“But I am not in the least tired. I had such a nice nap before dinner,” Salome returned, with shining eyes and pink cheeks. “Nevertheless I am going to send you directly to bed,” her husband said, as he arose and led her to the door of her boudoir, where he folded her close in his arms for a moment. “I hope you will sleep well, dear,” he cried, “and that I shall find these faint roses in your cheeks a little brighter in the morning.” He opened the door for her to pass in, then shut it softly after her, and went across the hall to his own apartment, a tender smile on his lips. Salome seemed better and stronger the next day, in spite of the fatigue of her long journey, and every day after that for a week she continued to improve, while life seemed to her like a beautiful poem set to sweetest music. She took no medicine, her husband prescribing only nourishing diet and mild stimulants for her, but happiness was the best tonic she could have had, and its effect was almost magical. Every fine day they went out driving together in their close carriage. Dr. Winthrop would not consent to an open vehicle at present, although Salome begged for it; he feared she would take cold, and he was very watchful and careful, for he knew that even a little relapse would be a very serious injury to her. Their evenings were passed either in pleasant conversation, or he read aloud to her from some entertaining book or periodical; but they received no calls, and sometimes Salome wondered if Dr. Winthrop’s friends even knew that he was married. It was a fact that scarcely any one outside their own household did know it, although the young man had cabled the news to his family in Europe on the day of his marriage. Salome was so extremely delicate, that he would not allow her to be subjected to the calls and curiosity of his numerous acquaintances, until she should be entirely recovered. One day, after dinner, Salome asked her husband if she might have the piano opened. “Why, yes, certainly. Do you play?” he asked, surprised. It had not occurred to him that she could be musical. “I used to,” she answered simply, “but it is a long time since I have touched a piano,” and sitting down before the beautiful instrument, she ran her supple fingers along the key-board. Her husband instantly recognized a cultivated touch, and began to look about for some music. “My sister is a fine musician,” he said, “and perhaps you can find something among her collections which you can play.” Salome smiled as she glanced over the pile that he brought her, for much of it was familiar to her, and she played steadily to him for half an hour or more. Then all at once she broke forth into a little song which she sang from memory. The sound of her voice seemed to make her forget where she was, or that she had a listener—everything but that she was happy, and free to let her glad tones ring out as they would.