A great gray owl, which had passed the daylight in some obscure corner, launched darkling forth on the air and winged hither and thither,—­once or twice fanning the sleeper’s face with silent pinions.  The crocodile lazily edged off the stone, plumped quietly into the water, and clambered up the hither margin of the pool, there coming to another long pause.  A snail, making a night-journey across the floor, found in its path a diamond, sparkling with a light of its own.  The snail extended a cool cautious tentacle,—­recoiled it fastidiously and shaped a new course.  A broad petal from a tall flowering-shrub dropped wavering down, and seemed about to light on Balder’s forehead; but, swerving at the last moment, came to rest on the scaly head of the crocodile.  The night waited and listened, as though for something to happen,—­for some one to appear!  Salome, too, was waiting for some one;—­was it for the dead?

Meantime, pictures from the past glimmered through her memory.  When, in our magic mirror, we saw her struck down by the hand of her lover, she was far from being the repulsive object she is now.  Indeed, but for that chance word let fall yesterday, about her having been badly burnt, we might be at a loss to justify our recognition of her.

After Manetho’s rude dismissal of her, she fled—­not knowing whither better—­to Thor Helwyse, who was living widowed in his Brooklyn house, with his infant son and daughter.  Because she had been Helen’s attendant, she besought Helen’s husband to give her a home.  She was in sore trouble, but said no more than this; and Thor, suspecting nothing of her connection with Manetho, gladly received her as nurse to his children.

But past sins and imprudences would find out Salome no less than others.  At the critical moment for herself and her fortunes, the house took fire.  She risked her life to save Thor’s daughter, was herself burned past recognition, and (one misfortune treading on another’s heels) balanced on death’s verge for a month or two.  She got well, in part; but the faculty of speech had left her, and beauty of face and figure was forever gone.

In her manifold wretchedness, and after such devotion shown, it was not in Thor’s warm heart to part with her; so, losing much, she gained something.  She remained with her benefactor, whose manly courtesy ever forbore to probe the secret of her woman’s heart, over which as over her face she always wore a veil.  The world saw Salome no more.  She sat in the nursery, watching year by year the dark-eyed little maiden playing with the fair-haired boy.  Broad-shouldered Thor would come in, with his grand, kindly face and royal beard; would kiss the little girl and tussle with the boy, mightily laughing the while at the former’s solicitude for her playmate; would throw himself on the groaning sofa, and exclaim in his deep voice,—­

“God bless their dear little souls!  Why, Nurse! when did a brother and sister ever love each other like that,—­eh?”