of hills, seen through the haze of the summer day blue and indistinct. Within, there were some fine pictures; and the wide dining-table was decorated with flowers—for of flowers there were plenty at Maplestone. If banished from the front of the house, they had their revenge in the dear old-fashioned kitchen-garden—a garden where beds for cutting were filled with every coloured geranium and verbena and calceolaria; a garden which seemed an enclosure of sweets and perfumes, where the wall-fruit hung in peerless beauty, and a large green-house, of the type of past days, was the shelter of a vine so luxuriant in its growth and so marvellous in its produce, that Maplestone grapes continually carried off the prize at the flower and fruit shows of the neighbourhood.

The children gathered round that pretty table—which, in spite of Raymond's dissatisfaction, was always well supplied with all that could please the taste—were singularly ignorant of whence all their good things came. They had all been born at Maplestone. They took it and all its comforts as a matter of course. Till Raymond went to Eton they had none of them concerned themselves much about what others had or had not. Raymond, the eldest son, had been the most indulged, the least contradicted, and had an enormous idea of his own importance.

He was very handsome, but by no means clever. He had no higher aim than to lounge through life with as little trouble to himself as possible; and now, at seventeen, when asked if he meant to turn his mind to any profession, he would say, "Oh, I may scrape through the militia, and get a commission; but I don't bother about it."

A naturally selfish disposition, he was altogether unconscious of it. He had spent a great deal of money at Eton; he had wasted a great deal of time. He cared nothing about Latin and Greek, still less about Euclid. If his clothes were well made, and he could get all Lord Clement Henshaw got, and the Marquis of Stonyshire's nephew, he was content. But as to a thought of his responsibility as his father's eldest son, or any idea beyond the present moment, he had nothing of the kind. Of late he had grown arrogant and self-asserting at home; and the holidays, when Reginald came rushing in with joyous gladness from Rugby, were by no means unmixed pleasures to the other children, by reason of Raymond's return from Eton. Reginald was Salome's especial friend. Ada, in her pretty completeness, stood somewhat alone. She was so "provokingly perfect," Reginald said. No one ever caught Ada out; and it was so dull.

The little boys were under Miss Barnes's care; but Carl was to go to a preparatory school at Christmas. The very idea of such a separation set "Hans's water-works flowing," Reginald said; so the great event was only generally understood, and not talked about.

Just as Miss Barnes had risen from the table, saying, "Your grace, Hans," and just as little Hans had lifted his voice in childish treble, with the accustomed form used by all his predecessors in the Wilton family, the door opened, and Mrs. Wilton came in.

Salome went to her impetuously. "Have you had no luncheon, mother? Let me ring for some hot soup."

Mrs. Wilton took the chair Miss Barnes vacated, and saying in a low voice to her, "Take the children away," she declined anything but a glass of wine and a biscuit, and scarcely seemed to notice the children's eager—

"We may have the tableaux, mother, mayn't we? and Ada may write the notes for our birthday party?"

"Yes, darlings, yes. Run away now."

The two little boys scampered off, and Ada, stooping over her mother, kissed her, and said,—

"You look so tired, mother!"

Raymond and Reginald were still lingering at the bottom of the table, when Raymond said,—

"I suppose I can take out Captain this afternoon? I want to ride over to St. John's."

"Your father—" Mrs. Wilton got no further; and Salome said,—

"Father does not like Captain to be ridden carelessly, Raymond. You had better take old Bess."

"Thank you!" was Raymond's retort; "I did not ask for your opinion, Miss Sal."

Then Raymond left the room, and Reginald, seeing his mother did not wish to be troubled with questions, followed him.

Ada with another kiss, as she leaned over the back of her mother's chair, also went away, and Salome and her mother were left to themselves.

Salome knew something was wrong—very wrong, but her lips refused to form the words she longed to utter. Mrs. Wilton, finding they were alone together, covered her face with her hand, and then in a broken whisper said,—

"Your father is in great trouble, Salome."

"Is he ill?" the girl asked quietly.

"Ill, and most miserable. He thinks he is ruined."

"I don't understand, mother. How is he ruined?"

"The great Norwegian firm with which he traded has failed; and as if that were not enough, rumours are floating to-day that the Central Bank is likely to stop payment to-morrow."

Salome's bewildered expression struck her mother as pathetic. "She is only a child," she was saying to herself; "she does not take it in."

Presently Salome said with a deep-drawn breath, "Has father all his money in the bank, then?"

"All his private fortune; and then, if he has to stop trading as a timber merchant, the loss will be—simply ruin, Salome."

"This house is ours, isn't it?" the girl asked.

"My dear child, ours no longer if it has to be sold to meet the debts—the liabilities, as they are called. But do not say a word to any one to-day. There is just this chance, the rumours about the Central Bank may be false. Your father's partners incline to the hope that it may prove so; but I have no hope, no hope. Oh, your father's face of misery is more than I can bear! At his age, to have everything taken from him!"

"Not everything, mother; he has got you."

"What am I? A poor weak woman, never strong, never fitted for much exertion. What will become of the children?"

"I will do my best, mother," Salome said. "I will do all I can."

"You, Salome! My dear," said her mother sadly, "what could you do?"

"Take care of the boys; teach the little ones; save the expense of a governess; help you to do without so many servants," Salome said promptly.

"Ah, Salome, we shall want no servants, for we shall have no home. Maplestone must be sold, and all the dear old pictures;—but I must not go over this part of it. Mr. Stone happened to meet your father in Fairchester, and thought him looking so ill that he brought him home. He told me he was very anxious about him, and I was by no means to allow him to go back to Fairchester to-day. I heard him order the dog-cart round at three o'clock, and he ought not to go; yet how can I stop him?"

"May I go and see father?" Salome asked. "I will be very quiet, and not worry him."

"I hardly know. He said none of the children were to be told to-day—that I was to keep the trouble from you; that is why I dared not come in to luncheon. And the De Brettes and Fergusons dine here to-night. They ought to be put off; but he won't hear of it. Miss Barnes saw Mr. Stone leading your father across the hall. I was obliged to tell her about it; but she said she would keep it from the children."

"I am not a child now, mother," Salome said; "I am nearly sixteen. Somehow," and her voice faltered—"somehow I don't feel as if I should ever be a child any more if—If you come upstairs and lie down in your sitting-room, I will go and see father, and try to persuade him not to go to Fairchester. Now, mother."

For the first time in her life Salome felt that she must think for