SALOME'S illness proved to be rheumatic fever. She was in great pain, and often delirious—wandering in thought to her old home and her childhood, and talking incessantly of the emerald necklet and money and debts, and the troubles which had by her brother's selfishness shadowed her young life, and weighed her down prematurely with the sorrows of older people.

Her mother understood but little of these feverish wanderings. But there was one in that house in whose ear his sister's voice rang with a pain which he never felt before.

Reginald was miserable and lonely. The little ones—whom in a bad day of restlessness and fever Dr. Wilton had hurried off in his carriage to Aunt Betha, who begged to be allowed to have them, saying she would be answerable they were in nobody's way—were continually asking when Salome would be well. Mrs. Wilton sat hour after hour in the sick room, almost paralyzed with the fear of losing this precious child. Stevens, dear faithful Stevens would go away to hide her grief when the moans of pain were more grievous, or when Salome would talk as if she were in the old nursery at Maplestone, and address Ada or her father as if present. All these tender and loving hearts were wrung with sorrow and distress; but Raymond's pain was far greater than any of these. Mrs. Atherton and her son were unable to reach him with a word of comfort. He went sullenly off to the office, and returned with a look of utter misery on his face every afternoon, only to hear the same report—"She is no better."

One Sunday morning he was up and dressed in time, and Reginald walked with him to church. The two brothers had been so much separated since early childhood that there was little sympathy between them. But this grief about Salome seemed to draw them together.

"How is your sister? How is the young lady?" Ruth asked, as they passed her door.

"No better, thank you," Reginald replied.

"What's the use of asking?" Frank Pryor said. "Mother says she is taken for death, and you know it."

"I don't know it," said Ruth impatiently. "I don't give up hope. It is not my way. I leave that despairing about everybody and everything to your mother and you. There, Frank, I don't mean to be cross, but I feel as if I should break my heart if that child died;" and Ruth burst into tears. Puck sprang to her, whining and crying, and showing by every possible sign that he sympathized with the general sorrow for Salome.

The two brothers walked on to church, and when their sister's name was read in the list of those for whom their prayers were desired, it was not lost on them that Mr. Atherton added, "who is dangerously ill." The name, with the significant words, came as a sort of spoken declaration of the fear in both boys' hearts, and a deep sob from Raymond was heard by a man kneeling behind him, and understood. That man was Philip Percival. He waited at the door of the church after service, and gave the hand of both brothers a fervent pressure.

To his surprise Raymond said, "I want to speak with you, Percival. Will you come in?"

The two young men were going into the desolate sitting-room, where the daffodils, gathered ten days before, were hanging their pretty heads, all shrivelled and forlorn.

"The flower fadeth," thought Philip Percival, as he recalled the bright afternoon and the sunshine glowing on the daffodils and on the plaits of hair gathered round the small shapely head, as it bent over the treasures in the basket.

Reginald was following his brother and Philip Percival, when Raymond turned quickly towards him.

"Wait a few minutes, Reg, if you don't mind. I want to speak to Percival alone."

Reginald obeyed without a word, and sitting down on a stool in the passage, buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the sound of the ringing voice above, as it called, "Yes, father; I am coming. Oh! look at the chestnut tree, all in flower, not buds, as I thought."

Then the door above was closed, and Stevens came down, in her hand a large paper parcel. She was crying bitterly.

"I have just cut it all off," she said. "Did you ever see such hair? Oh! the pretty darling. I can remember it when she was three years old—how the people would turn round to look at it when she walked down the village. O Master Reg, my dear, my heart will break if we lose her! And we shall lose her, I believe."

Reginald did not speak. After one look at the great mass of golden brown hair, he turned almost impatiently away, and went upstairs to his own room.

I cannot write what passed between Philip Percival and Raymond; but when Stevens came to call him to dinner, he seemed not to hear her. Philip Percival was standing by the empty fire-place, and, rousing himself, went up to Raymond, saying,—

"Good-bye; I am going now."

"Wait and see Reginald. You must wait and dine with us."

"You can tell Reginald alone; it will be less painful."

"No," Raymond said; "I would rather you were present."

Reginald, whom Stevens had summoned, now came down, and Raymond said,—

"Reginald, I have borrowed money from Percival I had no means of repaying. I was so cowardly as to let her—Salome—bear the whole burden of it. She met him and asked him to spare me exposure; and he did, for her sake. It might have been better if he had come down on me then. But it is no use looking back. I am going to see Uncle Loftus and tell him the whole truth, and perhaps he will help me out of the difficulty. But, Reginald, the worst part is yet to come. I caused Salome's illness by dragging her down into Harstone to get a necklet of hers on which I was trying to raise money. If she dies, it will lie at my door. Forgive me, Reginald."

Reginald turned away. He felt as if he could not look at his brother. But Philip Percival said,—

"Your sister would be the first to say 'Forgive him.' You know it. Shake hands with your brother, and let us, you and I, do our best to help him to keep his good resolutions."

Reginald came back and held out his hand. Neither he nor Raymond could speak, but the brothers were friends at last.

A roll lying on the table now attracted Reginald. It was addressed to "Miss Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, Harstone."

"What is that?" Raymond asked.

Reginald looked for a moment, and then exclaimed:

"I think I know. Yes—oh! poor Salome! it is her story."

"Her story?"

"I forgot no one knew but me. I don't understand this, though. It has come back, after all, and I thought she said it was accepted. But this is her writing."

Reginald unrolled the parcel, and the little kernel, so familiar to authors, of the proof-sheets enclosed in the husk of the manuscript fell out.

Philip Percival picked them up. "Take care of them," he said; "it is all right. These are the first proofs, sent for correction with the manuscript. Take care of them; and you ought to write to the publisher and tell him they are received, and will be corrected."

"Corrected!" exclaimed Reginald. "I do not know how to correct them. What do you mean?"

"I have had some little experience in this way," said Philip Percival; "and if you will trust me, I will go over them and do my best till—till your sister is well enough to do it herself."

"Thank you," said Reginald. "I don't think Salome would mind your having them; indeed, I don't see what else is to be done."

Philip rolled up the manuscript and sheets, and, putting them in his pocket, said "Good-bye," and was gone.

"He is the best fellow that ever lived," Reginald said; "and he is awfully fond of her. Oh! how long is this to go on?" he exclaimed, as the sound of Salome's voice reached them from the room above, in the rapid, unnatural tones so full of painful foreboding to the ears of those who have to listen to them hour after hour, with no respite but the occasional lull of heavy, unrefreshing slumber.

Dr. Wilton was surprised that same Sunday afternoon to see Raymond ushered into his consulting-room.

"Is there any change since the morning? I am coming in at seven o'clock. What is it?"

"No; Salome is just the same. I am come, Uncle Loftus, to tell you how ashamed I am of myself. I daresay you will cut me for ever, but I am so miserable that I hope you won't be hard on me."

He did indeed look miserable; it was difficult to recognize him for the self-sufficient, handsome young man whom Dr. Wilton had often felt too provoked with to speak patiently to him.

The whole sad story was told. It was a step in the right direction; it was a hopeful sign; and Dr. Wilton felt it to be so.

"I don't think I shall ever get straight in Harstone, Uncle Loftus. If I could go away and begin fresh."

"Your debts must be paid. I must consult the other guardians and trustees. Perhaps there may be some arrangement. But, Raymond my boy, change of place won't effect a cure in itself. Only yesterday Warde told me he did not wish to keep you in the office; he did not care to treat you harshly, for your father's sake, but he says you simply do nothing, and it is a bad example to the other clerks. It is very sad, Raymond; you ought to have been a comfort to your poor mother and sister."

Raymond faltered out, "I will do anything you think best now, Uncle Loftus. Do you think Salome will get well?"

"I cannot say, my boy. Such cases do sometimes pull through; but the poor child is very ill—dangerously ill. I am going to take Mr. Masters to see her this evening. Still we must keep up heart and hope. Come and see your brothers and your Aunt Anna and your cousins."

"No, thanks, not now," Raymond said; "I must go back."

As Raymond was going towards Elm Fields he met one of those idle young men whose society had been so unwholesome for him.

"Come and have a pipe and a glass of brandy and soda. You look awfully down in the mouth, Wilton."

But Raymond passed on, saying, "Not to-day, thanks."

"Oh, I say, are you in a great scrape? Don't be sulky, old fellow. Come along."

"No," Raymond said more decidedly; "my sister is very ill, and I am going home."

"Sister—which sister? the pretty one at Cannes?"

"No; my eldest sister. This is my way," he said, glad to escape from what was, now at least, most uncongenial company.

When he reached Elm Cottage, Stevens met him.

"She is herself now, and she keeps asking for you."

"I can't see her; it will kill me."

"Don't talk like that, Master Raymond. Go to the dear lamb at once; she is asking for you every minute."

Ah, what a sore pain is remorse! Raymond Wilton will never forget the sight of his sister as she lay before him, her hair—that beautiful, luxuriant hair—all gone, her large, pathetic, wistful eyes turned to him as he came in.

"Raymond, dear Raymond," she whispered, "I wanted to tell you how I love you."