he coming years."

She had snatched her fingers from his, and no sooner had he ceased
speaking, than she bowed haughtily, and answered,--

"Our reconciliations all belong to the Norman family, and are quite as
lasting as Lamourette's. Ceaseless war is preferable to a violated
truce, and since I have not swerved from my purpose, I shall not
falter in its enunciation. If I live it shall not be my fault if I
fail to go upon the stage. I am not so fastidious as Dr. Grey, and one
who sprang from _canaille_ must be pardoned if she betrays a longing
for the 'flesh-pots of Egypt.'"

She would have given her right hand to recall her words,--when, a
moment later, she met the gaze of profound pity and disappointment
with which Dr. Grey's eyes dwelt upon her countenance, hardened now by
its expression of insolent haughtiness; but he allowed her no
opportunity for retraction, even had she mastered her overweening
pride, and stooping to whisper a brief sentence in his sister's ear,
he took a medical book from the table, and left the room.

The silence that ensued seemed interminable to Salome, and at last she
turned, bowed her head in Miss Jane's lap, and muttered through set
teeth,--

"You see it is best that I should go. Even you must be weary of this
strife."

The old lady's trembling hands were laid lovingly on the girl's hot
brow and scorched cheeks.

"Not half so weary as your own oppressed heart. My dear child, why do
you persist in tormenting yourself so unmercifully? Why will you say
things that you do not mean?--that are absolute libels on your actual
feelings? I have often seen and deplored affectations of generosity
and refinement, but you are the first person I ever met who delighted
in a pretence of meanness, which her genuine nature abhorred. Salome,
I have tried to prove myself a mother to you since the day that I took
you under my roof; and now, when I am passing away from the
world,--when a few short months will probably end my feeble life, I
think you owe it to me to give me no sorrow that your hands can easily
ward off. Don't leave me. When I am gone there will be time and to
spare, for all your schemes. Stay here, and let me have peace and
sunshine about me, in my last fading hours. Ah, dear, you can't be
cruel to the old woman who has long loved you so tenderly."

The orphan pressed the withered hands to her lips, and, covering her
face with the folds of Miss Jane's black silk apron, exclaimed
passion