time for them to go home.

"No, no," he pouted, "don't go yet, Miss Conway. Stay a little longer."

"But if we do, we shall be late for luncheon, and then your father will be displeased."

"You shall have this rose to take home with you," Salome said, in order to propitiate the child, and prevent a disturbance. She gathered, as she spoke, a beautiful pink moss-rose, and offered it to him. "Wouldn't you like to give it to your mother?" she suggested, as he accepted her gift with evident pleasure.

"No," Gerald rejoined, "I shan't give it to mother, I shall keep it for myself."

His sister laughed at this selfish speech; but the governess' face saddened as she took her younger pupil by the hand, and after a kind good-bye to Salome, led him away.

"May I come and see you again?" Margaret asked as she lingered at the gate.

"Oh, please do, miss," was the eager reply. "I should be so glad if you would. I really am very lonely sometimes."

"So am I," the other little girl confessed with a sigh; and for the first time Salome noticed a look of discontent on her pretty face. The expression was gone in a minute, however, and with a smiling farewell Margaret Fowler hastened after her governess and Gerald.

These new acquaintances gave Salome plenty of food for thought; and when her father returned in the afternoon she greeted him cheerfully, and told him that the family had arrived at Greystone. He was in good spirits, having caught a nice lot of mackerel; and acting on his daughter's suggestion, he selected some of the finest, and started for Greystone to see if he could not sell them there. Meanwhile, Salome laid the tea cloth, and got the kettle boiling. In the course of half-an-hour her father returned, having sold his fish.

"I saw the cook," he informed Salome, "and she said any time I have choice fish to sell, she can do business with me. It seems she manages everything in the kitchen; she told me the mistress doesn't know what there's to be for dinner till it's brought to table."

"How strange!" Salome cried. "But I forgot, Mrs. Fowler has been ill, so perhaps she is too great an invalid to attend to anything herself."

"I don't know about that, I'm sure. It's likely to be better for us, Salome, now Greystone is occupied. Why, you're quite a business woman, my dear! I should never have thought of taking those mackerel up there, but for you. I should have let Sam Putt have the lot, as usual."

Sam Putt was the owner of a pony and cart. He lived in the village, and often purchased fish, which he conveyed to a neighbouring town for sale, hawking it from door to door.

Josiah continued to converse amicably during tea-time; and afterwards he went into the garden, and turned up a patch of ground in readiness for the reception of winter greens. To Salome's intense relief, he did not go to the "Crab and Cockle" that evening; but, instead, as soon as he had finished his gardening, suggested taking her for a sail.

"Oh, father, how delightful!" she cried, her face flushing with pleasure. "Oh, I haven't been on the water for weeks! It will be such a treat!"

So father and daughter spent the long summer evening on the sea, much to the contentment of both; and the sun had set before they returned to Yelton.

Salome chatted merrily as, their boat safely moored, she followed her father up the shingly beach; but on reaching their garden gate, Josiah paused, glancing towards the swinging sign-board outside the "Crab and Cockle," still visible in the gathering dusk.

In a moment, Salome read his thoughts, and cried involuntarily, "Oh, father, not to-night! Not to-night!"

"What do you mean, child?" he asked with a decided show of displeasure in face and tone.

"I mean, I want you to stay at home with me to-night, father! Do, dear father, to please me! I—I can't bear to see you as—as you are sometimes when you come back from the 'Crab and Cockle'! Oh, father, if you would only give up the drink how happy we should be!"

"How foolishly you talk!" he cried irritably. "It is not seemly for a child to dictate to her father!"

"Oh, father, I mean no harm! You know I love you dearly! It's supper time. Aren't you hungry? I'm sure I am."

Josiah admitted he was, too, and followed his daughter into the cottage. He did not leave it again that night, for his good angel proved too strong for him; and when he kissed his little daughter at bedtime, his manner was unusually gentle, whilst the words he uttered sent her to rest with a very happy heart: "God bless you, child! I don't know what I should be but for you, Salome. You grow more like your dear mother every day you live."

CHAPTER III.

The Fowlers at Home.

"PULL down the blind, Margaret. The sun is streaming right into my eyes."

The speaker, Mrs. Fowler, was lying on a sofa in the handsomely furnished drawing-room at Greystone. She was a young-looking, very pretty woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; and she was most fashionably dressed. One would have thought her possessed of everything that heart could desire, but the lines of her face were discontented ones, and the tone of her voice was decidedly fretful. The only occupant of the room besides herself was her little daughter, who put down the book she had been reading, and going to the window, obediently lowered the blind.

"There," she said, "that's better, isn't it? I won't pull the blind down altogether, mother, for that would keep out the fresh air, and you know the doctors said the sea breeze would be your best tonic. I do think this is a lovely place, don't you?"

Mrs. Fowler agreed indifferently; and her little daughter continued, "Such a beautiful view we have right over the sea. And doesn't the village look pretty, and the old grey church? There are such a quantity of jackdaws in the tower. Mother, do you know, from my bedroom window, I can see the cottage where that poor lame girl lives? When you are strong enough, I'll take you to visit Salome."

"I don't want to see her, Margaret. I don't like looking at deformed people, and I cannot think why you should feel so much interest in this Salome."

"I have seen her several times now, and I like her so much. The Vicar has told me a lot about her, too. She lost her mother five years ago, poor girl!"

Margaret paused, and glanced a trifle wistfully at the daintily-clad figure on the sofa, wondering if she was lame like Salome, whether her mother would cease to care for her altogether. Mrs. Fowler never evinced much affection for her daughter, whatever her feelings may have been, though she was pleased that she was growing up a pretty little girl, and took an interest in dressing her becomingly. But Gerald was her favourite of the two children, and upon him she lavished most of her love. She was fond of her husband, though she stood in awe of him. He was kind and attentive to her, but often grew impatient at the persistent way in which she indulged their little son.

Mrs. Fowler had led a gay life in London for many years; but latterly, she had been in very indifferent health, and after an attack of severe illness, which had left her nerves in a shattered condition, Mr. Fowler had insisted on shutting up their house in town, and settling in the country. He had accordingly taken Greystone, and dismissing their old servants had engaged new ones, who received their orders from himself instead of from their mistress.

During the first few weeks of her residence at Greystone, Mrs. Fowler had indeed been too ill to superintend the household; and though she was now better, she was far from strong, and was glad not to be troubled about anything. Margaret was very sorry for her mother, whose sufferings were apparent to everyone, for she started at the slightest unexpected sound, and the least worry brought on the most distressing headache.

"Would you like me to read to you, mother?" the little girl inquired.

"No, thank you, Margaret. What is the time?"

"Half-past three."

"Where is Gerald?"

"Miss Conway has taken him down to the beach; she promised him this morning he should go, if he was good and attentive during lesson time. He likes talking to the fishermen."

"Dear child! I hope they will not teach him to use bad language, though I expect they are a rough set."

"I don't think so, mother. Mr. Amyatt says they are mostly sober, God-fearing men; of course, there are exceptions—Salome Petherick's father, for instance, often gets intoxicated, and it is a terrible trouble to her."

"Does she complain of him to you?" Mrs. Fowler queried.

"Oh, no, mother! It was Mr. Amyatt who told me. We were talking of Salome, and he said her father was very violent at times, quite cruel to her, in fact. Do you know, I think father's right, and that it's best to have nothing whatever to do with drink."

Lately, since the Fowlers had left London, Mr. Fowler had laid down a rule that no intoxicating liquors of any description were to be brought into the house. He had become a teetotaler himself, for very good reasons, and had insisted on the members of his household following suit. No one had objected to this except Mrs. Fowler, and now she answered her little daughter in a tone of irritability.

"Don't talk nonsense, child! I believe a glass of wine would do me good at this minute, and steady my nerves, only your father won't allow it! I haven't patience to speak of this new fad of his without getting cross. There, don't look at me so reproachfully. Of course what your father does is right in your eyes! Here, feel my pulse, child, and you'll know what a wreck I am!"

Margaret complied, and laid her cool fingers on her mother's wrist. The pulse was weak and fluttering, and the little girl's heart filled with sympathy.

"Poor mother," she said tenderly, kissing Mrs. Fowler's flushed cheek, and noticing her eyes were full of tears. "Shall I ring and order tea? It's rather early, but no doubt a nice cup of tea would do you good."

"No, no! It's much too hot for tea!" And Mrs. Fowler made a gesture indicative of distaste, then broke into a flood of tears.

Margaret soothed her mother as best she could; and presently, much to her satisfaction, the invalid grew composed and fell asleep. She was subject to these hysterical outbursts, and as Margaret bent anxiously over her, she noted how thin she had become, how hectic was the flush on her cheeks, and how dark-rimmed were her eyes.

"She does indeed look very ill," the little girl thought sadly. "I wonder if she is right, and that some wine would do her good, and make her stronger; if so, it seems hard she should not have it. I'll go and speak to father at once."

To think was to act with Margaret. She stole noiselessly out of the drawing-room, and went in search of her father. He was not in the house, but a servant informed her he was in the garden, and there she found him, reclining in a swing-chair, beneath the shade of a lilac tree. He threw aside the magazine he was reading as she approached, and greeted her with a welcoming smile.

Mr. Fowler was a tall, dark man, several years older than his wife; his face was a strong one, and determined in expression, but his keen, deep-set eyes were wont to look kindly, and he certainly had the appearance of a person to be trusted.

"Is anything wrong, my dear?" he inquired quickly, noticing that she looked depressed. "Where is your mother?"

"Asleep in the drawing-room, father. She has had one of her crying fits again, and that exhausted her, I think. She seems very poorly, and low-spirited, doesn't she?"

"Yes; but she is better—decidedly better than she was a few weeks ago. I have every hope that, ere many months have passed, she will be quite well again. There is no cause for you to look so anxious, child."

"But she is so weak and nervous!" Margaret cried distressfully. "I was wondering if she had some wine—"

The little girl paused, startled by the look of anger which flashed across her father's face. He made a movement as though to rise from the chair, then changed his intention, and curtly bade her finish what she had been about to say.

"It was only that I was wondering if she had some wine, whether it might not do her good," Margaret proceeded timidly. "She told me herself she thought it would, and if so—you know, father, you used to take wine yourself, and—"

"Did your mother send you to me on this mission?" he interrupted sternly.

"No. I came of my own accord."

"I am glad to hear that. But I cannot give my consent to your mother's taking wine, or stimulants of any kind; they would be harmful for her, the doctors agree upon that point. You have reminded me that I once drank wine myself, Margaret. I bitterly regret ever having done so."

"Why?" she asked wonderingly, impressed by the solemnity of his tone. Then her thoughts flew to Salome Petherick's father, and she cried, "But, father, you never drank too much!"

"I was never tempted to drink to excess, for I had no craving for stimulants. It is small credit to me that I was always a sober man; but people are differently constituted, and my example may have caused others to contract habits of intemperance. The Vicar here is a teetotaler from principle. He tells me that the force of example is stronger than any amount of preaching. Lately, I have had cause to consider this matter very seriously, and I am determined that never, with my permission, shall any intoxicating liquors be brought inside my doors. The servants understand this: I should instantly dismiss one who set my rule at defiance. As to your mother—" he paused a moment in hesitation, the expression of his countenance troubled, then continued—"she is weak, and still very far from well, but, in her heart of hearts, she knows I am right. Do not tell her you have broached this subject to me. Come, let us go and see if she is still asleep."

"You are not angry with me, father?" Margaret asked, as she followed him into the house.

"No, no! I am not, indeed!"

Mrs. Fowler awoke with a start as her husband and little daughter entered the drawing-room. Mr. Fowler immediately rang for tea, and when it was brought, Margaret poured it out. At first, Mrs. Fowler would not touch it, but finally, to please the others, drank a cupful, and felt refreshed. A few minutes later, Mr. Amyatt was shown into the room, and she brightened up and grew quite animated. Margaret and her father exchanged pleased glances, delighted at the interest the invalid was evincing in the conversation.

"I think I shall soon be well enough to go to church on Sundays," Mrs. Fowler informed the Vicar. "My husband tells me you have a very good choir."

"Yes, that is so," Mr. Amyatt replied. "We are decidedly primitive in our ways at Yelton, and have several women in our choir, notably Salome Petherick, the lame girl with whom your daughter has already become acquainted."

"Oh, yes. Margaret has been telling me about her. She sings in the choir, does she?"

"Yes. She has a beautiful voice, as clear and fresh as a bird's! I train the choir myself, for our organist comes from N—, a neighbouring town, several miles distant."

"By the way," said Mrs. Fowler with a smiling glance at Margaret, "my little girl is very desirous of learning to play the organ, and her governess would teach her, if you would allow her to practise on the organ in the church. Would there be any objection to that plan, Mr. Amyatt?"

"None whatever," was the prompt reply.

"Oh, thank you!" Margaret cried delightedly.

"You will have to employ Gerald to blow for you," Mr. Fowler remarked with a smile.

"I am sure he will not do that!" the little girl exclaimed. "He is far too disobliging."

"Margaret, how hard you are on your brother," Mrs. Fowler said reproachfully.

"Am I? I don't mean to be. Oh, here he is!"

Gerald came into the room with his hat on his head, but meeting his father's eyes, removed it instantly. After he had shaken hands with the Vicar, his mother called him to her, pushed back his fair locks from his forehead, and made him sit by her side on the sofa whilst she plied him with sweet cakes. He was her darling, and she indulged him to his bent. When the governess entered the room, having removed her hat and gloves, there were no sweet cakes left. Mr. Fowler rang the bell for more, and upon the parlour-maid bringing a fresh supply, declined to allow Gerald to partake of them, at which the spoilt boy pouted and sulked, and his mother threw reproachful glances at her husband.

Mr. Amyatt watched the scene in silence, wondering how anyone could allow affection to overcome judgment, as Mrs. Fowler had evidently done, as far as her little son was concerned, and marvelling that Mr. Fowler did not order the disagreeable child out of the room. When the Vicar rose to go, his host accompanied him as far as the garden gate, and they stood there talking some while before, at last, the Vicar said good-bye, and started down the hill towards the village.

The Fowlers had now been several weeks in residence at Greystone, but, up to the present, Mr. Amyatt had been their only visitor. Mrs. Fowler had not been outside the grounds surrounding the house yet, but talked of going down to the beach the first day she felt strong enough to attempt the walk. The children, however, had made several acquaintances among the fisher-folk, and a great liking had sprung up between Margaret and Salome Petherick, for, though one was a rich man's daughter and the other only a poor fisherman's child, they found they had much in common, and, wide apart though they were to outward appearances, they bade fair to become real friends.

CHAPTER IV.

"Abide with Me."

THE Fowlers had been six weeks at Greystone, when, one evening towards the end of July, Mrs. Fowler, who was daily improving in health, accompanied Margaret and Miss Conway to the church, and wandered about the ancient building, reading the inscriptions on the monuments, whilst her little daughter had her music lesson. By-and-by she strolled into the graveyard, and, seating herself on the low wall which surrounded it, gazed far out over the blue expanse of ocean, which was dotted with fishing boats and larger crafts, on this calm summer evening.

The churchyard at Yelton was beautifully situated, commanding a view of the whole village straggling nearly down to the beach, whilst on the eminence beyond the church was Greystone, against a background of green foliage.

"Everything is very lovely," Mrs. Fowler said to herself, "and the air is certainly most invigorating. I feel almost well to-night. Who comes here? Why, this must be Salome Petherick!"

It was the lame girl who had entered the churchyard, and was now approaching the spot where Mrs. Fowler sat. She paused at the sight of the figure on the wall, and a look of admiration stole into her soft, brown eyes. She had never seen such a pretty lady before, or anyone so daintily and becomingly dressed.

Mrs. Fowler, who had shrunk with the nervous unreasonableness of a sick person from being brought into contact with the cripple girl, now that she was actually face to face with her, was interested and sympathetic at once. She smiled at Salome and addressed her cordially.

"I think you must be Salome Petherick?" she said. "Yes, I am sure you are!"

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, accompanied by a shy glance of pleasure.

"My little girl has spoken of you so often that I seem to know you quite well," Mrs. Fowler remarked. "Come and sit down on the wall by my side, I want to talk to you."

Then as Salome complied willingly, she continued, "Does it not tire you to climb here every evening, as they tell me you do, to listen to the organ? The church is a good step from where you live. That is your home, is it not?" and she indicated the cottage nearest to the sea.

"Yes," Salome assented, "it does tire me a little to come up the hill, but I love to hear music. After Miss Margaret has had her organ lesson, Miss Conway generally plays something herself."

"Does she? Then I hope she will do so to-night. But my little daughter is still at the organ, so we will remain where we are until she has finished. Meanwhile we will talk. They tell me you live with your father, and that he is often away fishing. You must lead a lonely life."

"Yes, ma'am, indeed it is very lonely sometimes," Salome acknowledged, "but I don't mind that much. I have plenty to do, keeping the cottage clean and tidy, and preparing father's meals, mending his clothes, and seeing to the flowers in the garden."

"How busy you must be. And you have lost your mother, poor child."

Salome pointed to a green mound at a little distance, whilst her brown eyes filled with tears.

"She was such a good mother," she said softly, "oh, such a very good mother! And I was such a fretful, tiresome child. I used to grieve her so often, and I can't bear to think of it now."

She paused, but, encouraged by the sympathy on her companion's face, she continued, "She used to be so patient with me when I was naughty and grumbled because I was not able to run about and play like other children. And, until she lay dying, I never thought how sorry I must have made her, and what a selfish girl I'd been. Then, I would have given anything if I'd been different, but it was too late." And the repentant tears streamed down Salome's cheeks.

"Don't grieve," said Mrs. Fowler, a little huskily, for she was much touched at the other's evident remorse.

"I am sure Miss Margaret never treated you, ma'am, as I used to treat my mother!" Salome exclaimed.

Mrs. Fowler was silent as she acknowledged to herself that Margaret had always been patient and considerate when she had been an exacting invalid.

"I suppose your father is out in his fishing boat?" she asked by way of changing the conversation.

"No, ma'am," Salome replied, the look of grief deepening on her face.

"Let us go into the church and hear Miss Conway play," Mrs. Fowler said, rising as she spoke. "I hear Margaret's lesson is at an end. Ah, here comes the Vicar. How do you do, Mr. Amyatt?"

"I am glad to see you are better, Mrs. Fowler," the Vicar exclaimed. "What, you here, Salome? Don't go away; I want Mrs. Fowler to hear you sing."

Salome smiled, and blushed. She followed the others into the church and seated herself in a pew near the door, whilst the Vicar pointed out beauties in the architecture of the building to his companion, which she had failed to notice. Miss Conway was at the organ, playing "The Heavens are telling," and when the last notes died away the Vicar beckoned to Salome, who swung herself up the aisle on her crutches, and, at his request, consented to sing.

"I will play the accompaniment," Miss Conway said, smiling encouragingly at the lame girl, who felt a little shy at being called upon to sing alone. "What shall it be?" she inquired.

"Whatever you please, miss," Salome answered.

"Oh, no! You must choose," the Vicar declared decidedly.

"Then I will sing 'Abide with Me.'"

Mrs. Fowler and Margaret considerately withdrew to a side seat so that the sight of them should not embarrass the singer, and Mr. Amyatt followed them. Salome stood a little behind Miss Conway, who softly played the accompaniment of the hymn:

"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."

Salome's fresh, sweet voice rang clearly through the dim church, and its tender tones touched the hearts of her audience. She was very fond of "Abide with Me," for it had been her mother's favourite hymn, and to-night she sang her best.

"Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

The beautiful voice died lingeringly away, and for a few minutes there was a complete silence. Then Mrs. Fowler rose, and coming eagerly forward, took Salome by the hand, whilst she thanked her for giving her such a "rare treat" as she called it.

Margaret was delighted to see what a favourable impression her lame friend had evidently made upon her mother, and great was her surprise when, on their all adjourning to the churchyard, Mrs. Fowler asked Salome to come and see them at Greystone.

"I think you would be able to get as far as that, don't you?" she said with a winning smile. "I should like you to come and sing to me. Will you, one evening?"

"Oh, yes," Salome replied. She had never been inside the doors of Greystone in her life, though she had often desired to see what the house was like, having been told it was a fine place.

"Then that is settled. I shall expect you."

Mrs. Fowler nodded and turned away, followed by Miss Conway, and Margaret who looked back to wave her hand in farewell as she disappeared through the churchyard gate. The Vicar accompanied them thus far, then turned back to speak a few words to Salome. The village lad who had been employed to blow the organ had taken a short cut homewards over the low wall.

"You sang remarkably well to-night," Mr. Amyatt said, "I felt quite proud of my pupil. You showed excellent taste, too, in the hymn you chose. It was most suitable for the occasion. I wonder if you know the circumstances under which that hymn came to be written?"

"No," Salome rejoined, shaking her head, "I don't know, sir."

"Then I will tell you. It was composed more than fifty years ago by a sick clergyman of the name of Lyte, at a little fishing town called Brixham, in South Devon. He had become so seriously ill that the doctors had ordered him abroad for his health's sake, and, after service on the Sunday evening, prior to his leaving England, he went down to the sea-shore, sad at heart, for he was convinced that he had spoken to his parishioners, who were very dear to him, for the last time. He was sorrowful and low-spirited, but, by-and-by, the remembrance that his Saviour was ever near to help and sustain him brought him consolation. After watching the sunset, he went home, and immediately wrote the beautiful hymn you sang to-night."

Salome had listened with deep interest, and she exclaimed earnestly: "Oh, Mr. Amyatt, I am glad you have told me this. I shall love 'Abide with Me' better than ever now."

The Vicar smiled, then pointed towards the sea, over which a soft summer mist was creeping.

"It is time for you to go home," he reminded her. "Where is your father this evening?"

"At the 'Crab and Cockle,' sir."

He shook his head sadly, but refrained from questioning her further. He saw she was thinner than she had been a few months previously, and wondered if she was sufficiently well fed, or if Josiah Petherick expended the money he should have spent on his home, on the friends he met at the inn. As he watched the little girl swinging herself slowly down the hill by the aid of her crutches, he felt very grieved and troubled on her account.

"What a curse this drink is!" he thought. "And it's a curse that creeps in everywhere, too."

In the village that afternoon, he had been told that Mr. Fowler had summarily dismissed a groom who had been discovered with a bottle of beer in the stable, and he had listened to various comments upon the strict notions of the master of Greystone. Most of the villagers were inclined to think that the man's fault in disobeying his master's rule that no intoxicating liquor should be brought on the premises might have been overlooked, as it was his first offence, whilst some few argued that Mr. Fowler had acted rightly.

As Salome passed the "Crab and Cockle" on her way home, she heard sounds of hilarity within, and recognised her father's voice singing a rollicking sea song. She sighed, remembering how, during his wife's lifetime, Josiah had been a member of the church choir; it appeared unseemly to her that a voice which once had been raised to the praise and glory of God should lend itself to the entertainment of a set of half-drunken men in the bar of a public-house. As she paused, involuntarily listening, a whiff of foul air, laden with the mingled odour of smoke and beer, was wafted before her nostrils from the open doorway, and she moved on with a sickening sense of shame and disgust, her heart heavy as lead, her eyes smarting with tears. Oh, hers was a hard life, she thought bitterly.

Arrived at home, she laid a frugal supper of bread and cheese, and soon afterwards her father reeled up the garden path and into the kitchen. Sitting down at the table, he helped himself to bread and cheese in silence, and commenced eating, whilst his little daughter took her accustomed place opposite to him.

"Where've you been?" he questioned. "I saw you pass the inn."

She told him how she had spent the evening, explaining that she had sung at the Vicar's request, and that Mrs. Fowler had invited her to Greystone.

"I won't let you go there!" he cried. "I hate those new people! What did Mr. Fowler do yesterday, but dismiss as honest a chap as ever lived, at a moment's notice, just because he'd got a bottle o' beer in the stable! An' the man wasn't drunk either! No, you shan't go nigh folks as treats their servants like that."

"Oh, father!" Salome exclaimed, disappointedly. She was wise enough, however, not to pursue the subject. After a brief silence, she asked, with some timidity, "Father, have you any money? Because, when Silas Moyle left the bread this afternoon, he said he couldn't supply us with any more unless you paid him what you owe."

Silas Moyle was the one baker of the place, and the owner of the village shop, in which his wife served. Josiah Petherick had formerly paid ready money for everything, but latterly he had been spending at the "Crab and Cockle" what should have gone into Silas Moyle's pocket. This was an additional trouble to Salome, but her father did not appear to care. He was enraged, though, when he heard what the baker had said, and, as his creditor was not present to bear the brunt of his indignation, Salome had to stand it instead. She turned white when he swore at her, and sat perfectly still whilst he abused her roundly, but when he called her extravagant she began to protest.

"Father, that's not fair of you! I'm as careful as ever I can be. We're obliged to have bread! Won't you see Silas yourself? Perhaps he'll continue to supply us, if you can arrange to pay him part of what we owe. Of course, he wants his money."

"He's another of your teetotal humbugs!" sneered the angry man.

"He isn't a humbug at all!" Salome retorted hotly, her indignation and sense of justice overcoming her fear of her father; "but he did say he wasn't minded to wait for his money when it was being squandered with that drunken crew at the 'Crab and Cockle.' Oh, father, it was terrible for me to hear that, and I couldn't contradict him!"

With a fierce oath, Josiah pushed back his chair and rose from the table, declaring things had come to a pretty pass when his own daughter, a mere child, thought fit to discuss him with outsiders.

Salome broke into passionate weeping at this, whereupon he flung himself out of the kitchen, and the next minute she heard his footsteps in the garden.

"He's gone to the 'Crab and Cockle' again," thought the unhappy little girl. "Oh, how could he swear at me like that? Oh, how shall I bear it!" Presently she arose, put away the supper things and then sat down by the open window to wait, as she knew she would have to do, until the inn door was closed for the night, and her father would return. By-and-by, the soft lap, lap of the sea had a soothing effect upon her troubled spirit, the peacefulness of the summer night stole into her soul, and she murmured to herself the words of consolation she had sung an hour or so before in the dim, old church:

"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."

CHAPTER V.

Salome's Humiliation.

JOSIAH PETHERICK sat on the beach mending his fishing nets in the shade of a tall rock. It was intensely hot, and there was scarcely a ripple on the glassy sea, whilst the sky was a broad canopy of blue. Josiah was thinking deeply. That morning, consequent on the information his daughter had given him on the previous evening, he had been to interview Silas Moyle, and had induced the baker to allow him further credit. Never in his life before had Josiah found himself in such a humiliating position, and he felt it all the more because it was entirely his own fault. He had always prided himself on being able to pay his way, and now he was not in the position to do so.

Glancing up from his work presently, the fisherman saw three figures come down to the beach—a lady, a gentleman, and a small boy clad in a sailor's suit and broad-brimmed straw hat. He knew them to be Mr. and Mrs. Fowler and their little son. He had often held lengthy conversations with Gerald, who was always delighted to talk with anyone who could tell him about the manifold wonders of the sea, but he had never spoken to either of the boy's parents. Despite his disapproval of the strict teetotal principles of the master of Greystone, he regarded that gentleman with considerable interest, and when Mr. Fowler strolled up to him, and inquired from whom a boat might be hired, he answered him civilly, "You can have a boat from me, if you like, sir; but there's no wind for sailing to-day."

"Perhaps you would row us around those high rocks yonder. My wife has a fancy to see what lies beyond that point."

Josiah assented willingly, seeing an opportunity of earning a few shillings; and so it came to pass that he spent a very pleasant and lucrative morning, returning home to dinner in the best of spirits.

"The new folks at Greystone have a liking for boating," he informed Salome; "and see here," tossing a half-crown as he spoke upon the table, "give that to Silas Moyle when he calls with the bread this afternoon."

The lame girl's face brightened as she took up the coin, and looked at her father questioningly.

"I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fowler and Master Gerald pass here on their way to the beach," she said. "Did you take them out in your boat, father?"

"Yes. They treated me very fairly, I must admit that, an' Mrs. Fowler—she seems a nice lady—spoke of you."

"Did she?"

"She said you had a lovely voice, an' that she was looking forward to hear you sing again. I say, Salome, I shouldn't like to disappoint her, so if she really wants you to go and see her, you may—" and Josiah, mindful of all he had said on the preceding night, avoided meeting his little daughter's eyes as he made this concession.

"Oh, thank you, dear father," she cried. "I should like to go to Greystone so much."

"That little Master Gerald is a tiresome monkey," Josiah remarked. "He wouldn't sit still in the boat at first, though his mother kept on with him. At last his father spoke, an' after that, there was no need to tell him to be quiet again. Mr. Fowler looks a man as would have his own way."

"Master Gerald is very disobedient, I know," Salome said, "and sometimes his governess has great trouble with him. Miss Margaret says her mother spoils him."

"Then, 'tis a good job he's got a father who doesn't."

After dinner, Josiah went on with his interrupted work of mending his fishing nets, whilst Salome tidied up the cottage and waited for Silas Moyle.

The baker looked gratified as he took the half-crown the lame girl tendered him, for he had not expected to be paid even a small part of his account.

"That's right," he said, as he pocketed the money; "it appears I did some good by speaking yesterday. Look here, my dear, you must try to keep that father of yours up to the mark. Can't you make him stay at home of an evening?"

The little girl shook her head, and looked distressed as she replied, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Moyle."

"He's not at the 'Crab and Cockle' now, I s'pose?"

"No, he's on the beach mending his nets; and this morning he took Mr. and Mrs. Fowler and their little boy for a row in his boat."

"It's a pity Mr. Fowler can't get your father to his way of thinking—about drink, I mean. I say the new folks at Greystone set an example that many in Yelton might follow with advantage. Theirs is a teetotal household, I'm told."

"So I've heard," Salome responded.

Silas Moyle nodded kindly, and took himself off, whilst Salome locked up the cottage and joined her father on the beach. She told him the baker had been pleased to receive the half-crown, and then tactfully changed the subject. Josiah and his daughter were always excellent friends when the former had not been drinking.

"Look!" Salome exclaimed suddenly, "There's Master Gerald. Why, he seems to be alone. He sees us."

The child came running towards them, laughing as he stumbled over the rough shingles, his face aglow with excitement, his broad-brimmed sailor's hat at the back of his head, revealing the fair curls which clustered thickly around his brow.

"I've run away," he cried merrily. "I wanted Miss Conway to bring me down to the beach, but she would not—the disagreeable thing! She said it was too hot, and I must stay in the garden. So I came by myself."

"Doesn't Miss Conway know where you are?" Salome inquired.

"No one knows," he replied proudly. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm not so sure of that, young gentleman," Josiah remarked, with a chuckle of amusement at Gerald's air of importance.

"It was naughty of you to run away," Salome told him in a tone of reproof.

The child made a grimace at her, and ran off towards some rocks which the receding tide had left uncovered.

"He's a pretty handful," Josiah exclaimed, shaking his head.

"I expect someone will be here looking for him soon," said Salome. "I hope so, for his mother will be anxious if she does not know where he is, and she is not strong."

But nobody came in search of Gerald, who at last disappeared from sight beyond the rocks. In spite of her father's assurance that the boy could come to no harm, the little girl grew uneasy about him; and, by-and-by, rose and went to make certain he was safe. She found him lying flat on the wet beach, gazing into a pool between two rocks at some beautiful anemones; and tried to induce him to retrace his footsteps, but all to no purpose. In vain she told him that his mother would be worried about him, and that his father would be angry. The wayward child would pay no attention to her.

"What's it to do with you?" he demanded rudely. "Mind your own business, if you please."

As he absolutely refused to return, Salome left him with the intention of persuading her father to interfere; but, to her dismay, she found Josiah had deserted his nets, and as the key of the cottage door was in her pocket, she knew he had not gone home. In all probability he had betaken himself to the "Crab and Cockle" to obtain a drink. Whilst she was hesitating how to act, much to her surprise, Gerald appeared around the rocks and joined her. He was tired of the beach, he declared, and wanted to see her flowers, so she allowed him to accompany her home. And thus it was that the young tyrant was discovered in Salome's garden half-an-hour later by his much-tried governess.

Poor Miss Conway! She almost wept with joy on finding Gerald in safety, and insisted on his return to Greystone immediately. She led him away in triumph, paying no attention to his request that he might be allowed to remain a little longer.

Josiah did not return for his tea, so after waiting some time, Salome had hers, and then seated herself under the porch with her knitting. There Margaret Fowler found her as the evening was drawing in.

"Mother has sent me to thank you for taking such good care of Gerald this afternoon," Margaret said as she complied with the lame girl's invitation to sit down opposite to her. "He is a very tiresome, disobedient boy, for father had told him never to go down on the beach by himself. He is not to be trusted. Father has punished him for his naughtiness by ordering him to bed. It was quite a shock to poor Miss Conway when she found Gerald was nowhere on the premises."

"I noticed she looked pale," Salome said. "I am afraid Master Gerald is very troublesome."

"Troublesome! I should think he is. It was kind of you to look after him, Salome. I have a message from my mother to know if you can come to see us to-morrow. Do try to come."

"Oh, I should like to!" Salome cried, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Then, will you manage to be at Greystone by five o'clock?"

"Yes, miss, if all's well. Oh, please thank Mrs. Fowler for asking me!"

"Mother wants to hear you sing again. She has taken quite a fancy to you, and I am so glad."

"I think your mother is the prettiest, sweetest lady I ever saw," the lame girl said earnestly. "How dearly you must love her, Miss Margaret."

"Yes," Margaret answered soberly, "but I do not think she cares for me much. Gerald is her favourite, you know. Oh, I'm not jealous of him, but I can't help seeing that though he teases and worries her, and I do all I can to please her, she loves him much better than she has ever loved me."

Salome was surprised, and pained by the look of sadness on her companion's face.

"Perhaps your mother shows her affection more to Master Gerald because he's so much younger than you," she suggested. "I cannot believe she loves him better really."

Margaret made no reply to this, but by-and-by she said, "We have had several fusses at home these last few days. Did you hear that father dismissed one of the men-servants for bringing beer into the stable?"

"Yes, I heard about it. I think Mr. Fowler was quite right," Salome declared decidedly.

"Do you? I'm glad to hear you say that. Father always means to do right, I am sure. He is a teetotaler himself, you know, and so are we all, for that matter."

At this point in the conversation the garden gate clicked, and Josiah strode up the path and hurried past the little girls into the cottage. His bronzed face was crimson; and he walked somewhat unsteadily; but he was sufficiently sober to realise that his wisest plan was to take no notice of his little daughter's visitor.

Pitying Salome from the depths of her heart, Margaret rose, saying it was time for her to go home. The lame girl followed her silently to the garden gate, where they stood for a few minutes talking.

"You'll be sure to come to-morrow, won't you?" Margaret said earnestly.

"Yes, miss," was the grave reply, "if I possibly can; I hope nothing will prevent it, but—you see how it is with him sometimes," and she pointed towards the cottage.

"Yes," Margaret admitted. "Oh, I'm so sorry! He must be a terrible trial for you. May God help you, Salome."

"He does help me," the lame girl replied, "I couldn't bear it alone. Oh, how I wish my father was a teetotaler like yours."

"I wish so, too."

"I had hoped you would never find out about my poor father being a drinker, but I might have known that sooner or later you would learn the truth. Oh, miss, don't, please don't think, he's altogether a bad man. He isn't! When he's sober, there's not a kinder or better man in the world. But when the drink gets hold of him, he isn't himself at all." And Salome laid her head on the top rail of the gate and sobbed heartbrokenly.

"Oh, don't cry so!" Margaret said imploringly, her own eyes full of tears. "Oh, perhaps he'll give up the drink some day."

"I don't know, miss, I'm afraid he won't. He gets worse instead of better. The Vicar has spoken to him, but that's done no good. He has only come home for supper now; afterwards he'll go back to the 'Crab and Cockle.' But there, I mustn't cry any more, or he'll notice it!"

SALOME LAID HER HEAD ON THE TOP RAIL OF THE GATE
AND SOBBED HEART-BROKENLY.

"Good-bye, Salome! Mind you come to-morrow."

"Oh, yes! I hope I shall. Oh, miss, I feel so ashamed that you should have seen my father to-night!"

"There's nothing for you to be ashamed about. I think you're the pluckiest girl I know. Good night!" And Margaret ran off with a nod and a smile.

She slackened her speed soon, however; and as she went up the hill beyond the church towards her home, paused now and again to look back the way she had come, and admire the beautiful view. At the entrance to the grounds of Greystone she met her father, and together they walked towards the house, whilst she told him of Josiah Petherick's condition that evening.

"Oh, father, you are right to be a teetotaler!" she cried. "Drink is an awful thing!"

"It is indeed, my dear," he replied with a deep sigh. "I found Petherick a well-informed, civil-spoken man, in fact I was favourably impressed with him this morning, and he talked of his little daughter as though he really loved her. Drink can slay affection, though," he concluded sorrowfully.

"It's dreadful it should, father!"

"When drink once gets hold of people, it makes them slaves, and kills their finest feelings. I am very sorry for that poor Salome!"

"So am I. She is so brave, too, and sticks up for her father all she can. Oh, I think he ought to give up the drink for her sake. I wonder—I wonder if it would be any good for you to speak to him!" And Margaret looked wistfully and pleadingly into her father's face.

"I will consider the matter," he rejoined thoughtfully.

"Oh, father!" she cried, picturing afresh Salome's grief and humiliation, "What should I do, if I had such a trouble as that poor lame girl has to bear?"

Mr. Fowler started, and a look of intense pain and trouble momentarily crossed his countenance, but he answered quietly, "In that case, I hope you would ask God to support and comfort you."

"As Salome does. I could not be patient like she is, though."

"I trust you would, my dear child."

"Well, I am not likely to be tried," and Margaret regarded her father with a look of affectionate pride. She wondered at the sadness of the smile with which he returned her glance; and his answer, gravely spoken, puzzled her not a little.

"We cannot tell how much our patience and our love may be tried," he said, "nor what trials the future may hold for us. We can only pray that God will help and strengthen us in our time of need."

CHAPTER VI.

Perfectly Happy.

"OH, I do hope she will come! It's nearly five o'clock, and she's not in sight yet. I wish I had thought of watching from my bedroom window, I could have seen then when she left the cottage."

The speaker, Margaret Fowler, started up from her seat beneath the lilac tree, and ran across the lawn in the direction of the gate which led from the grounds of Greystone into the road. Beneath the lilac tree sat Mrs. Fowler in a comfortably padded wicker chair, with a small table laden with papers and magazines at her side. She glanced after her little daughter with a slightly amused smile, then remonstrated with Gerald, who was playing near by, for making a noise.

"You will give me a headache, if you keep on doing that," she said, as he cannoned two croquet balls against each other. "Pray, be quiet!"

Gerald chose not to obey. He continued his game, utterly regardless of his mother's command.

"Do stop, Gerald!" she exclaimed. "I really cannot bear that noise any longer. Oh, where is Miss Conway? Why isn't she here to look after you? Gerald, to oblige me, find some other amusement, there's a dear boy!"

"Why do you not obey your mother, sir?" demanded a stern voice. And suddenly the little boy dropped the croquet-mallet from his hand, and turned to face his father.

"That's right, Gerald!" Mrs. Fowler said hastily. "He hasn't been doing anything wrong, Henry," she continued, glancing apprehensively at her husband, "only—you know how absurdly nervous I am—I can't bear any sharp, sudden noise. It's foolish of me, I know."

Gerald now ran after his sister, and Mr. Fowler stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking, down at her with grave attention.

"You should make the boy obey you, my dear," he said. "Has not your visitor arrived yet?"

"No. Margaret has gone to the gate to see if she is coming. I thought we would have tea out here, for it is cooler and pleasanter in the garden than in the house, and it will be more informal. I should like you to hear this lame girl sing, Henry! I think I never heard a voice which touched me so deeply as hers. But you are not listening—"

"I beg your pardon, my dear. I confess my thoughts were wandering. The fact is, to-morrow I shall have to go up to town for a few days, and I would far rather remain at home. But I am obliged to go."

"You can leave with an easy mind," his wife told him reassuringly. "I am really quite strong now, and capable of managing the household, I believe I shall be better for something to do. By the way, you cannot think how much I enjoyed my drive this morning to N—" mentioning the nearest town. "I wanted some trifles from a draper's, and the shops were much better than I expected. Oh! Here come the children. They are bringing Salome with them."

Mrs. Fowler rose and greeted the lame girl very cordially, placing her in a chair next to her own. Salome was looking her best, neatly attired in a clean cotton frock. There was a flush born of excitement on her cheeks, and her brown eyes shone with a happy light as she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the present hour.

Tea was served beneath the lilac tree, such a luxuriant tea as Salome had never partaken of before, and everyone appeared determined that she should make a good meal—Gerald pointing out to her the most delectable of the dainties which he pressed her to eat, for in the depths of his selfish little heart, there was a warm spot for the lame girl who had so often given him flowers from her garden when he had certainly not deserved them.

Salome was inclined to be a trifle shy at first of Mr. Fowler. From what she had heard of him she had imagined he must be an exceedingly stern, strict sort of man, but he talked to her so kindly and pleasantly that she soon grew at ease with him, and answered all the questions he put to her unreservedly. She told him she had only been a member of the choir during the last six months, and explained that she had not known she possessed a really good voice until the Vicar had informed her that such was the fact.

"I always loved singing, even when I was a tiny thing," she said, "but I never thought of joining the choir till one day when Mr. Amyatt suggested it. He was passing our cottage, and heard me singing, and he came right in and said he would like me to come up to the Vicarage and let him try my voice. Father said I might go, so I did, and the next Sunday, I sang with the choir in church for the first time."

"You must not sing too much," Mr. Fowler remarked, "for you are very young, and might permanently injure your voice if you strained it now. You must nurse it a bit."

"That's what Mr. Amyatt says," Salome replied with a smile, "and I'm very careful."

"It is a great gift to have a beautiful voice." Mr. Fowler looked with kindly interest at his little guest as he spoke; then his eyes wandered to the crutches which she had placed on the ground beside her chair, and she caught the swift glance of sympathy which crossed his face, and from that moment, he stood high in her estimation.

"God is very merciful," he added softly, as though speaking to himself; "we are too apt to forget that He never sends a cross without its compensation."

Salome was perfectly happy sitting there under the lilac tree, though she felt all the while as though she must be in a wonderful dream. Mrs. Fowler, in her light summer dress, with her fair hair and her lovely blue eyes, looked like a queen, she thought. Salome was more and more impressed with her grace and charm on every fresh occasion on which she saw her. How proud Miss Margaret must be of her mother! And how happy Miss Margaret must be in such a beautiful home, with kind parents, and everything that heart could desire! And yet, what was the meaning of that wistful look on her face; and why was Mr. Fowler's countenance so grave, and almost stern in expression at times? Salome's eyes were remarkably shrewd. She noticed how attentive Mr. Fowler was to his wife, almost seeming to anticipate her wishes and read her thoughts; and she was surprised when he was called away for a few minutes to see that Mrs. Fowler talked with greater freedom in his absence, as though his presence put a restraint upon her.

As soon as all had finished tea, Margaret took Salome around the gardens, and afterwards led the way into the house. She showed Salome her own room, the walls of which were crowded with pictures and knickknacks. The lame girl had never seen such a pretty bedroom before as this one, with its little white-curtained bed, and white-enamelled furniture. Then Margaret opened a velvet-lined jewel case, and took out a small, gold brooch in the shape of a shell, which she insisted upon fastening into the neck of her visitor's gown.

"It is for you," she said, "I bought it with my own money, so you need not mind taking it. I told mother I was going to give it to you. I want you to wear it for my sake, Salome."

"Oh, Miss Margaret, how kind of you! Thank you so much. But ought I to take it? Are you sure Mrs. Fowler—"

"Oh, yes!" Margaret interposed eagerly. "Mother would like you to have it. She said she thought it would be a very suitable gift for you. It is pretty, isn't it?"

"It is lovely!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I shall value it always, Miss Margaret, for your sake," and there were tears of pleasure and gratitude in Salome's brown eyes as she spoke.

"I am so very glad you like it," Margaret said earnestly; "but now, come downstairs to the drawing-room."

Greystone appeared quite a palatial residence to the simple village girl, accustomed to her cottage home. She noticed how soft and thick were the carpets, how handsome was the furniture; and how everything in connection with the house had been done with a view to comfort. A sense of awe crept over her, as she cast one swift glance around the spacious drawing-room. Miss Conway was at the piano, but she ceased playing as the little girls entered; and Mrs. Fowler, who was standing by the open window conversing with her husband, turned towards them immediately and requested Salome to sing.

So Salome stood, leaning upon her crutches, in the centre of the room, and lilted, without accompaniment, a simple little song she had often heard from her dead mother's lips. It was a lullaby, and she sang it so sweetly and unaffectedly that her listeners were delighted, and Mr. Fowler was surprised at the beauty of the voice which had had so little training. She gave them several other quaint west-country ballads; and then, at Mrs. Fowler's request, sang, "Abide with Me."

"I like that best," Margaret said, as she drew Salome down on a sofa by her side. "Why, how you're trembling! And your hands are quite cold!"

"Poor child! We have made her nervous, I fear," Mr. Fowler remarked. "Used your mother to sing, my dear?"

"Yes, sir, sometimes, and father used to sing in the choir, but he doesn't now. If you please," she proceeded, glancing from one to the other hesitatingly, "I think I ought to go home. Father promised to meet me outside the gate at seven o'clock, and it must be that now."

"It is a little after seven," Mr. Fowler replied, glancing at his watch.

"Then I think I must go, sir."

"You must come again soon," Mrs. Fowler said eagerly. "Thank you so much, my dear, for singing to us. You have given us very great pleasure."

"I am very glad," Salome rejoined simply and earnestly, "and I should like to tell you how much I have enjoyed myself; and thank you for all your kindness to me."

True to his promise, Josiah Petherick was waiting for his little daughter in the road outside the entrance to Greystone. He was perfectly sober, and as Salome caught sight of his stalwart figure, her face lit up with pleasure.

"Well, have you had an enjoyable time?" he inquired, smilingly.

"Oh, yes," she answered, and proceeded to give him a detailed account of all she had seen, and heard, and done. He admired Margaret's gift, and was secretly much gratified at the attention and kindness his little girl had received from the new-comers. Much to her relief, he accompanied her past the "Crab and Cockle," though it must be admitted, he cast a longing glance in the direction of the open doorway through which the stale odour of tobacco and beer was stealing forth as usual. And when they reached home, he followed her into the cottage, and continued the conversation whilst she set about getting supper. She feared he would take himself to the inn as soon as the meal was over, but, instead, he sat down under the porch and gazed thoughtfully out to sea.

"That Mr. Fowler's a rare hand to talk," he remarked presently, when his little daughter joined him. "That comes of being educated, I s'pose. He can argue a bit, he can."

"Can he?" Salome looked surprised. "How do you know, father?" she inquired.

"'Cause I was foolish enough to try to argue with him, my maid!"

"Oh! When was that?"

"This morning, on the beach."

"Oh!" she cried again, more and more astonished. "What did you argue about, father?" She ventured to ask.

"Drink!" was the brief reply. And there was that in Josiah's manner which forbade further questioning.

Salome nestled silently close to her father's side, her head resting against his arm, as she thought how nice it was to have him there with her, quite himself, and how dearly she loved him. She listened to the murmur of the sea, and tried to count the stars appearing in the sky, whilst Josiah recalled the argument he had had with Mr. Fowler, in which, he was obliged to admit, he had come off worst. At last, a deep sigh from Salome drew his attention to her, and he asked what was amiss.

"Amiss?" she echoed in astonishment. "Nothing."

"But you sighed, my dear."

"Did I? Then it must have been for joy. I'm perfectly happy, perfectly! And so I should always be, if there was no such place as the 'Crab and Cockle' in Yelton."

"Well, Salome, I've not been there to-night."

"No, you have not, dear father," she answered affectionately, "and that's why I'm so perfectly happy. My mind's at rest!"

CHAPTER VII.

An Afternoon's Outing.

MR. FOWLER was obliged to breakfast at seven o'clock, which was an hour-and-a-half before the usual breakfast hour at Greystone, on the morning following Salome's visit, as it was his intention to catch the first train to London from N—, and in order to do that he would have to leave home before eight o'clock, and drive several miles. His journey had been discussed on the previous night, and he had said good-bye to Miss Conway and the children then. But, when he entered the breakfast-room as the clock struck seven, he found his little daughter awaiting him.

"Why, Margaret!" he exclaimed in pleased surprise as he kissed her. "I did not expect to see you, my dear! You are not generally an early bird."

"I'm afraid I am rather sleepy-headed in the mornings, as a rule," she confessed, "but I made up my mind last night that I would have my breakfast with you to-day, dear father, and see you off. Now do try to eat as much as ever you can," she added practically, as the servant appeared with a tray holding a couple of covered dishes and the coffee-pot.

Mr. Fowler laughed, as he seated himself at the table with Margaret opposite to him, and said he would take her advice.

"I am sorry I have to go," he remarked, "but I have no choice in the matter, as my lawyer wants to consult me upon important business. I shall leave your mother in your charge, Margaret."

"In my charge?" Margaret said inquiringly, looking surprised. "But she is not ill now, father! See how cheerful and bright she was last night. And she has taken several walks. Oh, she is heaps better and stronger than she was! I don't think you need worry about her."

"Perhaps not; but, nevertheless, I want you to devote as much of your time as you can to her during my absence. I have spoken to Miss Conway, and she has consented to give you a holiday till I return. Had I not seen you this morning, Miss Conway would have explained my wishes to you. I desire you to accompany your mother when she drives out, and when she goes into the village, or down to the beach—in short, make yourself her companion, my dear, until I return. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father, I think so," Margaret replied, impressed by his serious tone. "I expect mother will be dull when you are gone, so I will do my best to brighten her up!"

"That's a good child!"

"Only, sometimes she much prefers to have Gerald with her to me!"

"I would rather she had you. Remember what I have said, Margaret. I hope I shall not be away very long, but it will of course depend upon circumstances."

Mr. Fowler made an excellent breakfast, and afterwards went upstairs to say good-bye to his wife, whilst Margaret waited for him in the hall. He kissed his little girl tenderly on his return, then, it being quite time for him to leave, entered the carriage which was waiting at the door, and was driven off. Margaret felt a little depressed as she listened to the sound of the carriage wheels dying away in the distance, for she was exceedingly attached to her father, and home did not seem like home without him.

Knowing her mother must be awake, she went upstairs, and knocked at her bedroom door. On being told to come in, to her surprise, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of getting up to breakfast.

"But do you feel well enough?" Margaret asked, for up to the present Mrs. Fowler, having been an invalid, had always breakfasted in her own room at Greystone.

"Oh, yes!" was the quick response. "I'm tired of being treated like a sick person! What a beautiful, bright morning it is, and not so hot, is it? Your father will have a fine day for his journey."

"He did not want to go at all!"

"No. But that was foolish of him!"

"I think he did not like the thought of leaving you, mother. He feared you might be ill whilst he was away."

"Oh, I am not likely to be ill again," Mrs. Fowler declared sanguinely. "I mean to throw off my invalid-ish ways now, and surprise your father on his return. Send Ross to me, Margaret, to help me dress."

"Shall I help you, mother? Do let me. I am sure I can do your hair as well as Ross."

Mrs. Fowler hesitated, but finally decided in favour of Ross; so Margaret went in search of her. Ross was a well-mannered, good-tempered young woman who waited upon Mrs. Fowler, and did the mending and sewing of the household. She expressed surprise and pleasure on hearing that her mistress intended getting up and joining the family breakfast-table.

"It shows how much stronger she feels, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've often thought if she would bestir herself more she would be better in health and spirits."

Gerald grumbled loudly when he discovered that he was to do lessons whilst his sister was to have a holiday. Why should Margaret be allowed nice drives with their mother when he was obliged to stay at home and work. It was most unfair, he declared; and it may be imagined that poor Miss Conway had rather a trying experience with her younger pupil on the first day of his father's absence, when, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret drove to N—, and left him at home.

The road to N— lay through some most beautiful scenery, and Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Now they were on an open common where the few trees to be seen were stunted and grown one-sided, a fact which puzzled the little girl until it was explained to her that the keen breeze blowing across the Atlantic was accountable for it, then she remarked that the bare side of the trees was the one which faced the sea; now they had left the common and were going down bill into a sheltered, wooded coomb, and by-and-by the road led upwards again till the town of N— was reached, situated almost at the top of the hill.

At the entrance to the town, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret got out of the carriage, and walked up the main street—Fore Street it was called—looking into the shop windows. They had paused outside a small china shop in which was some pretty pottery, when a familiar voice addressed them in accents of pleasure and surprise.

"Can I believe my eyes? Who would have thought of meeting you here!"

Turning instantly they confronted a handsome, middle-aged lady, dressed as a widow, whose comely face was wreathed in smiles. She was called Mrs. Lute, and had been a near neighbour of theirs in London.

"Oh, how glad I am!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "It is good to see you again! Are you staying in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes; I have taken a furnished house at N— for two months. I saw it advertised, came to see it, and the result is that here I am! Why, how well you look! And you were such a wreck when you left town! Margaret, too, is looking all the better for the change of air! I suppose you are still at Yelton?"

"Oh, yes! Why haven't you been to see us?"

"I have only been here a week. But, come, walk home with me, and have a cup of tea."

"I should like to, but I have some errands to execute. Oh, Margaret!" And Mrs. Fowler turned to her little daughter eagerly. "Surely you could do the errands! See, here is the list of what I want on this paper! Is your home far from here?" she inquired of Mrs. Lute.

"No, you must have passed it—a thatched, whitewashed house, with a porch covered with clematis and roses."

"Oh, yes, I noticed it!" Margaret cried. "Mother, why don't you and Mrs. Lute drive back in the carriage, and I will join you as soon as I have done the shopping?"

Thus it was arranged. Margaret was quite excited at meeting an old acquaintance, for Mrs. Lute had long been on the friendliest terms with her neighbours in town. She was one of the kindest of women, and had been exceedingly sympathetic during Mrs. Fowler's serious illness in the spring.

When Margaret had executed her list of errands, she made her way to the whitewashed house, outside which the carriage was waiting; and on being shown into the drawing-room which faced the road, found her mother and Mrs. Lute seated there conversing happily.

"How warm the poor child looks!" the latter exclaimed. "Sit down in this comfortable chair, my dear, and let me give you some tea; or would you rather have a glass of wine, for you look tired, and—"

"Oh, no, thank you!" Margaret interposed hastily.

"Just as you like, my dear; but I persuaded your mother to take a little wine; I thought it would do her good after her long drive, and I think it has refreshed her. Here's your tea, my dear! Help yourself to cream and sugar, and do try this cake."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lute."

Margaret was startled for the moment to hear her mother had been drinking wine, remembering how her father had refused to allow her to take it. She thought Mrs. Fowler should have declined it; but the matter soon passed from her mind as Mrs. Lute began to question her about Yelton.

"Everyone tells me it is a charming little village," Mrs. Lute said, "but your mother is not enthusiastic about it. I think she is beginning to feel the lack of society. I have been telling her she should be satisfied to have regained her health. She is looking wonderfully well."

Margaret, glancing at her mother, agreed with Mrs. Lute. No one would have guessed at that moment that Mrs. Fowler had been an invalid so lately, for there was a pink colour in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were shining with a happy light. She was as glad as was Margaret to meet their old friend.

"You must pay us a visit at Greystone as soon as my husband returns," she said hospitably, "and then you will be able to form your own ideas of Yelton and its inhabitants. Margaret has struck up a friendship with a lame girl, Salome Petherick by name, and I believe Gerald has picked acquaintance with several fishermen."

"Salome's father is a fisherman," Margaret remarked; "and oh, Salome has the most beautiful voice you can possibly imagine, hasn't she, mother?"

"She certainly has. When you come to visit us, Mrs. Lute, you shall hear this Cornish singing-bird. Poor girl, she is a sad cripple, yet she makes herself very useful, attends to her father's cottage, and even does gardening!"

"She uses a pair of crutches as a rule," Margaret explained, "but when she is gardening, she somehow manages to hop about on one, so that she has a hand free to work with. Poor Salome! Her father drinks, and that is a great trouble to her."

"I should think so, indeed!" Mrs. Lute commented. "She ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge. Total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people."

"Father says," Margaret was beginning, when Mrs. Fowler somewhat abruptly changed the conversation by inquiring for a mutual friend in town. It struck the little girl that her mother did not wish her to air her father's teetotal views, so during the homeward drive she recurred to the subject.

"Mother, I was going to tell Mrs. Lute that we are all teetotalers now," she said. "Don't you want her to know?"

Mrs. Fowler hesitated and frowned slightly, refraining from meeting her little daughter's gravely inquiring gaze.

"I suppose she will have to know, if she comes to stay with us at Greystone," she responded in tones of annoyance. "I had forgotten your father's fad when I invited her."

"Oh, mother, don't call it a fad!" Margaret cried distressfully.

"That's what it is, child! Mrs. Lute is accustomed to take wine, yet no one can say she is not a strictly temperate woman. Your father, I do not doubt, would like her to be a total abstainer. Such nonsense! He used not to be so fastidious!" And Mrs. Fowler looked quite angry.

Margaret made no answer. She had perfect faith in her father's judgment, but she felt herself incapable of arguing the matter from his point of view.

On reaching home they found a telegram from Mr. Fowler, acquainting them with his safe arrival in London. As Mrs. Fowler read it, the displeasure left her face for a softer, gentler expression.

"How thoughtful he always is!" she exclaimed.

She was in exceedingly good spirits all the evening, and retired to rest apparently perfectly well; but about midnight, Margaret was awakened by a sound in the room, and starting up in bed, found her mother standing by her side in her night-gown, with a lighted candle in her hand.

"What is it, mother? Are you ill?" The little girl inquired in alarm.

"No, but I am nervous, and cannot sleep! I wish your father had not gone! Did I frighten you? I hope not. I felt I must have company."

Margaret was greatly astonished, for the thought had continually crossed her mind during the day that Mrs. Fowler was relieved at her husband's absence. She jumped out of bed immediately, and led her mother back to her own room.

"I will stay with you to-night, dear mother," she said gently. "You won't feel nervous then."

So mother and daughter lay down side by side, but not to sleep as yet, for the latter was restless and sighed continually.

"You are sure you are not ill?" Margaret asked with loving anxiety.

"No, I am not ill, but I am very unhappy," was the response in a tone of great sadness. "Oh, child, I wish you had a better mother!"

"You are the dearest mother in the world," Margaret cried earnestly.

"But very far from being the best. I am very troubled—no, I cannot tell you what about. No, you couldn't help me. No one can."

"Yes, God can, mother," Margaret reminded her; then she quoted softly—

"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."

Mrs. Fowler caught her breath with a little sob; but doubtless, the words of Salome's favourite hymn comforted her, for presently, Margaret knew by her regular breathing that she had fallen asleep.

The little girl lay awake wondering what trouble her mother could possibly have, or if she was only nervous and imaginative; and it was not until the first streaks of dawn peeped into the room that she slept too.

CHAPTER VIII.

An Awful Thing.

WHEN Margaret awoke, she was alone. At first she was surprised to find herself in bed in her mother's room, but in a few moments, she remembered how that happened to be the case. Before, however, she had time to dwell much upon the matter, the door opened and her mother entered, fully dressed, bearing a breakfast tray in her hands, which she placed on the dressing-table.

"Have I overslept myself?" Margaret inquired. "I am so sorry."

"You need not be, my dear," Mrs. Fowler replied, smiling as she came to the bedside and kissed her little daughter. "You had a disturbed night on my account. How foolish it was of me to be too nervous to sleep alone! I blame myself for spoiling your rest. But, see, I have brought your breakfast, so sit up and eat it at once; after you have had it, you can dress and come down on the beach with me."

Mrs. Fowler looked alert and well. She talked brightly whilst Margaret was taking her breakfast, and pulling a letter out of her pocket, which she had received from her husband by the morning's post, read it aloud. It merely told of his journey to town, and concluded with his love to the children, and a hope that Mrs. Fowler would take care of herself.

"I shall not tell him how silly I was last night," she said. "I suppose I cannot be quite so strong as I thought. My late illness played sad havoc with my nerves. It is such a glorious day, Margaret, that I am sure we ought to spend it out of doors."

Margaret assented willingly, and went to her own room to dress. By-and-by, she and her mother strolled down to the beach, and passed a pleasant morning in the welcome shade of a big rock. And in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of again driving to N—.

"Won't you be very tired, mother?" Margaret asked dubiously. "You mustn't overdo it, you know."

"Oh, I will be careful, my dear!" Mrs. Fowler rejoined. "But I want to get some things I forgot yesterday. Meeting Mrs. Lute so unexpectedly put everything else quite out of my head. Miss Conway and Gerald can accompany us."

It was not such a pleasant drive as the one of the previous day, for Gerald was tiresome, and continually stood up in the carriage to look at different objects of interest which attracted his attention. Miss Conway begged him to sit still, but he would not obey her. And, at last, he was jolted into his mother's lap, much to her annoyance and to his amusement. She declared she wished she had left him at home, and that it would be a long time before she would take him for a drive again. Whereupon, he only laughed, for he did not believe she meant what she said.

"Are you going to see Mrs. Lute, mother?" Margaret inquired as they neared the town.

"No, not to-day. I will get out at the bottom of Fore Street, and you others shall drive on a little farther and return for me. No, I will not have you, Gerald! You are to stay with Miss Conway and your sister."

Mrs. Fowler spoke with decision in her tones; she was evidently determined to do her shopping alone.

Accordingly, she got out of the carriage at the entrance to the town, and the others saw her go into a grocer's shop as they were driven on. When the carriage returned a quarter of an hour later, she was standing waiting outside the same shop. The shopman came out and placed a parcel in the carriage, then Mrs. Fowler took her seat and gave the order—"Home." She seemed lost in deep thought during the remainder of the drive, and spoke but seldom, paying slight attention to the conversation the others carried on. She was evidently glad to reach Greystone.

"I expect she is really very tired," Margaret reflected, "but does not like to confess it." And she was confirmed in this opinion when she saw how quiet and languid Mrs. Fowler appeared during the evening. She did not request Miss Conway to play to her as she usually did, but lay on the sofa with a book in her lap, yawning occasionally as though weary of the day, so that neither Margaret nor the governess were surprised when she declared her intention of going to bed early. She would not hear of Margaret sleeping with her, however, but kissed both of her children good night in the drawing-room, and told them not to disturb her when they went upstairs to bed.

It was only eight o'clock when Mrs. Fowler retired for the night. At half-past eight Gerald was put to bed, after which Margaret and her governess sat down together to their supper. Each seemed rather depressed, Miss Conway even more so than her little pupil.

"It is so dull without father," Margaret sighed. "I hope he will not stay away very long. Oh, dear! I think mother is very, very tired to-night, don't you? I am afraid she has been doing too much."

"I hope not," was the serious reply. "You did not walk far this morning, did you?"

"Oh, no! We were sitting down on the beach most of the time. Mother read the newspaper and talked and seemed all right then."

"Did you see anything of Salome Petherick?"

"Nothing, though we stood outside her garden several minutes looking at her flowers. I suppose she was busy in the cottage. Oh, Miss Conway, how I do wish Salome's father was a teetotaler! I was telling Mrs. Lute about him yesterday, and she said Salome ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge."

"I did not know that Mrs. Lute was a teetotaler," Miss Conway exclaimed, looking rather surprised.

"She is not. Indeed, she offered me a glass of wine."

"You did not take it?" the governess interposed hastily.

"Oh, no!" A painful blush rose to Margaret's cheeks as she remembered that her mother had not declined the same offer. "Mrs. Lute said total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people," she added.

"She is quite right," was the grave response.

There was silence for a few minutes. Miss Conway was asking herself what was the reason of her pupil's evident confusion, and Margaret was hoping she would not be questioned as to its cause.

"I have been a teetotaler all my life," Miss Conway proceeded presently. "My father had a great horror of drink because his own father had been a drunkard, and he had suffered much on that account. It is sad to think that there is scarcely a family that does not possess at least one member given over to the vice of drinking to excess. Oh, Margaret! Mr. Fowler was right when he laid down the rule that no intoxicants should be brought into his house."

"I am sure he was right," Margaret agreed heartily, "though everyone does not think so. Mother calls it a fad—"

"Did your mother—" The governess hesitated momentarily, scarcely knowing how to put the question which trembled on her lips. "Perhaps you will think I have no right to ask you," she continued hastily, "but, believe me, Margaret, it is no idle curiosity which prompts me. Did your mother have any wine at Mrs. Lute's yesterday?"

Margaret nodded gravely, observing her companion anxiously in order to read by her countenance what she thought. She was prepared to see her exhibit surprise, and perhaps disapproval, but Miss Conway appeared absolutely frightened, and her very lips turned white. She made no remark in response however, but when she kissed her pupil ere they separated for the night, there was marked tenderness in her manner and in her voice as she said, "God bless you, dear Margaret. You look tired out yourself. Try to have a good night's rest."

The little girl was very sleepy, so, almost as soon as her head was on the pillow, she was in the land of dreams. But such unhappy, disturbing dreams they were. She imagined her mother was very ill, and that her father could not be sent for, because no one knew his address, and that she was in terrible grief and perplexity. At length, frightened and shaking in every limb, she awoke, and sprang out of bed with a shriek. The conviction was strong upon her that something was wrong with her mother, and she felt compelled to go and ascertain what was amiss. Lighting a candle, she took it up and hurried to Mrs. Fowler's room. A sigh of deep thankfulness escaped her lips as she found everything quiet there. Softly she stole to the bedside and saw her mother lying asleep, one hand beneath her cheek, her fair hair strewn over the pillow. Margaret thought how pretty she looked, and carefully shaded the candle with her hand as she gazed at the sleeper with love and admiration in her glance; but it would have taken more than the feeble rays of the candle to awaken Mrs. Fowler from that deep, dreamless sleep.

Margaret would have liked to have kissed her mother's flushed cheek, but feared to disturb her; so she contented herself with pressing her lips to the soft, white hand which lay outside the counterpane, then stole back to her own room as quietly as she had left it, and after putting out the candle crept back to bed. She felt she could rest with an easy mind now, and was no longer disturbed by distressing dreams.

The following day Mrs. Fowler did not go far. She appeared depressed and out of sorts until after tea-time, when her drooping spirits revived, and she spent the evening under the lilac tree with Miss Conway, whilst the children played croquet on the lawn. Suddenly she remembered that a letter she had written to her husband had not been posted, and suggested that Margaret and Gerald might take it to the post-office.

"I'm afraid it's too late to catch to-night's post," she said regretfully, "but never mind. Your father will not be anxious, as he heard this morning. Still, you may as well post it. Dear me, what could have made me so forgetful!"

So Margaret and Gerald hurried off to the post-office, which was only two doors from the village inn, from which it was divided by Samuel Moyle's shop.

After posting the letter, they went into the shop to purchase some sweets, and whilst they were there, Josiah Petherick came out of the "Crab and Cockle," much the worse for drink, and staggered past on his way home.

Mrs. Moyle, a rosy-cheeked dame, so stout that she appeared to be almost as thick as she was long, went to the door to stare after Josiah, whilst her husband, who was attending to the requirements of his customers, shook his head gravely and prophesied that "such a drunken beast," as he called him, "would come to a bad end," adding, with a touch of real feeling, "Ah, I'm sorry for that poor motherless maid of his!"

Margaret returned to Greystone very sad at heart, full of the lame girl's trouble, and informed her mother and Miss Conway of the state Josiah was in; whilst Gerald, who had been more amused than disgusted, began to imitate the drunken man's rambling walk, a proceeding which his governess promptly put a stop to by grasping him forcibly by the shoulder and making him stand still.

"For shame!" she cried with unusual severity in her tone. "How can you make fun of the unhappy man? Poor wretch! Never make a joke of a drunkard again."

"Well, I won't," Gerald returned. "I meant no harm. Please let me go, Miss Conway. I promise you I won't do it again."

"No, I do not think you meant any harm," the governess admitted. "You acted thoughtlessly, I know. But you must never laugh at what is wrong—remember that."

"Isn't it terrible for poor Salome, mother?" Margaret said sadly.

"Very," Mrs. Fowler replied. "It would be better for her if she had no father at all."

"Oh, mother!" Margaret cried in shocked tones. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I do. What can her father be, but a perpetual shame and trouble to her?"

"But she loves him so dearly."

"I don't know how she can!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed vehemently. "But, there, don't let us talk of Josiah any more. Of course, the letter was too late for to-night's post?"

"Oh, yes. But I posted it all the same. I wonder when father will be home."

"Not till the end of the week, I expect. It's getting chilly; we will go in." And rising, Mrs. Fowler moved towards the house, the others following.

Margaret's thoughts were all of Salome during the remainder of the evening. And before she went to rest, she prayed earnestly that God would give His help and protection to the lame girl, and reward her patience and love in His own good time.

"Drink is an awful thing," was her last waking thought that night, as she crept into her little, white-curtained bed, and laid her head down on the soft pillow. "I only wish poor Salome's father could be brought to see what an awful thing it is."

CHAPTER IX.

The Blow Falls.

IT was nearly noon, and quietude reigned over Yelton. The fishermen were all at sea, whilst their wives were busy with their domestic duties within doors, and the children were at school. The village looked actually deserted as Margaret Fowler walked soberly by the "Crab and Cockle." Not a living soul was in sight, and there was no one in Silas Moyle's shop, not even behind the counter, where Mrs. Moyle was generally to be found. Margaret strolled on to Josiah Petherick's cottage, and there was Salome seated in the porch, knitting rapidly whilst she sang to herself in a low, soft undertone. The lame girl's face lit up with a bright smile of pleasure at sight of Margaret, and she turned to reach the crutches by her side.

"Oh, please don't get up!" Margaret cried quickly. "I'll sit down in the porch with you for a little while, if I may. How nice it is here!"

"Yes. Isn't it a beautiful day, miss? Such a fine breeze! All the fishing boats are out. Father was off at daybreak this morning. I got up to give him his breakfast; so that's how it is my work's finished so early."

"What are you making?" Margaret asked, noticing the thick, navy-blue fingering which Salome was knitting.

"A jersey for father, miss. He'll want a new one against the winter."

"What! Do you mean to say you knit your father's jerseys? How clever of you!"

The lame girl smiled and blushed as she responded, "Mother taught me to knit when I was a very little girl, but it was not until after her death that I learnt to make father's jerseys. Mrs. Moyle taught me the way."

"Mrs. Moyle? The baker's wife, do you mean?"

"Yes, miss; she's always most kind to me."

"She looks good-natured," Margaret remarked. "Mother is not very well," she proceeded to explain, "so she is lying in bed this morning, and Gerald is at his lessons with Miss Conway, so I thought I would look you up, Salome."

"I am very glad to see you, miss. But I am sorry to hear Mrs. Fowler is ill."

"She is not ill exactly—at least, I hope not. She complained of a bad headache, so Ross advised her to remain in bed and rest. It worries me if she's not well, now father's away."

"Then Mr. Fowler is not back yet, miss?"

"No. We expected him to stay away only a few days, but his business is keeping him longer than he thought it would, so he will not be at home till next week. It is so dull without him."

"I daresay it is, miss."

"Before he went, he told me he left mother in my charge, and that's why I'm so anxious about her. You know, she was very, very ill before we came here. I never saw her for weeks then, and—oh, it was a terrible time!"

"It must have been," Salome said sympathetically.

"How bright you look to-day!" Margaret exclaimed presently, after observing her companion in silence for several minutes.

"I feel bright," the lame girl acknowledged with a smile, "for I know father'll come home sober by-and-by, when the fishing boats return, and that's enough to make one happy."

"How brave you are, Salome!" And Margaret wondered if she had Salome's trouble, whether she would ever be happy for a day or even an hour.

The other shook her head. She did not think she was brave at all, but she took the sunshine of her life gratefully, and tried not to remember the hours of gloom.

"I wish I could knit," said Margaret, as she watched the lame girl's busy fingers.

"Why don't you learn, miss? Then you might knit your father's socks."

"Do you think I could?"

"Oh, yes, with a little practice. Would you—would you like me to teach you?" Salome asked somewhat diffidently.

"Oh, I should be so much obliged to you if you would! Oh, thank you! I'll buy some wool and knitting needles the very next time we drive to N—. But I'm afraid you'll find me a very stupid pupil."

"I can't believe that, miss. Besides, knitting is quite easy—of course it takes time to learn to knit fast. You can get knitting needles and wool at Mrs. Moyle's shop; she keeps a very good supply."

"Does she? That's capital! Oh Salome, whatever has happened to that rose-bush by the gate? Why, it's smashed off close to the ground! What a pity!"

"Yes," was the response, spoken in a low, pained tone.

"How did it happen?" Margaret asked concernedly, noticing the tears had sprung into her companion's brown eyes.

"Father did it."

"Oh! Not on purpose?"

"No, no! He—he fell over it. He was sorry—afterwards; but I'm so grieved, because mother planted that rose-bush herself not long before she died, and now it is quite ruined."

"Oh, I am sorry!" Margaret cried.

"It was an accident; but—but it wouldn't have happened, if he'd been sober. He's as upset about it as I am now—he is indeed. He valued that rose-bush for mother's sake."

"Salome, why don't you try to persuade your father to take the pledge?" Margaret inquired very seriously.

"I've tried heaps and heaps of times."

"And he won't?"

"No. Father says he hates teetotalers. I can't think he does really, though. Only, he likes drink, and he won't give it up."

"It's very selfish of him. He ought to consider you. But, there, I won't run out against him, for I know you're very fond of him. Perhaps, he'll be different some day."

"I pray every night that God will make him a sober man. He used to be so steady when mother was living. Mr. Amyatt will tell you the same. It seems so dreadful that her death should have changed him so. It was the trouble, I suppose, and having no one to speak to at home but me that drove him to the 'Crab and Cockle' first along; then he grew to like the drink, and now he can't bear the thought of going without it. Did you know Mr. Fowler spoke to father about it, miss?"

"No; did he?"

"Yes, he did indeed. They had an argument, and I fancy from father's manner that he was impressed by what Mr. Fowler said."

Long the little girls talked, until Margaret declared she really must go, or she would be late for dinner. She hurried back to Greystone, to find that her mother was not up yet. On the landing, at the top of the stairs, she met Ross, who had that minute come from Mrs. Fowler's bedroom door.

"Is mother's head no better?" Margaret inquired concernedly.

"I'm afraid not," Ross answered. She looked somewhat perturbed, the little girl thought. "I've not seen the mistress since breakfast-time, miss," she proceeded hurriedly, "for she said she wished to be undisturbed, and now she has locked her door."

"Locked her door!" Margaret echoed in utter astonishment.

"Yes, and she won't open it, miss. I was going to ask Miss Conway what I should do—"

Not waiting to hear the conclusion of the sentence, Margaret ran to her mother's bedroom door and tried to open it. The handle turned, but the door remained closed. She rapped sharply with her knuckles and listened; then, receiving no answer, knocked again.

"Who there?"

It was her mother's voice that asked the question; but something in its tone fell discordantly upon the ears of the listeners and did not lessen their uneasiness.

"It is I—Margaret. Let me in, mother dear."

"You can't come in; go away."

"But, mother, I want to know how you are. Is your head better?"

"Yes—no."

"Please let me in. Why have you locked the door?"

"I wish—to be alone."

At that moment Miss Conway appeared upon the scene. She turned white as death when the situation was explained to her, and begged Margaret to go away, and let her try to persuade Mrs. Fowler to unlock the door.

"No, no," cried the little girl. "Something must be amiss with mother, or she would never act so strangely. Mother, mother, let me in," and she knocked at the door louder than before.

There were sounds inside the room of some one moving about, then the door was opened, and Mrs. Fowler, clad in a dressing-gown, with her hair streaming over her shoulders, appeared in the doorway.

"What do you all want—coming here—disturbing me?" she questioned irritably; then she lurched forward, and would have fallen on her face, if Miss Conway had not sprung to her assistance and caught her.

"Oh, she has fainted!" Margaret cried, terribly frightened and distressed.

With the help of Ross, who was looking pale and scared, the governess succeeded in dragging Mrs. Fowler across the room, and laying her upon the bed; and then turned to her little pupil and told her to shut and lock the door. Wondering greatly, Margaret obeyed. Returning to the bedside, she looked from one to the other of her companions in mingled astonishment and reproach, for neither was making the least attempt to bring Mrs. Fowler back to consciousness. The tears were streaming down Miss Conway's cheeks, and Ross was murmuring—"I never guessed it. No, I never guessed it."

"Oh, can't you do anything?" Margaret cried distractedly. "Oh, she is very ill!" And she bent over her mother, then suddenly drew back. Mrs. Fowler's cheeks were unusually flushed; she was breathing heavily, and upon her lips hung the smell of spirit. Margaret experienced a sensation as though an icy hand had gripped her heart. She looked inquiringly at Miss Conway, who avoided her glance, then her eyes travelled slowly around the room. On the dressing-table was a nearly empty brandy bottle, and by its side a glass.

With an exceedingly bitter cry, Margaret realised the truth. Her mother was not ill—that is, not in the way she had supposed—but intoxicated. The blow had fallen, and everything was now plain to her.

As in a dream, she heard Ross whispering to Miss Conway that she had never suspected her mistress of this, that she had never had such a shock in her life before, and listened to Miss Conway's answer that she herself would remain with Mrs. Fowler, and that the servants must be told she was ill. Then, the governess put her arms around her pupil and kissed her, begging her to be a brave girl. And all the while, Margaret was experiencing a strange feeling of unreality, as though she was living through a horrible nightmare. She watched Miss Conway fling the windows open wide, and place a blanket carefully over her mother's unconscious form, and the conviction grew upon her, that though the governess was deeply grieved, she was not surprised and shocked as she herself was and poor Ross who looked almost scared to death.

Suddenly the governess pointed to the brandy bottle and appealed to the maid.

"Did you supply her with that?" she questioned sternly.

"No, miss, on my word of honour, I did not," Ross replied earnestly. "I never knew she had it; she must have kept it under lock and key."

There was absolute truth in the girl's voice; and Miss Conway looked puzzled.

"I can't make it out—how she obtained it, I mean," she said at last. "Ross, I think you had better leave your mistress to me for the present. I rely upon you not to speak of this downstairs. And Margaret—" the governess's voice softened to the tenderest pity—"will you take care of Gerald for the rest of the day? Tell him his mother is very poorly, and that he may have a half-holiday. You could take him down to the beach this afternoon. God help you to bear this trouble, poor child!"

Margaret made no response. Ringing in her ears were words her father had spoken to her when they had been discussing Salome's trouble. "We cannot tell how much our patience and love may be tried, nor what trials and troubles the future may hold for us. We can only pray that God will strengthen us in our time of need."

Had her father anticipated this hour for her? She could not tell, but she thought it more than likely.

Meanwhile, Miss Conway was leading her to the door, begging her to put a brave face on matters, and to go down to dinner without her.

"I feel my duty is here, my dear," she said impressively. "If any one questions you about your mother, you can truly say she is ill. Oh, Margaret, pray for her; she is greatly to be pitied!" And so saying, the governess opened the door and pushed her little pupil gently outside.

For a few minutes Margaret stood perfectly still. Then the sound of Gerald's voice in the hall below reminded her that she must, as Miss Conway had said, put a brave face on matters. So she went downstairs and delighted her brother by promising to take him down to the beach. She was conscious that the burden of a great sorrow was upon her, and she felt bowed down with an intolerable weight of shame. But she devoted herself assiduously to Gerald for the remainder of the day; and it was not until nearly nine o'clock, when her charge was in bed and asleep, that she dared give way to her grief. Then, in the privacy of her own room, she flung herself upon the bed and wept as though her heart would break.

CHAPTER X.

Mr. Fowler's Return.

"MARGARET! Oh, my dear little girl! Do not grieve so terribly. You will make yourself ill, if you go on like this."

Margaret tried to stifle her sobs at the sound of the kind, pitying voice, and turned a swollen, tear-stained countenance towards Miss Conway, who had come in search of her. She longed to ask for her mother, but for the present, she was incapable of speech. Her governess, however, read aright her questioning eyes, and said reassuringly, "Your mother is better, my dear. She regained consciousness some time ago, since when she has had a cup of tea, and is now asleep. Ross is with her at present."

Miss Conway drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, then she took one of her little pupil's hands and pressed it softly. "I have sent for your father," she continued; "after—after what has happened I considered it was my duty to do so. I did not think there was any necessity to alarm him by a telegram though, so I wrote by to-night's post and—explained. He will get my letter in the morning, and probably return home at once. So, dear Margaret, if all's well, he will doubtless be here to-morrow evening."

The little girl was glad to hear this; but at the same time, she dreaded meeting her father with this new knowledge concerning her mother weighing on her mind. Her sobs had ceased now, and she could speak collectedly.

"Miss Conway, do you think Ross has told the other servants?" she asked anxiously.

"I am sure she has not, nor do I believe she will. Ross is a thoroughly good girl, and most sincerely attached to your mother. At first, I confess, I suspected her of having procured that—that poison, but I was quite wrong! Mrs. Fowler bought the brandy herself, the afternoon we drove to N— with her. Do you remember we drove on whilst she went into a grocer's shop? She obtained it there. Oh, it is a shame that grocers should be allowed licences for supplying intoxicating liquors! Poor soul, she has been telling me how sorely she was tempted! Oh, Margaret, this all comes of Mrs. Lute's offering her that glass of wine! She had not touched a stimulant since her illness till then, and had almost lost her craving for drink. That glass of wine, however, was too much for her, and she felt she must have more. I need not dwell on the result."

"Oh, Miss Conway, how shameful, how degrading!" Margaret cried passionately. "Oh, to think that mother should be like that! Oh, no wonder father wished us all to be teetotalers!"

She covered her flaming face with her hands and shuddered. "How long—how long have you known this—about mother?" she inquired hesitatingly.

"Many months. Since—oh, long before her illness."

"Was that illness—"

"Caused by drink? Yes. Oh, my dear, I see you guess it all. Your father hoped you would never know. He trusted that the complete change from life in town to the quietude of the country, where Mrs. Fowler would meet comparatively few people of her own class, and where he believed she would be free from temptation, would ultimately cure her of the fatal habit she had acquired of drinking to excess, and I believe that would have been the happy result, if you had not unfortunately met Mrs. Lute. Little does Mrs. Lute—good, kind creature that she is—dream of the mischief she has wrought. Your poor mother is full of grief and remorse now; and oh, so shocked that you should have seen her to-day. She knows I have written to Mr. Fowler, and you can imagine how she is dreading his return; yet she knows he will not be hard upon her. He loves her too well for that!"

Margaret felt at that moment that her affection for her mother was being swallowed up by a sickening sensation of disgust. She had always loved her very dearly; and had been so pleased and happy when people had admired her for her beauty and winning ways. Even when Mrs. Fowler had openly shown her preference for Gerald of her two children, the little girl, though often hurt, had never evinced any jealousy or resentment. She had accepted the fact that Gerald was her mother's favourite, and had loved her none the less on that account. But now, her love was being tried very severely.

The remembrance of Mrs. Fowler as she had last seen her, lying on the bed with flushed cheeks, breathing stertorously, was absolutely revolting to her. She had many times asked herself how Salome could continue to love her drunken father; now, she asked herself, was it possible that she could continue to love her drunken mother? Oh, the horror of the thought that one so gentle and refined should be on a par with Josiah Petherick, fellow-victim to a disgraceful, degrading sin!

Perhaps Miss Conway guessed some of the thoughts which were passing through her companion's mind, for she watched her anxiously, and presently remarked, "I daresay, you can faintly imagine how your poor mother is feeling now. She had hoped to keep the secret of her weakness and sin from your knowledge. Your father, too, will be terribly troubled when he hears you have learnt the truth; but I do not doubt, dear child, that God in His wisdom has ordered all for the best. You will understand now, as you never did before, how much Mrs. Fowler needs all your love and devotion. You can help her, if you will, to the restoration of that self-respect which, once lost, is so hard to regain. You can show her, by loving her as unfalteringly as Salome loves her erring father, that she can rise above this habit which has done so much to ruin her health, and happiness, and earn everyone's respect and her own as well!"

Miss Conway paused, and there was a solemn silence which Margaret at length broke by saying with a sob, "I do love mother, I do indeed."

"I am sure of it. Mrs. Fowler is a very sweet, lovable woman!"

"Yes," Margaret agreed. "See what a lot of friends she had in town, and how popular she was! She was always going about—"

"Yes, dear, I know," the governess interposed, "and that was how it was she commenced taking stimulants. She used to get tired with her constant gaieties, and then she would take a glass of wine, or some other intoxicant, to revive her, until she grew to like stimulants, and took more and more. The craving increased, and she drank to the injury of her health, yet no outsiders guessed it. Then she had nervous attacks, followed at last by a serious illness. The doctors told your father she was killing herself, and immeasurably horrified, he took the only course he saw could save his wife—became a teetotaler himself, and insisted that his household should follow suit. Mrs. Fowler knew he was acting wisely, and for her sake, but she would not admit it. However, she found total abstinence from all intoxicants was restoring her to health, and had made up her mind never to touch a stimulant again when temptation was put in her way, and she fell. God grant she may prove stronger in the future. Now, my dear, tell me, have you had any supper?"

"No," Margaret replied, "I am not in the least hungry."

"Oh, that's nonsense! You must eat whether you are hungry or not. Come with me."

Margaret demurred at first, but her governess overruled all her objections. And after she had bathed her tear-stained face, the two went downstairs and had supper together. Miss Conway did not leave her pupil again until she saw her comfortably tucked up in bed for the night; then she kissed her, bade her try to sleep well, and left her to herself.

And Margaret did sleep well, absolutely worn out with excitement and grief, whilst the governess spent the night in Mrs. Fowler's room. At daybreak, Ross came to take Miss Conway's place, and found her mistress sleeping tranquilly.

"She looks more like herself, miss, doesn't she?" she whispered gladly.

"Yes," Miss Conway answered; "I should let her sleep as long as she will."

She did not say what a harrowing time she had endured during that night watch, or how Mrs. Fowler had implored her to give her a stimulant, and had declared she would die without it. But she went away quietly to her own room, and before she lay down to rest, prayed earnestly to Almighty God for the unhappy woman, whom she pitied from the depths of her heart.

SHE WENT TO THE FRONT DOOR TO MEET MR. FOWLER.

Early in the morning, a telegram arrived from Mr. Fowler saying he would be at home that night, and ordering the carriage to be sent to N— to meet him at the railway station. The governess made no secret of the fact that she had written to inform him of his wife's illness, and as Ross kept her own counsel, the other servants supposed their mistress to be suffering from one of the hysterical, nervous attacks to which she had been subject on her arrival at Greystone.

It was nearly eight o'clock before Mr. Fowler reached home. Margaret, who had spent most of the day on the beach with her brother, shrank sensitively from the thought of meeting her father. When she heard the carriage wheels nearing the house, she longed to run away and hide, but she knew it would never do to act in such a cowardly fashion as that. Appearances must be kept up, at any rate before the servants, so she went to the front door with Gerald to meet Mr. Fowler, and returned his loving kiss as quietly and composedly as though her heart was not beating almost to suffocation.

As she had anticipated, he immediately went upstairs to his wife's room, and it was not until much later, that she found herself with him alone. Then, after Gerald had gone to bed, he joined her in the garden, and strolled up and down the lawn by her side, his arm around her shoulders. For some minutes he did not speak, and she could not see the expression of his face, for there was no moon, and the stars gave but little light.

At last he said gravely, "Life is very hard, sometimes, Margaret."

"Yes," she agreed, adding with a little sob: "Oh, father, you left her in my care, but I did not know, and if I had, it would not have made any difference."

"No, no; I understand. She has told me everything herself."

"Oh, father, it is shocking! Think of the disgrace. Oh, you can't imagine how dreadful I feel about it!"

"I think I can," he replied sadly. "My poor child, I had hoped to have been allowed to keep this trouble from you, but God willed it otherwise. Have you seen your mother to-day?"

"No, father. She said she did not wish to see me."

"Ah, poor thing, she is ashamed to face you! If I were you, when you meet, I would not revert to—to her illness at all."

"I will not."

"I shall try and persuade Mrs. Lute to come and spend a few days with us, in order to cheer us all up."

"Oh, father, Mrs. Lute was the cause of all this trouble."

"I am aware of it; but her intention in offering your mother wine was an excellent one, she had no idea of working mischief. I shall simply explain to her that this is a teetotal household, and she is not the woman I take her to be if, after that, she refuses an invitation to visit us."

"Did you finish your business in London, father?" Margaret questioned.

"Not quite. It must stand over for a few weeks. I shall not leave home again for the present."

Though he spoke so quietly, Margaret knew her father must be very sore at heart. She had often wondered why her mother was more at her ease when not in her husband's presence, and now she understood the reason. Mrs. Fowler was conscious that he was always keeping a watch upon her, that he did not trust her, and dear though he was to her, she stood in awe of him.

Until her illness in the spring, he had always allowed her, her own way. But his alarm for her well-being once aroused, he had taken the reins of government into his own hands, and had shown her plainly that he meant his will to be law. She had always been a pleasure-seeking woman and fond of society; but, broken down in health, she had not found life at Yelton so utterly unbearable as she had anticipated. Her husband had devoted much of his time to her, and, thrown more in contact with her little daughter, she had begun to take a deeper interest in her than she had done before.

She had always been pleased to notice her beauty, but of late, she had discovered that Margaret possessed other and higher attractions—goodness and unselfishness—which she could not but admire. She saw the little girl had inherited many of her father's excellent qualities of mind and heart, and uneasily conscious of her own weakness of character, she was delighted that it was so. Unfortunately there had never been the same sympathy of feeling between Margaret and her mother as there had always been between the little girl and her father.

Now, as she strolled by Mr. Fowler's side up and down the lawn, she slipped her hand through his arm, whilst she leaned her head confidingly against his shoulder, as she said, "Father, I'm so very glad you've come home."

CHAPTER XI.

Josiah at His Worst.

THE afternoon subsequent to her husband's return, Mrs. Fowler was sufficiently well to come downstairs and lie on the sofa in the drawing-room. Margaret, who had gone back to her usual routine of work with Miss Conway, saw little of her mother during the next few days, and after Mr. Fowler drove to N— one morning, and brought Mrs. Lute home with him, Mrs. Fowler spent most of her time with her friend, and avoided her little daughter's society as much as possible.

Mrs. Lute, though she had been much astonished when Mr. Fowler had frankly explained to her that his was now a teetotal household, was far too well-bred a woman to question him concerning what his wife had called his "fad;" and though she had been accustomed all her life to the sparing use of stimulants, she could very well do without them, and was perfectly satisfied and happy at Greystone.

"So many people are teetotalers nowadays," she remarked pleasantly to Mr. Fowler on one occasion when she had been several days beneath his roof, "so really you are quite in the fashion."

"I wish I could think that," he replied, with rather a sad smile.

"Oh, one meets a great many people who are total abstainers!" she assured him. "Why, Miss Conway tells me she has always been one. It seems drink has been the cause of a great deal of trouble in her family. And your good Vicar here is a teetotaler too, so he informed me yesterday. He argues truly that he cannot teach what he does not practise. I was surprised to hear that even in this quiet little village drink is the curse of the place."

"I believe that is so. There are several notorious drunkards amongst the fishermen, and one in whom we, as a family, are much interested, on his daughter's account, is likely to join their ranks."

"You refer to that fine, strong man who took us out boating yesterday, I presume?"

"Yes; Josiah Petherick. He is a most reliable man when sober, but when he has been drinking—which often happens now, I fear—he is a perfect brute. I have been hearing many tales to his discredit lately, and this morning I was told on reliable authority in the village, that he spends nearly all his earnings at the 'Crab and Cockle' now, and begrudges the money for the household accounts. Last night, he went home more intoxicated than usual—actually mad drunk—and smashed up some of the furniture in his cottage, after which he turned his little daughter out-doors. The poor child was forced to beg a night's lodging from Mrs. Moyle at the village shop, and to-day, all Yelton is talking about it."

A faint exclamation of dismay caused Mrs. Lute and Mr. Fowler, who had been conversing in the garden, close outside the drawing-room window, to look around. They encountered Mrs. Fowler's shocked gaze. Hearing them talking, she had come to the window and had overheard all that had been said.

"Oh, Henry, that poor Salome!" she cried, her blue eyes full of tears. "Have you seen her to-day?"

"No; but the Vicar has. Hearing what had happened, he went down to Petherick's cottage the first thing this morning. Salome had just returned and was doing her utmost to put the place to rights, and her father had gone out in his boat in a very humbled, repentant state of mind, after having apologised to her for his abominable behaviour, and having promised he would not act so madly again."

Mrs. Fowler sighed, whilst Mrs. Lute said gravely, "Let us hope he will keep his word."

"He will not, without he gives up the drink," Mr. Fowler rejoined, with conviction in his tone. "No, he will go from bad to worse until, in one of his drunken frenzies, he will do something he will never cease to regret—perhaps some injury to his child."

Mrs. Fowler sank into a chair looking pale and perturbed, whilst her husband and friend drifted into another channel of conversation. The news she had heard about the Pethericks had upset her, and when, a short while later, Margaret entered the room, the first question she put to her was to ask if she had seen Salome that day.

"No, mother," the little girl answered. "Why?" she added, struck by the almost frightened expression on Mrs. Fowler's face.

She listened in silence, her colour alternately coming and going, to all there was to tell, then exclaimed "Oh, I am sorry! Poor Salome! And it rained heavily last night. Perhaps she will come up to the church this evening to hear me practise the organ. Oh, I hope she will! When are you coming to hear me play again, mother?"

"Oh, some time! Perhaps when Mrs. Lute has gone."

"Wouldn't Mrs. Lute come too?"

"Oh, I don't think you play well enough—" Mrs. Fowler paused abruptly, conscious of the hurt look on her little daughter's countenance. She had avoided Margaret lately, and Margaret had noticed the fact with acute pain. What had she done that her mother should abstain from meeting her gaze? An insurmountable barrier seemed to have sprung up between mother and child.

Margaret's heart was full of bitterness as she turned away and left the room. She had endeavoured to show no feeling but that of love for her mother since her recent indisposition, but it had been impossible for Mrs. Fowler not to remark a slight difference in her manner, of which Margaret was unconscious herself. She thought she read reproach in the little girl's eyes, and shrank sensitively from being alone with her. She was ashamed in the presence of her own child.

Had Margaret grasped the truth of the situation, she would have judged her mother less harshly; but failing to do so, she was deeply pained, and told herself that her mother liked her less than ever. Upon Gerald, Mrs. Fowler lavished all her affection. She would listen to his chatter untiringly, talking gaily in return; and, however much he teased her, she always found excuses for him.

Miss Conway did not give Margaret a music lesson that evening, for Mrs. Fowler requested her to accompany Mrs. Lute and herself for a walk, and to bring Gerald with her, so Margaret went alone to the church.

She practised for an hour, then dismissed the boy who had blown the organ for her, and was leaving the church when she caught sight of a small figure huddled up in a corner of a pew near the west door. It was Salome.

"Is it you, Salome?" Margaret cried, hastening to her side, and laying her hand tenderly upon her shoulder. The lame girl lifted her bowed head, and in the dim light, Margaret saw she had been weeping, though there were no tears in her brown eyes now, and her lips were curved in a smile.

"I've been asleep," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go without speaking to me, Miss Margaret. I came in whilst you were practising, and I was tired. I—I had little rest last night."

"I know—I've heard," Margaret returned hurriedly, as the other paused in confusion.

"Have you, miss? I'm glad of that, for now I shan't have to tell you, and I'd rather not talk of it."

"Of course you would rather not."

"I was tired," Salome proceeded; "so tired and worn out, that I couldn't help crying. My poor legs ached so—but oh! not so badly as my heart. The pain here—" clasping her hands against her breast—"was almost more than I could bear. Then I fell asleep, and I was dreaming when you awoke me."

"I hope it was a pleasant dream," Margaret said softly.

"Oh, very pleasant! I thought it was evening time—getting almost dark as it is now—and service was going on in the church. I could hear father's voice singing with the choir. You can't imagine what a deep, beautiful voice father has, Miss Margaret. I was listening to it when you awoke me. But I'm glad you happened to catch sight of me, though you did disturb my dream. Is anything wrong, miss?" And the lame girl's brown eyes peered anxiously at her companion.

"I am not happy," Margaret confessed with a sigh.

"Mrs. Fowler is not ill again?" Salome questioned in concerned tones.

"No, no; she is perfectly well. We have an old friend visiting us, and that makes it pleasant for mother."

"I saw a strange lady in church with you on Sunday, miss; and father took her out in his boat with Mrs. Fowler. She treated him very handsomely, he said; but I wish she hadn't."

"Why?" Margaret asked in surprise.

"Because he spent the money she gave him in drink at the public-house, and that was the beginning of the trouble last night. There, I didn't mean to talk of it, but, naturally, it's uppermost in my mind."

"Of course it is. Did you—did you get wet last night?"

"Dripping to the skin," Salome admitted. "But Mrs. Moyle—God bless her!—took me in and gave me dry clothes, and a bed too. But oh, I couldn't sleep for wondering what father was up to at home. You can never be certain what a drunken body will not do. How selfish I am, though, to talk so much of myself. Won't you tell me what troubles you, Miss Margaret?"

"No, Salome, I can't," was the low response. "It's something I can never speak of."

"Then try not to think too much about it, miss," the lame girl advised. "If I were you, I'd tell my trouble to God, and leave it to Him. That's what I do with mine."

"By your trouble, you mean your father?" Margaret inquired diffidently.

"Yes, miss. Do you remember saying to me that night you and I had been sitting in the porch, and father had come home drunk—'May God help you, Salome'? I think you saw God was the only One who could help me; and I want to remind you of those words of yours, because maybe He's the only One who can help you too! Why, how dark it's getting think, miss, we had better go."

She reached for her crutches as she spoke, and swung herself out of the pew into the aisle. Margaret followed her silently through the west door into the churchyard. It was nearly dark, for it was September now, and the evenings were shortening fast; but whilst they lingered at the churchyard gate, the edge of the moon appeared in the eastern horizon, and slowly sailed upwards into the cloudless sky, illuminating the old grey church, surrounded with the graves of the quiet dead, and shedding its pale light on the little village and the broad surface of the peaceful sea.

"How beautiful!" cried Margaret. "It is the harvest moon, so father said last night. But, Salome, it is late for you to be out alone. Shall I walk part of the way home with you?"

"Oh, no, thank you, miss! I shall be perfectly safe. Besides, it's quite light now the moon has risen. Good night, miss."

"Good night, Salome."

Margaret went back to Greystone in a very thoughtful frame of mind. She considered that her friend was not half so depressed as she herself would have been under similar circumstances, not reflecting that Salome's trouble had come upon her by slow degrees. It had taken five years to change Josiah Petherick from a sober, God-fearing man into the desperate drunkard who had turned his only child out-doors last night.

Meanwhile, Salome, as she swung herself down the hill, wondered what could be amiss with Miss Margaret. She had grown deeply attached to the pretty, fair-haired girl, who had, from the first time they had met, treated her with the greatest kindness and consideration. She had given her several lessons in the art of knitting, and the lessons had given pleasure to teacher and pupil alike; and both were much interested in the progression of the sock which Margaret was rather laboriously making under the other's instructions.

The "Crab and Cockle" was lit up brightly as Salome passed by, and she sighed as she heard the hoarse murmur of voices within, for she imagined her father to be there; but great was her surprise on reaching home, to find him in the little yard at the back of the cottage bathing his face at the pump. When he came into the kitchen, she noticed not only that he was intoxicated, but that he had a cut on his cheek, and one eye was turning black. She asked no questions, however, for she saw he was in one of his worst moods; so she lit the lamp in silence, and proceeded to set the supper on the table. Presently, he remarked that he had quarrelled with someone, and they had come to blows.

"'Twas Silas Moyle—" he was beginning, when, in her surprise, she interrupted him.

"Silas Moyle!" she echoed, for the baker was a steady, peace-loving man.

"Yes," he nodded; "the canting humbug!" He looked at her sullenly, even resentfully, she thought; and she trembled with fear as she noticed his shaking hands and quivering lips.

Then he burst forth into a volley of oaths, and she gleaned that he was angry with her for having sought refuge with the Moyles on the preceding night. He stormed against her, against Silas and his wife, against everyone, in short, who had remonstrated with him that day. Apparently, his neighbours had been telling him some plain home truths which had not been pleasant hearing.

"Oh, father, don't say any more!" Salome pleaded in great distress. "Oh, please don't swear so frightfully! What could I do? You turned me out of my home, and I did not know where to go, except to Mrs. Moyle's. Oh, don't speak of her like that! It was out of pure kindness she took me in. You would not have had me spend the night out of doors in that lashing rain, would you? Oh, father, you are cruel indeed!"

The reproach in her sorrowful eyes enraged him beyond measure.

"You dare stand up for those who insult your father!" he shouted in a fury; and clutching her by the shoulder, he shook her savagely, then flung her from him with some violence. Losing her hold of her crutches, they fell to the ground; and staggering forward with a frightened cry, she knocked her forehead against a corner of the mantelpiece, and the next moment, lay white and unconscious at her father's feet.

CHAPTER XII.

A Brief Repentance.

IT was about half-past nine o'clock that same night, that the Vicar of Yelton opened the Pethericks' garden gate, and stepping determinedly up the path, rapped at the door of the cottage.

Returning from an evening's fishing an hour previously, he had been stopped in the village, on his way home, by Silas Moyle, who had poured into his ears an excited tale about Josiah, whom Silas had taken upon himself to remonstrate with upon his cruel conduct to his daughter on the previous night, with the result that Josiah, inflamed with drink, had struck him, and had received in return a black eye and an injured cheek.

"You know, sir, I'm a man of peace, and don't hold with brawling," Silas had said; "but I own I lost my temper to-night. Josiah's a regular blackguard when he's drunk."

"It was foolish to remonstrate with a drunken man," Mr. Amyatt had answered. "Had you spoken to him in his sober moments, your words might have had a very different effect. Where is Josiah now?"

"Gone home, swearing vengeance against me, sir. My great fear is, that he'll do some harm to poor Salome."

That had been the Vicar's fear, too. So, instead of going straight to the Vicarage as he had intended, he had retraced his footsteps to the Pethericks' cottage, and now stood waiting for admittance at the door.

As no one answered his knock, he rapped louder and listened. For a few moments there was silence; then came the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps, and Josiah opened the door and demanded hoarsely who was there.

"It is I, Petherick," the Vicar answered, stepping uninvited across the threshold.

"Where is your daughter?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon the fisherman, who stood staring at him in a dazed fashion.

Receiving no reply, he turned into the kitchen, an exclamation of horror and dismay breaking from his lips, as he caught sight of the small, slight figure of the lame girl lying near the fireplace. Very tenderly, he lifted her and placed her in the one easy-chair in the room, calling to Josiah to bring some water immediately.

"Water!" questioned Josiah stupidly. "What for? She's dead. She's been dead this half-hour or more; but I haven't dared touch her. Salome, Salome! I've killed you, my poor maid! Your own father's killed you, Salome;" and flinging himself on his knees at his daughter's side, Josiah wept like a child.

"Don't be foolish, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said sternly. He had been feeling Salome's pulse, and had ascertained that it beat, though feebly. "She's not dead, but she has fainted. Come, be a man. Pull yourself together, and fetch some water at once."

"Not dead," Josiah cried excitedly. "Are you sure? Then, God be thanked for that!" He rose from his knees, and went into the yard, returning in a few seconds with a basin of water.

Very gently, the Vicar bathed Salome's white face until her eyelids flickered and a faint colour stole to her lips. Josiah, sobered by fright, explained what had happened, not sparing himself, but declaring he would not have injured a hair of his daughter's head, if he could have helped it, for Mr. Amyatt must know how much he loved her.

"Tush, Petherick!" the Vicar responded impatiently, mingled pity and disgust in his tone. "Don't talk to me of your love for Salome. A nice way you have of showing it. Last night, you turned her out of doors in torrents of rain—"

"I was drunk," Josiah interposed hastily. "She riled me, she did, with her tears, and—"

"Having been drunk is no excuse," Mr. Amyatt interrupted in his turn. "Not content with your scandalous conduct last night, you must continue your unmanly behaviour to-day and knock Salome down, and—"

"No, no," said a weak voice at this point. It was Salome who spoke. She had regained consciousness, and was sufficiently herself to understand what was going on. "No, no," she repeated, "it was an accident. He did not mean to hurt me."

"I shook her, and—and pushed her," Josiah admitted, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. "I meant her no harm, sir, but I was rough, and—oh, Salome, can you ever forgive me?" And the wretched man turned appealingly to the little figure in the easy-chair.

"Yes," was the faint response. "I—I don't think I'm much hurt."

"Are you in pain?" Mr. Amyatt asked gently.

"No, sir; but my forehead is very sore. I must have knocked it in falling."

"Yes, poor child, I see you did; there is a big bruise coming."

"I suppose I fainted?" she inquired, looking wistfully from the Vicar to her father, who was regarding her in gloomy silence.

"Yes, that was it, you fainted," Mr. Amyatt replied. "But you are much better now; and after a good night's rest, I have no doubt you will be almost yourself again."

Salome glanced at her crutches, which were lying on the ground. Mr. Amyatt picked them up and placed them against her chair.

"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, lifting her brown eyes shyly to his face, which expressed so plainly his sympathy and concern. "I think I shall be all right now," she added. "Thank you for being so kind."

"Does that mean you wish me to go?" he queried with a smile. "Well, I don't know that I can do any good by remaining longer. Good night, my dear."

He took Salome's small, thin hand and pressed it reassuringly, then beckoned to her father to follow him to the door.

"You must have someone in to see to that poor child to-night, Petherick," he said gravely. "Can you call upon assistance from one of your neighbours?"

Josiah shook his head doubtfully.

"Then, shall I ask Mrs. Moyle to look in and help get Salome to bed?" the Vicar suggested.

A dull, shamed flush rose to the fisherman's face, and he began to stammer something about not knowing whether Mrs. Moyle would come inside his doors, seeing he had quarrelled with her husband only that evening; but the Vicar cut him short.

"I know all about that, Petherick. Silas Moyle told me the tale himself not an hour ago. I heard it with great regret, for Silas is a sincere well-wisher of yours, and he and his wife would do anything in the world for your little girl. You had better let me send Mrs. Moyle to you—that is, if she will come; perhaps she will not. Shall I be the bearer of an apology from you to Silas?"

"I'm sorry I hit him," Josiah acknowledged truthfully.

"Shall I tell him that?"

"If you please, sir. I admit, I deserved what he gave me. Oh, sir, I've had a fine fright this night! I thought I'd killed Salome."

"You might have done so."

"Then I should have been a murderer," Josiah groaned. "I'm a bad lot, sir, that's what I am."

He seemed perfectly sober now, so Mr. Amyatt spoke a few solemn words to him, imploring him, for the sake of his little daughter, to give up the drink, and take the pledge. Josiah declared he would think seriously about doing so, and went back to Salome, whilst the Vicar hurried in search of Mrs. Moyle.

At first, that good woman, kind-hearted and fond of the lame girl though she was, said nothing would make her enter the doors of one who had so insulted her husband as had Josiah. But, on Silas adding his entreaties to the Vicar's, she gave in and betook herself to the Pethericks' cottage, where, after having assisted Salome upstairs, and put her to bed, she declared her intention of remaining for the night. She was not going to leave "that poor motherless lamb," as she called Salome, "in the house alone with a maniac."

Josiah Petherick did not look much like a maniac, however, as he sat in the kitchen listening to Mrs. Moyle's scathing remarks as she put away the supper things. He was in a wonderfully subdued and repentant frame of mind, and sat with his elbows on the table and his aching head resting in his hands. At last, he could bear his companion's home thrusts no longer, and exclaimed, "Good gracious, woman, do you imagine I don't know what a beast I am?"

"Well, if you do know it, why don't you turn over a new leaf?" she inquired. "I mind what a steady young fellow you used to be. You're too easily led, that's what you are. Make up your mind to give up the drink."

"I can't—not entirely; it's got too strong a hold on me," he confessed.

"That's the way of it. Well, you'll have to choose between drink and Salome—that's my opinion—for you're killing her by slow degrees."

Josiah started; but Mrs. Moyle did not pursue the subject further. She told him he had better go to bed, and make no noise to disturb his daughter. Accordingly, he took off his boots and crept upstairs in his stockinged feet, whilst Mrs. Moyle, having put out the lamp, and ascertained that the door of the cottage was securely fastened, returned to Salome, whom she found sleeping peacefully.

The next day, Josiah put himself in the way of Silas Moyle, and actually apologised to him for having struck. And Silas was magnanimous and forgave him, though it must be admitted, he regarded the other's black eye and swelled cheek with a sense of satisfaction. They were marks that would remain to remind Josiah of his ill conduct for some days to come.

Salome was poorly for nearly a week, and the first occasion on which she showed herself in the village, she was met on all sides by commiserating looks and words which showed her plainly that everyone was quite aware that her father had been the cause of her accident. The sympathy thus evinced towards her, though kindly offered, cut her to the heart, and she returned home utterly miserable.

During the days which followed, Mr. Amyatt made several ineffectual attempts to induce Josiah to take the pledge. No, Josiah said, there was no need for him to do that; but he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf, nevertheless, and the Vicar would see that he could take his glass of beer like other men and be none the worse for it. The Vicar shook his head at that, but Josiah was not to be moved, so the matter was, perforce, dropped.

Margaret was the first of the inmates of Greystone to hear of Salome's accident. Mrs. Moyle gave her full particulars of it one morning when she had an errand at the shop. And before going home, she went to inquire for her lame friend, whom she found sitting in the porch of the cottage with such a bright, hopeful expression on her pale countenance, that she was surprised, and remarked upon it.

"Oh, I am ever so much better!" Salome assured her with a smile.

"Are you really?" Margaret asked anxiously. "You have a nasty bruise on your forehead."

"Oh, that's nothing, indeed, miss! Have you heard how it happened? They haven't made you believe father did it on purpose, have they? He wouldn't hurt me for anything, if he could help it. Oh, Miss Margaret, I do believe father means to be steadier for the future!"

"Is he going to be a teetotaler, then?" Margaret inquired eagerly.

"No—o," was the dubious reply, "I'm afraid not; but he says he won't take more beer than is good for him. Oh, I know he has said that lots of times before, but I believe he really means it now. Indeed, he has been quite different these last few days—more like what he used to be when dear mother was alive."

This was quite true. Mrs. Moyle's words that he would have to choose between drink and Salome had made a strong impression upon Josiah, and had caused him to notice how much thinner and paler his little daughter had become of late. His conscience reproached him on her account, for he knew that she was not very strong, and that she worked hard, besides which, his unsteady habits were a constant trouble to her. In his repentance, he felt capable of denying himself anything for her sake—except drink, and that, he solemnly vowed he would take sparingly.

Seeing that Salome was so hopeful that her father meant to live a sober life for the future, Margaret had not the heart to express the doubts which occupied her mind; but on her return to Greystone, she saw, by Mr. Fowler's grave face when she explained the situation to him, that he did not believe Josiah's repentance would be lasting, and trembled for the safety and happiness of her little lame friend.

"Don't you think he means to keep his word, and not get intoxicated again?" she questioned.

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Fowler replied, "I think he means all he says. But I feel sure, if he does not give up drink altogether, it will soon have the mastery over him again. I believe he loves Salome very dearly, but he loves drink even better than his little daughter, or he would be willing to give it up for her sake. Poor Salome! I greatly fear she has more trouble in store for her with that father of hers."

This proved to be the case. For before a fortnight had quite elapsed since Salome's accident, Josiah was drinking heavily again, and spending his evenings at the "Crab and Cockle," as he had done of old. His repentance had been of brief duration; and the lame girl's face grew pinched, and her dark brown eyes larger and sadder, as her father squandered more and more of his earnings at the village inn; whilst Silas Moyle grumbled when the Pethericks' bread account remained unpaid, and would have stopped the supply, but for Salome.

"The poor little maid looks half-starved as it is," he remarked to his wife when she expressed surprise that he took no steps to obtain his rights. "Josiah's drinking what ought to be spent on his child; but it shall never be said that we begrudged her bread."

CHAPTER XIII.

Mrs. Fowler and Salome.

WHEN Mrs. Lute returned to N—, she asked and obtained permission for Margaret to visit her. The little girl had not appeared very well lately, and it was thought a change would do her good, which it certainly did, for she came back at the end of a fortnight decidedly better in health and spirits.

Mrs. Fowler greeted Margaret on her return with no very great show of pleasure, though secretly, she was delighted to see her looking so well. She never told her how glad she was to have her at home again, or that she had missed her, as she had actually done. And consequently, Margaret was not a little disappointed, and the kiss she gave her governess was far warmer than the one she imprinted on her mother's fair cheek—a fact Mrs. Fowler did not fail to notice.

"I have forfeited her respect and affection," thought the mother bitterly.

"She does not care for me, she never did," thought the child.

So the estrangement between the two grew, till it was patent to everybody. Perhaps Mr. Fowler and the governess guessed the cause of it; but the servants blamed their mistress, and declared she was so wrapped up in Master Gerald, that she had no love to spare for her daughter.

On her return to Greystone, Margaret resumed her organ lessons; but she was obliged to practise in the afternoons now, as the evenings were dark.

The golden touch of autumn was upon everything; the orchards were being cleared of their fruit; and the village children scoured the country around Yelton for blackberries, and sloes, and mushrooms. At the end of September, the fine weather broke up, and was followed by the equinoctial gales, which did great damage in the Greystone gardens, the fierce wind tearing up shrubs by the roots, and the heavy rains beating down the summer flowers which had lingered late in bloom. Mr. Fowler braved the fury of the elements, and was out of doors every day; but the weather was too rough for the other inmates of Greystone, who remained in the house till the gales had passed.

Thus it was, that Margaret and Salome did not see as much of each other as they had done hitherto. But one fine October afternoon, the former paid the latter a visit, and was shocked to see how worried and ill her lame friend was looking.

The truth of the matter was, the bad weather had prevented any fishing being done, and Josiah Petherick, having no money in hand, it had been extremely short commons for him and Salome. Of course, Salome did not intimate this to Margaret, she would have been ashamed to do so; she merely said, when questioned, that she had not been very well, and turned the conversation to Margaret's late visit to N—.

"Mrs. Lute gives up the house shortly, and returns to London," Margaret explained. "But she likes Cornwall so much, that she says she shall try to come again next year, if not to N—, then perhaps to some place near. By the way, Salome, mother and father are going to London for a few days soon. Shan't we be lonely at Greystone without them? Mother says she hopes you will come and see her before she goes. Will you?"

Salome assented. She liked Mrs. Fowler, who had always been very kind to her, and admired her as much as she had ever done; she considered her the nicest, prettiest lady she knew.

So one afternoon, a few days later, found the lame girl entering the Greystone grounds. She approached the house slowly, marking the havoc the late gales had worked, and went around to the back door, where she inquired of the servant who opened it in response to her knock, if Mrs. Fowler was at home. She was answered in the affirmative, and invited into the big, front kitchen to wait, whilst it was ascertained if the mistress was disengaged at present.

"Sit down, my dear," said the cook—a stout, middle-aged woman, with a round, red face, and a pair of sharp though not unkindly eyes. "There, take that easy-chair and rest yourself; maybe the pull up the hill has tired you."

She fetched a glass of milk and a big slice of cake, which she placed before her visitor. "You'll be better after a little refreshment," she added. "I know the mistress would wish you to have it."

"Oh, thank you!" Salome replied gratefully, flushing with pleasure, for she had had a scanty dinner. She drank the milk and ate the cake, and did certainly feel better afterwards.

"Miss Margaret's out," the cook remarked. "She's gone for a walk with Miss Conway and Master Gerald. But I daresay, she'll be back before long. She'd be sorry to miss you, my dear, for you're a rare favourite of hers, I can tell you."

Salome smiled happily, as she replied, "I am so glad to hear you say that, for I love her dearly. I expect you're very fond of her yourself, aren't you?"

"I believe she's a general favourite—but no, I'm wrong there. There's one in the house who doesn't appreciate her, and that's her own mother. Yes, you may well look surprised, but I assure you it's true. Mrs. Fowler doesn't make half as much of Miss Margaret as she does of Master Gerald—tiresome boy that he is. She wanted to take him to town with her, if you please, but the master won't allow that. I heard them talking about it in the garden. 'We'll take Margaret, if you like,' he said. 'No,' said she, 'I don't want Margaret.' She never does want her, and that's the fact, and yet, I believe there's not anything Miss Margaret would not do for her."

The cook, who was an extremely garrulous person, paused breathlessly for a few moments, then proceeded: "And such a pretty, nice-mannered little girl Miss Margaret is too. I declare it's a shame her own mother shouldn't love her more. It puzzles me, that it does, why it should be so."

Salome had listened in pain and surprise, wondering if this accounted for the sad expression which she had so often noticed on Margaret's pretty face. Was this the trouble that could not be told?

Before, however, she had time to make a reply, Ross entered the kitchen, and said her mistress would like Salome to join her in the drawing-room.

The lame girl found Mrs. Fowler alone, sitting by the fire, for though the weather was not actually cold, the day was dull, and the warmth was pleasant. Mrs. Fowler was very glad to have a visitor, and made Salome sit down near her and talk.

"My husband and I are going up to town the day after to-morrow," she said, "and I wanted to see you before I went. You must stay until the others return and have some tea."

Salome explained that the cook had already given her milk and cake; but Mrs. Fowler smilingly declared she knew she would be ready for tea when tea-time came, which would not be for another hour. She continued to talk pleasantly and easily, whilst the lame girl listened; and by-and-by, when Salome was questioned kindly and sympathetically as to the reason of her wan looks, she confessed, with some hesitation, however, that it was very tight times with her and her father at home.

"The weather has been so bad that no boats have been able to go out," she said; "and—" lowering her voice and colouring scarlet—"father's been worse than usual lately, and—and—he owes money to Silas Moyle, and how can we ever hope to pay it, if he spends so much at the 'Crab and Cockle'? It almost seems as though he doesn't care. And every day, I'm afraid Silas will say he won't let us have any more bread. Oh, it's dreadful—it's all through the drink, ma'am. Father'd be such a dear, good father if it wasn't for that."

"And you really love him in spite of the way in which he goes on?" Mrs. Fowler asked wonderingly.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I do!" was the earnest reply. "Whatever father did, I think I should love him just the same."

"I don't know how you can, I'm sure; I believe if I were you, I should lose all patience with him. Think how selfish he is, how inconsiderate for your comfort, how violent—"

"Ah, but that's only when he's been drinking!" Salome interposed hastily. "Father isn't like that really; it's only when the drink's in him, that he's all you say. If he would but give up the drink, he and I should be as happy as the day is long. Oh, I shall never cease hoping and praying that some day he may become a teetotaler! If I could get him to take the pledge, I believe all would be well."

"Meanwhile, he is wearing you to death, poor child. Well, don't cease to pray for him. God knows he needs all your prayers."

Mrs. Fowler sighed deeply, whilst she gazed sadly and thoughtfully into the fire. She was silent so long that Salome thought she must have forgotten her presence; but suddenly she glanced at her with a smile and asked, "How is Margaret getting on with her knitting?"

"Oh, very well, ma'am!" was the reply. "But I am afraid she will not come so frequently now the winter days are at hand. Besides, father is oftener at home."

Mrs. Fowler nodded. She put her hand into her pocket and drew therefrom her purse, as she inquired, "How much is it your father owes Silas Moyle?"

"Nearly eighteen shillings," Salome admitted. "I know it's a lot of money," she added deprecatingly.

"A lot of money!" Mrs. Fowler echoed with a faint, amused smile as she opened her purse and took out a sovereign. "Here, my dear," she said, pressing the coin into her visitor's hand, "you will be able to pay your bread account now. Yes, it is for you—a present—put it in your pocket."

Salome was so astonished that she could find no words in which to speak her thanks; but her expressive eyes spoke for her, and told how deeply thankful she felt. She tied the sovereign up in one corner of her handkerchief, which she placed inside the bosom of her frock for greater safety. And then, having overcome her first sensation of intense surprise, she exclaimed, "Oh, ma'am, thank you! How good and kind you are! Oh, what will father say when he knows! It will be such a relief to be able to pay Silas Moyle, for we never owed him quite so much before. Oh, I shall be grateful to you as long as ever I live!"

"There, there, say no more about it. I am glad it is in my power to lift a little of the load of trouble from your young shoulders; your heaviest trial is beyond the reach of human aid. But oh! Go on loving your father, child, if you can, for he must want all your affection, I am sure."

To Salome's astonishment, she saw there were tears in Mrs. Fowler's blue eyes, and that her face was quivering with strong emotion. Before more could be said, however, Gerald flung open the door and rushed into the room, followed at a more decorous pace by his sister and Miss Conway, and a little later the master of the house appeared upon the scene.

No one would hear of Salome's leaving, till she had had tea, so she remained. And afterwards, she willingly consented to sing, so that it was quite dark before she left Greystone; and Mrs. Fowler insisted on sending a servant to see her home in safety.

Josiah Petherick was not sober that night, but the next morning, his daughter told him of the present Mrs. Fowler had made her, and expressed her determination of paying the baker that day. Nor would she hear of her father's settling the account, for, alas! she knew that he was not to be trusted. And that if she let him have the money, he would be more likely to betake himself to the "Crab and Cockle" than to Silas Moyle's shop.

"The truth is, you won't trust me," he said bitterly.

"I can't, father," she answered, the sound of tears in her voice. "You know I can't. Mrs. Fowler gave me the money on purpose for our bread account, and I must know it's paid. Oh, it was kind of her!"

"Yes, it was," he admitted, adding with unexpected candour, "There never should have been need for her to do it; but your father's a good-for-naught. Yes, Salome, that's what everybody says. Folks pity you an' blame me. I know Mrs. Fowler has done this for your sake."

"And for yours too, father. Oh, yes, I am certain of that. She told me to go on loving you, and—"

"Did she though?" Josiah interposed in extreme surprise. "Well, you do amaze me. She's a real kind lady, anyway, and has proved herself our true friend."

CHAPTER XIV.

A Stormy Night.

"HARK! What's that, Miss Conway? It sounds like a dog howling. There it is again!" And the speaker, Margaret Fowler, put down the book she had been reading, and rising from her chair by the fireplace, went to the window, and peered into the darkness.

The governess and her two pupils were spending the hours between tea-time and supper in the schoolroom at Greystone. A very pleasant apartment it was, comfortably carpeted and curtained, with a bright wood fire burning in the grate. Miss Conway glanced up from her needlework as Margaret spoke, whilst Gerald ceased playing with the cat on the hearthrug and listened for a few moments.

"I don't hear anything," the latter said.

He turned his attention to his playfellow again, but puss was tired and had no desire to prolong the game. In vain, he dangled a piece of string before her eyes to entice her to spring at it. She had had enough of him, and sat on the hearthrug, complacently washing her face and blinking in the firelight.

"Selfish thing!" he exclaimed, "I—oh, yes, I do hear something now!" And he joined his sister at the window.

The sound which fell upon the ears of the listeners was like the low wail of some animal in distress. Margaret's fair cheeks paled as she listened, for there was something eerie in the faint, indistinct sound.

"I don't think it's a dog," said Miss Conway doubtfully. "No, I believe it's the wind rising. If so, we shall have a wild night. Let us open the window and make certain what it is."

They did so; and then ascertained that it was indeed the wind which they heard. The night was pitch dark, with heavy clouds overhead. It had been a still, sombre, autumn day, with that hush in the air which generally portends a storm. Now, the wind was rising, whilst the breakers could be heard dashing against the base of the cliffs.

"Yes, it is only the wind," Miss Conway decided. "How mournful it sounds. Shut the window, children, and come back to the fire. How thankful we should be that we have a good roof over our heads! Gerald, don't tease the cat, my dear; she doesn't want to play any more."

"Josiah Petherick said this afternoon that we were going to have a storm," Gerald remarked. "I saw him on the beach, tarring his boat. None of the fishermen had gone to sea."

"I suppose they considered the weather too uncertain?" Miss Conway interrogated.

"Yes," the boy replied. "Father says they are all very weather-wise. I don't mind a storm, do you, Miss Conway? I wonder if there will be a wreck."

"Oh, I sincerely trust not!" the governess exclaimed hastily.

"I should like to see a wreck," Gerald informed her. "Josiah Petherick has seen several, and he has saved the lives of heaps of people. He must be a very brave man. I don't believe he's afraid of anything. Can't we have our supper upstairs to-night instead of in the dining-room? It's so jolly and cosy here."

Miss Conway assented. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were in London, and the house seemed dull without them. Margaret had taken up her book again; but she was not reading, for the sound of the rising gale distracted her attention and made her feel restless and uneasy.

"If we have a storm, perhaps there will be a wreck," Gerald proceeded presently. "It is so dark, that I should not be surprised, should you, Miss Conway, if a ship ran on the rocks?"

"Oh, Gerald, pray don't suggest such a probability!" she cried, with a shudder.

"If there was a wreck, would you let me go down to the beach?" he inquired eagerly. "Say you would, Miss Conway!"

"I shall certainly say no such thing. If there was a wreck—which God forbid!—I should insist on your remaining in the house. Nothing would induce me to give you permission to go out in a storm. But we need not speak of it. Ring the bell, Gerald, and I will order supper."

The boy obeyed, though with a cloud on his brow; he realised argument was of no avail when his governess spoke in that decided tone. After supper, he went to bed at his usual time, and forgetful of the rising storm, and the prospect of a wreck, was soon asleep. Miss Conway and Margaret sat up till ten o'clock, alternately talking and listening to the wind, which was now howling dolefully around the house, almost driving in the window-panes, and mingling its sobs and wails with the angry roar of the sea; and then they, too, retired to their respective rooms. The gale increased in fury however, and then came the rain.

Meanwhile, the villagers were all alert, for there was little rest for anyone at Yelton on such a night as this, with a westerly gale raging, and the sea like great walls of foam. The fishermen hesitated to seek their beds, whilst some of the most venturesome braved the furious wind and the heavy rain, which was now descending in torrents, and kept watch by the sea-shore, their hearts anxiously expectant, as they recalled similar occasions when their assistance had been required to help those in peril on the sea.

In the Pethericks' cottage, Salome stood by the kitchen window, listening to the storm, and patiently waiting for her father. He was not at the "Crab and Cockle," she was certain of that, but on the beach; and she felt no anxiety about him. He was accustomed to rough weather; and on such a night as this, she knew he would be his true self—brave, fearless, and reliable. As was her custom when alone, she was singing softly:

"Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us
   O'er the world's tempestuous sea;
Guide us, guard us, keep us, feed us,
   For we have no help but Thee,
Yet possessing every blessing
   If our God our Father be."

Seen by the subdued light of the lamp in the centre of the table, the little girl's face wore a look of great contentment. For the time, she had forgotten how troublous was her life, as her soul rose on the wings of faith to an altitude which set her far above the trials of this world. She sang the hymn from beginning to end in a soft undertone, with the wailing wind for an accompanyment; then, opening the window, she thrust out her head and listened. She heard hurrying footsteps passing the cottage, and men's hoarse voices shouting.

"Who goes there?" Salome cried. "Is anything amiss?"

"I hope nothing is wrong," she thought, as she received no answer; "but I suppose they are obliged to shout to make themselves heard."

She tried in vain to pierce the darkness.

"If a vessel had been in distress, the crew would fire guns, or send up rockets," she reflected.

The rain beat against her face, so she drew back from the window, which she shut, and turned her attention to the fire, remembering that her father would certainly return drenched to the skin. Suddenly the cottage door was flung open, and Margaret Fowler, hatless, and with her fair hair hanging around her face, stood before her.

"Oh, Salome!" she gasped breathlessly. "Is he here? Have you seen Gerald?"

"No, miss. What is wrong?"

"We've lost Gerald, and I thought he might have come here. All the servants are looking for him, and Miss Conway too. Oh, what shall we do? He went to bed as usual, and was fast asleep at ten o'clock, but when Miss Conway peeped into his room half-an-hour ago, to see if the storm had disturbed him, his bed was empty. He had dressed, and we believe, he must have gone out."

"Perhaps he is somewhere hiding in the house," Salome suggested. "Surely he would not go out on a night like this."

"Yes, I think he would. He wanted so much to see a wreck—he seemed to have made up his mind there would be one to-night—and he is quite fearless."

"I expect he is safe. Oh, how wet you are, Miss Margaret!"

"Yes, and the wind blew away my hat coming down the hill, but no matter. Oh, where can Gerald have gone? I believe he must be on the beach."

"If he is, father will be sure to notice him and take care of him," Salome said consolingly. "Don't be frightened, miss; I feel sure Master Gerald will come to no harm."

"If he does, it will kill mother!" Margaret cried, despairingly. "She loves him so dearly. No, I mustn't stay; I must go and find Gerald if I can;" and opening the door, she rushed away into the darkness again.

After a few minutes of indecision, Salome put on her jacket, tied a shawl around her head, and leaving the cottage door unlocked, hastened towards the beach. She had not gone far, however, before she came upon a group of fishermen, one of whom was her father. She explained that the little boy from Greystone was missing from his home, but no one had seen him. Her father was vexed that she had ventured out in such a storm, and peremptorily ordered her to return.

"I'll look around an' see if I can find Master Gerald," he said. "But he'll come to no harm, I warrant."

"Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!"

It was Margaret who spoke. She had been led in the direction of the group by the sound of voices; and clutched Josiah by the arm to steady herself, as a fierce gust of wind nearly took her off her feet.

"Do you go back with Salome, miss," he said. "This is no fit place for you two little maids. I promise I'll look for Master Gerald, and find him, too, if he's hereabouts."

"Oh, thank you!" Margaret replied earnestly.

She was really nearly done up with battling against the wind and the rain, so she raised no objection to returning with Salome. The little girls reached the cottage in safety, and upon entering, found Miss Conway in the kitchen. Having knocked in vain at the door, she had tried to open it, and finding it unlocked, had gone in; she too had thought it possible that Gerald might be there.

"If he's on the beach, father will find him, you may depend upon that," Salome assured her. "And he will bring him straight here. I fear you will both catch dreadful colds," and she glanced commiseratingly from Margaret to the governess.

"We shan't mind that, so long as Gerald is safe," Margaret returned. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, as much with fright on her brother's account as with cold. "Oh, Miss Conway, what shall we do if anything has happened to him? Mother will never forgive us if—"

"Dear Margaret, don't be morbid; neither you nor I have been to blame," Miss Conway reminded her. "If harm has come to your brother, it has been through no fault of ours. Who would imagine that he would deliberately get up and dress and steal out of the house unknown to anyone? Whatever the result of this mad freak of his proves to be, will have been his own doing."

"It is terrible to think what may have happened to him. The wind is high enough to blow him into the sea if he is really on the beach. Oh, mother will hate the sight of me for ever, if Gerald is drowned!" And Margaret burst into tears.

"Don't, dear, don't!" Miss Conway said imploringly.

"You know it is true," Margaret cried passionately. "If I was killed, mother would not care—not much; but Gerald is as the apple of her eye."

Before any answer could be made to this, the cottage door opened, and Josiah strode into the kitchen, bearing Gerald in his arms. He had discovered the little boy crouched in the shelter of a boat which had been drawn high up on the beach, out of the reach of the tide.

"There is no wreck," Gerald said disgustedly, as Josiah set him down on the floor, "and I'm cold and wet, and should like to go home."

CHAPTER XV.

Trouble at Greystone.

FOR once, Gerald had gone too far, as he discovered on the following day, when, for punishment, his governess insisted on keeping him locked up in his bedroom. In vain, he cried and protested against such treatment, Miss Conway was like adamant, and the boy had perforce to endure twenty-four hours of solitary confinement with no one to speak to, no one to play with, and nothing to do. A more salutary mode of punishment could not have been devised; and in consequence, Gerald appeared at the breakfast-table on the morning following his imprisonment, in a subdued and repentant frame of mind. He said he was sorry for his past conduct; but he could not extract a promise from either Miss Conway or Margaret that his father should not be informed of the anxiety and trouble he had caused the whole household.

Margaret had caught a severe cold on the night of the storm, and spent the next few days shivering over the schoolroom fire, too unwell for lessons. Gerald's escapade had been a shock to her; she was overwrought and languid, and when, on the morning of the day that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were expected home, she began to dress she felt so shaky that she went back to bed again.

"Not up yet, Margaret?" asked Miss Conway's voice outside the door, half-an-hour later.

"No," was the reply. "I am so sorry, but my cold is very bad, and I have such a dreadful headache."

The governess entered the room immediately on hearing this and approached the bed. After kissing Margaret with affectionate concern, she felt her pulse and declared her to be a little feverish.

"Stay where you are, my dear," she said kindly. "Why, you're shivering. Ross shall bring you a hot-water bottle for your feet and light the fire; then, I have no doubt, if you lie in bed and nurse your cold, you will soon be better."

"I am so vexed, because mother and father are coming home to-night," Margaret sighed.

"I daresay you will be well enough to get up by the evening," Miss Conway responded hopefully. "I shall be with Gerald as usual, but I shall tell Ross to devote herself to you. If you want me, do not hesitate to send for me."

Margaret could eat no breakfast, but she took a few sips of the milk Ross brought her a short while later, and afterwards fell into an uneasy sleep. The maid, moving about softly, lit the fire and dusted the room, then turned her attention to the flushed face on the pillow.

"Poor little thing, she does look poorly," she murmured. "And it's all on account of that tiresome child, Master Gerald. 'Tis a shame of the mistress to spoil him so; everyone can see but her that she's ruining him, allowing him his own way as she does."

Margaret moved restlessly and began to mutter. Ross bent over her, and caught the sound of Gerald's name. She laid her cool hand softly against the little girl's cheek and felt how it burnt.

"She's very feverish," she thought. "I do hope she isn't going to be really ill. A nice home-coming it will be for master, if she is. I wonder if the mistress would trouble much?"

Roes moved away to the fireplace, and taking up some sewing-work, stitched industriously, every now and again glancing towards the restless sleeper.

Suddenly the little girl uttered a shriek and sprang up in bed, whereupon Ross dropped her work and hastened to the bedside.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, putting her arms around Margaret's quivering form. "You've had a bad dream, I expect—but it was only a dream. See, now, don't tremble so, you're perfectly safe with Ross."

"Where's Gerald?" Margaret demanded in a strange, hoarse voice.

"Doing his lessons with Miss Conway."

"Where's Gerald?" the little girl reiterated.

Ross repeated her former answer, but it did not appear to satisfy Margaret.

"Let me go and look for him," she said in a tone of distress.

"No, dear; you're not well, you must lie down again."

"You won't let me go!" Margaret struggled a minute in Ross' restraining arms, then sank back on the pillow. "I know why you won't let me go," she cried; "he's dead. He's drowned."

"No, no, darling, he's perfectly safe. Dear Miss Margaret, you've been dreaming."

"He's drowned!" the little girl insisted. "And who's going to tell mother? Oh, it will kill her!"

"Miss Margaret, I solemnly declare Master Gerald's living and well," said Ross, growing more and more concerned. "I wouldn't tell you a story, why should I? You're poorly, dear, and you've had a bad dream."

But Margaret wandered on: "Listen to the rain beating against the window, and the wind howling. And Gerald is out in it all! If he is on the beach, he will be blown into the sea. Look at that great wave! Oh, it has carried him away!" and she uttered a heartrending cry.

"It is a lovely day," Ross assured her; "the sun is shining, and the sea is quite blue and calm. You've been dreaming about the storm, miss, and fancying all sorts of horrors that never happened."

Margaret's blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon Ross' face, but she evidently had not followed what the woman had said, for after a short silence she began to mutter distressfully about Gerald again.

Ross was now exceedingly alarmed. She rang the bell, and sent for Miss Conway, who, in her turn, tried to pacify the sick child. But Margaret paid no more attention to her governess than she had to Ross.

"I am afraid she is going to be very ill," Miss Conway said in much distress. "All her trouble seems to be about her brother. Fetch him, Ross; perhaps the sight of him will satisfy her."

So Gerald was brought to his sister's bedside. He was somewhat frightened when told Margaret was ill; but in obedience to Miss Conway, he stooped over the bed to kiss her. She, however, pushed him away with feverish strength, and covered her eyes with her hand.

"Take him away!" she cried. "What is that strange boy doing here?"

"It's Gerald, dear Margaret," said the governess softly. "Your own brother come to show you that he is quite well, and—"

"No, no; Gerald's drowned, I tell you! Oh, what will mother say? She loves him so."

At this point, Gerald, realising that there was something very strange and unusual about his sister, began to cry, and was hurried out of the room.

Thoroughly shocked, Miss Conway sent a groom to N— immediately, to fetch a doctor; and within a few hours, the news had spread through the village of Yelton that the little girl at Greystone was very ill. Mr. Amyatt, as soon as he heard the tidings, considerately invited Gerald to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage; and Salome Petherick arrived at the back door of Greystone in the afternoon to make inquiries.

The cook, who had been stewing beef-tea, insisted on Salome's coming inside and resting in her easy-chair.

"Mrs. Moyle told me of Miss Margaret's illness," the lame girl said, her face expressive of the deepest concern. "I hope it is nothing serious?"

"I am afraid it is, my dear," was the grave rejoinder. "It's inflammation of the lungs. Dr. Vawdry has been here from N—, and he's coming again this evening. He says she's very ill; and if Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not been returning to-night, they'd have been telegraphed for. Oh, dear, dear, I do trust the poor child's life may be spared! She's not been well for days, not since the night of the storm, when Master Gerald led us all such a dance after him. He's the one to be blamed for this. For once, I should think the mistress would see that."

And the woman poked the fire viciously, as though the act was a vent for her feelings. "She's the nicest, sweetest, little creature I ever knew is Miss Margaret," she proceeded, "with always a kind word for us servants. Ross says she doesn't recognise anyone; she didn't know Master Gerald, and her incessant cry is that he is drowned. If only Miss Conway had turned the key in his bedroom door on the night of the storm. She kept him locked up the next day, and it broke his rebellious spirit—quite. She'd soon get him under subjection if his mother didn't pamper him so. Don't you take on, now, about Miss Margaret, my dear; maybe she'll get over this attack all right. She's young and healthy, and she'll have good nursing, and everything money can buy. I ordered some lean, gravy beef the minute I heard she was ill, but the doctor won't allow her anything but milk and soda water, so there's plenty of strong beef-tea going begging, and you'd better have a cupful. Will you have bread with it? Yes. I'm sure it will do you good."

Salome was very glad of some refreshment. She took the beef-tea, whilst the cook talked on without waiting for replies; but when she rose to go, having learnt all there was to know, her heart was very heavy indeed. Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she passed out of the Greystone grounds, and commenced her descent of the hill. As she went by the church, she wondered if she would ever hear Miss Margaret practising on the organ again.

And she was so engrossed with her sorrowful thoughts, that she was startled when, on reaching the Vicarage gate, a voice addressed her from inside. "Hi, Salome! Where have you been?"

She paused and looked at the speaker, Gerald Fowler, who was peering at her laughingly between the bars of the gate. The boy was in high spirits at being the Vicar's guest, and he had not been informed that his sister was really seriously ill. He had been frightened when Margaret had failed to recognise him, but the impression he had then received had passed, and he was delighted at having this unexpected holiday.

"YOU'D BETTER MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS,
SALOME PETHERICK."

"I've been to Greystone, Master Gerald," Salome returned quietly.

"To see Margaret, I suppose? She's ill, you know."

"Yes, and I am so grieved and sorry."

"Oh, I expect she'll soon be better!" Gerald remarked confidently.

"I hope so," the lame girl replied dubiously. "But the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs."

"Does that ever kill people, Salome?"

"Yes, Master Gerald, very often."

"But Margaret won't die, will she? You don't think that, do you?"

"No one can tell—but God. We must ask Him to take care of her. Oh, Master Gerald, see what has come of your ill conduct!"

"What do you mean?" he inquired in amazement. "It isn't my fault that Margaret's ill."

"Oh, yes, indeed it is! If you had not gone down to the beach on the night of the storm, she would not have got drenched to the skin and have caught such a dreadful cold. Oh, yes, it was your fault!" And Salome looked at him severely.

His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and his rosy cheeks paled as he gasped, "Oh, I never thought—I never thought—"

"No, I don't suppose you did, Master Gerald, or if you did, it was yourself you thought of and no one else," Salome cried indignantly. "You 're the most selfish little boy I know."

"You 're very unkind, and—and nasty."

"I daresay you think I am; but I love Miss Margaret, and I know you've been the cause of her illness. I wonder what your mother and father will say."

"Mother will say it was not my fault," Gerald declared stoutly. "I couldn't tell Margaret would be silly enough to go to look for me; and I think you'd better mind your own business, Salome Petherick," he concluded.

He was impressed by the lame girl's plain speaking, and put on a show of anger to hide the fact.

She shook her head at him gravely, as she turned away from the Vicarage gate and went down the hill.

When she reached home, she lit the fire and boiled the kettle for tea, and by that time her father had appeared upon the scene, having had a good catch of fish. His face grew grave when Salome told him of Margaret's illness, and he expressed great regret, for he was grateful to the Fowlers for the notice they had taken of his child. And he volunteered to go to Greystone later on and inquire for the poor little sufferer. This he accordingly did, and brought back the news that Dr. Vawdry had visited the patient again, and had declared her to be dangerously ill, but that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not yet come. The carriage had gone to N— to meet them at the railway station, as had been arranged, and they were expected very soon now.

"Don't take on so, my dear," said Josiah kindly, as he noticed Salome's brown eyes full of tears. "The little maid'll pull through, please God. I am grieved about her though—s'pose 'twas you," and he looked at his child with great affection as he reflected on the uncertainty of life. And because it would please her, and with the laudable desire of keeping her from dwelling too much on the thought of Margaret's illness, he spent the evening in her company, and that night his associates at the "Crab and Cockle" looked for him in vain.

CHAPTER XVI.

Days of Sickness.

IT was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. and Mrs. Fowler reached Greystone that autumn night. Without waiting for assistance, the latter sprang out of the carriage and ran into the house, and almost into the arms of Miss Conway, who had come down from the sick-room to meet the travellers.

"What is this I hear about Margaret?" Mrs. Fowler inquired, excitedly clutching the governess by the arm, and scanning her pale countenance with anxiety. "I am told she is ill. It is nothing much, I suppose? What ails her? A cold?"

"She certainly did catch cold," Miss Conway rejoined in a grave tone, looking from Mrs. Fowler to her husband, who had quickly followed her. "She has been poorly for several days, but this morning she was taken much worse, and I sent immediately for Dr. Vawdry from N—. He has been twice during the day, and—and—" this in a faltering voice—"she is very ill with inflammation of the lungs. We are poulticing her; Ross is with her now, and—and—I'm so very glad you've come!" And, overwrought with anxiety, she burst into tears.

"Come into the drawing-room, Miss Conway," Mr. Fowler said kindly. "No, my dear," he continued, laying a restraining hand upon his wife who had turned to rush upstairs, "let us hear all details about Margaret first of all. Besides, you must not allow her to see you looking frightened and distressed."

"She would take no notice," Miss Conway said mournfully. "She recognises nobody, and is quite delirious. Dr. Vawdry says that need not alarm us, though, for it's frequently the case in inflammation of the lungs."

"What has caused her illness?" Mrs. Fowler asked, as she followed the others into the drawing-room.

Miss Conway wiped away her tears, and in a few minutes was sufficiently composed to explain all that had happened. When she had finished her story, Mr. Fowler inquired, "Where is Gerald now?"

"In bed and asleep, I am thankful to say," Miss Conway answered. "Mr. Amyatt had him at the Vicarage until eight o'clock, when he brought him home. He begged me to allow him to sit up to see you, but I insisted on his having his supper and going to bed."

"Quite right." Mr. Fowler's face was very stern, and he would not meet the glance of his wife's appealing eyes. "We see now the result of indulgence," he added emphatically. "Had Gerald been taught obedience and consideration for other people, this trouble would never have come upon us."

Mrs. Fowler quailed beneath the mingled reproach and reproof of her husband's tone; for once she had no excuse to make for her favourite child. She had spent a very pleasant time in London, where she had met many old friends, including Mrs. Lute; but she had not been sorry to return to Greystone, acknowledging to herself that the quiet, healthful life there suited her. With her husband's presence to strengthen her, it had not been so very difficult to refuse stimulants when they had been offered to her. She was fully conscious of her own weakness now, and no longer deceived herself, as she had formerly done, with the fallacious idea that a little wine or spirit was good for her.

When she recalled how, during her husband's brief absence from home a few weeks previously, she had been tempted from the mere fact of having taken one glass of wine to purchase a bottle of brandy, and drink it by stealth, she was obliged to confess that total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors was the only course for her to adopt to prevent the ruin of her happiness, and that of those she loved. At Greystone, she felt she was out of temptation's way. The news of her little daughter's illness, which had been imparted to her and Mr. Fowler at N—, had startled and shocked her immeasurably; and she had begged the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, which he had accordingly done.

Margaret was lying in a kind of stupor when her parents entered her bedroom, and they were careful not to disturb her. Mr. Fowler saw she was very ill, and his heart ached as he bent over her and listened to her laboured breathing. Glancing at his wife, he was astonished at the expression of her countenance, for, like everyone else, he had never thought she had cared for Margaret overmuch. But all the mother's love was alive in Mrs. Fowler at that moment, shining in her blue eyes, and illuminating her fair face with additional beauty.

Anxious days and nights followed, during which Margaret lay between life and death. Her mother constituted herself head nurse, and showed wonderful ability in that capacity. Naturally a nervous, excitable woman, it was quite wonderful how she put a check upon her feelings, and was calm, and capable, and seemingly untiring. It was nothing to Margaret, at that time, who was attending to her, for she was utterly unconscious, sometimes in a drowsy condition, sometimes murmuring distressfully, going over again all that had happened on the night of the storm, always with the impression in her mind that Gerald had been drowned.

"Who will tell mother?" she demanded again and again in an agony of grief. "She loves him so! He is her favourite."

Meanwhile Gerald had been taken to task by his father for his conduct on the night of the storm. Mr. Fowler took no steps to punish him, but he talked to him so seriously, and pointed out to him that he was responsible for his sister's illness, that Gerald was reduced to tears, and for the first time in his life, on seeking his mother's support and sympathy, he found both lacking.

"The blame is all yours," she told him gravely. "What your father has said to you is perfectly true."

"Oh, mother, don't you think Margaret will get well again?" he asked with quivering lips, for beneath a veneer of selfishness, he owned an affectionate heart, and he was really much attached to his sister.

"Only God knows that," was the solemn reply.

"That's what Salome Petherick says," he remarked tearfully. "She was here inquiring for Margaret at the back door this morning. She comes every day, and she said all I could do was to pray."

"She was right, Gerald; your sister is in God's hands. The doctor can do nothing for her—he has acknowledged that; but oh, my son, pray for her! Pray for her!"

The little boy was greatly impressed by the solemnity of his mother's tone, and impetuously flinging his arms around her neck, he assured her, he would be a better boy for the future, and that he would pray to God to make his sister well. He was having a holiday from lessons, for Miss Conway was assisting Mrs. Fowler and Ross with the nursing, and so he spent most of his time with his father, from whom he had begged and obtained forgiveness for his past misbehaviour.

"Yes, I forgive you, Gerald," Mr. Fowler had said sadly. "But you see, wrongdoing always brings its own punishment," he had added, noting the little boy's troubled countenance, and making a shrewd guess as to the state of his feelings with regard to Margaret.

The servants crept quietly about the house speaking in hushed tones, for the angel of death seemed hovering near; and those who loved Margaret Fowler waited and watched unwearyingly. A second doctor from Plymouth had visited the patient. But he had agreed with Dr. Vawdry that nothing more could be done for her, and that it was merely a question of whether or not her strength would hold out and vanquish the disease.

At last, the crisis came. And then, the glad news that the little sufferer was sleeping quietly and naturally was whispered through the house, and spread to the Vicarage, and from thence to the village, where Salome Petherick heard the good tidings in Silas Moyle's shop, and returned home with a joyful, thankful heart.

The golden, autumn days were passing swiftly now, and there was a sharp feeling in the air in the morning, but a few hardy flowers lingered in Salome's garden; a big bush fuchsia which grew beneath the kitchen window was still in bloom, and the verbena close to the porch had not commenced to shed its leaves, whilst the white chrysanthemums which flourished year by year in the shelter of the wall which protected the garden on the side nearest to the sea were in full flower. The lame girl gathered a posy, and took it up to Greystone, where she left it at the back door with a request that it might be given to Miss Margaret, if she was well enough to receive it. She declined an invitation to rest awhile, saying she must hurry home to get her father's tea.

So it came to pass, that when Margaret awoke from her refreshing sleep, she was conscious of a delightful perfume, and opening her eyes, they rested on a homely nosegay, composed of chrysanthemums, intermingled with sprigs of verbena, and drooping fuchsia sprays. The flowers lay on the counterpane, but when she tried to put out her hand to reach them, she found she could not. Then the bed curtain stirred, and she saw a face bending over her—a beautiful face full of love and a great joy.

"Mother," she said weakly.

"Yes, my dear," was the soft reply. "You have been ill, but you are better, and have had such a nice, long sleep. I want you to drink this milk and then go to sleep again."

Mrs. Fowler slipped her arm beneath the pillow, and gently raised the little girl's head, whilst she held a cup to her lips. Margaret took a few sips of milk, but refused more.

"The flowers," she said, as her mother laid her head down again.

"Salome sent them to you with her love."

Mrs. Fowler placed the nosegay close to Margaret's hand, and her thin fingers fastened around the stems of the flowers, then her tired eyes closed, and she slept once more.

From that hour, Margaret commenced to recover. For days, she was too weak to move hand or foot—too weak almost to think; but by-and-by, with returning strength, she began to notice more what was going on around her. The tormenting thought that Gerald was dead had left her entirely, and she was conscious that it had been her mother who had nursed her so tenderly all along, and not a figure of her imagination as she had at first thought.

She watched Mrs. Fowler with an inquiring expression which that lady failed to interpret, but which made her both anxious and uneasy. It was as though Margaret wondered at her solicitude, and was trying to find a reason for it. And as the little girl grew better, it was quite apparent that she preferred to have Miss Conway or Ross in attendance upon her to Mrs. Fowler. It was always—"Don't trouble, mother, Ross will do it," or "Miss Conway will read to me, I know." Till, deeply hurt, Mrs. Fowler made up her mind that she had for ever destroyed her little daughter's affection. And once Margaret had loved her so dearly, too!

On the first occasion on which the patient was allowed to sit out in a chair by the fire, Mrs. Fowler wrapped her in a dressing-gown made of quilted silk which she had brought home for her from London. Margaret expressed great pleasure in the pretty garment, and called everyone's attention to it. Her father sat with her for a short while, and Gerald, at his earnest request, was permitted ten minutes of her society.

"How white you look!" the latter exclaimed, regarding her with awe. "And your eyes are so big! But you're heaps better, aren't you, Margaret?"

"Oh, yes!" she answered, smiling brightly.

"That's right. I prayed to God to make you well, and so did everyone, I think."

"That was very kind of everyone," Margaret murmured, much touched.

"Josiah Petherick's drunk nearly every night now," Gerald next informed his sister. "I heard Mr. Amyatt tell father so."

"Oh, dear!" cried Margaret in much distress. "Poor Salome!" At that moment, she caught her mother's eyes, and the sensitive colour flooded her face from chin to brow. Noticing the painful blush, Mrs. Fowler turned away, and walking to the window, gazed out unseeingly, her mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts.

Meanwhile, Gerald chattered on, passing from Josiah to other of the villagers, until Mrs. Fowler, suddenly remembering that Margaret must not be allowed to overtire herself, interrupted the conversation, and sent the little boy away, promising he should come and sit with his sister again to-morrow.

"Remember to give my love to Salome the next time you see her," Margaret said. "Tell her, I hope we shall meet again soon."

Then, as the door shut on her brother, she sighed, and her mother guessed aright by the sad expression of her face that her thoughts were troubled ones and anything but conducive to peace of mind.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Shadow Lifted.

NOVEMBER was an unusually mild month that year, so that Margaret, during her convalescence, was enabled to take long drives without any risk of catching cold. On one occasion, Salome Petherick was invited to accompany her and Mrs. Fowler when they drove to N—. And it was pleasant to see how the lame girl's countenance shone with happiness as, forgetful of her worries for the time, she enjoyed the novelty of viewing hitherto unknown scenery, for she had never been beyond walking distance of Yelton before.

"It was quite pathetic to watch the varying expressions on the poor little thing's face," Mrs. Fowler confided to her husband afterwards. "She shall accompany us again, if all's well. Have you noticed how she has changed lately? The first time I saw her, she had such a pretty brown complexion, and now she is so pale, and her eyes so big and hollow. I wonder what ails the child."

"Privation and trouble, I'm afraid, judging from what I hear," Mr. Fowler responded gravely. "She is badly fed, works hard, and is always grieving on her father's account."

Mrs. Fowler sighed. She was deeply interested in Salome, but there seemed little she could do for her. The idea crossed her mind that she might remonstrate with Josiah concerning his treatment of his little daughter, but she shrank sensitively from doing so.

Meanwhile, there was little fishing being done at Yelton during those mild November days, when the ocean was as smooth as a duck pond, and there was not a breath of wind blowing, so that Josiah and his boon companions had plenty of time on their hands. The "Crab and Cockle" had most of their society, and their homes suffered in consequence.

One night, after the inn was closed and most of the inhabitants of Yelton had gone to rest, the alarming cry of "Fire!" was heard. And men, women, and children dressed with all speed, and rushed out of doors exclaiming, questioning, and running against each other in their excitement and hurry.

"Fire! Fire! Oh, help; for mercy's sake, help my father!"

It was the lame girl who had raised the alarm, and who now stood outside Silas Moyle's shop, her face livid with terror. She managed somehow to explain that it was her home that was on fire, and that her father, on his return from the "Crab and Cockle," had clutched at the table-cloth which had covered the kitchen table, and had thus upset the lamp and caused the conflagration.

On hearing this, there was a general rush in the direction of the Pethericks' cottage, but Silas Moyle, who had now arrived upon the scene, insisted upon Salome's staying with his wife, and lingered to inquire what had become of Josiah.

"He's at home," Salome wailed. "I couldn't get him to leave; he was pouring buckets of water on the fire; but oh! He couldn't put it out, it was spreading terribly. Please, Mr. Moyle, do go and see that he's all right. He isn't sober, and oh, I'm so afraid for him."

"There, there, don't you take on," said Mrs. Moyle, kindly. "Silas'll see to Josiah. Come you in, my dear," and the good woman led Salome into the parlour behind the shop and placed her in an easy-chair.

Meanwhile, willing hands were helping Josiah in his attempts to put out the fire. But assistance proved of no avail, and in less than two hours the Pethericks' cottage was actually gutted, and all their possessions had been burnt. It had been impossible to save anything, for the woodwork of the cottage being old, and the roof of thatch, the flames had spread with great rapidity. Daybreak found Josiah, sober enough now, staring disconsolately at the four stone walls which was the only portion of his home that was left intact. He was feeling inexpressibly shocked, for his furniture was not insured, and he realised that he and his little daughter had nothing in the world but the clothes they were wearing. What was he to do? He could not tell, and he groaned in despair, as he looked at the smoking ruins, and the erstwhile trim garden, now spoilt by the trampling of many feet.

"This is a bad business, Petherick."

Turning at the sound of a voice addressing him, he saw Mr. Amyatt. The Vicar had been there some time, but Josiah had not noticed him amongst the rest.

"Ay," was the gloomy response. "I'm ruined—that's what I am."

"I daresay your landlord will rebuild the cottage, for no doubt it is insured."

"What's the good of a cottage without furniture?" Josiah demanded almost fiercely. "Salome's homeless, an' through me. I ought to be thrashed."

"Salome can bide with my missus," Silas Moyle interposed at that point. "She's a handy maid, and can make herself useful, an' you'll be able to get a lodging somewhere, Josiah, for the time; but you'd best come along with me now, an' get a bit of breakfast."

Josiah hesitated. He was very grateful to the baker for his kindness, but he dreaded the meeting with Salome. He felt more ashamed of himself than he had ever done in his life before, and as he turned his back on the smoking ruins, he pictured the pretty, thatched cottage of which he had been so proud once upon a time. There he had brought his young bride, there Salome had been born, and his happy married life had been spent, and there his wife had died. Josiah rubbed his hard, brown hand across his eyes as memory was busy with him.

"Come," said Silas, "pull yourself together, man. Let's go and get some breakfast. Your little maid's wanting you, I'll warrant."

Such proved to be the case. For the minute Salome saw her father, she threw herself into his arms, and whispered how thankful she was that he was safe, and that nothing mattered besides—nothing.

The first person to convey the news of the fire to Greystone was the postman, and great was the excitement when it became known that the Pethericks' cottage had been burnt down. Mr. Fowler started off immediately, with Gerald, to learn all particulars, and, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler, at Margaret's earnest request, went to see Salome. She found the little girl in better spirits than she had anticipated, though her brown eyes grew very wistful when she talked of her late home.

"All my plants are trampled into the ground," she said, "but, never mind, father's safe, and that's the chief thing. I was so afraid for him."

"And so you are to remain here?" Mrs. Fowler questioned, glancing around Mrs. Moyle's little parlour, which was a picture of neatness and cleanliness.

"Yes, ma'am, for the time. Mrs. Moyle has kindly asked me to stay."

"And your father?"

"He's going to find out if our landlord will rebuild the cottage, and if so, father will get a lodging somewhere in the village. The worst of it is, all our furniture is burnt; but father says he'll be able to replace it by degrees, he hopes."

After leaving Salome, Mrs. Fowler thought she would like to see the ruined cottage, so she turned her footsteps in that direction, and found Josiah leaning over the garden gate in conversation with the Vicar. The former would have moved away on her approach, but she stopped him, and explained that she had been to visit his little daughter.

"I'm so sorry for you both," she told him kindly. "It is terrible to be burnt out of house and home."

"It was my doing," Josiah confessed. "Maybe you've heard how it happened?"

"Yes," she admitted, "you caught hold of the table-cloth, and pulled over the lamp, did you not?"

The fisherman nodded, whilst the Vicar regarded him attentively.

"I've been talking to Petherick very seriously," the latter said. "And have been trying to induce him to become a teetotaler and sign the pledge. I do earnestly entreat you, Petherick, to take warning by last night's work."

"Why won't you take the pledge?" Mrs. Fowler asked, her fair face alternately paling and flushing. "I am sure it would be for your happiness and well-being if you did. And you should consider Salome. Oh, drink is a terrible curse! It kills all one's best qualities, and ruins one's self-respect."

"I'm ashamed of myself," Josiah acknowledged, "but think how folks would laugh if I took the pledge. I'll be a teetotaler if I can; but no, I won't pledge myself to it."

"Oh, don't say that!" Mrs. Fowler cried imploringly. "Think the matter over. I believe if you took the pledge, you would keep it, for I am sure you are a man of your word."

Josiah's face expressed irresolution. He had solemnly vowed to himself that he would never touch intoxicating liquors again, so deeply had the past night affected him, but he hated the idea of taking the pledge, whilst Mr. Amyatt realised that his so doing would be the only thing which would hold him to his determination to abstain from drink.

"I'm going to give up drink," Josiah declared decidedly, at length, "but I won't take the pledge. I understand everyone's a teetotaler at Greystone," he continued, as Mrs. Fowler was about to speak again, "but, excuse me, ma'am, I don't suppose you've signed the pledge, have you?"

"No," Mrs. Fowler acknowledged, "I have not."

Josiah was silent. He was evidently thinking, "Then, why should I?"

Mrs. Fowler was silent too, and Mr. Amyatt regarded her a trifle curiously, for he saw she was struggling with some strong emotion. Presently she said very quietly, "I have made up my mind. I will certainly take the pledge."

"You!" Josiah exclaimed in amazement. "You, ma'am!"

"Yes," Mrs. Fowler rejoined, "it is the right thing for me to do, and you must do the same. Why should you object if I do not?"

"You must give in now, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said quickly, "if Mrs. Fowler is ready to do this for your sake—"

"I will do it for his sake, and for my own, and for the sake of all those we love," she interposed. "Oh, think of Salome!" she said earnestly to Josiah. "You have brought her untold trouble, and have made her homeless all through drink. Look at this ruined cottage, and reflect that but for the kindness of the Moyles, your child would be without shelter and food. How can you hesitate?"

"I don't, ma'am."

"Then, if I take the pledge, will you?" Mrs. Fowler inquired eagerly.

"Yes," Josiah answered, "I don't see that I can say 'no' to that."

An hour later, Mrs. Fowler entered the drawing-room at Greystone, where her little daughter was seated alone near the fire, reading. Margaret put down her book, whilst her mother, who had removed her walking garments, sank rather wearily into an easy-chair.

"I have been talking to your father, my dear," Mrs. Fowler said with a smile. "I suppose, like him, you want to hear about Salome first of all," and she proceeded to give an account of her interview with the lame girl, and to explain the arrangement that had been made for her to remain with the Moyles for the present.

"And did her father really set the cottage on fire?" Margaret inquired.

"Yes. He was intoxicated, and pulled off the lamp in clutching at the table-cloth. It is fortunate neither he nor Salome was burnt. My dear, I have a piece of news for you."

"Yes?" Margaret said, interrogatively, as Mrs. Fowler paused.

"Josiah Petherick has consented to take the pledge, and I am going to take the pledge too!"

"Mother!"

Mrs. Fowler gave a brief account of her interview with the fisherman and Mr. Amyatt, to which her little daughter listened with breathless interest. When she had ceased speaking, Margaret went to her side and kissed her.

"Oh, child!" cried Mrs. Fowler, encircling the slender form with her arms. "Do you really care for me? I thought I had for ever forfeited your love and respect. My dear, I never properly valued your affection until I feared I had lost it. I have been a selfish mother, but, please God, I'll be different in the future. When I faced the possibility of losing you, it nearly broke my heart."

"Oh, mother! And I feared you did not like to have me with you! I thought—"

"Was that why you shrank from me? Margaret—" and Mrs. Fowler spoke very impressively. "There has been a black shadow over my life for a long, long time. It stood between me and your father, between you and me, and even between my soul and God. I believe, and pray that it is gone."

The little girl pressed her lips again to her mother's cheek, and though she made no reply, that gentle kiss, so tenderly and lovingly given, was the seal of a better understanding between these two who had been slowly drifting apart. And neither was likely to doubt the other's affection again.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Happier Days.

ONCE more, it was summer time. Eight months had elapsed since the night when the Pethericks' home had been destroyed by fire. And in the place of the old thatched dwelling, a modern red-brick cottage had been built, which, though certainly not so picturesque as the former one, was very comfortable, and possessed a bow window to its little parlour, which was the envy and admiration of all the villagers. Already young ivy plants had been placed against the bare, red walls; and the garden had been coaxed into good order, and was now making a fine show with its summer flowers.

The cottage was barely furnished, for though to the amazement of all Yelton, Josiah had become a pledged teetotaler, and had in very truth turned over a new leaf, he had not been able to earn much money during the winter months. And when the new home had been completed a fortnight previously, he had only been in a position to purchase a few cheap articles of furniture which were absolute necessaries, such as beds, and cooking utensils.

One beautiful June evening, Salome sat inside the bow window from which there was an uninterrupted view of the beach, and the wide expanse of sea, her busy fingers knitting as usual, her fresh, sweet voice trilling a merry song. She was blissfully happy, for at that moment she had not a care in the world. Her father, now he had really given up drink, was kind and considerate as he had been in her mother's lifetime, and was doing all he possibly could to make up to her for the sorrow he had caused her in the past.

God had been good to her, she told herself, for He had answered her earnest prayers on her father's behalf. And her love and patience, so often sorely tried, had not been in vain.

A step on the gravel path caused Salome to raise her eyes from her work, and her face lit up with a glad, welcoming smile as she saw Margaret Fowler coming to the door.

"Don't get up," Margaret called to her, "I'll let myself in, if I may," and a minute later she entered the room, her fair countenance aglow with health and happiness. She seated herself in the bow window opposite to Salome, and glanced around the bare, little parlour with smiling eyes undimmed by any shadow of trouble now. "I've been practising the organ," she said. "Mother and father have been listening, and criticising my performance. They both think I've improved wonderfully of late."

"Indeed you have, Miss Margaret," Salome agreed heartily.

"Mother and father have gone home; but I thought I would like a chat with you. I like this bow window, don't you?"

"Yes, miss; it makes the room so light and airy. I'm afraid the place looks very bare, though, with no carpet, and no furniture but that deal table and these two chairs."

"Never mind. I daresay you'll add to your stock of furniture later on."

"That's what father says. We must try to pick things together gradually again. People have been so kind to us, you can't imagine how kind. Mrs. Moyle gave us her old dinner set, and some odd cups and plates; and Mr. Amyatt's housekeeper sent down some bedding from the Vicarage—of course Mr. Amyatt must have told her to do so. Then your dear mother, miss! See what she has done for us. Why, she made us a present of the very chairs we're sitting on, and—"

"Oh, yes, I know!" Margaret interposed. "I think there's little mother wouldn't do for you, Salome."

"But the best thing she ever did, was when she induced father to take the pledge. I am sure he would never have done so, if she had not set him the example. Oh, miss, I believe he regretted it, at first; but now, I'm certain, in his heart, he knows it has been his salvation. He isn't like the same man he was a year ago. Look at him now," pointing to a stalwart figure seated on the beach bending over a fishing net. "Last summer, you wouldn't have found him content to mind his business like that, he'd have been at the 'Crab and Cockle' drinking. I little thought when I heard Greystone was taken, what kind friends you all would be to father and me."

"And I little thought when I first saw you leaning over the garden gate, Salome, how much you would do for me."

"I!" cried the lame girl, opening her dark eyes wide in astonishment. "Why, I've done nothing, I've had no opportunity—"

"Ah, you don't know all! I've learnt a great deal from you, I have indeed, though you mayn't know it—a great deal besides knitting," Margaret said with a smile. "It was you who taught me, by your self-sacrificing love for your father, what love ought to be—faithful and long-suffering. That was a lesson I never learnt till I met you."

Salome looked earnestly at her companion's expressive face, and was emboldened to put a question that had trembled on her lips many times of late:

"That trouble you spoke to me about, Miss Margaret—is it gone?"

Margaret nodded in silence.

"I'm so glad," said Salome, simply.

"Do you remember Mrs. Lute, the lady who stayed with us at Greystone last summer?" Margaret questioned presently. "Yes. Well, we are expecting her to visit us again. And mother says she hopes your father will be able to take us out boating frequently, because Mrs. Lute is so fond of being on the water. And mother feels safer with your father than with anyone else, because he knows the coast so well. You know, mother is still a little nervous at times."

"But she is wonderfully better, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes. Look! Surely I see Miss Conway and Gerald talking to your father on the beach. When they pass here, I'll join them, and we can walk home together."

"How Master Gerald does grow!" Salome exclaimed. "And he has so improved too! That's come about since your illness last autumn, miss. He was in a terrible state of distress then."

"So mother has since told me," Margaret replied. "Yes, he has improved; he's much more obedient than he used to be; Miss Conway was saying, only this morning, how little trouble she has with him now."

The truth was, Mrs. Fowler had come to understand that her foolish indulgence had been likely to ruin her little son. And though she loved him no less, she wielded a firmer sway over him, and upheld his governess' discipline. With the result that he was a much more contented little boy than he had been, when he had had his own way. He still sometimes gave way to exhibitions of violent temper, but he was growing ashamed of these paroxysms, and they were becoming less and less frequent.

When Miss Conway and Gerald left the beach, Margaret said good-bye to Salome, and joined the governess and her charge as they were passing the cottage.

"We've been talking to Josiah Petherick," the little boy informed his sister, "and I've been telling him that Mrs. Lute's coming. Do you know, Margaret, that Josiah is going to be in the choir?"

"No. Salome did not tell me; but I left her rather hurriedly when I saw you coming. I know he used to be in the choir before—"

"Before he took to drink," said Gerald, finishing the sentence as she paused in hesitation. "Well, he doesn't drink now; wasn't it a good thing he gave it up? I like Josiah, he's so brave, and he knows such a lot about the sea, and ships."

They had left the village, and were ascending the hill towards Greystone, now and again pausing, to look back the way they had come.

"I don't think the Pethericks' new cottage is half so pretty as their old one, do you, Miss Conway?" Gerald asked, appealing to the governess.

"Perhaps not—in spite of the bow window," she replied. "But the colour of the bricks will tone down with time."

"Salome is very contented," remarked Margaret, "but then she would be that anywhere, I believe. She is wonderfully happy, and looks so well."

"Yes," Miss Conway agreed, "a regular nut-brown maid; and, last autumn, she was such a pale, little soul. Mrs. Moyle was telling me yesterday how much she misses her. The Moyles have been good friends to the Pethericks."

Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were seated beneath the lilac tree when the children and the governess entered the grounds. Gerald was the first to spy his parents; and he raced across the lawn to them; and informed them that he had told Josiah of their expected guest, and had bidden him clean his boat in readiness for use.

When Mrs. Lute arrived on the morrow, she was agreeably surprised to note the improvement in Mrs. Fowler's health, and complimented her upon her "Cornish roses," as she called the bright colour in her friend's cheeks, whilst Margaret listened with secret satisfaction and happiness, and meeting her father's eyes, saw that he was delighted, too.

Mrs. Fowler was no longer the neurotic, dissatisfied invalid who had been brought to Greystone almost against her will; but a bright, companionable woman, taking a lively interest in her household, and anxious for the welfare of those she loved. She and her little daughter had been drawn very closely together during the past few months; and they had discovered that they had many interests in common. Both were devoted to music, and Mrs. Fowler had of late fallen into the habit of accompanying Margaret to the church to hear her practise on the organ; and there, often, Salome would join them, and sing at the earnest request of the others her favourite hymn.

It was Gerald who, when the family at Greystone was at breakfast on the morning after Mrs. Lute's arrival, began to talk of Josiah Petherick. Mrs. Lute had not heard the exciting story of the fire, and the little boy told it with considerable gusto, afterwards explaining what the new cottage was like.

"You have missed the chief point of the story, Gerald," his father said, when at length the tale was brought to a conclusion.

"Have I, father?"

"Yes. You have not told how being burnt out of house and home affected Josiah." He turned to Mrs. Lute as he added: "The man has not touched a drop of any kind of intoxicating liquor since."

"Well done!" she exclaimed heartily. "That is news worth hearing. I have so often wondered this past winter how those Pethericks were getting on. The sad, pale face of that lame girl haunted my memory for many a day. And, do you know, when I got home, I thought so much of the many discussions we had had upon the drink question, with the result that I came to the conclusion that I had been wrong all along. And that because I only took stimulants sparingly myself, I had no right to put temptation in the way of others; and so, I've banished intoxicating liquors from my house altogether. What do you say to that?"

There was a murmur of surprise mingled with commendation, and everyone agreed that Mrs. Lute had done well. Certain it was that she had acted from the best possible motive—consideration for her fellow-creatures. She was one of the kindest of women; and the thought that she might do harm to a weaker brother or sister by allowing stimulants to be used in her household had never crossed her mind, until she had visited at Greystone, and the master of the house had unfolded his new principles to her. Thinking the matter over quietly afterwards, she had seen that he was right.

And now it is time for us to say good-bye to this little village by the Cornish sea. But we will linger a moment to take a farewell glimpse of those whose lives we have followed for one short year as they are gathered together one Sunday evening in the old grey church. The Vicar has finished his sermon, and has given out the hymn with which the service will be brought to a close, and in another minute the congregation is singing "Abide with me."

Margaret, from her position by her mother's side, can easily distinguish Salome's clear, bird-like notes, and Josiah Petherick's deep, bass voice; and as she joins in the well-known hymn, her soul rises to the throne of God in a fervent prayer of thanksgiving and joy. The church is growing dim and shadowy in the evening light; but the black shadow that threatened to ruin the happiness of two homes has fled; and there is no cloud on Margaret Fowler's fair face, whilst the lame girl's voice has a ring of triumph in its tone as she sings the concluding words of the beautiful hymn—

"Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD.;

LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALOME'S BURDEN ***