that I was several miles
from home, so I arose reluctantly, picked up my stick, and, with Fido
limping at my heels, walked slowly back through the enchanted aisles of
Nature.

The Saturday night following, a week before her arrival, I heard the
story of Salome.

I was on the old settee after supper, as usual. Here I always came to
smoke my pipe after the evening meal. Somewhat to my surprise, Mr.
Grundy came out and sat down beside me. Frequently he and his wife came
out for a short time in the early evening, but this night it was nearly
nine o'clock when I heard the old gentleman's heavy step in the hall. I
made room for him when I saw that it was his intention to sit down, and
offered him my tobacco, for I saw that he held a cob pipe in his
hands,--another unusual thing. He took my tobacco in silence, and in
silence filled his pipe and lit it. I felt that he had something to say
to me, so I waited patiently, and we both puffed away.

"S'lome's comin' a week from to-night," he said, at last. His voice was
softer than I had ever heard it, and a caressing note lurked in it.
"Seems a long time to us since she went away last September. S'lome's
comin' home," he repeated, as though the very sentence brought joy.

"It's right for me to tell you 'bout her, Stone, since you're to be one
of us for quite a spell. It's a sort o' sad story, but me an' mother've
tried to make her forget the beginning of her life. It may be that you
don't like young girls much, seein' that you've never married, but
there'll be a kind spot in your heart for S'lome when you hear 'bout
her. You see, it began away back yonder when I was a young fellow at
school. Bob Summerton was a classmate of mine, and my best friend. His
one prevailin' weakness was a woman's pretty face. He was a poor fellow,
and had no business marryin' when he did. His wife, highly connected,
but without any near relations, was killed in a railway accident. Their
little girl, who had been born six months before, escaped unhurt. Bob
was a Kentuckian, from the soles of his feet up, and one day, when
S'lome was only three years old, he was shot by a coward for defending a
woman's good name. He telegraphed me to come, and I reached him in time
for him to consign to my keepin' the child soon to be orphaned again. It
nearly broke my heart, Stone,"--the strong man choked back something in
his throat,--"but even at that tender age the young thing's grief was
pitiful. I brought her here