“Seems to me it was rather a mistake to conceal such talent in a common hospital,” laconically observed Miss Leonard. “Can you write a good hand? Here, take this pen and copy the address of this letter.” Salome did as she was bidden, and the woman appeared to be satisfied with the plain and beautiful chirography which she handed back to her. “Can you sew?” she now asked. “Will sewing be one of the requirements of the position?” Salome inquired, beginning to feel as if the situation might be more onerous than would be desirable. “That doesn’t matter—I simply asked if you could sew,” was the curt rejoinder. “Yes, madam, I can.” “Then, Miss Howland—do—do you think I would suit you?” the dame questioned sarcastically, but with a comical assumption of meekness, and a humorous twinkle in her shrewd eyes. The question was so ludicrous, and the woman’s look and manner so mirth-provoking, that Salome’s face dimpled all over with merry smiles. She saw that she did not want a servant to wait upon her so much as a companion to amuse her and make the time pass agreeably, and she fancied that the excessive brusqueness of manner had been partially assumed to test her; so she acted accordingly. “Suppose I give you a trial and see?” she retorted, with a roguish gleam in her eyes, a little amused ripple of laughter, that was irresistible, bursting from her lips. CHAPTER XXVI. SALOME LEARNS A BIT OF MISS LEONARD’S HISTORY. “And what are the wages to be, if you please, marm?” Miss Leonard continued in the same strain, but with a chuckle of appreciation that was not lost upon Salome. Salome colored slightly, then with grave courtesy she said: “Really, madam, I had not thought much about the question of remuneration. Let me tell you frankly that I am alone in the world, and I care more for the protection of a home and something to occupy my time and thoughts than for money. I shall be satisfied, I hope, with whatever you may honestly consider my services worth after you have given me a trial.” “Really! Are you some princess in disguise that you are so indifferent?” sneered her companion, while she eyed her sharply, as if she distrusted her motives in making this unusual reply; for heretofore she had found applicants greedy enough in the matter of wages. “No, madam,” Salome quietly responded, though her eyes blazed a trifle at the rudeness of the question. “I am only a poor girl without home or friends.” “Humph! It seems to me it’s a queer arrangement,” was the short retort; then, after a moment’s thought, she added: “But I’m going to take you at your word. You shall come to me, and we’ll say nothing about pay until you’ve been here a month.” “Very well; I accept that proposition,” said Salome pleasantly, and with no anxiety about what she should receive, for she still had money in her purse—more than enough for a month’s needs.