It was past eight when they reached Mr. Moore's shop. The shutters were taken down, and the shop was being dusted and swept.

Mr. Moore was an old-fashioned tradesman, but of good repute; and though his shop was small, he dealt only in the very best jewellery and plate.

A young man with light hair was behind the counter, and looked with surprise at these early customers as Raymond advanced to the counter, all dripping as he was, with the little shivering figure by his side.

"I left a case here yesterday. I want to take it away again. Where is Mr. Moore?"

"Mr. Moore is not come into town yet," said the young man. "He will not be here till ten o'clock."

"You can let me have the necklet, I suppose? Old gold filigree, set in emeralds. I left it here to be valued."

The young man went to a book, and ran his finger down the last page--"'Mr. Stephens--necklet, set with emeralds.'--Yes; here it is."

"That is not right," said Salome. "That can't be yours."

"Be quiet," said Raymond, in an angry whisper.--"Yes; that is it. I will take it, if you please."

There was still a little hesitation in the man's manner. "Mr.

Stephens--is that right?" There was a scarcely perceptible glance at Salome as he spoke.

He produced the case, and opening it, said, "They are very fine emeralds. The value would be from sixty to eighty pounds."

Raymond took the case up, closed the spring, and, saying "Good morning,"

was leaving the shop; but the shopman followed him.

"I think it would be more satisfactory, sir, if you signed your name in this book, and address."

Raymond was perplexed for a moment, but only for a moment.

"The necklet is this young lady's property," he said.--"Sign your name, Salome."

The girl took the pen into her trembling fingers and wrote:--"Salome Mary Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, near Harstone."

"A relation of Dr. Wilton's, I presume?"

"Yes," said Salome. "Dr. Wilton is my uncle."

The man's manner became instantly very respectful.

"It is a very wet morning, Miss Wilton. Shall I call a cab?"

"Oh no, no, thank you," Salome said, hurrying away. But Raymond was frightened at her pale face; it haunted him for many and many a day.

"Yes; we must take a cab. You can't possibly walk back."

"The tram," Salome said,--"the tram; it will be cheaper."

She was very wet, and shivering perceptibly.

At last the corner was reached from whence the tram started. Raymond was thankful to put his sister into the tram; and if ever he repented what he had done, it was at that moment.

"O Raymond, Raymond! how could you say your name was Stephens?"

Raymond felt ashamed of himself as those pure, truthful eyes met his.

"My name is Stephen, isn't it, Salome? Don't make me out worse than I am. I am awfully sorry, and I shall go and see Uncle Loftus for your sake. O Sal, I hope you have not got cold, you look so horridly white."

Poor Salome struggled to keep calm; and was received by Stevens at the door with exclamations of angry surprise,--

"Going out in a storm like this, getting your death of cold! I have no sort of patience with you, that I haven't."

"Oh! don't, don't scold me, Stevens. It is all right now;" and running upstairs, she went into her mother's room, laid the case on the table, and said, "There is the necklet; it was not stolen--it was not. Put it back in the box; and, dear mother, will you please say no more till--"

The sentence was unfinished, and poor Salome fell forward on the bed where her mother was lying--fainting, for the first time in her life.

Her mother rang the bell, and Stevens came hurrying in, raised her head, and took off her wet cloak, and her hat, which loosened all the thick ma.s.ses of hair falling over her like a cloud.

"What is it? What can be the matter?" said Mrs. Wilton. "O Stevens, send for Dr. Wilton. Call Reg."

"She is faint with galloping off before breakfast, I don't know what for, I am sure. She is a slave to other people, and that is the truth.

It was to please Master Raymond she went out in all the rain and storm, you may depend."

Salome soon recovered consciousness, and looking up at her mother's anxious face, which was bending over her, she said,--

"I think it will all come right now, mother; I do indeed. Put the necklet away, and Ray will tell you all about it. I wish--I wish I did not feel so giddy," she said, as she tried to rise.

"Don't try to get up, my darling--my dear child," her mother said. "O Salome! what should I do without you? Stevens is gone for a cup of hot coffee, and you must lie still."

"Put the necklet back into the dressing-case, mother," Salome repeated.

"No one but you and I need ever know. Is it not odd I tremble so? I suppose I must lie quiet to-day."

They undressed her and put her to bed; and there, at twelve o'clock, her uncle found her--with her temperature very high, her head aching, and every sign of coming illness, of what nature Dr. Wilton could not then determine.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CONSEQUENCE.

Salome's illness proved to be rheumatic fever. She was in great pain, and often delirious--wandering in thought to her old home and her childhood, and talking incessantly of the emerald necklet and money and debts, and the troubles which had by her brother's selfishness shadowed her young life, and weighed her down prematurely with the sorrows of older people.

Her mother understood but little of these feverish wanderings. But there was one in that house in whose ear his sister's voice rang with a pain which he never felt before.

Reginald was miserable and lonely. The little ones--whom in a bad day of restlessness and fever Dr. Wilton had hurried off in his carriage to Aunt Betha, who begged to be allowed to have them, saying she would be answerable they were in n.o.body's way--were continually asking when Salome would be well. Mrs. Wilton sat hour after hour in the sick room, almost paralyzed with the fear of losing this precious child. Stevens, dear faithful Stevens would go away to hide her grief when the moans of pain were more grievous, or when Salome would talk as if she were in the old nursery at Maplestone, and address Ada or her father as if present.

All these tender and loving hearts were wrung with sorrow and distress; but Raymond's pain was far greater than any of these. Mrs. Atherton and her son were unable to reach him with a word of comfort. He went sullenly off to the office, and returned with a look of utter misery on his face every afternoon, only to hear the same report--"She is no better."

One Sunday morning he was up and dressed in time, and Reginald walked with him to church. The two brothers had been so much separated since early childhood that there was little sympathy between them. But this grief about Salome seemed to draw them together.

"How is your sister? How is the young lady?" Ruth asked, as they pa.s.sed her door.