Salome

When the parting was over, and the letters from Barbadoes came regularly, Mrs. Wilton began to feel the relief of knowing that Raymond was out of temptation and happy in the change of scene and people.

A bright prospect opened out to Philip Percival. He settled the affairs on the sugar-plantation with great skill, and returned in the spring with an account of what he had done so satisfactory to the partners in the large concern, that he had a permanent appointment with a large salary, and Raymond was to remain with him for another year.

"Then I shall come back," Philip said to Salome, "and ask you a question."

They were walking together from Roxburgh one beautiful May evening. Salome had been to spend the day with his mother, his last day in England, at his special request.

"The question has been on my lips many times," he said, "since the night – so long ago now – when I picked up this, which a careless person dropped in the road." He took out of his pocket a large case which held his letters, and drew from it a handkerchief. "Look," he said, "whose property is this?"

"My handkerchief! I remember I dropped it that afternoon, and how Stevens scolded me and said I should lose my head next."

"Well," Philip said, "I lost my heart then, and kept the handkerchief as a compensation. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said.

"And if I asked the question now, could you answer it, Salome?"

"I think I could," she replied.

"I have loved you ever since that evening when you looked up at me, your face so dimly seen in the twilight," he went on; "the little brave sister coming out to meet a stranger to save her brother from disgrace and her mother pain. Every month, nay, every day I have lived since then, I have loved you more. Can you love me, and, when I come back next time, be my wife?"

"Yes," was the simple answer. Then, as if to strengthen it, she repeated, "Oh yes; let us go home and tell mother."

How happy they were as they walked to Elm Cottage together, and how bright and joyous were all the inhabitants of the little home that evening. The next morning, Puck, after an extra washing, had a piece of red ribbon tied round his neck, which was a long established custom on birthdays, and Salome said, as she tied it on between smiles and tears, for she had just parted with Philip for a whole year, —

"Ah, Puck, this is a grand day, not a birthday, but such a happy day to me; and, Puck, my new story is to be called 'Under the Quarry!'"

"A very poor prospect for Salome," Aunt Anna said; "still, it is something that the Percivals are a good old family."

"A greater comfort still," rejoined Dr. Wilton, "is that Percival is one of the best and noblest of men. May our daughters be equally fortunate."

So we leave Salome standing on the threshold of her great happiness. Patience has had her perfect work in the days of her girlhood. Will she need it no more in the womanhood which is dawning upon her with the soft, sweet radiance of a faithful heart on which she may rest?

Yes; Patience, that fair and beautiful angel, with its calm, sedate presence, will be needed for Salome as for us all through every stage of the journey. When the gates of love open for us, and we enter into what seems an Eden, we know that there are thorns amongst the flowers, rough places to tread, sharp angles to meet. Salome will take Patience with her, nor leave her gentle guidance till she comes to the Paradise of God. For there are no crosses to bear and no imperfect work to mourn, no sin to be hid in secret places, no sorrow, nor any more pain. The former things have passed away, and Patience, having had her perfect work, is exchanged for the rest of those who have fought the good fight, and bear the palms of victory in their hands through Him who has redeemed us to God by His death, and given to His faithful ones the life everlasting.

"Safe home! safe home in port!Rent cordage, shattered deck,Torn sails, provisions short,And only not a wreck:But oh! the joy upon the shoreTo tell our voyage-perils o'er!""The prize! the prize secure!The athlete nearly fell;Bore all he could endure,And bore not always well:But he may smile at troubles goneWho sets the victor's garland on."THE END