Lady Monroe was right when she said the Athertons would prove true friends; and it soon became one of Salome's greatest pleasures to get a quiet talk with Mrs. Atherton. She possessed the power, rare but beautiful, of influencing others by _herself_, not by her words. She had remarkably quick insight into character; and she had not known the Wiltons long before she had, as it were, mastered the situation, and could enter into the difficulties and trials of each one. She saw that Salome had the hardest task of all, and she felt for her, with her dreamy, imaginative temperament, forced, as it were, to take up with the practical side of daily life, and set herself to help her.

Lady Monroe had postponed the departure to Cannes longer than Dr. Wilton thought right, till the sudden change from a prolonged St. Luke's summer to an early and sunless spell of winter brought on Eva's little short cough, and made her hasten the arrangements for leaving England.

Eva was a spoiled child--or, rather, would have been spoiled, had so sweet and gentle a nature been capable of "spoiling," in the common acceptation of the word. Her mother clung to her with the intense love which springs from the thought that all love and care for our heart's dearest ones may not be needed long. Eva had taken a sudden and real liking for Ada Wilton. Her beauty and serenity had a charm for her. She liked to hear her play and watch her white hands on the piano. She liked to talk with her and to hear her voice. And so it had come to pa.s.s that Ada was continually sent for to Lady Monroe's house; and when the time for leaving Roxburgh was definitely arranged, Eva said that nothing would please her so much or help to pa.s.s the winter cheerfully as to have Ada with her.

Lady Monroe herself had her misgivings. "Ada is so young, and ought to be going on with education and lessons," she said.

"But she can _have_ lessons, mamma; and think how she will learn to speak French. And there are drawing-masters and music-masters at Cannes.

Oh, _do_ let us take her; she is so fond of me, mamma, and she is so lovely and so ladylike."

The feverish glow on Eva's face and the excited light in her eyes made her mother hesitate before she refused.

"I will consult Dr. Wilton," she said, "and her mother. I hardly know if it would be right to take her away from her mother; and yet it might be a relief in some ways. Still it would be an additional anxiety for me; and you might get tired of her, Eva."

"Tired of her, mamma! Oh no. Think of the many dull, lonely hours I have to spend, while other girls are playing tennis, and going to picnics, and dancing, and enjoying themselves. I know I have you, darling mother," Eva said tenderly; "but if I had a young companion, you would feel more free to leave me."

"We will see about it, Eva. I must not do anything rashly."

But Lady Monroe lost no time in consulting Dr. Wilton, who gave the plan unqualified approbation; and then it only remained to get Mrs. Wilton's leave.

Her note with the proposition came one afternoon when the day had been a troubled one--the children naughty, and Salome unable to manage them; Ada still less so; Stevens put out by the inveterate smoking of the chimney in the little boys' room, where she kept a fire and sat at her needle-work, and made the room look like the ghost of her old nursery.

Then Mrs. Wilton had been vainly trying to look over accounts. Her head and eyes ached. The weekly bills when multiplied by fifty-two would amount to far more than her small income. Raymond had asked for a sovereign, and how could she refuse him? Reginald had begged for his football jersey and cap, for which the old Rugby colours were inadmissible. Rain poured without, and a cold wind penetrated through every crack and cranny of the house. In fact, the aspect of life was dark and gloomy; and Mrs. Wilton, fairly exhausted, was just losing herself in a day-dream by the fire when Ada tripped in with Lady Monroe's note.

"I expect I know what it is about, mamma; something very, very delightful for _me_."

"I can't see to read it till the lamp is brought in," Mrs. Wilton said.

"Let me get the lamp, mamma--or ring for it--or poke up a blaze," said Ada.

It was quite unusual for Ada to exert herself like this; and so Salome thought, who was reading to Hans and Carl in a low tone by the window, where the daylight was stronger than by the fire.

Mrs. Wilton yielded to Ada's impatience, and opened the envelope, holding it towards the bright blaze Ada had brought to life, and reading by it the large, clear handwriting.

"You know what is in this note, Ada?" Mrs. Wilton said when she had finished it, and turned back to the first sheet again to a.s.sure herself of the contents.

"I can guess, mother," Ada said, drawing nearer. "Do let me go."

"Go where?" asked Salome, leaving her post by the window and coming towards the fire,--"go where, Ada?"

Mrs. Wilton gave Lady Monroe's note into Salome's hand. She bent down, shading her forehead from the heat by her hand, and read:--

"DEAR MRS. WILTON,--I am writing to ask you a great favour.

Will you lend your dear Ada to me for the winter? Eva has so set her heart on the plan, and has such a real affection for your Ada, that I hope you will consent. I need not say that she will be to me for the time as my own child, and that I am of course answerable for every expense; and I will see that she has advantages in the way of music lessons and any others that may be available at Cannes. My Eva's life will be brightened, and she will feel the privations of her delicate health less with a young companion whom she loves. Do not refuse me this request. I may add that Dr. Wilton encourages me to make it. Our friendship is not a new thing; and when I look at Ada, I see again the Emily Bruce of old times.--With kindest love, I am ever affectionately yours,

"KATHARINE MONROE."

"Do you wish to go, Ada?" Salome asked.

"Wish? Oh, I shall like it so much! I think it is delightful!"

"To _you_, no doubt," said Salome; "but it will put a great deal more on me. The children's lessons, and walking with them, and--But if mother likes it, there is nothing to be said."

"Well, it will be a great advantage to Ada," Mrs. Wilton sighed out; "and Lady Monroe will be a substantial friend. If your uncle approves it, I do not see how I can refuse."

Ada sprang up. She was but a child, and the idea of a journey to the south of France was full of untold delight. Then to escape from the tiresome lessons, the dull way of life, the bother about money, the fidgets about keeping two fires burning, looked most attractive.

"Thank you, darling mother," she exclaimed with unusual enthusiasm, throwing her arms round her mother. "I shall come back ever so much brighter, and able to do heaps more things."

"It is very easy to settle things in that way," said Salome. "You are exactly like Raymond--_intensely_ selfish."

"Don't be jealous, Salome," Ada exclaimed. "You knew the Monroes first, and if Eva had taken a fancy to you, you would have been only too pleased; but you see Eva happens to like _me_ best."

"Oh, my dear children, do not let there be any uncomfortable feeling.

Though we are poor, let us be loving."

Salome's heart was full, and rising hastily, she dropped Lady Monroe's letter, and left the room. Poor child, it did seem to her, as to many another, that effort for others was in vain; that those who keep self and selfish interests well to the front are, after all, those who succeed best, not only in getting what they wish, and escaping disagreeables and worries, but in winning affection and admiration from every one.

"I have done my very best ever since dear father died. I _have_ tried to do everything, and yet Ada is the most cared for. I believe mother does really love her best. Father--father--_he_ cared for me, and now he is gone."

"Why, Sal, what is the matter?" It was Reginald's voice, as he came into the dining-room, where, in an arm-chair, by the dying embers of the fire, which was not allowed to burn up, Salome was sobbing out her trouble. "Why, old Sal, what is it?"

"Ada is going off to Cannes with Lady Monroe, and never thinks about me.

I shall have twice as much to do--the children always on my hand; and I shall never be able to finish my story. I have not minded leaving mother with Ada; but now--and she _is_ so selfish, Reginald."

"So is half the world, it seems to me, Sal. Cheer up. _I_ am glad, for one, _you_ are not going to the south of France. I tell you that. I cannot get on without you, nor any one else either; so that is very certain. Come, Sal, don't be down-hearted. It will make one less here, and Ada is not cut out for our present life. You and I do very well; and I know I have got the best of it at school, and have no time to sit and mope."

"I don't mope," said poor Salome, half-offended. "To-day, I have--"

Tears were just beginning to fall again, when Reginald caught sight of a book on the floor.

"Is not this Mrs. Atherton's paper you promised to send back this morning, Salome? I say, she said she must have it to post to a friend.

Shall I run over with it to the vicarage?"

"Oh dear, how careless I am," Salome sighed. "I should like to go with it myself, Reginald. It is not quite dark, not nearly dark out of doors. Will you come for me in half an hour? I do feel as if the run, and seeing Mrs. Atherton, would do me good."

"All right," said Reginald good-naturedly; "only, be quick, for I want tea over early this evening. I have no end of work to get through."

Salome raced upstairs, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up her jacket and hat, and thrusting her hands into a m.u.f.f, with the newspaper crushed up mercilessly, she was out of the house in no time, and was very soon at the vicarage.

If she could only find Mrs. Atherton at home, she thought, and alone.

She stood in awe of Mr. Atherton, the grave, dignified man, who looked as much older for his years as his mother looked younger, and by reason of this had led to much confusion in the parish when he and Mrs.

Atherton first came to St. Luke's.

Yes, Susan thought Mrs. Atherton was at home. Would Miss Wilton walk in?

Salome was shown into the drawing-room, which was empty; and Susan, after throwing a log on the fire, and remarking that "it was quite wintry weather," left her.

That bright, cheerful room, full of the signs of the life of those who inhabited it, always gave Salome a sense of home. Books on all sides; a little picture on an easel in one corner; needle-work; a carefully-arranged writing-table in one recess by the fire, a work-table in the other. Nothing fine or grand, no aspirations after "high art,"