others as well as for herself. It was a sudden awakening. Long years after, she recalled that last dreamy noon-tide by the little lake, and all her visions and illusions: the fairy web of youthful weaving, which some of us remember, was so delicious and so sweet. Now, when she had drawn down the venetian blinds and left her mother to rest, if rest were possible, she paused before she could summon courage to turn to the library and see the father she so dearly loved in his sore trouble.

CHAPTER II.

SORROW AND SIGHING.

TO Salome's great relief, she remembered there were no school-room lessons that afternoon. Miss Barnes had to take Ada into Fairchester in the pony-carriage for a music lesson. Carl and Hans were full of their birthday party, and had possessed themselves of a heap of decayed finery, which they were sorting in their spacious old nursery. Raymond had taken Captain, and Salome saw him trotting quickly down the drive, from the staircase window when she passed on her way to the library. She saw Reginald, too, lingering about on the lawn, and at last stretch himself full length under a spreading cedar, with his cap tilted over his eyes, and Puck, a little white dog, lying near him. She wished she could only tell Reginald. It was better Ada should not know; but Reginald was so different. Reginald lying there so unconscious of coming trouble; Raymond riding off on the very horse which had been forbidden; the little pony-carriage wheeling away to Fairchester, Ada whipping up the fat gray pony, and turning out on the road with a grand flourish; Carl and Hans singing over their wreaths of faded flowers, worn by their mother in young, happy days; nurse's voice in occasional remonstrance; and the loud singing of a canary,—all these sounds and sights told of life at Maplestone going on as it had done for so long, and only she—Salome—knew that all things were on the very brink of change. There, as she stood thus thinking, some words came to her soul in that strange, mysterious way which all of us, young and old, must have recognized sometimes as coming from some One higher and holier than ourselves—"With God is no variableness, neither shadow of turning;" and then, as if in answer to all her day-dreams, there came the memory of other words, left as a beacon pointing heavenward to all young hearts,—

"I want to do what is right," she sighed. "I want to help them,—father, and all of them,—but oh, I must pray God to help me and make me patient!" Then, with a quiet, slow step she went to the library door and tapped gently. There was no answer. Then Salome opened the door and went in.

Her father was sitting in his arm-chair, with his back turned towards her. Salome went up to him and touched his arm.

"Papa."

Mr. Wilton turned his face towards her at last, and said, almost roughly,—

"What do you want, Salome?"

"Mother has told me all, and I am come to tell you how I love you, and I will try to help you, if I can."

"My dear—my dear child," Mr. Wilton said, "no one can help me now; I am ruined! But your mother promised not to tell you. You might as well have had another night of peace,—just as well. I told her to keep it from the children."

"But, dear father, I am not like a child now. I am the eldest girl, and I ought to know what troubles you. Mother could not keep it from me; she was obliged to tell some one. I want to ask you to be so very kind as not to go into Fairchester again to-day, but stay quiet."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Wilton impatiently; "I must go. Why should I leave the sinking ship like this? I am very well. It is all Stone's humbug, frightening your poor mother out of her wits. Here, give me another glass of wine, and then ring for Curtis to come round with the dog-cart."

Mr. Wilton suddenly rose from his chair, and before Salome could prevent it he had emptied the decanter into a tumbler, and was raising it to his lips when he dropped it with a crash upon the ground, his hand fell powerless at his side, and he sank back in the chair speechless and unconscious of any outward thing.

Instantly Salome's first thought was of her mother—to save her from the sudden shock which had blanched her own lips with terror, and for a moment left her as helpless as her poor father.

Then, instead of ringing the bell frantically, or calling out aloud, as so many girls would have done, she ran with the speed of lightning to the nursery and called her faithful friend there.

"Come to papa! quick, Stevens, quick!" Then as nurse threw down her work and obeyed her she flew to the garden, where Reginald, all unconscious of the impending sorrow, was lying under the cedar tree.

"Reginald, Reginald, get up! father is much worse. Send to Fairchester for Mr. Stone, or any doctor; pray make haste."

"Father! what is the matter with him?"

"Oh, I don't know! His face is an awful gray colour, and his mouth—O Reginald, don't ask me, only go and get some help; but don't let mother be frightened."

Reginald did as she told him without farther question; and Salome returned to the library.

The servants were gathered there now—the old butler, Greenwood; Stevens, the nurse, who had seen Mr. Wilton bring home his bride; others of the large household standing near in awe-struck silence. They made way for the little figure that appeared at the door, and let Salome pass to Stevens, who was supporting her master's head, while Greenwood was loosing his collar.

"You can do no good, my dear Miss Salome; no good."

"What do you mean, Stevens? I have sent Reginald for Mr. Stone—" Here she stopped, for Greenwood broke out into convulsive crying.

"The dear master is struck for death, and no mortal power can help him now!"

That evening about seven o'clock, Salome, sitting by her mother's side in the hushed and darkened room where the master of Maplestone lay breathing heavily, quite unconscious of any outward thing, heard the sound of horses' feet. She rose quickly and went to the hall door.

"It is Raymond. I had better tell him," she said.

On her way she met Ada, her pretty face washed with tears, like a rose in a heavy shower, who said,—

"Raymond has come back on one of Mr. St. John's horses, Salome. He has broken Captain's knees; just think of that!"

"Does he know?" Salome asked.

"I daresay they have told him in the stables. Is there any change in father?"

Salome shook her head. "Will you go and sit with mother while I find Raymond? Reginald is gone with the messages to the De Brettes and Fergusons."

"Oh, I am afraid to see father," Ada said, shuddering. "I dare not go. I wonder if Uncle Loftus will come; Miss Barnes says he is sure to start when he gets the telegram. Here comes Raymond."

Raymond came in with a would-be careless air, trying to whistle. Salome went up to him.

"Raymond, do you know what has happened?"

"My father is ill, you mean. What is the matter with him? I shall be spared a row about Captain. I have been and done for Captain, and for myself pretty nearly. What do you both look so scared for?"

"Come into the drawing-room and I will tell