SALOME did not know what passed between Raymond and her mother, but when she came up to her room, she heard her speaking cheerfully to Stevens, who always came to attend on her mistress, as in old days. Salome had slept in a small iron bedstead in a corner of her mother's room since Ada had left home, in order that Raymond might have the one she had shared with her sister to himself. Salome, however, still kept her property in her old room, and her manuscript and heaps of books and scribbles were in the drawer there, so that she often went into it.

The next morning Salome got up early, with the intention of posting her roll and the letter at the nearest Elm Fields post-office before breakfast. It seemed that Raymond had changed his habits, for Salome met him ready dressed in the passage, as she softly left her mother's room.

"Where are you off to, Salome?" he asked.

"I was going to post a letter. O Ray, I am so glad you are up early; and I will get the coffee made directly.—Be quiet, children," she said, as two little figures came dancing down the passage in their nightgowns. "Run back and be quiet, or you will wake mamma."

Stevens was busy in the dining-room, where the fire was burning cheerfully, and the light of the December morning struggling to gain ascendency over the Harstone fogs.

"Wonders never cease!" exclaimed Stevens. "Master Raymond will be in time at the office for once!" Stevens spoke with the freedom of an old servant, and to Salome's surprise her brother did not resent it. He was quiet and subdued, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts.

"You are never going out in the cold and fog, Miss Salome? What are you going for?" Stevens asked.

Salome was all this time hoping the manuscript and letter, stuffed in the pocket of her black ulster, would escape notice.

"I like to warm my feet before breakfast, Stevens. Do go and call Reginald. He will be late for school. He was so tired last night with his work."

Stevens was gone at last, and brother and sister were left together. Salome's heart beat fast. She did so much wish to say the right thing, and to avoid irritating her brother. She was apparently intent on watching the boiling of the little "Hecla" which made the coffee, but in reality she was thinking how she should begin what she longed to say. She was spared the effort. Raymond suddenly said,—

"I am in a great bother, Salome. I wish you would help me. I—"

"How can I help you, Ray? Oh, I am so sorry for you and for mother! I do trust Mr. Warde will let you stay at the office."

"Mr. Warde! the arrogant cad—it is not about him I am bothered. Sneak! to complain of me to my uncle. Why did he not say it to me? It is only that fellow Browne, the head clerk, has a spite at me!" This was an old story. In days gone by, Raymond's bad school reports had always been "the result of spite." "But, Salome," he went on, "you know I did not like to be for ever begging of poor mother, so hard up as I know she is, so I borrowed some money of a fellow, who said I need not think of paying him for ever so long; and now he is turned rusty, and we have had a blow-up, and he says if I don't pay him to-day, he shall come here to my mother, or to my uncle, for he will have the money by hook or by crook."

"O Raymond!" Salome exclaimed; "how much is it?"

"A mere trifle; only my term's allowance at Eton—five and twenty pounds. Do you think, Salome, you could get it for me in any way? You never wear that gold thing with emeralds mother gave you that belonged to grandmamma. Could you let me have it to raise money on it?"

"I don't know. I don't think it would be right. The necklet is in mother's dressing-case. I never have kept it myself. Of course, it is mine, as grannie left it to me, or it would have been sold. Still I don't think it would be right. O Raymond, I wish I could ask some one about it."

"If you do that you will ruin me. If I can get the money quietly, I will promise not to borrow again."

"Did you use it for—for that ulster and pin, and—" Salome was alarmed at her own boldness; and Raymond answered,—

"No; I did not."

"And you are in debt for those things also?"

"Yes; but that does not matter—tradesmen will wait. It's this fellow Percival."

"Oh, is it Percival, the brother of Reg's friend? Digby knows him; he is very good and nice. I thought you despised him."

"I said he wore a coat out of elbows in the office; but he is a gentleman for all that, I find."

"I should think so," said Salome indignantly; "as if a coat made any difference. But I can't imagine how it was he had money to lend you."

"He is a miser, you see," said Raymond. "He is saving up, and grinding and pinching, that the brother at the college may get to Oxford. They say he will get a scholarship; but that would not keep him, and so this fellow is saving up. I'll tell you how it was I borrowed the money. I told him a cram, and said it was to keep my mother and all of you."

"O Raymond! how could you be so mean and deceitful?"

Raymond took his sister's plain speaking very quietly, because he looked upon her as his only hope. "Percival found out that I had spent the money in billiards, and—well you know, in 'The Queen's,' with Barington while he was here; and—"

"I think it is dreadful," Salome interrupted. "I could not have believed it of you."

"Well, look here, Sal, will you save me from a frightful row with Uncle Loftus by seeing Percival, and trying to make him wait for his money? I expect he would believe you; and I really don't want to—to vex my poor mother. It was bad enough last night about old Warde; and I promised to do better at the office, and that I would go to Edinburgh Crescent to-night just to please her, for I detest it. If there is a row with Percival, it will make her ill."

"You should have thought of that before," was on Salome's lips, but she refrained from saying so.

"Reg will be here directly; may I tell him?"

"No; on no account. I will tell Percival to come up here this afternoon, just at dusk, and you must manage to meet him."

"O Raymond, I don't think that will do; you don't consider what people might say if they saw me."

"It is nearly dark at four; that is not late. That old quarry place then."

"Where I saw you with some one some time ago?"

"Yes; that's it. I will be close at hand. Do pray let me tell Percival."

Salome had only time to say "Yes," when Reginald came down. It was so new to her to hear the grand, magnificent Raymond pleading for a favour at her hands. It was a cowardly proceeding on his part; but such boys as Raymond Wilton are cowards. It would have been better for him if he had not so often been helped out of school scrapes by too indulgent parents. His was one of those natures which need discipline and firmness as well as love. He had not been taught that in self-denial there is nobleness which brings peace after the pain. To choose the thorny path of which Mr. Atherton had spoken to his sister, had never even occurred to him. He had always looked for the smoothness and pleasantness of life as his by right as well as choice, and thus of all the family who had suffered these sharp reverses he was the least able to meet them.

As Reginald came into the room Raymond left it; and Stevens and the children next appeared—Stevens with a tray for her mistress's breakfast, and two bowls of oatmeal porridge for Hans and Carl.

"I am just going to walk a little way with Raymond," she said; "I shall not be five minutes."

Salome was off like lightning, and soon overtook her brother.

"Raymond, may—may I tell Reginald? may he come with me this afternoon?"

"No," said Raymond; "what made you race like that? Tell no one, and I am certain Percival will listen to you. In the quarry at four o'clock, or soon after."

Salome fell back breathless behind her brother, and turned up the road to the post-office. She dropped the precious manuscript into the box and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow, and then ran home.

"Good morning, miss," said Ruth, who was washing the step of the shop, while Puck sat by watching the operation. "It is a fine winter's morning, isn't it? just enough frost to make it pleasant. Puck is looking his best, isn't he? the beauty! I washed him last evening."

"It is very kind of you," said Salome; "he is beginning to like you, Ruth, as well as he does us."

"Oh no; he isn't one to forsake old friends," said Ruth. "See now—" for Puck had darted towards Reginald with delight expressed in a series of twists and twirls and low sounds of affection, as he ran hither and thither round Reginald.

Salome ran to her brother. "I have posted my story, Reg." How she longed to say more; how perplexed was her loyal heart as to what was right and best to do.

She seemed suddenly drawn into a secret meeting with a stranger, and with what shame she would have to beg him to wait for the debt her brother had so dishonestly contracted. Salome watched Reginald's figure as he ran with amazing speed down the road, and then turned slowly and sadly into the house.

Mrs. Wilton came down about eleven o'clock looking much brighter and better. When the little boys had put away their books and slates, and had gone out with their hoops, she said: "I feel so much happier about dear Raymond, Salome. He was so affectionate to me last evening, and has promised to do better. I have written a line to your Uncle Loftus, to ask him to deal gently with him, and to remember how greatly indulged he was in your dear father's lifetime. He has been little prepared for such a life as the one he is now leading. But we must be patient with him, poor dear fellow. I always think I am not half patient enough."

"O mother, you are only too kind to Raymond, and, indeed, to us all. You spoil us all."

"Not you, Salome," her mother said tenderly; "I fear you have too much on your young shoulders. If I were a strong woman, like your Aunt Anna for instance, I could do more to help you; but I am so useless. No one can feel that more than I do."

"You are of great use, mother dear," Salome said, "and ornamental too. You always remind me of somebody in a story as you sit by your work-table. Quite as pretty a picture as that one of you when you were a girl, whatever Mrs. Pryor may say. When shall we know about our affairs, mother?" Salome asked after a pause.

"I cannot tell; there is so much to settle. I believe the furniture realized a great deal, and the wines, and—"

"Don't let us talk of it, mother. I was only thinking of those jewels of grannie's—the set of emeralds that she left me."

"They are all secure, my dear; they are my personal property, which is mine under settlement. But I often think I shall sell some of them. Indeed, I shall have to do so, I expect."

"It would not be wrong, would it, mother? I mean nothing that is yours ought to go to the creditors?"

"No, certainly not, my dear. It is sad to think you should have to talk of such things at your age. Only a few months ago, and I was consulting Miss Barnes about your going to Paris to finish, and now here is your education stopped."

"Oh no, mamma," said Salome cheerfully; "I learn a great deal by teaching Hans and Carl. I am beginning Latin with Reginald, and you know I read German and French for my own pleasure. I daresay I am finishing my education just as well as if I had gone to Paris."

Salome's words had more truth in them than she knew. She was indeed under training in the school where the Lord gives His children many lessons, learned, perhaps, more easily in youth than in after years.

Many times in the course of that day Salome tried to recall all Mr. Atherton had said in his sermon on the Sunday before. He had been speaking of those who sought themselves and their own pleasure, and had quoted the well-known words of Thomas À Kempis:—"My son, if thou seekest thyself, thou shalt find thyself, but to thy own punishment." The thing eagerly coveted and sought after, nay, even prayed for, is granted; but it comes after all in the guise of a foe rather than of a friend.

"I am not seeking myself," Salome thought. "I am trying to serve Raymond, and to save mother from pain; but, oh! I wish I could have had Reginald with me when I go up the road. He knows already something, I am certain, from the Percival who is at the college; but I could not break my word to Raymond, I must go through with it now."

Happily for Salome, Kate and one of her little sisters came to see them soon after dinner on this bright winter day, and Salome and Hans and Carl walked towards Roxburgh with them. Kate was as good-tempered and kind as ever, and infected Salome with her bright spirits.

Reginald was sure to stand marvellously well in the examination, Digby said so. Ralph and Cyril were going to sing at the school concert. It was such a pity Salome could not be there. Everybody always went, and it was such fun. Kate wanted Salome to go round by the college ground, where a football match was on; but as the sun set and the winter's fog gathered, Salome knew her hour was drawing near, towards which she was looking with nervous dread.

The boys ran into the house, and clattered upstairs as soon as they reached home. Salome lingered in the porch a moment irresolute; then started off past the shop, where the gas was already lighted, up the road towards the quarry. The hedges were higher as she advanced, and, indeed, the road was cut out of the rock.

It was dusk, almost dark, and Salome felt lonely and frightened. She had not long to wait in suspense. A tall figure advanced towards her from the overhanging rocks of the old quarry.