THE household at Elm Cottage were engrossed for the next ten days with preparations for Ada's departure. Mrs. Pryor's eyes filled with tears whenever it was mentioned.

"Going off to foreign parts, where my dear departed lady went years agone, to find a grave for her husband; no good ever comes from going to these outlandish places. However a widow lady can trust her child to go off like this passes my comprehension."

"These are old-fashioned notions in these days, mother," Ruth would interpose. "These foreign places are just English all over. I know a young person who went as maid to—to—not Cannes, but it's all the same; the name begins with a saint."

"Ah! I daresay," sighed Mrs. Pryor; "some Papist's place."

"Well, this young person told me," said Ruth, taking no notice of the interruption, "that at their hotel it was just like an English country house; everything goes like clock-work. In your lady's days, I daresay, sixty years ago, it might have been changed."

"Yes, it was different. And times are changed," said Mrs. Pryor. "The young set themselves up, and think it fine to scoff at their elders. If this pretty child—for she is but a child—is laid in the burying-ground out there, hundreds of miles from her widowed mother, don't come to me to be surprised—that's all."

Ruth nodded at Stevens to say no more. But Stevens's own heart was heavy; and many were the sighs which were breathed over Ada's box, which stood ready, strapped and addressed, in the dull haze of the November morning.

Ada herself had kept up bravely till now; but as the wheels of the fly were heard which was to take her to the station, to meet Lady Monroe and Eva and their maid, her sobs broke forth.

"Oh, I wish I were not going!" she said. "O mother, mother!"

"Don't upset mamma, Ada," Salome whispered. "Dear Ada, please don't."

But Ada threw herself into her mother's arms, and could only sob out, "Oh, I wish I were not going!"

Mrs. Wilton strove to be calm; and Stevens wisely hastened box, and neat little bundle of rugs, and ulster, and umbrella into the fly. Hans and Carl, who, with Stevens, were to see Ada off, stood bewildered to see their generally calm, self-possessed sister crying so bitterly.

"I thought she wanted to go to France," Carl said, puckering up his mouth.

"Yes; I thought Stevens said Ada was crazy to go," echoed Hans.

"She will be all right when she is once off, my dears," said Ruth. "You run and get in. There's good little boys; get into the fly. Look! I declare there is Puck, knowing as well as possible that Miss Ada is going."

At last Ada was gone, clinging to the last to her mother and to Salome, and saying, "Give Raymond and Reg my love; don't forget."

Ada was not the first to find that the longed-for pleasure is not all that imagination pictured; and well might Ruth say, as she turned back into her little shop,—

"There, I didn't think she had so much heart, that I didn't."

"Everybody's heart ain't always in their mouths, Ruth," was Frank's rejoinder. "Still waters run deep, my dear."

"Then you are one of the deepest I ever saw, Frank; you never waste a word. I do believe if I hadn't helped you, you never would have come to the point with me."

"That's an old story now, my dear," said Frank, rubbing his floury face with his hand. "Don't be offended, my dear," he continued. "I don't say it wasn't a good story, for me anyhow, that I did come to the point."

After Ada's departure Salome made a great effort to settle down into a fixed routine. She wrote out a list of the lessons with her little brothers, and with Reginald's help got over the formidable arithmetic better than might have been expected. Irksome as this routine was to a girl of her dreamy and imaginative temperament, she bravely struggled to take each day as it came, and do the best with it. Stevens, who did all the needle-work and small washing of the family, could not always walk with her children, but she clung to this habit of a past life; and soon after the one o'clock dinner in the short winter days Hans and Carl would set off on a shopping expedition with Stevens, or for a walk over the downs. And while Mrs. Wilton rested quietly for an hour, Salome would sit down to her story, and forget the present in the society of the imaginary children of whom she wrote. Unconsciously she reproduced the dear old home of her happy childhood,—the stately trees, the emerald turf, the little lake with the rustic bridge. Her children were the idealized children of her own experience, and the circumstances in which she placed them and the adventures which befell them were, like the "monkey stories," for the most part reproductions of incidents which lay treasured in the storehouse of her memory. Thanks to Miss Barnes's admirable teaching, Salome was guiltless of slips of grammar, and wrote a fair hand. This "thinking on paper" has a peculiar fascination in it for the young; and no one could have grudged Salome these hours she spent over her manuscript, full of hope and even belief that by her hand the weight of care might be lifted from her mother.

Christmas drew on, and Reginald was full of his examinations—so full, that he sat up late at night with his papers, and had but little time to give to the consideration of Salome's tale.

It was one evening when Mrs. Wilton was occupied in answering a long letter from Ada, filled with glowing descriptions of Cannes and the happy life she was leading there, that Salome went into the dining-room where Reginald was at work. The finished manuscript was in her hand, and she said, "Reg, where do you advise me to send my story? I have finished it, every word."

Reginald was absorbed in his Euclid, and held up his hand, as if to beg her to stop.

"Are you very busy?" she said. "Then I won't trouble you."

Still there was the thought in her heart, "How nice it would be if somebody cared." But she waited patiently, and at last Reginald pushed the books away, and giving a prolonged yawn, said,—

"It is awfully cold here with no fire. What do you want, Sal?"

"Reg, do come and work in the drawing-room. The children are gone to bed, and mother and I are as quiet as mice."

"Raymond is not there, of course."

"No," said Salome, "and I can't think what he does every evening. He goes off directly after tea, and he is so late every night now. Reg, do you know where he goes?"

"I don't know," said Reginald, "but I don't think things are all square with him. But, you see, Raymond and I have never had much to do with each other, going to different schools, and he has always looked down on me."

"I hope he has not bad friends," Salome said; "but I am certain he was with some one he did not care for you and me to see that evening when I had been up to the vicarage, the day it was fixed for Ada to go to Cannes."

"Yes; I remember. However, I don't see that we can do any good. We must just go on and leave it."

"I am sorry mother gave him a latch-key. I know she lies awake till she hears him come upstairs; and though I am glad to do anything for her, still I think it is a pity she let him have our room when Ada went away. When he slept in yours it was a check. I can't think where he gets money from," Salome went on. "That is a new ulster he has, and a new cigar-case, and I don't believe he has had any salary yet at Mr. Warde's. Reg," said Salome in a low voice, "do you think he is getting into debt?"

"You see, Sal," said Reginald, "I don't like to say anything I am not sure about, so don't ask me, though of course a fellow like Percival is to be trusted. Still, I don't think either you or I can do anything, so it is better to hold our tongues. Is that your story?" touching the roll of manuscript.

"Yes," said Salome sadly. "I thought you wouldn't mind just looking at my letter. I shall send it to Bardsley and Carrow. They have such a long list of stories for the young. Look, this is what I have said. Will it do, Reg?"

"How should I know, Sal? You can write a letter fifty times better than I can. It is a pity you cannot consult somebody else."

"I don't know who, unless it is Mrs. Atherton."

"Mr. Atherton," suggested Reg; "he is awfully clever."

"Yes; and I should feel so stupid and shy, I know. I think I will just try by myself; and if it is returned, I may pluck up courage to ask Mr. Atherton then."

"Yes; that will be the best way. And mind you put in the same number of stamps in the envelope that you put on the parcel, or you will never see the story again."

"Then you think it is safe to be rejected, Reg? Well," said Salome with a sigh, "never mind. I am going to begin another at once, so perhaps at last I shall succeed."

Reginald drew his chair to the table again, and opened a book, as if to show he had no more to say on the subject; and Salome returned to her mother, having first deposited her precious manuscript and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow in the drawer, where she had kept them since the day when Kate had so roughly handled the sheets.

"Are you going to write to Ada, Salome?" Mrs. Wilton asked.

"Not to-night, I think, mother."

"Hers is a delightful letter—dear child! I am sure I am thankful she is so happy; and Lady Monroe's little enclosure is so pleasant."

"I did not see that," Salome said. "Give it to me, mother;" and Salome read:—

"Your dear child is all, and more than all, I wished for a companion to my Eva. They are so happy together, and lessons are not forgotten. Ada is making rapid advances with her music. There are some very nice people in the hotel, and we have pleasant little drives, and picnics, and excursions in the sunshine and amongst the flowers."

Salome made no comment as she returned the letter to her mother, and the next minute Dr. Wilton's little short rap was heard, followed by Mrs. Pryor's footstep in the passage, eager to have the honour of admitting the doctor. "The only visitor she troubles herself about," Stevens always said.

"Uncle Loftus!" Salome exclaimed. "How late! It is past nine o'clock!"

"He must have been on a late round," Mrs. Wilton said. And then Mrs. Pryor, with her usual solemnity, announced,—

"Dr. Wilton."

"Well, my dear Salome? And how are you, Emily? You look warm and comfortable here. It is a wretched night. Where are the boys?"

"Reginald is working hard at the exams, and the little ones are in bed. Raymond is out. He is so closely confined in the office all day that I cannot keep him here all the evening. The change in our circumstances falls more heavily on him than on any of them. Life at Eton and life here are indeed two different things."

Dr. Wilton gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and looking at Salome, whose face was turned up to his with its wistful expression, he said,—

"I saw Mr. Warde to-day, and I am sorry to say that he did not give at all a good account of Raymond. He is very unpunctual in his attendance at the office, and very careless and idle when he is there. The senior clerk complains of him continually; and not only of this, but he gives himself such airs that he is most unpopular with the men in the same office."

Dr. Wilton had found great difficulty in beginning what he had to say, but when once in for it he went straight through. He saw with pity and compassion his sister-in-law's face grow whiter and whiter as he went on, and he saw Salome quietly move and, going behind her mother's chair, put her hand caressingly on her shoulder, bending down, and pressing her cheek against her mother's in silent sympathy.

"My dear Emily," Dr. Wilton said kindly, "I am extremely sorry to have to say this. The boy is young, and has been—well, a good deal indulged. Let us hope he will see the folly of throwing away his chance of earning his living. His head is stuffed full of nonsense, and even my own boys complain of his brag."

Mrs. Wilton rallied now. That the clerks in the office should complain of her son filled her with pain: but that his cousins (as she thought), plain, uninteresting, heavy boys, should dare to disparage her handsome, bright son, to whose faults she was blind, filled her with anger as well as pain.

"I do not think any of my children have seen much of yours in their own home, Loftus," she replied; "and if this is the way the one who is so constantly here has repaid our kindness, I shall take care he is not with us so much in future."

"O mother, Digby would never be unkind," Salome said warmly. "He would never speak evil of any one. Reg says—"

"I know Reginald is your favourite brother, Salome. Perhaps you might have done more for poor Raymond, if—"

Mrs. Wilton's voice faltered. The best mothers have what may be called "colour-blindness" as to their children's faults and failings. But there are some who will suffer any amount of personal trouble and anxiety that the children inflict, rather than that their faults should be canvassed by others. The discussion of them by ordinary people is resented; how much more when relations bring them roughly to light! It is not too much to say that Mrs. Wilton could have better borne a complaint of her boy coming direct from Mr. Warde to herself than to have that complaint brought by his uncle. Worse still that Raymond's cousins should be quoted.

I cannot say that I think Mrs. Wilton had any reason to think kindly of her husband's family. Although Dr. Wilton had been kind and attentive, his wife had taken no trouble to brighten the life of her relatives at Elm Cottage. This arose chiefly from her habit of never troubling herself about outside matters. She "never puts herself out of the way for any one. It is not in Anna to do it," Aunt Betha would say sometimes when even the maternal instinct was not strong enough to keep Mrs. Wilton from an "afternoon" or a dinner party when little Guy was in one of his worst fits of pain.

"I can do no good. It only hurts me to see him suffer, dear little man," she would say. "Auntie nurses him so much better than I can."

Thus it is not likely that a woman who could be thus unconcerned about her own children would be greatly interested in her husband's nieces and nephews. Hans and Carl had been twice to Edinburgh Crescent to tea, and had walked with Miss Scott, and Edith, and Maude. Salome had spent one day with Kate and Louise. But this was about all the hospitality which had been extended to them. Ada had been more sought after, because she was so pretty; every one asked who she was and admired her. But Ada was gone, and jealousy at Eva's preference for her was now the prominent feeling with both Louise and her mother.

"Well," Dr. Wilton said, "I think the boy ought to be seriously remonstrated with. If he leaves Warde's office, I don't know what on earth is to be done with him. If you can send him up to Edinburgh Crescent to-morrow evening to dinner, I'll make an opportunity of speaking to him. I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news; but as I recommended Warde to take him, even go out of his way to help him,—for they don't, as a rule, take young men with any salary,—I can but feel some responsibility about it.—Can you say anything to your brother, Salome?" Dr. Wilton said in a gentle voice,—a voice which always recalled her father. "You are the best of sisters and daughters," he added, putting his arm kindly round Salome's slight figure.

"I will try, Uncle Loftus," was the answer in a low voice.

Then Dr. Wilton went away, saying,—

"Good-bye; we must hope for better things. Remember, tell Raymond seven o'clock to-morrow evening."

"The first time he has ever asked Raymond to dinner," said Mrs. Wilton. "O Salome, it is very hard to be treated in this way!"

"I think I am sure Uncle Loftus means to help us; he is very kind. And, dear mother, Raymond must be told he cannot go on like this. He ought not to stay out so late every night; and—" Salome stopped. Mrs. Wilton broke completely down, and cried bitterly.

"Don't speak sharply to him, Salome," she sobbed. "I will try what I can do. He does love me. I shall wait up for him to-night, and you can go to bed. Let us have prayers now."

To the surprise of his mother and Salome, though scarcely more than half-past nine, Raymond's key was heard in the door, and he came in, throwing his ulster on a chair and his hat on it.

"Is it raining, Raymond?" his mother asked.

"No," was the short answer; and then there was silence till Stevens came in with the Bible, and Reginald, with a rough, shaggy head of hair, and ink on his fingers, followed her into the room.