SUMMER was in its first fresh beauty, and lilacs and hawthorns were filling the air with their fragrance. Laburnums waved their golden tassels in the soft breeze, and the blue skies of early June were like those which Lady Monroe said they had left behind them in the Riviera. She had returned with Eva and Ada; and Mrs. Wilton had the pleasure of hearing from her that the plan had fully answered. Ada had been everything that Eva wanted as a companion, and Lady Monroe begged to keep her for the present till Salome was quite well again.

Dear little Salome! She had struggled through fever and pain, and was lying on this lovely afternoon by the open window of the little sitting-room at Elm Cottage,—a pale, faint, shadow-like Salome indeed, but with returning light in her beautiful eyes and a tinge of colour on her cheeks. Her legs were as yet all but useless; the cruel rheumatism had attacked them with terrible force; but it was easy for Stevens and Ruth to carry that little light figure downstairs, and every day now she came into the sitting-room, which was filled with flowers brought continually from Lady Monroe's conservatory by Eva and Ada.

On this particular June afternoon Salome was alone. Her mother had gone for a drive with Lady Monroe and Eva, while Ada was spending the day with Louise and Kate Wilton. Hans and Carl were now sent to a school for little boys in the neighbourhood, and were on this afternoon gone to watch the cricket at the college ground, where Reginald was distinguishing himself and proving himself worthy of his Rugby training. Salome was very happy; a sweet, peaceful calm seemed to surround her. Everything was so lovely; that little piece of sky above the laburnum at the gate, how beautiful she thought it was; and how kind of Ruth Pryor to bring in such a dainty little afternoon tea. Even Mrs. Pryor tried to look a little more cheerful to suit the summer radiance, and did not shake her head and sigh as she came in to see if the sun was shining on the carpet; but when Salome said, "I love the sunshine, Mrs. Pryor," she forbore to shut it out, and only laid down a sheet of the Daily News on the particular place on the floor where the sun lay.

Mrs. Pryor had just completed this arrangement when a knock at the door made her toddle off to open it. In another minute she returned.

"Here is a gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Wilton."

"Mr. Atherton? oh! ask him to come in."

"No, Miss Wilton, it's not Mr. Atherton. He has been here often enough, I should have shown him in; but this is the gentleman who, regular as clock-work, all the time you were so bad, came at half-past eight every morning, and walked down to Harstone with Mr. Raymond, and always the last thing at night would come to the shop and hear how you was."

Salome in vain tried to stop Mrs. Pryor's long speech. Mrs. Pryor was, when once unwound, like an alarum, obliged to run off.

"It must be Mr. Percival. Yes; ask him to come in, Mrs. Pryor, please."

Salome had another moment's suspense, and then Philip Percival came in, quietly and to all appearance unconcerned, though his heart was beating so that he could almost hear it, and his emotion at the sight of that sweet pale face and large wistful eyes turned up to him was hard to conceal.

"I am so glad to see you downstairs, Miss Wilton," he began; "so very glad."

"I daresay you hardly know me," she said with a smile. "I have cut all my hair, and Mrs. Pryor says I look like a starved robin. But I am getting well now, and Uncle Loftus says I shall be able to walk soon, though my legs are still very stiff."

"I have brought you a book," Philip Percival said. "I thought I should like to give it to you myself." And he unfastened a neat parcel, and displayed a pretty book in a red and gilt cover.

"Thank you," Salome said. "What is the title? 'Under the Cedars, by S. M. W.' My book! Oh, I don't understand. How has it been done?"

"When you were ill—very ill—last March, I happened to be here when the first sheets came from the publishers. Your brothers could not correct them, and as I have had a little experience with printers, I asked leave to possess myself of them. I told Mr. Darte you were ill, and unable to attend to them yourself, and that I was to act for you. I hope you do not mind," he said half anxiously.

"Mind! Oh, I am so grateful to you. It is a pretty book outside!" she exclaimed with almost childish delight.

"It is prettier inside than outside," Philip Percival said. "I feel as if all the children were my particular friends; and as to the cedars, I have sat under them, and know the two ring-doves that come and sing their song to little Pamela."

"Oh, you can't think how glad I am you like my book; and—has Mr. Darte sent the money? because you know it is yours, and I hope when I get well to write another story better than this, and you shall have the rest of the money then if you can wait."

Philip Percival felt a choking sensation in his throat, and he could not speak. And Salome, her face flushing rosy red, went on,—

"I know it is a great deal to ask, and you have been so good and kind to Raymond. He says, if ever he is worth anything it will be your doing."

"Yours rather, I should say," Philip murmured.

"I feel as if I could never, never repay you for all you have done," Salome went on; "but you know I am grateful. We are all of us so grateful to you. Raymond is quite different since he had you for a friend, and he will do well now, I think."

"I had something to say about Raymond. I am not tiring you, am I?" he asked anxiously, for the bright colour had left her face and she laid her head back on the cushions.

"No, oh no; only pleasure is somehow as hard to bear as pain, in a different way. I have so longed for the day when I could show mother and the boys my book, and here it is. Only Reginald knew about it, and since I have been better I have asked him if he had heard anything of the publisher, and he has always said it was all right, he thought, and the book would come out one day. He did not tell me you had done all this for me."

"Reginald can keep a secret," Philip said, "or he is not the boy I take him for. Now, if you can listen without being too tired, I want to tell you something about Raymond and me. Mr. Warde wishes to send me out to a West India station in Barbadoes, to look after the business there and superintend some change in the sugar-planting. He offers me a very good salary, and I am to have a clerk, of course. Raymond thinks he should like to go with me in that capacity, and I believe Dr. Wilton quite approves the plan. Will Mrs. Wilton, and will you, approve also?"

"I think it will be the very best thing for Raymond. I do not know what poor mother will say about it, she is so fond of Raymond. Still, she would bring herself in time to it. When would you go?"

"The first week in July,—this day month."

"Shall I tell mother about it when she comes in, or will you tell her?"

"I think I shall ask you to tell Mrs. Wilton," he said, rising to leave her. "Good-bye."

"You will come and see me again very soon, won't you?"

"If you wish it."

"I do wish it very much," she said. "And then there is the money. Mr. Darte will send it to me now, I suppose, if I write to him. Will you come for it some day?"

"No," he said, "I shall never come for that. If you wish to please me, you will not mention that subject again; it hurts me and pains me. Let us never speak of it again." He spoke vehemently, almost roughly, and taking one of the little white thin hands in his, he said, "Give me one of the books, and write my name in it; and do not forget me."

The next minute he was gone, and Salome was left in a maze of delight, surprise, and happiness, through which there seemed to run a golden thread, bright and shining, as she repeated softly to herself, "So good, so noble, so brave! And I think he cares for me, and I think—"

What Salome thought I shall not write here, but leave her to her book and her dream, while the sun, nearing the west, comes in at the open window and touches the little short curls which cluster over her head till they shine like the aureola round the foreheads of Fra Angelico's maidens in the old pictures of a bygone time.