where Salome stood
firm. There was something akin to the scornful ring of Rachel's voice
in that child's tones, when she told Gerard he presumed on his
position as guest; and I will wager my hand that her large eyes did
not exactly resemble a dove's when she informed him it was not his
privilege to call her Salome. She has a fierce, imperious, passionate
temper, that goads her into mischief; but, after all, she is--she
must be--nobler than I have sometimes thought her. God grant it! God
bless her!"

"But blame us women not,--if some appear
Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
Who knows the Past? And who can judge us right?"

CHAPTER XIX.

"Doctor Grey, are you awake? Dr. Grey, here is a note from 'Solitude,'
and the messenger begs that you will lose no time, as one of the
servants is supposed to be dying."

Salome had knocked twice at Dr. Grey's door, without arousing him, and
the third time she beat a tattoo that would have broken even heavier
slumbers than his.

"I am awake, and will strike a light in a moment."

She heard him stumbling about the room, and finally there was a crash,
as of a broken vase or goblet.

"What is the matter? Can't you find your matches?"

"No; some one has removed the box from its usual place, and I am
fumbling about at random, and smashing things indiscriminately. Will
you be so good as to bring me a match?"

"I have a candle in my hand, which you can take, while I order Elbert
to get your buggy ready."

"Thank you, Salome."

She placed the candle on the mat before his door, laid the note beside
it, and went down to the servants' rooms to call the driver.

It was two o'clock, and Dr. Grey had come home only an hour before,
from a patient who resided at some distance.

Dressing himself as expeditiously as possible, he read the blurred and
crumpled note.

"Dr. Grey: For God's sake come as quick as possible. I am afraid
my mother is dying.

"ROBERT MACLEAN."

Three days before, when he visited Elsie, he found her more composed
and comfortable than she had been for several weeks, and Mrs. Gerome
had seemed almost cheerful, as she sat beside the bed, crimping the
borders of the invalid's muslin caps which the laundress had sent in,
stiff and spotless.

Recollecting Elsie's desire to confide something to him before her
death, and dreading the effect which this sudden termination of h