"Her story?"
"I forgot no one knew but me. I don't understand this, though. It has come back, after all, and I thought she said it was accepted. But this is her writing."
Reginald unrolled the parcel, and the little kernel, so familiar to authors, of the proof-sheets enclosed in the husk of the manuscript fell out.
Philip Percival picked them up. "Take care of them," he said; "it is all right. These are the first proofs, sent for correction with the manuscript. Take care of them; and you ought to write to the publisher and tell him they are received, and will be corrected."
"Corrected!" exclaimed Reginald. "I do not know how to correct them. What do you mean?"
"I have had some little experience in this way," said Philip Percival; "and if you will trust me, I will go over them and do my best till—till your sister is well enough to do it herself."
"Thank you," said Reginald. "I don't think Salome would mind your having them; indeed, I don't see what else is to be done."
Philip rolled up the manuscript and sheets, and, putting them in his pocket, said "Good-bye," and was gone.
"He is the best fellow that ever lived," Reginald said; "and he is awfully fond of her. Oh! how long is this to go on?" he exclaimed, as the sound of Salome's voice reached them from the room above, in the rapid, unnatural tones so full of painful foreboding to the ears of those who have to listen to them hour after hour, with no respite but the occasional lull of heavy, unrefreshing slumber.
Dr. Wilton was surprised that same Sunday afternoon to see Raymond ushered into his consulting-room.