"Mother!" exclaimed Salome, "Stevens! How can you say so?"

"What am I to say or think, Salome? The necklet is old-fashioned, but it is very valuable. They are fine emeralds, and, I daresay, worth sixty or seventy pounds. I was very foolish to keep it here; I ought to have sent it to your Uncle Loftus to put in his plate-chest, or to the bank. Salome, have you nothing to advise or to say? Shall I question Stevens?"

Salome was taking the daffodils one by one from the basket, and did not speak for a moment.

"No, mother; do not question anybody yet; let us wait. It is so dreadful to suspect innocent people. Are you quite sure the necklet was in that large dressing-case? Have you looked through the little one?"

"Yes, over and over again. I know I am not mistaken. I was thinking of a ring which belonged to an uncle of mine which I do not value; and I thought if I sold it I might get a few pounds for the boys. Reginald would like to go to Westmoreland this Easter, and it is so hard to have no spare money. Raymond, too, wants five pounds,—so much, though I fear he is very extravagant."

Salome started as her mother was speaking, for Raymond came in. It was Thursday, the day for the early closing of the offices in Harstone, and Mrs. Wilton said,—

"This has been a lovely afternoon. Where have you been?"

"I came in here about three o'clock and found everybody out, so I went off again. I thought you might have liked a drive, mother, and I could have hired a little trap for a trifle. Where had you flown to?"

"Only to the vicarage. How kind of you to think of me. Look at Salome's daffodils! But I have had a most unpleasant loss, Raymond,—do not mention it to the little ones or to Reginald. I have missed something of value out of my large jewel-box—that old gold necklet set with emeralds."

"I thought that was Salome's," Raymond said, taking up the newspaper, and sitting down with it on the sofa, soon appeared to be absorbed in it.

Salome went on quietly arranging her daffodils, and then as quietly left the room. She went upstairs to her mother's room, and then, after much thought and prayer, determined to speak at once to Raymond. For how could she doubt that he had taken the necklet? A shudder of pity and deep pain at this deed of her brother's thrilled through her. But it seemed all clear. The necklet was hers, and he had talked to her about it; and she had said, when he asked if it could be sold, "I do not know if it would be right." Then there arose before her the past six months, and the pains she had taken to cover her brother's sin. Had she been right to do this? Would it not have been better to have gone direct to her Uncle Loftus and confided in him?

Poor Salome! The same doubts and fears have at times beset us all; and the question is a hard one to answer. Desire to shield those we love from exposure may not be the truest kindness to them, and yet loving hearts shrink from inflicting pain, especially when, as in Salome's case, the frank avowal of Raymond's sin must bring sorrow on his mother, already so heavily tried and burdened with grief and trouble.

But Salome was now determined to be brave, as far as Raymond himself was concerned; and that night, when her mother and Reginald had both gone to their rooms, she tapped gently at Raymond's door, and said,—

"Please let me in. I want to speak to you."

The door was opened at once, and Raymond, looking straight at his sister, said,—

"Well, what is the matter?"

"Raymond," Salome said, closing the door behind her and clasping her little hands tightly together, "I am come to speak to you about my necklet set with emeralds."

"You had better have up Pryor, and—"

He faltered, for Salome's clear, steadfast eyes were fixed on his face as if she could read his thoughts.

"Raymond, I believe you have taken my necklet out of mother's large dressing-case! Why did you do so by stealth and like a thief?"

"Come now, Salome—no insults. How dare you speak like that?"

"Raymond," the brave girl went on, "I am certain you took the necklet; and you must tell mother to-morrow morning, and not allow innocent people to be accused. What have you done with the money? Have you paid Mr. Percival? Raymond, I mean to be answered, and I shall wait here till you speak."

"You may wait all night, then; and"—putting on a great Inverness cape over his coat and seating himself coolly in a chair—"you will find it very cold here in this horrid little room."

"I shall go to Uncle Loftus early to-morrow morning and tell him everything from first to last. I have been wrong to conceal it all this time, and I mean now to tell Uncle Loftus everything. If father were alive, he would be told; and Uncle Loftus is our guardian, and has been very kind to you."

"Kind! nonsense," Raymond said. "I don't see his kindness."

"Well, Raymond, I shall tell him everything to-morrow—about your debts, and all the trouble you have caused, and—"

"That I stole your necklet, and made a fortune by it. Just like you, to jump at conclusions."

This was grateful, after all that she had done for him. But natures like Raymond's are almost incapable of gratitude.

"Where is my necklet? tell me that, Raymond."

"Well, if you must know, I did take it to Moore's in St. Michael's Green to-day to have it valued. I found mother's keys on her dressing-table, and took a look into the box. You know I asked you about the necklet, and so don't put on that surprised face."

"I shall go to Moore's to-morrow and bring back the necklet," said Salome decidedly; "and I shall tell mother about it. It is only fair and right. Suspicion has fallen on the Pryors, and I must do it. I know I am right," she said confidently. "I shall get up very early to-morrow and go down into Harstone."

"What stuff! I will bring the thing back. Moore won't give it up to you; besides, the shops are not open till past eight. Don't be foolish, Salome."

"Raymond," she said, "please listen to me, and make a full confession of everything to mother and Uncle Loftus. Make a new beginning. O Raymond! think of our father—think of bringing dishonour on his name! Dear Raymond," she said, breaking down into tears, "I am so miserable about you; you might be such a comfort to mother and to me, and—"

Raymond was touched at last. He put his arm round his sister and said,—

"Don't cry, Salome. You see a fellow has heaps of things to do with his money that you know nothing of, and—still I will try to get out of Harstone. I shall never do any good in that hateful office. Come, don't cry. I will go down with you to-morrow and get that wretched necklet. I wish I had never heard of it."

She saw she could do no more that night, and left him, to creep into her mother's room, stifling her sobs, after exacting from Raymond a promise to be ready to go down to Harstone with her at half-past seven the next morning.

"I think Raymond's room is very cold," she said, as she lay down on her little bed by her mother, who was sleeping quietly; "I am shivering so. I hope I shall not wake mother."

The shivering was followed by heat and restlessness, and then Salome heard the clock of St. Luke's Church strike twelve, then one—two—three. She could not sleep. About five o'clock the wind began to rise and moan, then splashes of rain came against the window, and the March morning broke in storm and flood. Salome got up noiselessly as soon as it was light, and with eyes heavy from sleeplessness, and a heart heavier with shame and anxiety, dressed, and went softly down the passage to Raymond's room. She was anxious to avoid all observation, and to her great relief Raymond appeared, in answer to her tap at his door, in his ulster.

"It's an awful morning, Salome; you had better let me go alone."

"Oh no, no," she said eagerly.

"Well, it is so early; and look how it is pouring cats and dogs! We had better give up such a wild-goose chase. I'll bring back the thing all right. Can't you trust me?"

"No; I can't, I can't," said Salome. "Besides, mother will begin to examine the Pryors and Stevens, and that will only make it worse for every one. Make haste, Raymond. I hear Stevens. Do come!"

In another moment they were out in the wild, stormy morning. Could it be the same world, Salome felt ready to ask herself—the smiling, sunny world of yesterday, when she had set out so happily to Edinburgh Crescent? Then her head ached dreadfully, and her back too, and her cheeks were hot. It was almost a relief to feel the cold drops of rain which came against them every time a great blast came and hurled her umbrella on one side.

"The trams will be running when we come back," Raymond said. "Had not you better go back, Sal? It is making such a fuss; and you will get cold."

Salome only said, "I must come with you," and struggled on.

It was past eight when they reached Mr. Moore's shop. The shutters were taken down, and the shop was being dusted and swept.

Mr. Moore was an old-fashioned tradesman, but of good repute; and though his shop was small, he dealt only in the very best jewellery and plate. A young man with light hair was behind the counter, and looked with surprise at these early customers as Raymond advanced to the counter, all dripping as he was, with the little shivering figure by his side.

"I left a case here yesterday. I want to take it away again. Where is Mr. Moore?"

"Mr. Moore is not come into town yet," said the young man. "He will not be here till ten o'clock."

"You can let me have the necklet, I suppose? Old gold filigree, set in emeralds. I left it here to be valued."

The young man went to a book, and ran his finger down the last page—"'Mr. Stephens—necklet, set with emeralds.'—Yes; here it is."

"That is not right," said Salome. "That can't be yours."

"Be quiet," said Raymond, in an angry whisper.—"Yes; that is it. I will take it, if you please."

There was still a little hesitation in the man's manner. "Mr. Stephens—is that right?" There was a scarcely perceptible glance at Salome as he spoke.

He produced the case, and opening it, said, "They are very fine emeralds. The value would be from sixty to eighty pounds."

Raymond took the case up, closed the spring, and, saying "Good morning," was leaving the shop; but the shopman followed him.

"I think it would be more satisfactory, sir, if you signed your name in this book, and address."

Raymond was perplexed for a moment, but only for a moment.

"The necklet is this young lady's property," he said.—"Sign your name, Salome."

The girl took the pen into her trembling fingers and wrote:—"Salome Mary Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, near Harstone."

"A relation of Dr. Wilton's, I presume?"

"Yes," said Salome. "Dr. Wilton is my uncle."

The man's manner became instantly very respectful.

"It is a very wet morning, Miss Wilton. Shall I call a cab?"

"Oh no, no, thank you," Salome said, hurrying away. But Raymond was frightened at her pale face; it haunted him for many and many a day.

"Yes; we must take a cab. You can't possibly walk back."

"The tram," Salome said,—"the tram; it will be cheaper."

She was very wet, and shivering perceptibly.

At last the corner was reached from whence the tram started. Raymond was thankful to put his sister into the tram; and if ever he repented what he had done, it was at that moment.

"O Raymond, Raymond! how could you say your name was Stephens?"

Raymond felt ashamed of himself as those pure, truthful eyes met his.

"My name is Stephen, isn't it, Salome? Don't make me out worse than I am. I am awfully sorry, and I shall go and see Uncle Loftus for your sake. O Sal, I hope you have not got cold, you look so horridly white."

Poor Salome struggled to keep calm; and was received by Stevens at the door with exclamations of angry surprise,—

"Going out in a storm like this, getting your death of cold! I have no sort of patience with you, that I haven't."

"Oh! don't, don't scold me, Stevens. It is all right now;" and running upstairs, she went into her mother's room, laid the case on the table, and said, "There is the necklet; it was not stolen—it was not. Put it back in the box; and, dear mother, will you please say no more till—"

The sentence was unfinished, and poor Salome fell forward on the bed where her mother was lying—fainting, for the first time in her life. Her mother rang the bell, and Stevens came hurrying in, raised her head, and took off her wet cloak, and her hat, which loosened all the thick masses of hair falling over her like a cloud.

"What is it? What can be the matter?" said Mrs. Wilton. "O Stevens, send for Dr. Wilton. Call Reg."

"She is faint with galloping off before breakfast, I don't know what for, I am sure. She is a slave to other people, and that is the truth. It was to please Master Raymond she went out in all the rain and storm, you may depend."

Salome soon recovered consciousness, and looking up at her mother's anxious face, which was bending over her, she said,—

"I think it will all come right now, mother; I do indeed. Put the necklet away, and Ray will tell you all about it. I wish—I wish I did not feel so giddy," she said, as she tried to rise.

"Don't try to get up, my darling—my dear child," her mother said. "O Salome! what should I do without you? Stevens is gone for a cup of hot coffee, and you must lie still."

"Put the necklet back into the dressing-case, mother," Salome repeated. "No one but you and I need ever know. Is it not odd I tremble so? I suppose I must lie quiet to-day."

They undressed her and put her to bed; and there, at twelve o'clock, her uncle found her—with her temperature very high, her head aching, and every sign of coming illness, of what nature Dr. Wilton could not then determine.