Salome knew how she was suffering, both mentally and physically, and she sincerely pitied her, and longed to be at peace with her; yet she did not really know how to help her, or how she would receive any attempt at a reconciliation on her part. The vessel on which they returned steamed into the harbor of New York just as the sun was setting, one lovely afternoon. Madame was reclining in her steamer-chair, where she had sat most of the day, somewhat remote from every one else, as she supposed, for of late she had seemed to shun all society, and they had humored her whim. But she had not heard or noticed the slight, graceful figure that had stolen upon her and now stood just behind her chair, regarding her with an expression of sorrowful yearning. The unhappy woman uttered a deep sigh as her heavy eyes swept the gorgeous sky and then rested upon the spires and chimneys of the great city which they were approaching. “Home—home at last! I wonder if I shall ever be happy again?” she muttered gloomily. “It will be pleasant to be at home again, will it not?” said a low, musical voice in her ear. “And—mother—will you not let me, from this time forth, be a daughter to you in every sense of the word?” Madame Winthrop started, and looked up into the tender, beautiful face bending over her, an expression of wonder in her eyes, which gradually filled with tears. “Salome!” she said tremulously; “surely you were rightly named, for your nature is—peace! The Word of God is true; it says, ‘a little child shall lead them.’ You have led me where I would not voluntarily go, but I believe, I hope, the way will end in ‘green pastures, and beside still waters.’ My daughter, you have conquered me.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.