IT is wonderful how the wave of a great storm carries us unresisting on its crest. We are, as it were, washed ashore; stunned and bewildered for a time, but soon to find the necessity of struggling onward—to do our best. Stripped of all we have held dear,—however desolate, however bare, life must be faced and the burden must be borne.

Children like the Wiltons have youth and the freshness of spring-time to help them on; while women of Mrs. Wilton's age—in the autumn of her days—naturally clinging for support to others, are more likely to collapse, like the ivy when the prop on which it depended is removed.

A man so widely respected as Mr. Wilton had been was not without friends, and several of them came forward with valuable and substantial help. Ready money to meet the current expenses which were absolutely necessary was kindly offered; and Mr. De Brette wrote to Mrs. Wilton, after the sale at Maplestone, to say he had bought in one or two pictures, and some other little things, which she was to accept as a small token of gratitude for services rendered to him by Mr. Wilton in past years. The arrival of these things in the van from the railway caused great excitement amongst the children, while the sight of them seemed to open afresh the flood-gates of poor Mrs. Wilton's grief. They were chosen with that sympathetic feeling of what she would care for most, which doubled the value of the gifts. Her own and her husband's portrait, painted by a good artist at the time of her marriage; a beautiful copy of the San Sisto Madonna; her own devonport; a certain chair which she had always used; and the table and chair from Mr. Wilton's library; and a good many little odds and ends of familiar things. And a box containing enough plate for everyday use was brought by Mr. De Brette himself, and placed in Mrs. Wilton's hands.

The settling in of all these things was an interest and delight to the children, and Mrs. Wilton was glad for their sakes that it was so.

Mrs. Pryor could not be brought to admire anything. She was incredulous as to the identity of the fair, graceful, smiling girl in the picture with the pale, careworn widow lady who sat beneath it. As to the poor gentleman, he might have been good-looking, but he was not fit to hold a candle to the doctor. But she had been used to such beautiful pictures at her dear departed lady's house—nothing could look much after them. Her bitterest shafts were hurled against the devonport, to make room for which an old mahogany what-not had to be removed: "A clumsy thing, and yet all gim-cracky, with a lot of little drawers—no use to anybody. She hoped she was not expected to dust all them things, for she just honestly said she wasn't going to do it."

But at last all was settled down, and except for the standing grievance of Puck, peace was proclaimed. Puck had made a pretence of living at the shop, but this stratagem did not avail for long. He was continually rushing to and fro, and was oftener at Elm Cottage than at the baker's shop; but Mrs. Pryor thought more highly of him than at first, for he waged war against a large cat that Mrs. Pryor had convicted of killing a canary, and still occasionally dared to haunt the back premises to look for another victim! Puck's growls succeeded so well, that Mr. Tom contented himself with sitting on the low red-brick wall, with his back raised to a level with his head, and his tail swelled to the size of the boa Mrs. Pryor wore round her throat in winter.

Her son Frank, who left most of the conversation necessary to his wife, was heard to say, at the end of the first week of the Wiltons taking up their abode at Elm Cottage: "We live and learn. If any one had told me my mother would take children as lodgers, and those children with a little dog at their heels, I shouldn't have believed them. We shall see her with a monkey from the 'Zoo' next."

Lady Monroe was not slow to fulfil her promise of calling on her old friend, bringing Eva with her; and it so happened that Mrs. Loftus Wilton, Louise, and Kate arrived on the same day. The little square drawing-room was filled; and Hans and Carl, rushing up to the room where Salome sat with her old music portfolio and her manuscript, shouted out,—"Two carriages full of people are come to see mother. Go down, Salome."

"Ada is there," Salome said, telling the children not to talk so loud; and then she looked ruefully at her inked forefinger, and wished she had mended the crape on the skirt of her dress before she put it on that day.

"Miss Wilton—Miss Salome—my dear, do make haste; your mamma will be so pressed and worried. There's Mrs. Doctor Wilton, with a train of black silk long enough to reach from here to the gate almost. Do make haste, Miss Salome, my dear. If there isn't another knock! Dear me, I can't abide answering the door; it has never been my business." And Stevens bustled down, exhorting the children not to peep through the banisters, and signing to Salome to follow her, she disappeared to answer the door to Mr. and Mrs. Atherton. But happily Mrs. Atherton had seen the two carriages at the gate, and was just giving the cards to Stevens, saying she would come again, when Salome appeared.

"We hear your mother has visitors," said Mrs. Atherton, in one of those voices which ring with the clear sweetness of truth,—the voice which is so different from the "put on" or company voice, or the voice which regulates itself to the supposed requirements of the moment. "We will come again very soon. I hope your mother is pretty well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Salome. "Won't you come in?"

"No; we are near neighbours at the vicarage," Mr. Atherton said. "We were your predecessors here," he said with a smile; "so we know the rooms will not hold large levees. I want to know your brothers. I saw two elder ones at church with you on Sunday. If they care for cricket, we have a game going on every Saturday in the field above the church."

"Reginald is at the college now; but I will tell him, thank you."

And then, as Mr. and Mrs. Atherton said good-bye, Lady Monroe and her daughter came into the little passage with Ada.

"We shall only tire your mamma if we stay now," she said; "but I have made her promise to drive with me to-morrow if it is fine, and either you or your sister must come also."

Salome and Ada, after a few more words, went together to the little sitting-room, where their mother sat, flushed and ill at ease, with their Aunt Anna, Louise, and Kate.

Kate sprang up when Salome came in and kissed her affectionately; while her mother said, "How do you do?—is this Salome?" and then, with a very light salute on her cheek, went on in the same even current of talk which the entrance of the girls had checked, not stopped.

"I want to see your little brothers," Kate said to Salome; "may I come with you and find them? Louise can talk with Ada; they are certain to get on."

Salome glanced at her mother, who looked so worn-out and tired and sad, and wondered at her Aunt Anna's conversation, which all concerned herself and her friends, and her own interests and amusements. But it seemed hopeless to help her, and she left the room with Kate.

Hans and Carl were painting pictures in the dining-room, and Kate had soon finished with them.

"Why, they are twins, aren't they? Have you got to teach them? What a bore for you! Now show me your room. It is not so bad, really; and I like the look of your sitting-room—it has a home-like air. What a smoke! Where does that come from?" she said, looking from the window of Salome's room.

"That is the bake-house," Salome said. "Mr. Pryor is our landlady's son; and the garden is separated from ours by that wall."

"I smell the bread," Kate exclaimed; "it's rather nice. And what is this?" she said, pausing on the heap of foolscap paper lying on the chest of drawers. "Essays—papers? 'Chapter I.' Why, I believe it is a story. Have you actually written a story? You look like an authoress. Digby says he never saw a cleverer face than yours, and he quite admires you. Read me a bit of the story; tell me the names of the people."

Poor Salome was suffering all this time the pangs which sensitive natures like hers can only understand. To have her secret hopes and fears thus ruthlessly dragged to light—to see her sheets, which, alas for her wonted carelessness, ought to have been hidden in one of those deep drawers, fingered by strange hands, was misery to her. She tried to take them from her cousin's grasp; but she held them fast, and began to read:—

"'Under the shadow of a spreading cedar-tree, two little—'"

Salome was now really angry; her eyes flashed, and she said, "Give me the manuscript directly, Kate. It is excessively rude; I hate it; I—"

"Oh, I am only in fun. I don't see anything so wonderful in writing a story. Hundreds of people write now-a-days. I hope you will get fifty pounds for 'Under the shadow of the cedars.' Dear me, I did not think you could 'flare up' like that."

"I hope you won't tell any one about what you have seen," said poor Salome in a trembling voice. "I hope—"

"Not I. I forget everything directly. 'In at one ear, out at another,' Digby says. But I want to be great friends with you, so do not let us quarrel about that stupid old story."

It was a relief to Salome to hear Stevens's voice calling her, and announcing that "Mrs. Loftus" was going, and Miss Wilton was to come down directly.

It seemed delightful to be left alone; and Mrs. Wilton lay back in her chair, and in the gathering twilight Salome saw she was quietly crying. She stole up to her, and, sitting down on a low stool, said, "You were glad to see Lady Monroe, mother. She is so kind."

"Yes, very kind; and I must make an effort to drive with her to-morrow, as she has asked me; but—"

"Oh yes, dear mother, you must go. Aunt Anna was rather too much for you. It was a pity that they all came at once, as you have seen no one for so long."

"Yes; and it brought the past back. But I will try to be patient."

"You are patient, mother dear," Salome said.

Ada now drew near the fire, and began: "I like Louise very much. She wants me to go to Edinburgh Crescent to-morrow to play tennis in the square. May I, mother? I can walk as far as the turn to the college with Reginald."

"I think we ought to begin with the children's lessons," Salome said, "and settle down. They are getting very unruly, just because they miss Miss Barnes's hand."

"It is no use beginning in the middle of a week," Ada said; "and I suppose I may have some lessons too—music lessons I do want."

"We shall see our way in time, darling," Mrs. Wilton said; "and I must try to manage about a piano. But I think Salome is right about the children; they ought to begin regular lessons. Mrs. Pryor complains of their running so much up and down stairs. She says it wears out the carpet."

"Mrs. Pryor is a most disagreeable woman," said Ada. "I certainly do agree with Raymond that we ought to remove."

"Nonsense, Ada. Think of all the trouble over again, and all our things just settled in and unpacked."

She was interrupted by Reginald rushing in from the college. He was full of life and spirit; and had found Rugby boys were thought something of, as the head-master himself and several of the assistant-masters were Rugbians. He had taken an excellent place; and, altogether, the world seemed to smile on Reginald.

Raymond followed his brother in about ten minutes, and threw himself into a chair and yawned.

"Are you very tired, dear?" asked his mother.

"I should think I was. The air of that hole in Harstone is enough to choke a fellow. I don't believe you have any idea of the stuffy air; and such dirty clerks at the desks—a set of cads!"

"One isn't a cad anyhow," said Reginald. "His brother is in my form. His name is Percival."

"Oh, I know; his coat out at elbows, and his hair like a mop. I should say he was the greatest cad of the lot."

"That I know he isn't," said Reginald hotly. "He may be shabby—for his people are poor, and there are heaps of children—but I am certain Ralph Percival's brother isn't a cad."

"You needn't put yourself out about it," Raymond said. "Not one of the clerks is anything to me. I don't speak to them."

"I daresay as you get higher in the office you will find the class better. Mr. Warde's nephew and his two sons are in it. Uncle Loftus told me so."

"Any letters for me by the second post?" asked Raymond.

"No, dear. Whom did you expect to hear from?"

"Oh!—a friend—St. Clair. He may not have posted the letter in time." Another yawn, and then Raymond stretched his legs out before the fire, first giving it a vigorous stir with the tongs, which came more handy than the poker, and drew a newspaper out of his pocket.

"We have had a number of visitors to-day," Ada said. "Lady Monroe, for one, with her daughter. Such a pretty, nice girl!"

"Who is Lady Monroe? and how did she find you out?"

Ada explained; and Raymond seemed interested.

"I hope you will keep up with them," he said; "and mind mother drives with Lady Monroe to-morrow."

"They are going to the south of France for the winter very soon; that is the worst of it," Ada said. "Lady Monroe went to school with mamma, and seems so fond of her."

"What a bore that they are going away! They might be useful, and ask a fellow to dinner. Who came besides?"

"Aunt Anna and the two elder girls. I like Louise very much; and Aunt Anna is really very handsome, and she does look so young."

"She patronized no end, didn't she? I am glad I was not here."

"She was very pleasant, and said she hoped to see us often."

"That 'often' means 'never,' when no day is fixed."

"I am to go to tennis to-morrow."

"Well, did anybody else come?"

"Yes; Mr. and Mrs. Atherton, the vicar of St. Luke's."

"Oh, they are certain to be slow. We didn't want them."

Salome had escaped by this time, and was in her room re-arranging her papers. Why had she been so cross to Kate? why should she be offended with her? "I will work at it whenever I get the chance," she thought. "A little at a time is better than nothing;" and taking the sheet that lay upper-most to a large box in the window, pressed the spring of a little leather ink-stand, and kneeling to catch the western light, was soon engrossed in her tale. She forgot cold, and vexation, and Raymond's conceit and selfishness, and wrote on with a smooth-nibbed "J" pen for a quarter of an hour.

Then Carl bounced in.

"Ruth Pryor has sent us in some lovely hot cakes for tea; isn't that kind?"

"Go away, dear," Salome said.

"What are you doing, Salome? Do come and read to us the life-boat story. Do."

Salome sighed, gathered up her sheets, put them in the drawer, and went to her little brothers.