THE Christmas season, so different to any the Wiltons had ever passed, came and went. Raymond managed to attain his wish, as he generally did; and instead of returning punctually to the office after the two days above and beyond the bank holiday which Mr. Warde kindly and considerately granted him, he sent an excuse to him, and a telegram to his mother, which alarmed her very much, to say he had a severe cold, and was not allowed to travel.

It ought to be a warning to all those who are tempted to make false excuses or deceive, that when once it is done, every one's faith is weakened in their assertions. It takes years of truthfulness and sincerity to restore the confidence which one falsehood has shaken.

Reginald must be excused, therefore, if he said, as he read the telegram,—

"Humbug!"

Salome gave him a quick glance, for she saw her mother's distressed and anxious face.

"I do hope he is not very ill. What do you think, Salome?"

"I hope not, mother. He only says, 'A severe cold;' and you see he sends the telegram himself."

"Would you advise me to send a telegram for a paid answer?"

"Certainly not, mother," said Reginald. "Don't disturb yourself; he is all right."

Mrs. Wilton was silenced; but when Reginald left the room she said to Salome, "I cannot understand how it is that Reginald is so unfeeling about Ray. It is not like the love of brothers."

All this anxiety at Elm Cottage might have been spared had it been possible to show Mrs. Wilton the comfortable dining-room at Rose Court, the St. Clairs' home, Raymond talking and laughing with one of Henry St. Clair's sisters at a pleasant dinner-party, and quite forgetting the sore throat and little cough which had seemed to Mrs. St. Clair in her kindness a sufficient reason for Raymond to prolong his visit. Sympathy for the boy's altered position had made her doubly kind to him, though she secretly wished he would talk less of himself, his old Eton days and friends, and would have liked it better if he had been quieter and less self-asserting.

"It was a kindness to invite him, poor boy," she said to her husband. "They had a very pretty nice place, with every comfort, and Henry paid them a visit during the Easter holidays. Think what a change it is! I am glad to be kind to him; though he is not exactly the friend I would choose for Henry."

"A conceited, shallow-pated young fellow," was the reply. "Handsome enough, no doubt; but I, for one, shall not be sorry to see him start for Harstone."

Poor Raymond! How little did he think that this was the impression left upon his host at Rose Court. He went home with a fresh edition of discontent at his lot, and relapsed a good deal into his former habits.

So the winter passed, and the days lengthened, and the bright spring-time drew on.

One radiant March morning Salome set out early to spend a day at Edinburgh Crescent. A holiday was proclaimed for the children, and an expedition with Ruth Pryor to see a menagerie which was stationed in a large field not far off. Mrs. Wilton had been unusually well of late, and was quite happy to be left for the day, to write letters, and perhaps walk over to the vicarage at three o'clock to see Mrs. Atherton. Salome's step was light and elastic as she walked away towards Edinburgh Crescent. She had the spring of youth in her, which responded to the spring of nature; and something delightful had happened which was to mark that day with a red letter, as she thought, to her. "Under the Cedars," after three unsuccessful journeys, and three new title-pages, had been accepted, and she had in her pocket a letter offering to publish the story and give her ten guineas for it. If the proposal was agreeable to her, the cheque would be sent at once. Only those who have earned money that is needed for some express purpose can understand the joy in Salome's heart. It was only ten guineas. Fifteen more would be required to meet what was wanted. But another story was rapidly approaching its conclusion, and very soon she might earn the rest.

These few months had been times of steady progress with Salome. She had set herself earnestly to learn the lesson of her life; and no one, old or young will, if they seek God's help, do this in vain. Just as one who sweeps a room from this cause makes it and the action fine, so did Salome, by striving against her desultory, untidy habits and her dreamy indolence, when what she had to do was uncongenial, and, above all, when her effort to struggle against discontented repining for what was denied her of luxury and pleasantness in everyday life, make the way "finer" and brighter for others and for herself. Child as she was, her influence was felt. Stevens acknowledged it, and her brothers could not fail to be affected by it. All unconsciously to herself she was fulfilling the command of One who lays no burden on us too heavy to bear, who tells us to let our light so shine that our Father in heaven may be glorified.

I think Salome's little light was shining, and I also think that had it not been for the surrounding gloom of sorrow and loss which, as it were, encompassed her, it would not have been so bright nor so steady in its radiance.

How she longed to tell Reginald the good news about "Under the Cedars." How she wished the letter had come by the first instead of the second delivery. It would be nice to meet Reginald, and hear him say, "How jolly it is!" "I shall be obliged to let him know, when I have the money, what I am going to do with it. But that time is not come yet. I must take the days one by one. And oh, what a lovely day this is! Such a sky; and how those horse-chestnut buds are shining in the sun. I remember one day last spring how I was riding with father, and he told me to look at the big chestnut tree by the lodge, how the buds were glistening."

The wakened memory of her father sent a thrill of pain through the young heart, and a hungry longing for him, which is so well expressed by the poetess of love and natural affection in her own especial strain without a rival:—

It seemed so long to her since the last spring, as if she had left behind her childhood and its dreams and happiness and come into the cares of womanhood. But youth was strong within her for all that; and when her cousins, the trio of dear little sisters, came rushing out to meet her as Bean threw open the door, and Kate danced downstairs to give her a prolonged hug, Salome felt ready for anything her cousins might propose.

"The boys are going to be so condescending as to walk with us," Kate said. "We are all going to Stoke Canon to get daffodils. I thought you would like that, as you have an eye for beauty, as Aunt Betha says. Digby is to bring Reginald home to luncheon, and we are to start at two o'clock. But come upstairs now. I have got a new hat, and I want your advice about it."

"May we come and get daffodils, Katie?" pleaded Edith's little voice.

"Certainly not; run away, children."

"Let Edith come, Katie, Edith and Maude," Salome said.

"Oh no, they will only be a bother; besides, we are going too far for them."

"You must come to tea with Hans and Carl next Saturday," Salome said, "if Aunt Anna will allow you."

"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed the children. "Now, do come and see Guy and Aunt Betha."

Poor little Guy lay extended on his sofa, while Aunt Betha was busy with some new table-linen, which she was marking in the old-fashioned way with red marking thread.

Guy's pale face beamed with delight as Salome came into the room. Poor suffering little one! he had not much variety in his life, and Salome's visits were always hailed by him as a great event. She told him a story sometimes, every detail of which he would drink in with hungry eagerness. Salome was a favourite with Aunt Betha as well as with little Guy, and she turned to her with a bright smile of welcome on her pleasant old face, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her eyes.

"I am getting past this fine marking," she said, "though I don't think that dinner napkin is amiss," holding it up for admiration.

"I wonder you take the trouble, auntie," Katie said. "Every one writes on linen now-a-days. Mamma says it is quite old-fashioned. Do give it up."

"No, my dear," said Aunt Betha half sadly. "I am an old-fashioned person, and I could never bear to see beautiful linen inked all over with blotted scrawls. No new fashion would make me believe that this is not the best plan. That mark will last long after I am in my grave. I am not ashamed of my handiwork, I can tell you."

Salome had taken up the table-napkin and was admiring the three well-shaped letters L. E. W. and the neat figures beneath, the number and the year, when Guy's little voice was raised in appeal.

"Cousin 'Lome,"—his nearest approach to Salome's name—"do come and talk to Guy; tell about when you were a little girl, at your big house—tell about the bridge."

"A little girl!" thought Aunt Betha, as she saw Salome's slight, almost child-like figure bending over Guy. "She is but a child now, so young and delicate-looking, and not one to breast many of the storms of this troublesome world."

The boys came in to dinner in good time; and about two o'clock the happy party of four cousins set off for the Stoke Canon Woods.

Digby and Reginald were now fast friends; and Kate held to her first affection for Salome. Salome enjoyed Kate for a time, her sharp speeches and rippling fun were amusing at intervals; but she often thought that she would not care always to live with Kate, or skim over the surface of everything as she did.

The daffodils were in their full glory in a field and orchard beyond Stoke Canon Woods. Many poets of every age have sung their praises; but who can really convey any idea of their loveliness as they bend their beautiful heads to the crisp breeze as it passes over them, and catch the sunlight on their pale golden cups?

"Oh, take them gently!" Salome exclaimed, as the boys rushed upon them, eager to fill the girls' baskets for them. "Take them gently; don't break one off too short," she said, bending down and gathering the flowers with a tender hand. "Look at the fringe on this one; and oh, Kate, just see how deep it is, and how perfect the leaves are."

"Oh yes; but I like primroses better when they are gathered, and bluebells. The Stoke Woods are filled with bluebells in May."

"Hallo!" exclaimed Digby, "there's Percival and his elder brother. When he was at the college they used to be called—"

"You shouldn't tell school nicknames; it is not fair," Reginald exclaimed. "Come down here, Percival," he shouted, for the field and orchard lay a little below the level of the road. "Come down and speak to us, Percival."

Percival obeyed, and his brother remained standing on the bank above.

Salome gave him one quick glance, and all the bright colour left her face. He saw and understood, and, following his younger brother, came down and said,—

"Introduce me to your friends, Robert."

"Oh, I forgot you did not know them, Phil. Miss Wilton and Miss Salome Wilton."

Philip Percival bowed with a pleasant smile, and stooped to gather some of the flowers almost as gently as Salome herself.

"I must take some to my father," he said. "They will please him; he has a craving for bright colours, and daffodils more than any flower seem to fill the house with light."

"Yes," Salome said; "I do love them so much; they are like bits of spring sunshine."

Then, as the party all walked on together, Philip talked of many things; and Kate seemed to amuse him as much as she did Salome, for he often laughed merrily at her sharp sallies.

The Percivals returned with the Wiltons, and they had what Aunt Betha always liked to prepare for them—a school-room tea: a glass dish of jam, a pile of hot cakes and—a departure from the usual order—of Dorset butter. Fresh white butter was a luxury not known every day in Mrs. Wilton's school-room or nursery.

"This is jolly," said Kate, "if only there are chairs enough to hold us all.—No, don't sit on that, Mr. Percival; it has long been shaky on one leg.—Run, Edith, and get some more chairs. And you three little ones may all come, only you must not make yourselves 'jammy,' or what will Aunt Betha say?"

"I think I shall go and have my tea with Guy, if you don't mind very much," Salome said. "Poor little boy, he must wish he could come here."

"Nonsense, Salome! Pray don't be so silly," Kate said. "Let Edith take him some hot cake, and he will be content."

But Salome went off, little Edith following her; and Guy's delighted welcome was a sufficient reward.

"Oh, Cousin 'Lome, if only you could live with me! Do tell me another story."

Aunt Betha took the opportunity of Salome's presence to slip downstairs to watch some operations in the kitchen, and Salome and Guy were left together. She fed him with little bits of cake, and repeated to him some verses which fascinated the sick child, and he made her say them over and over again;—the story of the two little birds told by Mrs. Fowler in her beautiful book called "Our Children's Story,"—a story in its sweet musical rhythm which has touched many hearts besides little Guy Wilton's.

Salome wished she could have one word with Philip Percival—one word to say that the ten pounds would be so soon in her possession. But the opportunity was not forthcoming. Salome tripped gaily home with Reginald in the soft spring twilight, her basket of daffodils in her hand, and a feeling of joy in her heart, which beamed in her sweet face as she went into the drawing-room at Elm Cottage.

"Look, mother! look, Hans and Carl—"

But the joy faded out of her face and changed to anxious foreboding as Mrs. Wilton said, brokenly,—

"I am so glad you are come. Send the children away; don't let Reginald come. I want to speak to you alone."