CHAPTER I

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By William John Hopkins

CONCERNING SALLY.

THE INDIAN BOOK. Illustrated.

THE MEDDLINGS OF EVE.

OLD HARBOR.

THE CLAMMER.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

CONCERNING SALLY

CONCERNING

SALLY

BY

WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS

[Illustration]

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1912

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

_Published September 1912_

BOOK I

CONCERNING SALLY

CHAPTER I

Professor Ladue sat at his desk, in his own room, looking out of the

window. What he might have seen out of that window was enough, one

would think, to make any man contented with his lot, especially a man

of the ability of Professor Ladue. He had almost attained to eminence

in his own line, which, it is to be presumed, is all that any of us

can hope to attain to--each in his own line.

Out of Professor Ladue's window there might have been seen, first, a

huge tree, the leaves upon which were fast turning from the deep green

of late summer to a deep copper brown with spots of brilliant yellow.

If his eyes were weary of resting in the shadow of that great tree,

his gaze might go farther and fare no worse: to other trees, not too

thickly massed, each in the process of turning its own particular

color and each of them attaining to eminence in its own line without

perceptible effort; to the little river which serenely pursued its

winding and untroubled course; or to the distant hills.

But Professor Ladue, it is to be feared, saw none of these things. He

was unconscious of the vista before his eyes. A slight smile was on

his handsome face, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one. He

withdrew his gaze and glanced distastefully about the room: at the

small bundle of papers on his desk, representing his work; at the

skull which adorned the desk top; at the half-mounted skeleton of some

small reptile of a prehistoric age lying between the windows; at his

bed. It was an inoffensive bed; merely a narrow cot, tucked out of the

way as completely as might be. Professor Ladue did not care for

luxury, at any rate not in beds, so long as they were comfortable, and

the bed took up very little room, which was important.

As his glance took in these things, a slight expression of disgust took

the place of the smile, for a moment; then the smile returned. All

expressions in which Professor Ladue indulged were slight. There was

nothing the matter with him. He was only tired of work--temporarily

sick of the sight of it; which is not an unusual state of mind, for any

of us. It may be deplored or it may be regarded as merely the normal

state of rebellion of a healthy mind at too much work. That depends

largely upon where we draw the line. We might not all draw it where

Professor Ladue drew it. And he did not deplore the state of mind in

which he found himself. It was a state of mind in which he was finding

himself with growing frequency, and when he was in it his sole wish was

to be diverted.

He opened a drawer in his desk, dumped therein the papers, and,

removing from it a box of cigarettes, took one and slipped the box

into his pocket. After various tappings and gentle thumpings in the

manner of your cigarette-smoker, designed, I suppose, to remove some

of the tobacco which the maker had carefully put into it, the

cigarette seemed to be considered worthy of his lips. I have no doubt

that it was. So he lighted it, cast the match thoughtfully into the

empty grate, and rose slowly.

He dawdled a minute at the window, looked at his watch, muttered

briefly, and went briskly out and down the stairs.

He took his overcoat from the rack in the hall and removed the

cigarette from his lips for a moment.

"Sarah!" he called curtly.

His voice was clear and penetrating and full of authority. If I had

been Sarah, the quality of that one word, as he uttered it, would have

filled me with resentment. A door almost at his elbow opened quickly

and a girl appeared. She was well grown and seemed to be about twelve.

She was really ten.

"What is it, father?" she asked; I had almost said that she demanded

it, but there was no lack of respect in her voice. "Please don't

disturb mother. She has a headache. I'm taking care of Charlie. What

is it?"

"Oh, Sally," he said. It appeared as if he might even be afraid of

her, just a little, with her seriousness and her direct ways and her

great eyes that seemed to see right through a man. He gave a little

laugh which he intended to be light. It wasn't. "Oh, all right, Sally.

You're a very good girl, my dear."

Sally did not smile, but looked at him steadily, waiting for him to

say what he had to say.

"Tell your mother, Sally," the professor went on, "that I find I have

to go into town to attend to an important matter at the college. I may

be late in getting out. In fact, she mustn't be worried if I don't

come to-night. It is possible that I may be kept too late for the last

train. I am sorry that she has a headache. They seem to be getting

more frequent."

Sally bowed her head gravely. "Yes," she said, "they do."

"Well, tell her that I am very sorry. If I could do anything for her,

I should, of course, be only too happy. But I can't and there doesn't

appear to be any good purpose served by my giving up my trip to town."

In this the professor may, conceivably, have been wrong. "Give her my

message, my dear, and take good care of Charlie. Good-bye, Sally."

The professor stooped and imprinted a cold kiss upon her forehead.

Sally received it impassively without expressing any emotion whatever.

"Good-bye, father," she said. "I will tell mother."

Professor Ladue went out and walked jauntily down the road toward the

station. No good purpose will be served, to use his own words, by

following him farther at this time. Sally went soberly back to the

library, where she had left Charlie; she went very soberly, indeed. No

Charlie was to be seen; but, with a skill born of experience, she

dived under the sofa and haled him forth, covered with dust and

squealing at the top of his lungs.

"I hided," he shouted.

"Sh--h, Charlie. You'll disturb mother. Poor mother's got a pain in

her head." The sombre gray eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she

hugged the boy tight. "Oh, Charlie, Charlie! I'm afraid that father's

going to do it again."

Charlie whimpered in sympathy. Perhaps, too, Sally had hugged him too

tight for comfort. His whimper was becoming a wail when she succeeded

in hushing him. Then she heard a soft step coming slowly down the

stairs.

"Now, Charlie," she said reproachfully, "it's too bad. Here's mother

coming down. I wish," she began, impatiently; then she checked herself

suddenly, for the boy's lips were puckering. "Never mind. Laugh, now."

It is not strange that the boy could not accommodate himself to such

sudden changes. He was only six. But he tried faithfully, and would

have succeeded if he had been given more time. The door opened gently.

"Sally, dear," said a soft voice, "I thought that I heard the front

door shut. Has your father gone out?"

Mrs. Ladue was gentle and pretty and sweet-looking; and with a tired

look about the eyes that seldom left her now. She had not had that

look about the eyes when she married young Mr. Ladue, thirteen years

before. There were few women who would not have had it if they had

been married to him for thirteen years. That had been a mistake, as it

had turned out. For his own good, as well as hers, he should have had

a different kind of a wife: none of your soft, gentle women, but a

woman who could habitually bully him into subjection and enjoy the

process. The only difficulty about that is that he would never have

married a woman who habitually bullied. He wanted to do any bullying

that there was to be done. Not that he actually did any, as it is

usually understood, but there was that in his manner that led one to

think that it was just beneath the surface; and by "one" I mean his

wife and daughter,--no doubt, I should have said "two." As for Sally,

the traditional respect that is due a father from a daughter was all

that prevented her from finding out whether it was there. To be sure,

his manner toward her was different. It seemed almost as if he were

afraid of Sally; afraid of his own daughter, aged ten. Stranger things

have happened.

If Mrs. Ladue knew that she had made a mistake, thirteen years before,

she never acknowledged it to herself when she thought of her children.

She beckoned Charlie to her now.

"Come here, darling boy," she said, stooping.

Charlie came, with a rush, and threw his arms about his mother's neck.

"Oh, Charlie," cried Sally quickly, "remember mother's head. Be

careful!"

Mrs. Ladue smiled gently. "Never mind, Sally. Let him be as he is. It

makes my head no worse to have my little boy hugging me. Has your

father gone out?" she asked again.

Sally's eyes grew resentful. "Yes," she answered. "He left a message

for you. He said I was to tell you that he was very sorry you had a

headache and that if he could do anything for you he would be only too

happy." Sally's voice insensibly took on a mocking quality. "And--and

there was something about his being called into town by pressing

matters and you were not to be worried if he missed the last train

and--and--" She burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, mother, dear, I

don't believe a word of it. I'm afraid he'll come back like--like--"

Her whole form quivered with the energy of her utterance. There was no

doubt that she meant what she said so violently. "I _hate_--"

"Hush, darling, hush! Never say that." Mrs. Ladue drew her little

daughter close and patted her shoulder.

Sally's crying ceased abruptly, but the muscles were all tense under

her mother's hand. She smiled bravely.

"Now, mother, dear," she said, "I have made it worse, haven't I? I

didn't mean to do that--to cry. Truly, I didn't. I won't ever do it

again." She put one arm about her mother's neck and stroked her

forehead gently. "Mother, darling, doesn't it make your head just a

little better to have your little daughter hu--hug--ging you, too?"

And she hid her face in her mother's neck.

Mrs. Ladue's eyes filled with tears. "My dearest little daughter!" she

murmured, kissing her. "If only you could be happy! If only you didn't

take things so to heart! Mother's own dear little girl!" She rose and

spoke brightly. "Now, let's all go out into this lovely day and be

happy together."

Sally smiled. "Yes," she said, "we'll all be happy together. Don't you

think, mother, that it will make your head better?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Ladue, "I think it will."

So they went out to the trees and the river and the hills. But Sally

did not skip. Charlie, it is to be noted, did; Charlie, who had said

nothing about being happy. It is to be presumed that they were all

ecstatically happy; for had they not assured one another that they

would be?

CHAPTER II

It is to be feared that Professor Ladue had gone and done it again, as

Sally said. Not that Sally knew what "it" was, nor did her mother

know, either. Indeed, Mrs. Ladue made no inquiries concerning that

point, being glad to put the most favorable construction possible upon

the matter and, perhaps, afraid that she would not be able to do so if

she knew any more. Perhaps, too, she realized that, unless she pursued

her inquiries among comparative strangers, she would learn nothing.

The professor would lie freely and skillfully, assuming that he

considered it necessary or desirable to lie, and might be led to bully

a little. Whatever course he might take, she would be no better off.

So, as I said, she made no inquiries, which may have been wise or it

may not; and she kept on hoping, although each occasion left her with

less ground for any reasonable hope.

At all events, Professor Ladue came back early the next afternoon in

the most fiendish temper, which may have been due to excess in any of

its customary forms. Whatever the exact cause, the effect was,

apparently, to make him hate himself and everybody with whom he came

in contact. Mrs. Ladue was aware of the state of mind that he would be

in, from experience, I suppose; an experience which she did not seem

at all anxious to repeat. Sally was aware of it, too, and even Charlie

seemed to realize that any meeting with his father was to be avoided.

So it happened that Professor Ladue found the way into the house and

to his room unobstructed. His wife and his children were nowhere to be

seen; which circumstance, in itself, annoyed him exceedingly, although

it is probable that he would have found their presence equally

annoying.

Once in his room, he paced to and fro for a few minutes, nervously;

then he took off his coat and bathed his head and face with cold

water, pouring it over his head repeatedly. When he had rubbed his

head partially dry he appeared to feel somewhat better, and he seated

himself, frowning, at his desk, and tried to apply himself to his

work. In this, as he undoubtedly expected, he was not very successful.

He would not have expected one of his own students to be able to apply

himself to work with any success under similar circumstances, whatever

those circumstances were. So he pushed his work aside with some

impatience, got up, took the skull from the desk and handled it

absently. The feel of the skull seemed to suggest some ideas to him,

for he put it down, went to the half-mounted skeleton of that ancient

reptile that I have mentioned as lying between his windows, and began

to work in earnest.

He soon became interested; so much interested that he was forgetting

about his head, which felt as if it had been pounded with

hammers,--tiny hammers which had not yet finished their work, whatever

it was,--and he was forgetting about his eyes, which ached as if the

pressure of blood behind the eyeballs was forcing them out of his

head. He didn't know but it was; but it didn't matter. And he was

forgetting about his body, every bone and muscle of which was crying

out for rest and sleep. He sat there, on the floor under one of his

windows, puzzling over a bone which he held in his hand, and

completely absorbed.

Suddenly he glanced involuntarily out of the window. There sat Sally,

astride a limb of the great tree, looking in at him intently. She was

a most annoying child; yes, a most devilishly annoying child. He

sprang to his feet and threw up the window, almost in one motion.

Sally did not move a muscle; not even her eyes. He did not say the

sharp things that were on the tip of his tongue, he could not have

told why; he did not say anything for very nearly a minute. Under such

circumstances, a minute is a long time. Nor did Sally say anything.

She only gazed solemnly at him.

"Sally," he demanded at last, "what are you doing there?" The look in

his eyes had softened. You might have mistaken it for a look of

affection.

"Nothing, father," Sally answered, briefly and respectfully.

"Well, what the--" Professor Ladue was at a loss for words in which to

express his exasperation. This was an unusual condition for him to be

in. "Well, why don't you get down?"

"I don't want to get down," Sally returned. "I like being up here."

"You'll break your neck."

Sally made no reply.

"Can you get down safely?"

"Yes, father."

"Get down, then," said Professor Ladue, less sharply than he had meant

to speak. "Don't you know that it must annoy me very much to have you

spying in upon me in that way?"

"No, father, I didn't know it annoyed you," replied Sally in a

colorless voice. "I beg your pardon. But I wasn't spying on you. I was

only enjoying myself. I won't do it again."

Sally began slipping and sliding and scrambling down the tree. She

seemed to have no fear and to be very familiar with the road she was

taking. She knew every foothold. Her father watched her as she went

from one insecure hold to another. It must have appeared to him a

perilous descent, one would suppose; but I do not know what he

thought. At all events, he called to her when she had swung off the

lowest branch and dropped safely. He still had in his hand that

prehistoric bone.

"Sally!" he called; "don't you want to come up here?"

Sally looked up, evidently greatly surprised. She was not easily

surprised.

"To your room?" she asked.

"Yes," replied her father impatiently, "of course. To my room."

"Do you want me to?" Sally is to be excused for pressing the point.

She did not wish to make any mistake. Mistakes had been made before.

"I should be greatly pleased," said the professor, smiling and bowing

airily. "I should consider it a great honor if Miss Sally Ladue would

favor me with her company at the present juncture." He leaned a little

out of the window. "You know I am working on the skeleton."

"Yes," said Sally. "I'll come up right away."

It is to be noted that Sally had not answered the exact question which

the professor had asked her. She may have been reluctant to answer it

just as it was asked. It is to be supposed that she was aware of the

question and that she knew the answer. Sally was a truthful young

person, but she preferred to take the course that made for peace if it

was consistent with truth. The professor did not press the matter.

He was again sitting on the floor when Sally knocked on the door and

came in. His head was a little better. Perhaps the tiny hammers had

nearly finished their work. At all events, he soon forgot it

completely.

"Sally," he said, after he had been working for some minutes and Sally

had been watching him in silence, "what do you think this is?"

"I don't know, father," she answered. "Is it a--an alligator?"

"No," he said, stopping and looking thoughtfully at the skeleton. "No,

it is not an alligator, although you came nearer than I should have

thought you would. You were just barely warm, Sally. It is a distant

relative of the alligator; perhaps I should call it a connection. The

thirteenth cousin of his hundred thousandth great-grandfather, or

something like that. It is a sort of a lizard, Sally. It is a very

small one."

"Oh!" cried Sally. "A _small_ one! A small _lizard_! Why, father!"

Professor Ladue smiled. "It lived a great many thousands of years

ago. Nobody knows how many thousands of years, although they will tell

you very glibly. They don't know anything about it except that it was

a long time. I know that. This little lizard is a kind that nobody has

ever discovered; nobody except me. It is _my_ lizard. It must be known

by my name. What do you think of that, Sally?"

"It must be very fine," Sally murmured, "to discover things."

"At that far-off time," the professor continued, "there were lots of

great horrid creeping and flying things. Even my little lizard may

have been able to fly. See! These seem to be the beginning of his wing

bones. There are some bones missing, so that I can't tell, yet,

whether he had wings that would bear him up. But probably he had.

Probably he had." And the professor relapsed into a thoughtful

silence.

"Father," said Sally presently. She had been thinking and her interest

in the skeleton was more active than it had been.

The professor looked up. "Any question that Miss Ladue has to ask," he

observed, "will be cheerfully answered, provided that I know the

answer. If I do not know the answer, and have the courage to say so, I

trust she will not regard me as wholly ignorant of the subject."

Sally gave vent to a chuckle which was entirely unexpected; entirely

unexpected by herself, at least.

"Father," she asked, as soon as she had managed to suppress her

chuckles, "then could your little lizard fly up high?"

"Yep," he answered; "like a pigeon. Or, more probably, he flew more

like a bat than like a pigeon."

"Right up into the tops of the trees?"

"Right up into the topmost branches of the coal trees."

"The _coal trees_!"

"The coal trees. Fed on the fruit. Large lizards customarily ate

furnace coal, middle-sized lizards ate stove coal. Little lizards ate

chestnut coal."

Sally burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. In all her

experience of her father, she had never known him to be so amusing.

"And the littlest lizards?"

"Ate pea coal," replied the professor promptly, "and the tiniest

babies ate buckwheat coal. Very nourishing, chestnuts and peas and

buckwheat. Cracked it with their teeth."

Sally was still giggling.

"Seriously, Sally," said the professor, with a change of manner, "by

the coal trees I meant the trees which have become the coal we are

burning in the stove and the furnace and to make steam. I see no

reason to doubt that this little lizard could fly up into the tops of

the trees. Perhaps he actually alighted on some tree which we now have

down cellar in the coal bin."

"Oh!" cried Sally. "Let's suppose he did. And what did he see from his

topmost branch?"

"Very little," replied the professor, "except treetops and a swamp or

two."

"Well," said Sally, "it's rather disappointing. But I wish I could

have seen it."

"Then," said her father solemnly, "there would now be nothing left of

you but a skeleton which I would be puzzling my brains over. It would

be somewhat disconcerting, Sally, to find a skeleton of a little girl

among these bones of a past age; very disconcerting, indeed, to find

that of Miss Sally Ladue."

"But how would you know it was Miss Sally Ladue's skeleton?" asked

Sally, her eyes twinkling.

"That is a poser," her father answered. "I should know it, though. If

there were no other means of identifying it, I should know it for Miss

Ladue's by the large bump of inquisitiveness on the skull."

"What's my bump of inquisitiveness?"

The professor turned towards her. "Hand me that skull on my desk, and

I'll show you." Sally obediently handed him the skull. "There it is,"

he continued. "You can see it, although it is not as large as your

own. Come here and let us see if it is."

Sally came.

"The phrenologists," he began, feeling of her head, "would--hello!"

"Ouch!" cried Sally, squirming but giggling irrepressibly,

nevertheless.

"It is a very large bump," said the professor gravely; "unexpectedly

large, even for you. What makes it so large, Sally?"

"I--I fell out of a tree yesterday," Sally said. "I suppose it was

that."

"Ah, yes," the professor returned; "and because the bump was so large

by nature it stuck out in a most inappropriate and uncomfortable way

and was made more inappropriate and uncomfortable. It might be safer

for you if you could fly, like my little lizard."

"I wish I could," said Sally; "I wish I could fly into the top of any

tree I wanted to."

"You find the trees very attractive?"

"Yes, I do," Sally replied, simply. "You can see a lot from the top of

a tall tree. The trouble is that you can't find big enough branches

when you get nearly to the top."

"No," observed the professor, "I can't. If I could, I suppose I might

climb trees oftener. It is very disconcerting to get almost up, just

where the leaves are thickest, and find that I can't get any higher

and can't see anything to speak of, either. And twigs that you

wouldn't hesitate to trust yourself upon, Sally, are not nearly big

enough for me. That," he finished, reflectively, "is, I think, the

only reason why I have given up tree-climbing at such an early age."

Sally chuckled delightedly. "Did you climb trees when you were a boy,

father?"

"Huh! Climb trees! Gracious, yes. Used to run right up one side and

down the other. Tallest trees I could find, too. Hundreds of feet

high. Did I use to climb trees!" The professor turned away in excess

of scorn.

"Oh!" cried Sally, clapping her hands.

"Climb trees!" murmured the professor. "Why, there was one tree that I

remember--"

He was interrupted, at this point, by a gentle knock at the door.

"That sounds like your mother's knock, Sally. Will you be kind enough

to see?"

It was Mrs. Ladue. She had heard the unaccustomed sounds of merriment

issuing from her husband's room and had come up--rather timidly, it

must be confessed--to see what it was all about. If her heart was

fluttering a little with symptoms of hope, as she came, it is not to

be wondered at. There was another reason for her coming, although she

was not conscious that it had weight with her.

She was half smiling as she entered; half smiling in a doubtful,

hesitating sort of way, ready to let the smile develop in its own

lovely manner or to check it and let it fade away, according to

circumstances. Sally held tightly to her hand. Professor Ladue got

upon his feet with more agility than would have been expected of him.

"Sally and I were having a session with my lizard," he said, "and were

variously entertaining ourselves. I hope your head is better, Sarah."

Mrs. Ladue appeared to see some reason for letting her smile take its

natural course. It was a very lovely smile, almost tender. Professor

Ladue should have been a very proud and happy man that it was for him.

There is no reason to think that he was.

"Thank you, Charlie," she replied. "It is all right, to-day. Won't you

and Sally go on with your session and let me be a visitor? It must

have been a very amusing session. I don't know when I have heard Sally

laugh so much."

Sally clapped her hands again. "Oh, do," she said. "You were going to

tell me about a tree, father. What about it?"

Professor Ladue talked much nonsense in the next half-hour and was

surprisingly gay; and Sally sat, holding her mother's hand, and

smiling and chuckling and enjoying it intensely. Of course Mrs. Ladue

enjoyed it. The professor seemed so genial and care-free that she

reproached herself for her doubts. She even thought, unfortunately,

that it was a favorable time for asking for something that she was

very much in need of. But she hesitated, even then.

"Charlie," she said timidly, as they were going, "can you--can you let

me have this week's money for the house? Katie, you know,--we owe her

for two weeks, and there's the--"

Professor Ladue interrupted her. "Money?" he said airily. "Money?

What's money? Certainly, my dear. Help yourself. You're welcome to

anything you find there."

He tossed her his pocketbook and turned back to his skeleton. Perhaps

it was to hide some embarrassment; perhaps it was only to indicate

that, so far as he was concerned, the incident was closed. For the

pocketbook was empty.

Mrs. Ladue spoke low and tried hard to keep any hint of reproach out

of her voice. "Did you--did you lose it?" she asked.

"I suppose I must have lost it, if there was anything to lose,"

Professor Ladue replied nonchalantly. He did not turn away from his

work.

"And--and did you notify the police?"

"No, my dear, I have not notified the police, yet." He smiled dryly as

he spoke. "I will take that matter under advisement."

Mrs. Ladue did not push the question further. There were tears in her

eyes as she joined Sally.

"Oh, mother," cried Sally joyously, "wasn't it fun? Did you ever know

that father could be so funny?"

"Yes, darling child. He was full of fun and nonsense before we were

married, and for some years after."

She bent and kissed her daughter, but would say no more.

CHAPTER III

Sally was not completely deprived of the society of other children,

although her temperament made this question a rather difficult one.

Her father did not bother himself about Sally's goings and comings,

which was quite what would have been expected. Indeed, he bothered

himself very little about the doings of his family; as a general

thing, he did not know what they did, nor did he care, so long as they

refrained from interference with his own actions. They had learned to

do that.

Mrs. Ladue did bother herself about Sally's doings a good deal, in

spite of the difficulty of the question; and one would have thought

that she had her fill of difficult questions. She went to the door and

looked out. She saw Charlie playing alone near the foot of a tree. He

was tied to the tree by a long string, one end of which was about his

body, under his arms.

"Charlie," she called, "where's Sally?"

Charlie looked up, impatiently, and shook his head. Mrs. Ladue

repeated her question.

"Up there," he answered, pointing into the tree above his head. "And

I'm a giraffe in a menagerie and giraffes can't talk, mother."

"Oh, excuse me, little giraffe," she said, smiling.

"Great, _big_ giraffe. _Not_ little giraffe."

Meanwhile there had been a sound of scrambling in the tree and Sally

dropped to the ground.

"Did you want me, mother?" she asked.

"I only thought that you have had the care of Charlie for a long time.

Don't you want to go up to Margaret Savage's and play with her?" This

was, perhaps, the hundredth time that Mrs. Ladue had asked that

question.

"No, mother," Sally replied, also for the hundredth time, "I don't.

But if you want me to go, I will."

Mrs. Ladue laughed outright at her daughter's directness. "Why?" she

asked. "I am really curious to know why you don't like to play with

other little girls."

"They are so stupid, mother," Sally answered quietly. "I have a lot

better time alone."

"Well, my dear little daughter," began Mrs. Ladue, laughing again; and

there she stopped. "I should like, Sally,--I should like it very much,

if I could manage to send you to dancing-school this winter."

"Very well, mother," said Sally again.

"But I don't know what your father would think of the idea."

"No," Sally returned. "You can't ever tell, can you?"

"Wouldn't you like to go and be with the other children and do what

they do?"

Sally was quite serious. "I don't think it would be very interesting,"

she said. "But if you want me to go, I will."

Mrs. Ladue sighed; then she laughed. "Well, Sally, dear," she said,

"run along and play in your own way. At any rate, I can trust you."

"Yes, mother, dear, you can."

And Sally ran out, quite happy, to untie the giraffe.

"What you goin' to do, Sally?" he asked.

"Giraffes can't talk," remarked Sally.

"Aren't a giraffe. I'm the keeper. But I'll turn into a giraffe again

as soon as you answer me."

"I'm going down in that little clump by the wall, where there are

plenty of things for giraffes to eat."

Reminded that he was hungry, Charlie began to cry.

"What's the matter?" asked Sally, stopping short.

"Don't _want_ to be a giraffe and eat old leaves and things," Charlie

wailed. "Can't I have some gingerbread, Sally?"

"Well, here," said Sally. She took from her pocket some little

crackers, which she gave him. "I guess those won't hurt you."

Charlie made no reply, being busy with the crackers; and Sally led him

into the clump by the wall and tied him.

"Sally," asked Charlie, somewhat anxiously, "what you goin' to do?"

"I'm going up in the tree, of course."

"Yes, but Sally, what will you be?"

"I haven't decided," replied Sally thoughtfully. "I'll be deciding

while I go up." She turned and began to climb the tree, skillfully.

She had got no farther than the lower branches when she stopped. "Oh,

I'll tell you, Charlie," she cried. "It's just the thing. I'll be

father's little lizard."

"What lizard?" Charlie demanded.

"Father's little lizard, that he's got the skeleton of, up in his

room."

"Isn't any little lizard," Charlie returned, very positively. "That's

a croc."

"It is, too, a lizard, Charlie. Father said so."

"Lizards are little weenty things," Charlie objected. "'Sides, they

don't live in trees."

Sally did not feel sure on this point, so she evaded it.

"That little lizard lived millions of years ago." What were a few

million years, more or less, to her? "And father said that it could

fly like a bat. It used to fly right up into the coal trees and--and

eat the coal that grew on them." Sally was giggling at the

recollection. "Now, this is a coal tree and I'm that little lizard,

and this is millions of years ago."

Charlie had been paralyzed into momentary silence by the information

poured into him so rapidly. The silence was but momentary, but Sally

took advantage of it and climbed swiftly.

"Sally!"

Sally paused. "What?" she asked.

"You that same lizard that father has the skeleton of?"

Sally acknowledged that she was.

"Then," Charlie retorted, "you haven't got any bones in you. They're

up in father's room."

Sally chuckled, but she did not reply to this remark directly.

"Charlie," she called, "you be a saurus something."

"Don't _want_ to be a--Sally, what's a--that thing that you said for

me to be? What is it?"

"Well," replied Sally slowly, "it's an animal kind of like an

alligator--and such things, you know. I guess I'm one. And Charlie,

you can't talk. Animals--especially sauruses--_never_ talked."

"Parrots can," returned Charlie sullenly.

Sally did not think it worth while to try to answer this objection.

"There wasn't any kind of a thing, millions of years ago, that could

talk," she said calmly, "so, of course, they couldn't learn."

"Then you can't talk, either," said Charlie, in triumph. And he

subsided and returned to the eating of crackers, of which, as

everybody knows, the saurians were extremely fond.

Sally, meanwhile, was enjoying the prospect of treetops; an unbroken

prospect of treetops, except for a swamp which, in historic times,

became their own little valley.

Sally had ceased, for the moment, her flitting lightly from bough to

bough, and there was no sign of her presence; and Charlie had come to

the end of his crackers and was browsing around in the grass, picking

up a crumb here and there.

"Hello!" said a strange voice; a strange voice, but a very pleasant

one. "As I'm a living sinner, if here isn't a little pony!"

Charlie looked up into the eyes of a very serious young man. The eyes

were twinkling over the wall and through the gap in the trees. Charlie

decided not to be frightened. But he shook his head. He wasn't a pony.

"Well, well, of course not," the voice went on. "I was rather hasty,

but it looked like a pony, at the first glance. I guess it's a fierce

bull."

Charlie shook his head again, less positively. Now that it had been

suggested, he yearned to be a fierce bull. He wished that he had

thought of it before he shook his head.

"A camel?" asked the young man. "Can it be a camel?"

Once more Charlie shook his head, and he laughed.

"It sounds like a hyena," remarked the stranger solemnly, "but it

can't be, for hyenas eat--" He put his hand to his forehead and seemed

to be puzzling it out. "Aha!" he cried at last. "I have it. A

giraffe!"

"No!" Charlie shouted. "I'm _aren't_ a giraffe. I'm a saw-horse."

And he straddled his legs far apart and his arms far apart, and he

looked as much like a saw-horse as he could. That isn't saying much.

At this last announcement of Charlie's, Sally exploded in a series of

chuckles so sudden and so violent that she almost fell out of the

tree.

An answering titter came from the other side of the wall and a pair of

hands appeared, trying for a hold on the top stones; then the head of

a very pretty little girl followed, until her chin was on a level with

the top of the wall and she could look over it into Charlie's eyes.

The strange young man had looked up into the tree. "Hello!" he

exclaimed. "If there isn't another! Is that a saw-horse, too?"

Charlie had considered himself the person addressed. "Yes," he

replied, "it is. It's a flying one."

"Mercy on us!" cried the young man. "A flying saw-horse! What a lot of

saw-horses you have about here; very interesting ones, too."

"Yes," said Charlie importantly, "we like to be 'em."

"It must be most exciting to be so extraordinary a thing. Do you

suppose you could get that flying one to come down where we can see

it? Do you know, I never have seen a flying saw-horse in all the

nineteen years that I have lived."

"She won't come down unless she wants to," Charlie grumbled.

Sally was recovering, in a measure, from her fit of chuckling. She

leaned far forward, below the screen of leaves.

"Oh, yes, I will," she called, in a low, clear voice. "Besides, I want

to. Charlie was mistaken about the saw-horse. He meant saurus. And I

was a flying lizard and this was a coal tree. From the top of the tree

you can't see anything but treetops and swamps. It's millions of years

ago, you know. And father's got the skeleton of this very lizard up in

his room, and he said that it used to fly right up in the topmost

branches of the coal trees and he told me about the sauruses that used

to be." She had dropped to the ground. "Oh, it's very interesting."

"It must be," the young man smilingly replied; "and I should suppose

that it must be rather interesting for your father to have such a

pupil."

"It isn't," Sally returned. "That is--father only told me those things

the other day."

The young man laughed. "I guess you must be Professor Ladue's little

girl."

"Yes," said Sally, "we are. That is, I am, and this is my brother

Charlie."

"The only and original saw-horse. You, I suppose, were a--we'll call

it a gynesaurus--"

Sally clapped her hands and gave a little laugh of delight.

"And this," he continued, laying his hand affectionately upon the

small head beside him, "is my small sister, Henrietta Sanderson, who

would be happy to be any kind of a beast that you tell her about. She

is ten years old and she dotes on being strange beasts."

"Oh," cried Sally, "and I'm ten years old, too. Would Henrietta like

to come over the wall now? There's a gate farther along."

"Henrietta despises gates. But does your invitation include her

brother? I'm Fox Sanderson and I was on my way to see your father."

"Father isn't at home to-day," said Sally; "and, if you could come

over, too--"

At that, Fox Sanderson put his hands on the top of the wall and

vaulted lightly over. He turned to help Henrietta.

"Now," he said, when she was safely on the right side, "here we all

are. What'll we do?"

Henrietta had her brother's hand. "Fox tells lovely stories," she

remarked.

"Does he?" asked Sally. "What about?"

"About any kind of a thing that you ask him," answered Henrietta.

"About sauruses?" Sally asked eagerly, turning to him.

"All right," he agreed, smiling; "about sauruses. But I'm afraid it's

just a little too cold for you youngsters to sit still and listen to

stories. I'll have to keep you moving a bit."

Sally told her mother about it that night. She thought that she never

had had such a good time in all her life. Fox Sanderson! Well, he told

the most wonderful stories that ever were.

"And, mother," said Sally, all interest, "he had me be a gynesaurus

and Henrietta was a---- But what are you laughing at?"

For Mrs. Ladue had burst out laughing. "My dear little girl!" she

cried softly. "My dear little girl! A gynesaurus! This Fox Sanderson

must be interesting, indeed."

"Then I can play with Henrietta? And father wouldn't mind, do you

think? And your head can't be hurting, mother, because you just

laughed right out."

CHAPTER IV

Professor Ladue again sat on the floor of his room before the skeleton

of his lizard, absent-mindedly fingering a bone. Now and then he

looked out of the window at the great tree; at that particular spot in

the great tree upon which his daughter had been seated, one morning,

not so very long before. He may have had a half-formed wish that he

might again discover her there.

But I do not know what half-formed wishes he had, concerning the tree,

his daughter, or anything else. At all events, Sally did not appear in

the tree. Had not he expressed disapproval of that very performance?

He could trust her. Perhaps, with a dim consciousness of that fact,

and, perhaps, with a certain disappointment that she was to be trusted

so implicitly,--she bore, in that respect, not the most remote

resemblance to her father,--the professor sighed. Then, still holding

the bone which bothered him, he went to his desk. There was a bone

missing--possibly more than one--and he would try to draw the missing

bone.

He had scarcely got to work when there was a knock at his door. It was

a firm knock, but not loud, expressing a quiet determination.

Professor Ladue seemed to know that knock. He seemed, almost, as if he

had been waiting for it.

"Come!" he cried, with an alacrity which would not have been expected

of him.

He pushed back his drawing-board and Sally came in.

"Ah, Miss Ladue!" he cried, with a certain spurious gayety which

concealed--something. I don't know what it concealed, and neither did

Sally, although she knew well enough that there was something behind

it. She feared that it was anxiety behind it, and she feared the cause

of that anxiety. "And what," continued the Professor, "can we do for

Miss Ladue to-day? Will she have more about this lizard of mine?"

Sally's eyes lighted up and she smiled. "I should like that very much,

father, thank you. But I can't, this morning, for I'm taking care of

Charlie."

"And is Charlie concealed somewhere about you? Possibly you have him

in your pocket?"

Sally giggled. "Charlie's tied to a tree."

"Tied to a tree! Does he submit gracefully?"

"He's an alligator; down by the wall, you know."

"Ah!" exclaimed the professor. "I am illumined. Do you think it is

quite for the safety of the passers-by to keep an alligator so close

to the road?"

Sally giggled again. "Yes," she returned, "if I'm not gone too long. I

came on an errand."

Professor Ladue lost somewhat of his gayety. "State your errand,

Sally. I hope--"

But the professor neglected to state what he had hoped. Sally stated

her errand with her customary directness.

"Mother wants me to go to dancing-school. Can I?"

"I suppose," returned Professor Ladue airily, "that you can go

wherever your legs will carry you. I see no indications of your

inability in that direction or in any other. Whether you _may_ go is

another question."

Sally did not smile. "Well, then, may I? Have you any objection? Will

you let me go?"

"That is a matter which deserves more consideration. Why do you wish

to go?"

"Only because mother wants me to," Sally answered. "I like to please

mother."

"Oh," said the professor. "Ah! And what, if I may ask, are your own

inclinations in the matter?"

"Well," replied Sally slowly. "I--it doesn't seem to me that it would

be very interesting to go there just because a lot of other children

go. I could have a lot better time playing by myself. That is, I--of

course, there's Henrietta, but Margaret Savage is stupid. But," she

added hastily, "I do want to go because mother wants me to."

"Oh," the professor remarked, with a slight smile of amusement; "so

Margaret Savage is stupid. But why didn't your mother ask me herself?"

"Perhaps she was afraid to," Sally said quietly. "I don't know what

the reason was."

"But you think it was that she was afraid to." The smile on his face

changed imperceptibly. The change made it a sneer. It is astonishing

to see how much a slight change can accomplish. "Perhaps you know why

she was afraid?"

"Yes," Sally acknowledged, "perhaps I do."

"Well, would you be good enough to give me the benefit of your ideas

on that subject?"

Sally flushed a little, but she did not falter in the directness of

her gaze any more than in her speech. "You generally make her cry when

she asks you for anything."

The professor flushed in his turn. "Indeed!" said he. "A most

observing child! A very observing child, indeed. And so your mother

sent you in her place."

"She didn't," said Sally impassively, although with a rising color;

"she doesn't know anything about my coming."

"Oh!" remarked the professor reflectively. "So you came on your own

hook--off your own bat."

She nodded.

There was a long silence while Professor Ladue drummed on the table

with his fingers. Sally waited.

At last he turned. "Sally," he said, with a slight return of that

gayety he had shown on her entrance, "the high courage of Miss Sally

Ladue shall receive the reward which it deserves. It is not fitting

that it should not. Bearding the lion in his den is nothing to it. I

am curious to know, Sally, whether you--" But there the professor

stopped. He had been about to ask his daughter, aged ten, whether she

was not afraid. He knew that she was not afraid. He knew that, if

there was some fear, some hesitation, some doubt as to the exact

outcome of the interview, it was not on Sally's part.

Sally was waiting for him to finish.

"Well, Sally," he continued, waving his hand airily, "make your

arrangements. Miss Ladue is to go to dancing-school and dance her feet

off if she wants to. Never mind the price." He waved his hand again.

"Never mind the price. What are a few paltry dollars that they should

interfere with pleasure? What is money to dancing?"

Sally was very solemn. "I think the price is ten dollars," she said.

Professor Ladue snapped his fingers in the air. "It doesn't matter.

Poof! Ten dollars or ten hundred! Let us dance!"

Sally's eyes filled, but she choked the tears back.

"Thank you, father," she said gently. "Mother will be glad."

He rose and bowed, his hand on his heart. "That is important, of

course."

"I think it is the only important thing about it," Sally returned

promptly.

The professor bowed again, without reply, and Sally turned to go.

It may have been that the professor's heart smote him. It may have

been that he had been aware of Sally's unshed tears. It may have been

that he regretted that he should have been the cause--but I may be

doing him an injustice. Very likely he was above such things as the

tears of his wife and his daughter. It is quite possible that he was

as proud of his ability to draw tears as of his ability to draw,

correctly, a bone that he never saw. Whatever the reason, he spoke

again as Sally was opening the door.

"Will Miss Ladue," he asked, with an elaborate politeness, "honor my

poor study with her presence when she has more leisure? When she has

not Charlie on her mind? We can, if she pleases, go farther into the

matter of lizards or of coal trees."

"Thank you, father," Sally replied.

Professor Ladue was conscious of a regret that she spoke without

enthusiasm. But it was too much to expect--so soon.

"I shall be pleased," he said.

An idea, which seemed just to have occurred to Sally, made her face

brighten. The professor noted it.

"And can--may I bring Henrietta?"

"Bring Henrietta!" cried the professor. "That is food for thought. Who

is this Henrietta? It seems to me that you mentioned her once before."

"Yes," said Sally eagerly. "I did. She is Henrietta Sanderson and Fox

Sanderson is her brother. He came to see you the other day. You

weren't at home."

"Fox Sanderson!"

"Yes," said Sally, again; "and when I told him that you weren't at

home, he came over the wall. He brought Henrietta. He knows a lot

about sauruses."

"He knows a lot about sauruses, does he?" the professor repeated

thoughtfully. "It seems to me that I have some recollection of Fox

Sanderson."

He turned and rummaged in a drawer of his desk. He seemed unable to

find what he was looking for, and he extracted from the depths of the

drawer many empty cigarette boxes, which he cast into the grate, and a

handful of papers, which he dumped on the top of the desk,

impatiently. He sorted these over, in the same impatient manner, and

finally he found it. It was a letter and was near the bottom of the

pile. He opened it and read it.

"H-mph!" he said, reading, "Thanks me for my kind permission, does he?

Now, Miss Ladue, can you give me any light upon that? What permission

does he refer to? Permission to do what?"

Sally shook her head. But her father was not looking.

"Oh," he said; "h-m. I must have said that I'd see him." He read on.

"I must even have said that he could study with me; that I'd help him.

Very thoughtless of me, very thoughtless, indeed! It must have been

after--well. And he will be here in the course of three weeks." The

professor turned the leaf. "This was written a month ago. So he's

here, is he, Sally?"

"Yes," Sally answered, "he's here."

The professor stood, for a few moments, looking at Sally, the slight

smile on his lips expressive of mingled disgust and amusement.

"Well," he observed, at last, "it appears to be one on me. I must have

said it. I have a vague recollection of something of the kind, but the

recollection is very vague. Do you like him, Sally?"

"Oh, yes." Sally seemed to feel that that was too sweeping. "That is,"

she added, "I--I like him."

Professor Ladue laughed lightly. Sally laughed, too, but in an

embarrassed fashion.

"That is satisfactory. You couldn't qualify it, Sally, could you?

Tried hard, didn't you?"

Sally flushed.

"Well," continued the professor, "if you chance to see this Fox

Sanderson, or any relative of his, will you convey to him my deep

sense of pleasure at his presence? I shall be obliged to Miss Ladue if

she will do that."

"I will," said Sally gravely.

Professor Ladue bowed. So far as he was concerned, the interview was

closed. So far as Sally was concerned, it was not.

"Well?" asked Sally. "May I bring Henrietta? You haven't answered that

question, father."

"Dear me! What an incomprehensible omission! I must be getting old and

forgetful. Old and forgetful, Sally. It is a state that we all attain

if we do not die first."

"Yes," said Sally, "I suppose so. May I bring Henrietta, father?"

Professor Ladue laughed shortly. "What a persistent child you are,

Sally!"

"I have to be," she replied, trying not to show her disappointment. "I

suppose you mean that you don't want me to bring Henrietta. Well, I

won't. Perhaps I may come in some day and hear about the lizard."

He did what he had not expected to do. "Oh, bring her, by all means,"

he cried, with an assumed cheerfulness which would not have deceived

you or me. It did not deceive Sally. "Bring her." He waved his hand

inclusively. "Bring Henrietta and Margaret Savage and any others you

can think of. Bring them all. I shall be pleased--honored." And again

he bowed.

Sally was just opening the door. "Margaret Savage would not be

interested," she said in a low voice, without turning her head, "and

there aren't--"

"Sally," the professor interrupted in cold exasperation, "will you be

good enough to project in my direction, what voice you think it best

to use, when you speak to me? Will you be so kind? I do not believe

that I am growing deaf, but I don't hear you."

Sally turned toward him. "Yes, father, I beg your pardon. I said that

Margaret Savage wouldn't be interested," she repeated quietly and

clearly, "and that there aren't any others."

He made an inarticulate noise in his throat. Sally was on the point of

shutting the door.

"Sally!" he called.

The door opened again just far enough to show proper respect. "Yes,

father?"

"Would your friend Henrietta really be interested in--in what she

would probably hear?"

The door opened wider. "Oh, yes, she would. I'm sure she would." There

was a note of eagerness in Sally's voice.

"Well, then, you may bring her. I shall be glad to have you both when

you find leisure. But no Margaret Savages, Sally."

"Oh, no, father. Thank you very much."

After which Sally shut the door and the professor heard her running

downstairs. He seemed pleased to hear the noise, which really was not

great, and seated himself at his desk again and took up his drawing.

And Sally, when she had got downstairs and out of doors, found her

exhilaration oozing away rapidly and a depression of spirit taking its

place. The interview, on the whole, had been well calculated--it may

have been carefully calculated--to take the starch out of a woman

grown. Professor Ladue had had much experience at taking the starch

out of others. And Sally was not a woman grown, but a child of ten.

Her powers of resistance had been equal to the task imposed,

fortunately, but she found that the exercise of those powers had left

her weak and shaky, and she was sobbing as she ran. If the professor

had seen her then,--if he had known just what her feelings were as she

sobbed,--would he have been proud of his ability to draw tears? I

wonder.

"Anyway," Sally sobbed, "I know how he makes mother feel. I know. Oh,

mother, mother! But I'll never give in. I won't!"

She stopped her convulsive sobbing by the simple process of shutting

her teeth over her lower lip, and she dashed away the tears from her

eyes as she ran toward the captive alligator, whose continuous roar

was growing in her ears. The roar was one of rage.

"Oh, dear! I left him too long."

And Sally ran up to find Charlie fumbling at the knot of the rope by

which he was tied. He cried out at her instantly.

"Sally! Don't _want_ to be tied any more. _Aren't_ an alligator. I'm a

little boy. Don't want to be tied like an old cow."

Sally hastily untied him, comforting him, meanwhile, as well as she

could. But Charlie, noticing something unusual in her voice, looked up

into her face and saw traces of tears. He immediately burst into tears

himself.

"Charlie!" cried Sally, fiercely; "Charlie! Laugh, now! Laugh, I tell

you." She glanced over the wall. "Here come Fox Sanderson and

Henrietta. Laugh!"

CHAPTER V

Sally always remembered that winter, a winter of hard work and growing

anxiety for her, enlivened by brief and occasional joys. She got to

know Fox and Henrietta very well, which was a continual joy and

enlivenment. Sally did not count dancing-school among the

enlivenments. And the infrequent lessons with Fox and Henrietta and

her father were enlivenments, too, usually; not always. After the

times when they were not, Sally wanted to cry, but she didn't, which

made it all the harder.

Her mother seemed steadily progressing toward permanent invalidism,

while her father was doing much worse than that. And she took more and

more of the burden of both upon her own small shoulders. Poor child!

She should have known no real anxiety; none more real than the common

anxieties of childhood. But perhaps they are real enough. Sally was

not eleven yet.

It is hard to say whether her mother or her father caused Sally the

more anxiety. Her mother's progress was so gradual that the change

from day to day--or from week to week, for that matter--was not

noticeable; while her father's was spasmodic. Sally did not see him

during a spasm, so that she did not know how noticeable the change was

from day to day or from hour to hour. We do not speak of weeks in such

cases. But it was just after a spasm that he was apt to make his

appearance again at home in a condition of greater or less

dilapidation, with nerves on edge and his temper in such a state that

Mrs. Ladue had grown accustomed, in those circumstances, to the use of

great care when she was forced to address him. Lately, she had avoided

him entirely at such times. Sally, on the contrary, made no effort to

avoid him and did not use great care when she addressed him, although

she was always respectful. This course was good for the shreds of the

professor's soul and perhaps no harder for Sally. But that was not the

reason why she did it. She could not have done differently.

There was the time in the fall, but that was over. And there was the

time at Christmas which Sally nipped in the bud. Following the

Christmas fiasco--a fiasco only from the point of view of the

professor--was the Era of Good Behavior. That is begun with capitals

because Sally was very happy about her father during that era,

although her mother's health worried her more and more. Then there was

the time late in the winter, after her father had broken down under

the strain of Good Behavior for two months; and, again, twice in

March. Professor Ladue must have been breaking rapidly during that

spring, for there came that awful time when it seemed, even to Sally,

as if the bottom were dropping out of everything and as if she had

rather die than not. Dying seems easier to all of us when we are

rather young, although the idea does not generally come to us when we

are ten years old. But it must be remembered that Sally was getting

rather more than her fair share of hard knocks. Later in life dying

does not seem so desirable. It is a clear shirking of responsibility.

Not that Sally ought to have had responsibility.

The time at Christmas happened on the last day of term time; and,

because that day was only half a day for the professor and because

Christmas was but two days off, Sally had persuaded her mother to take

her into town. "Town" was half an hour's ride in the train; and, once

there, Sally intended to persuade her mother further and to beard her

father in his laboratory and to take him for an afternoon's Christmas

shopping; very modest shopping. Whether Mrs. Ladue suspected the

designs of Sally and was sure of their failure, I do not know. Sally

had not told her mother of her complete plans. She was by no means

certain of their success herself. In fact, she felt very shaky about

it, but it was to be tried. Whatever her reason, Mrs. Ladue consented

with great and very evident reluctance, and it may have been her dread

of the occasion that gave her the headache which followed. So Sally

had to choose between two evils. And, the evil to her father seeming

the greater if she stayed at home with her mother, she elected to go.

She disposed of Charlie and knocked softly on her mother's door. There

was a faint reply and Sally went in. The shades were pulled down and

the room was rather dark. Sally went to her mother and bent over her

and put her arms half around her. She did it very gently,--oh, so

gently,--for fear of making the headache worse.

"Is your head better, mother, dear?" she asked softly.

Mrs. Ladue smiled wanly. "Having my dear little girl here makes it

better," she answered.

"Does it, mother? Does it really?" The thought made Sally very happy.

But then it suddenly came over her that, if she carried out her plans,

she could not stay. She was torn with conflicting emotions, but not

with doubts. She had considered enough and she knew what she intended

to do. She did not hesitate.

"I'm very sorry, mother, dear, that I can't stay now. I'll come in

when I get back, though, and I'll stay then, if it isn't too late and

if you want me then. I truly will. I love to."

"Is it Charlie, Sally? You have too much of the care of Charlie. If I

weren't so good for nothing!"

"I've left Charlie with Katie, and he's happy. It's father. I think

I'd better go in and meet him. Don't you think I'd better?"

The tears came to Mrs. Ladue's eyes. "Bless you, dear child! But how

can you, dear, all alone? No, Sally. If you must go, I'll get up and

go with you."

"Oh, mother, you mustn't, you mustn't. I can get Fox to go with me. I

know he will. I promise not to go unless I can get Fox--or some

one--to go."

"Some grown person, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked anxiously.

"Yes," answered Sally, almost smiling, "some grown person. That is,"

she added, "if you call Fox Sanderson a grown person."

"Fox Sanderson is a dear good boy," replied Mrs. Ladue. "I wish you

had a brother like him, Sally,--just like him."

"I wish I did," said Sally, "but I haven't. The next best thing is to

have him just Fox Sanderson. Will you be satisfied with him, mother,

dear,--if I can get him to go?"

Again Mrs. Ladue smiled. "Quite satisfied, dear. I can trust you,

Sally, and you don't know what a relief that is."

"No," said Sally, "I s'pose I don't." Nevertheless she may have had

some idea.

That thought probably occurred to her mother, for she laughed a little

tremulously. "Kiss me, darling, and go along."

So Sally kissed her mother, tenderly and again and again, and turned

away. But her mother called her back.

"Sally, there is a ticket in my bureau, somewhere. And, if you can

find my purse, you had better take that, too. I think there is nearly

two dollars in it. It is a pretty small sum for Christmas shopping,

but I shall be glad if you spend it all."

Sally turned to kiss her mother again. "I shan't spend it all," she

said.

She rummaged until she found the ticket and the purse; and, with a

last good-bye to her mother, she was gone. Mrs. Ladue sighed. "The

darling!" she said, under her breath.

Sally met Fox and Henrietta just outside her own gate. "Oh," she

cried, "it's lucky, for you're exactly the persons I wanted to see."

Henrietta looked expectant.

"Well, Sally," Fox said, smiling, "what's up now?"

"I'm going to town," Sally answered, less calmly than usual. She laid

her hand on his arm as she spoke. "That is, I'm going if I can find

somebody to go with me."

Fox laughed. "Is that what you call a hint, Sally? Will we do?"

"It isn't a hint," said Sally, flushing indignantly. "That is,--it

wasn't meant for one. I was going to ask you if you had just as lief

go as not. I've got a ticket and there are--let's see"--she took out

her ticket and counted--"there are seven trips on it. That's enough.

Would you just as lief?"

"I'd rather," replied Fox promptly. "Come on, Henrietta. We're going

to town." He looked at his watch. "Train goes in fourteen minutes, and

that's the train we take. Step lively, now."

Henrietta giggled and Sally smiled; and they stepped lively and got to

the station with two minutes to spare. Fox occupied that two minutes

with a rattle of airy nothings which kept Sally busy and her mind off

her errand; which may have been Fox's object or it may not. For Sally

had not told her errand yet, and how could Fox Sanderson have known

it? When they got into the car, Sally was a little disappointed

because she had not been able to tell him. She had meant

to--distinctly meant to during that two minutes.

She had no chance to tell him in the train. The cars made such a noise

that she would have had to shout it in his ear and, besides, he talked

steadily.

"I'll tell you what," he said, at the end of a stream of talk of which

Sally had not heard half. "Let's get your father, Sally, and take him

with us while you do your errands, whatever they are. He'll be through

in the laboratory, and we'll just about catch him."

"All right," Sally murmured; and she sank back in her seat

contentedly.

She had been sitting bolt upright. She felt that it was all right now,

and she would not need to tell Fox or anybody. She felt very grateful

to him, somehow. She felt still more grateful to him when he let the

conductor take all their fares from her ticket without a protest. Fox

was looking out of the window.

"It looks as if we might have some snow," he remarked. "Or it may be

rain. I hope it will wait until we get home."

When they got to the laboratory, they found one of the cleaners just

unlocking the door. She didn't know whether the professor had gone or

not. He always kept the door locked after hours; but would they go in?

They would and did, but could not find Professor Ladue. Fox found, on

his desk, a beaker with a few drops of a liquid in it. He took this up

and smelt of it. The beaker still held a trace of warmth.

"He has just this minute gone," he said. "If we hurry I think we can

catch him. I know the way he has probably gone."

"How do you know he has just gone?" asked Sally, looking at him

soberly and with her customary directness. "How can you tell?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "You didn't know that I was a

detective, did you, Sally?"

"No," said Sally. "Are you?"

"Seem to be," Fox returned. "Come on, or we'll lose him."

So they hurried, twisting and winding through streets that Sally did

not know. They seemed to be highly respectable streets. Sally wondered

where they were going. She wanted to ask Fox, but, evidently, he

didn't want to take the time to talk. Henrietta's eyes were brighter

than usual and she looked from Fox to Sally with a curiosity which she

could not conceal; but Sally, at least, did not notice, and Henrietta

said nothing.

"There he is," said Fox, at last.

They had just turned the corner of a street lined with what appeared

to Sally to be rather imposing houses. It was a highly respectable

street, like the others they had come through, and it was very quiet

and dignified. Indeed, there was no one in sight except Professor

Ladue, who was sauntering along with the manner of the care-free. His

coat was unbuttoned and blowing slightly, although there was that

chill in the air that always precedes snow and the wind was rising.

Their steps echoed in the quiet street, and, instinctively, they

walked more softly. Strangely enough, they all seemed to have the same

feeling; a feeling that the professor might suddenly vanish if he

heard them and looked around.

"Now, Sally," Fox continued, speaking somewhat hurriedly, "you run and

catch him before he turns that next corner. The street around that

corner is only a court with a dozen houses on it. If you don't catch

him before he goes into the house in the middle of that block, give it

up. Don't try to go in after him, but come back. Henrietta and I will

be waiting for you. If you get him, we won't wait. But don't say

anything about our being here unless he asks you. He might not like to

know that I had followed him."

"But," protested Sally, bewildered, "aren't you going with us? I

thought you were going shopping with us."

"If we had caught him before he had left the college. Now, it might be

embarrassing--to both your father and to me."

"But your tickets!" wailed Sally in a distressed whisper. They had

been speaking like conspirators.

Fox laughed softly. "I have a few cents about me. You can make that

right some other time. Now, run!"

So Sally ran. She ran well and quietly and came up with her father

just after he had turned that last corner. The professor must have

been startled at the unexpectedness of the touch upon his arm, for he

turned savagely, prepared, apparently, to strike.

"Father!" cried Sally; but she did not shrink back. "Father! It's only

me!"

The look in Professor Ladue's eyes changed. Some fear may have come

into it; a fear that always seemed to be latent where Sally was

concerned. His look was not pleasant to see directed toward his own

little daughter. The savage expression was still there, and a frown,

denoting deep displeasure.

"Sally!" he exclaimed angrily. Then he was silent for a time; a time,

it is to be presumed, long enough for him to collect his scattered

faculties and to be able to speak as calmly as a professor should

speak to his daughter, aged ten.

"Sally," he said at last, coldly, "may I ask how you came here?"

"Why," Sally replied, speaking hastily, "I was coming in town, this

afternoon,--I planned it, long ago, with mother,--and--"

"Is your mother with you?" the professor interrupted.

To a careful observer he might have seemed more startled than ever;

but perhaps Sally was not a careful observer. At all events, she gave

no sign.

"Mother had a headache and couldn't come," said Sally quietly. She

must have been afraid that her father would ask other questions. It

was quite natural that he should want to know who did come with her.

So she went on rapidly. "But I thought I'd come just the same, so I

did, and I went to your laboratory, but you'd just gone and I followed

on after and I caught you just as you turned this corner, and now I

would like to have you go down to the shops with me. I want to buy

something for mother and Charlie. Will you go with me, father?"

The professor did not ask any of the questions that Sally feared.

Possibly he had as much fear of the answers as Sally had of the

questions. So he asked none of the questions that one would think a

father would ask of his little daughter in such circumstances. As

Sally neared the end of her rapid speech, his eyes had narrowed.

"So," he said slowly, "I gather from what you have left unsaid that

your mother sent you after me."

There was the faintest suspicion of a sneer in his voice, but he tried

to speak lightly. As had happened many times before, he did not

succeed.

"She didn't," answered Sally, trying to be calm. Her eyes burned. "She

didn't want me to come. I came on my own hook."

"It might have been wiser, Sally," the professor observed judicially,

"to do what your mother wished."

Sally made no reply. She would have liked to ask him if he did--if he

ever did what her mother wished.

Sally saying nothing and seeming somewhat abashed, the professor found

himself calmer. "So that course did not commend itself to your

judgment? Didn't think it best to mind your mother. And you went to

the laboratory and--who let you in?" he asked suddenly.

"One of the cleaners."

"Oh, one of the cleaners. A very frowzy lady in a faded black skirt

and no waist worth mentioning, I presume." The professor seemed

relieved. "And you went in, and didn't find me. Very natural. I was

not there. And having made up your mind, from internal evidence, I

presume, which way I had gone,--but who told you?--oh, never mind.

It's quite immaterial. A very successful trail, Sally; or shall I say

shadow? You must have the makings of a clever detective in you. I

shouldn't have suspected it. Never in the world."

The professor was quite calm by this time; rather pleased with

himself, especially as he had chanced to remark the tears standing in

his little daughter's eyes.

"And I never suspected it!" he repeated. Then he laughed; but it was a

mirthless laugh. If he had known how empty it would sound, the

professor would never have done it.

At his laugh, two of the aforesaid tears splashed on the sidewalk, in

spite of Sally's efforts to prevent. The tears may not have been

wholly on her own account. She may have felt some pity for her

father's pitiful pretense.

She bit her lip. "Will you go with me now, father?" she asked, as soon

as she could trust herself to speak at all.

It was always somewhat difficult to account for the professor's

actions and to assign the motive which really guided. The professor,

himself, was probably unaware, at the time, of having any motive. So

why seek one? It need not concern us.

"Go with you, Sally? Why, yes, indeed. Certainly. Why not?" he agreed

with an alacrity which was almost unseemly; as if he challenged

anybody to say that that was not just what he had meant to do, all

along. "I have some presents to buy--for your mother and Charlie. And

for somebody else, too," he murmured, in a tone that was, no doubt,

meant for Sally to hear. She heard it.

Sally smiled up at him and took his hand, which she seldom did. It is

true that she seldom had the chance. Then she glanced quickly around,

to see whether Fox and Henrietta were in sight. The street was

deserted.

Professor Ladue buttoned his coat; but the wind was rising still, and

the chill increasing, and his coat was rather light for the season.

What more natural than that he should wish it buttoned? But Sally

would have unbuttoned her coat gladly. She would not have felt the

chill; and she almost skipped beside him, as they walked rapidly down

toward streets which were not deserted, but crowded with people. As

they went, he talked more and more light nonsense, and Sally was

happy; which was a state much to be desired, but unusual enough to be

worthy of remark.

They were very late in getting home. With the crowds and the snow

which had begun to fall, there was no knowing what the trains would be

up to. Trains have an unpleasant habit of being late whenever there is

any very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. But I suppose

there is always somebody on any train who has a very special reason

for wishing to get in promptly. There was on this train. Sally had a

bad case of the fidgets, thinking of her mother, who must be waiting

and waiting and wondering why her little daughter didn't come. It

would be bad for her head. The professor, too,--but I don't know about

the professor; he may have been in no hurry.

When at last they did get home, after a long wade through snow up to

her shoetops, Sally ran up to her mother's room, shedding her wet and

snowy things as she ran. She knocked softly and, at the first sound of

her mother's voice, she went in and shut the door gently behind her.

The room was nearly pitch dark, but she could see the bed, dimly, and

she ran to it and ran into her mother's arms.

"Bless you, Sally, darling!" Mrs. Ladue cried softly. "You don't know

how glad I am to have you back."

"I got him, mother, dear," Sally whispered. "I got him. But it was

only by the skin of my teeth."

CHAPTER VI

If Sally did get the professor only by the skin of her teeth, she had

no need to keep that precarious hold upon him. Providence or the

elements, or whatever you wish to call it, took that matter in hand

and attended to it with the thoroughness usual in cases in which it

undertakes to attend to anything. For Sally awoke the next morning to

find her world bound fast in ice. Every twig bore its load except such

as had refused to bear it. The birches, in scattered clumps, bowed

down to the ground, and the hard crust of the snow was littered with

broken branches.

Sally stood at her window, looking out. It was beautiful, there was no

denying it; but, as she looked at the birches, every one of them bent

to the ground, with the freshly fallen snow covering it, and its top

held fast under the crust, her lip curled a little. She didn't think

much of a tree which couldn't hold itself up. It seemed to her too

much like saving yourself at the price of your self-respect. Better be

a self-respecting, upstanding tree, even if you did lose an arm or

two; better to go down altogether, if need be, but fighting. Yes, in

spite of their beauty, she despised the birches. And, with some such

thoughts as these, she turned from the window and dressed quickly.

Nothing came that morning. A horse could hardly get through that crust

with safety to his legs. In consequence, the professor had no cream.

Sally fully expected an outburst of rage, which, with the professor,

took the form of acidly sarcastic remarks. His remarks, while

preserving outward forms of politeness, usually resulted in reducing

Mrs. Ladue to tears as soon as she had gained the seclusion of her own

room. It was not that Professor Ladue held his wife accountable for

such things as heavy snowstorms or sleet-storms--upon full

consideration. Such things are usually denominated "acts of God," and,

in contracts, the contractors are expressly relieved from

responsibility for failure of performance in consequence. The

professor himself, upon full consideration, would have held such

exemption quite proper. But his wife was not a contractor and was

entitled to no such exemptions. A professor was entitled to cream for

his breakfast.

Sally, coming down with Charlie, found her father eating his breakfast

in solitude and in apparent content, and without cream; certainly

without cream. Mrs. Ladue had not appeared. Perhaps she was tired of

being reduced to tears on such occasions and had more confidence in

Sally than she had in herself. Certainly the professor was less apt to

indulge his taste for acid sarcasm with Sally. There is little

satisfaction to be got out of it when the only effect upon the hearer

is a barely perceptible rise in color and a tightening of the lips. At

all events, he did not do what was expected of him.

"Good-morning, Sally," he said pleasantly.

Sally was much surprised. She was so much surprised that the blood

surged into her cheeks in a flood. That was a greater effect than

could have been produced by acid sarcasm in any amount. The professor

might have noted that. Perhaps he did.

"Good-morning, father," Sally replied, smiling. She hesitated for a

fraction of a second, then, yielding to her impulse, she put her arm

around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-morning." And she

went quickly to her seat, her cheeks blazing.

The professor was so astonished at this act of Sally's,--an act as

difficult to foresee and to provide against as an act of God,--he was

so thoroughly astonished, I say, that he spilled some of the coffee

which had no cream in it. But let us hope he would not have wanted to

provide against that act of God.

"Well, Sally," he said, laughing lightly, "it's surprising to think

what the weather can do when it tries. Only yesterday afternoon, bare

ground and scarcely a hint of what was coming. Now, here we are, tied

up."

"Tied up?" Sally asked.

"Tied up," he repeated. "There's little doubt about it. No milkman."

He waved his hand. "And there'll be no grocer and no anybody else.

You'll see. No butcher--meat man--we don't have butchers, now. Just

think of that, Sally. No meat until spring. How will you like that? We

should have been keeping chickens and pigs and we ought to have cows

and a calf or two. Then I would take my axe in my hand and my knife

and I would sally out to the barn. You would hear sounds of murder and

we should have fresh meat. Fresh meat!" The professor looked

ferocious.

"And no trains," he added meditatively. "I haven't heard a train this

morning and I don't expect to."

"Well," said Sally, "you don't have to take them. What do you care?"

"Ah, true," he replied in the same meditative tone. "Very just, Sally.

I don't have to take them, and what do I care? What do I? Answer,

nothing."

The professor waved his hand again and drank his coffee. An

irrepressible chuckle came from Sally. She said nothing, but waited

for her father to resume. He always did resume when he was in this

mood, which was not often.

He put down his empty cup. "And what do we do? We finish our

breakfast, which may be a matter of some time, judging from quantity

alone." He pointed to Sally's plate and to Charlie's. Charlie had been

eating industriously ever since he sat down. "We finish our breakfast

and we loaf awhile, and then we bundle up and try to shovel out; you,

Sally, and I and Charlie."

Here he pointed a finger at Charlie, who emitted a roar of delight.

"An' can I shovel with my little snow-shovel? Can I?"

The professor poured for himself another cup of coffee. "You are to

have the felicity of shoveling with your little snow-shovel, Charlie.

See that you do good work with it. And Sally shall take the

_middle-sized_ snow-shovel, and I will take the GREAT BIG snow-shovel."

Another roar from Charlie, who began to eat faster.

"This coffee, Sally," continued the professor, "would be better if the

storm had been less severe. But it does very well. It is most

excellent coffee. It is probably better for my health than it would be

with cream. For, do you know, Sally, I am well convinced that cream

with coffee forms quite another substance, which is deleterious to

health and destructive of the ability to sleep, although affecting in

no way the desire to do so. And that, Sally, is most unpleasant."

Professor Ladue was speaking in his lecture-room voice and very

seriously. Sally was smiling. As he finished, the smile grew into a

chuckle and she choked. Charlie, having taken an extraordinarily large

mouthful, and being diverted from the ensuing process by the choking

of Sally, also choked.

"Sally," said the professor calmly, "your little brother needs your

attention. He needs it rather badly, it seems to me." For Charlie had

his mouth open and was getting red in the face.

Sally got up hastily and pounded Charlie on the back. That measure

being ineffective, she shook him violently. He gasped twice.

"Want to race," he exploded.

The professor looked surprised. "An eating race, Charlie?" he asked.

"Why, my dear boy, I shouldn't stand a ghost of a chance with you. We

might make it a handicap, but, even then--"

"Shoveling race," Charlie explained. "You have the great big

snow-shovel an' Sally have the middle-sized shovel an' I have the

little snow-shovel, an' we race to see who can get the most done."

"Brilliant idea, Charlie, positively glittering," his father

returned. "But it would hardly be fair to start us all from scratch, I

am afraid. Better make it a handicap, eh?"

"Yes," Charlie replied, not knowing in the least what a handicap was.

Neither did Sally. "What is a handicap, father?" she asked.

Her father explained.

"Oh," she said, approving, "then it makes the race fair, doesn't it?

Every one has as much chance of winning as everybody else. I think

that is nice."

"It is an attempt in that direction, Sally. But there are many things

about it, about--er--racing--of any kind, that it is just as well you

shouldn't know. So I will not try to explain. If every one concerned

acts fairly, Sally, and with good judgment, it is nice, as you say."

Sally was not going to be put off. "Why doesn't everybody act fairly?"

The professor waved his hand and shrugged his shoulders; but before he

could make any other reply, the door opened softly. He welcomed the

opening of the door. It put a stop to Sally's questioning, which was

apt to become embarrassing, in certain cases.

A glance at Sally's face would have told Professor Ladue who had

opened the door, but it is to be supposed that he knew. Sally jumped

up and ran; and the professor rose--rose with some alacrity--and

turned.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said pleasantly. "We are all glad to see

you. I hope you are feeling better."

Mrs. Ladue smiled happily. One would have thought that Professor Ladue

would have tried that manner oftener. It produced much effect with

little effort; but I spoke hastily. I do not know how much effort it

was.

"Thank you, Charlie--Charlie, dear," she answered, hesitating a

little; "I do feel very much better. I heard all the happy noise down

here and I had to come down."

"Don't apologize, my dear," he protested; "don't apologize, or we

shall have to believe that you didn't mean to come because you didn't

want to."

Mrs. Ladue took her seat, but made no reply. There was a faint color

in her cheeks and she looked almost shyly at her husband. Sally was

gazing at her mother, but not in wonder. There was no fathoming Sally.

She reached out and pressed her mother's hand.

"You look so very pretty, mother," she whispered.

The color in Mrs. Ladue's cheeks became deeper. "Hush, dear," she

whispered in return. "It must be because I am happy."

"I wish we could always be happy," Sally whispered again; "all of us."

There was no way of knowing whether her father had heard these

whispers. He might have heard, but he gave no sign, looking into his

empty cup and playing with the spoon.

"Sally," he said suddenly, "what do you suppose my little lizard would

have done if he had waked up some morning and found his swamp covered

with this?" The professor waved his hand toward the window.

Sally was much interested. "Would he have flown away?"

"Wrong," cried the professor, getting up and walking to the window.

"Guess again."

Sally gave the question some thought. "I don't know," she said at

last.

"Wrong again. Next! Charlie!"

Charlie had his mouth full. He looked up in surprise. "What?" he

spluttered.

"What would my little lizard have done this morning?"

Charlie was no Fletcherite. He swallowed his mouthful very nearly

whole. Then he gasped a little which is not to be wondered at.

"Little lizard would take his little snow-shovel and shovel a great

big place--" he began. Then an idea seemed to strike him and he

stopped with his mouth open. "No," he cried; "little lizard would be

dead."

"Very possibly, Charlie. That's the nearest answer, so far." The

professor turned and regarded his son curiously. "I should really

like to know how you arrived at that conclusion."

"Lizard died a long time ago," Charlie answered. "Couldn't wake up

this morning because you've got the bones upstairs."

The professor laughed. "A very just observation," he remarked. "You

have a logical mind, Charles."

Charles slid down from his chair. "I'm through my breakfast," he

announced. "Want to shovel."

"You forget our programme, Charlie," said his father. "We are to loaf

now. It is always best to eat slowly, masticate your food well,

refrain from drinking when you are thirsty, and stand for half an hour

after eating. There are other things which I forget. But we will loaf

now."

The professor lit a cigarette, after due preliminaries. Mrs. Ladue had

finished, apparently. She had come down rather to enjoy the rare

occasion than to eat. Perhaps it was a knowledge of that fact which

had kept the professor going and a desire--an inexplicable desire--on

his part to keep her in her state of happiness. It was seldom possible

to account for his actions. At all events, he was accomplishing that

end. It was a great pity that his desires did not always run in that

direction. It would have been so easy; so very easy for him, and it

would have made his wife so very happy. But the time when that would

have done any great good may have passed already.

The professor followed out his programme religiously, talking when he

felt like it, always a pleasant and cheerful flow of irresponsible

talk, and loafing conscientiously for half an hour. Mrs. Ladue sat

still, saying little, afraid to move lest the movement break the

spell. Charlie had slipped out, unnoticed.

Presently there was a great noise on the cellar stairs, sounding like

distant thunder. The noise stopped for a moment.

"What's going on?" asked the professor casually. "Socialists in the

cellar? Not that I care," he added, with a wave of his cigarette.

"Mere curiosity. I should be glad to meet any socialists; but not in

the cellar."

Mrs. Ladue laughed gently. It was a long time since the professor had

heard her laugh. That thought occurred to him.

"You will, I think. They are opening the cellar door now. There they

come."

For the noise had resumed, and was approaching along the hall. The

door of the dining-room swung open suddenly and Charlie entered,

earnest and intent and covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind him

dragged three snow-shovels, also covered with dust and cobwebs.

Sally sprang for him. "Oh, Charlie--"

He brushed her aside. "I brung your shovel, father," he said, "an'

Sally's. I couldn't lift 'em all at once, an' so I dragged 'em."

The professor bowed. "So I gathered," he replied. "I thank you,

Charles."

"But, Charlie," Sally cried, "you're all over dust and so are the

shovels. They ought to have been dusted."

Charlie had dropped the shovels on the floor, thinking his mission

ended. Now he leaned over and thoughtfully wiped the shovels, one

after another, with his hand.

"They are," he said, gazing at his grimy hand, "aren't they? But it

was dark an' I couldn't see. Besides, the snow'll clean 'em. I want to

shovel an' race, father," he added, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't it

time yet?"

"Charlie," said his father, throwing away his cigarette, "in the words

of Friar Bacon's brass head, time is. Come on."

CHAPTER VII

The next month passed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms

cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the

trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and

she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether

trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of

light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and

children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that

little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might

change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly

long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited

for it to pass. It would have been a relief--yes, distinctly it would

have been a relief, at first. But that feeling passed, too.

In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the

tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as

happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to

happiness--to freedom from real worries--as far as we can compass that

end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether

the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a

thought.

Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her

husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might

have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might

have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for

some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end

of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She

knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the

professor.

Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to

be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she

cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!"

Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said

softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will."

But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she

knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and

Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played--or was

supposed to be playing--with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her

mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor

did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox

had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox,

saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew

it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what

he thought about her mother's health.

He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time.

"Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the

whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it--some

good doctor."

"Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you--I hope you don't think--"

"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause

beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see

your mother--if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after

all."

Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching

Fox's face.

"Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about

it. Well,--I will."

"That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if

he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know."

"He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is, he never

did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been

nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but

why should she not make it? Fox knew.

"You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out."

So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally

have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened

her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion

would have come.

There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly,

"don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do."

If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor

in her voice.

Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some

light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her

chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded

child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It

occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an

unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed.

Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray

eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes,

they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which

trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing

how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!--uncomfortably

aware--and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be

excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the

view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good

sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the

professor's soul was--well, it was his; the only one he had. But he

did squirm, actually and in the flesh.

He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet

Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "What is the matter with

your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?"

Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse."

"Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has

headaches. What's a headache?"

"I don't know," Sally replied, "and she doesn't and I think she ought

to."

"The definition," remarked the professor coldly, "is to be found in

the dictionary, I have no doubt. You might look it up and tell her."

"And so I think," Sally continued, as if he had not spoken, "that

mother ought to see a doctor; a doctor that knows about headaches."

"Oh," said the professor, more coldly than before. "So you would like

to have a specialist called in; a specialist in headaches."

"I don't know whether that's what you call them," Sally returned

bravely. "If it is, then I would."

Her father had turned toward her, but he did not look at her. "Most

interesting!" He got a cigarette from the drawer and proceeded to beat

out some of the tobacco. "Doctor--er--what's-his-name, from the

village, wouldn't do, then?"

"No, he wouldn't." There was just a suspicion of a quiver in Sally's

voice. "He doesn't know enough."

"Indeed! You have not communicated your opinion of his knowledge, or

his lack of it, to him, I take it?"

Sally shook her head. She could not have spoken, even if the question

had called for a reply.

"Do you know what a specialist charges, Sally?"

She shook her head again.

"For taking a case like your mother's, Sally," he said slowly, "which

would be nuts to him, I have no doubt, his charge would be more, in a

week, than I could pay in ten years."

"It is very important," Sally urged. "It is very important for

mother."

The professor rose. "Much as I regret the necessity, I feel obliged to

decline." He made her a bow. "No specialists for this family. If your

mother feels the need of a physician, let her call Doctor

what's-his-name from the village."

Sally turned to go without a word.

"And, Sally," her father added, "be kind enough to tell your mother

that important matters at the college require my attention. She is not

to be alarmed if I fail to come in my usual train. I may be kept

late."

The phrase sounded familiar. It was the old formula which Sally had

hoped would not be used again. She went out quietly, feeling

responsible. It was absurd, of course, but she could not help it. She

meant to find Fox and tell him; but not quite yet. She couldn't bear

it yet.

The matters at the college must have been very important, for they--or

something--kept Professor Ladue late, as he had seemed to fear; the

important matters--or something--must have kept him too late for the

last train that night. To be sure, Sally did not know anything about

it, at the time. She had not indulged a hope of anything else, and had

gone to bed and to sleep as usual. For Sally was a healthy little

animal, and she was asleep in a very few minutes after her head had

touched the pillow. Her eyes may have been wet. Mrs. Ladue went to

bed, too. Her eyes were not wet, but there was an ache in her head and

another just above her heart. She may have gone to sleep at once or

she may not. It is conceivable that she lay there, with her two aches,

until after the last train had got in.

It was the middle of the next forenoon before Sally got a chance to

tell Fox about it; and Fox listened, not too sympathetically. That

seemed to him to be the best way to treat it. He would have made light

of it, even, for Sally was oppressed by the sense of her own

responsibility; but Sally would have none of it.

"Don't, Fox, please," she said.

"Well," he replied, "I won't, then. But don't you worry, Sally. We'll

have your mother fixed up, all right, yet."

"How?" she asked.

"I haven't decided. But I'm going to bend the whole power of a great

mind to the question. When I've found the best way to do it, I'm going

to do it. You'll see."

Sally sighed with relief. She had not got beyond the stage of thinking

that Fox could do anything that he tried to do. Perhaps he could.

They were down by the gate, Fox leaning upon it and Sally standing on

a bar and swinging it gently. Occasionally she looked down the road.

"Here comes father," she said suddenly, in a low voice.

"Stay where you are, Sally." Fox checked her impulse to run.

The professor was walking fast and he came in at the gate almost

immediately. Sally had dismounted. He looked annoyed and would have

passed without a word.

"Good-morning," said Fox cheerfully.

The professor turned, giving Fox one of his smiles which was not a

smile at all. If the professor had chanced to turn one of those smiles

upon a too confiding dog, the dog would have put his tail between his

legs and run. Vivisection came after.

"Good-morning," said the professor acidly. "I shall be obliged to

delay our session for an hour."

"Very well, sir, whenever it is convenient for you." And Fox smiled

cheerfully again.

The professor turned once more. His eyes were bloodshot, he was

unshaven, and--well, tousled. In short, the professor looked as if he

had been sitting up all night. He had.

"You see," said Sally solemnly. Her father was out of hearing, as may

be supposed.

CHAPTER VIII

Professor Ladue had had a relapse. There was no doubt about it. It was

rather serious, too, as relapses are apt to be; but what could be

expected? He had been good for a long time, a very long time for him.

It was even an unreasonably long time for him, as had occurred to him,

you will remember, in the course of his conversation with Sally, and

nobody had any right to expect more. What Mrs. Ladue and her daughter

Sally thought they expected was really what they hoped. They did not

expect it, although they thought that they did; and the proof is that,

when the first relapse happened, they were not surprised. They were

deeply discouraged. The future looked pretty black to Sally as she

swung there on the gate. It looked blacker yet when the professor did

it twice again in one month. That was in March. But the worst was to

come. It was lucky that Sally did not know it. It is always lucky that

we do not know, at one blow, all that is to happen to us. Our courage

might not survive that blow. Instead, it has a chance to grow with

what it feeds upon.

So Sally went her daily round as cheerfully as she could. That was not

any too cheerfully, and her unexpected chuckles became as rare as

roses in December. Even her smiles seemed to be reserved for her

mother and to be tender rather than merry. She watched the progress of

her mother's disease, whatever it was, with solicitude and anxiety,

although she tried desperately hard not to show her mother how anxious

she was.

Mrs. Ladue's progress was very slow; imperceptible, from day to day,

and she had her ups and downs. It was only when she could look back

for a month or more that Sally was able to say to herself, with any

certainty, that her mother was worse--that the downs had it. But

always, when Sally could look back and compare, she had to confess to

herself that that was so. The headaches were no more frequent nor did

they seem to be harder to bear; but her mother seemed--it was a

struggle for Sally to have to acknowledge it, even to herself--her

mother seemed to be growing stupid. Her intelligence seemed to be

diminishing. What was Fox thinking of, to let that happen?

When this question presented itself, Sally was again swinging moodily

upon the gate, regarding the muddy road that stretched out before her.

Charlie was playing somewhere behind her, equipped with rubber boots

and a heavy coat. It is to be feared that Sally had forgotten Charlie.

It was not her habit to forget Charlie. And it is to be feared that

she was forgetting that the last day of March had come and that it was

warm and springlike, and that there were a number of birds about. It

was not her habit to forget any of those things either, especially the

birds. There was a flash of blue under a tree near by and, a few

seconds later, a clear song rang out. Charlie stopped his play and

looked, but Sally did not see the blue wings nor the ruddy breast nor

did she seem to hear the song.

That question had brought her up short. She stopped her rhythmic

swinging to and fro.

"I'll ask him," she said. Her faith in Fox was absolute.

She opened the gate quickly, and started to run.

There was a roar from Charlie. "Sally! Where you goin'? Wait for me! I

want to go, too. I'm awful hot. Can't I take off my coat? An' these

boots are hot. I want to take 'em off."

Sally sighed and waited. "I'm afraid I forgot you, Charlie. Take off

your coat, if you're too hot, and leave it by the gate."

Charlie had the overcoat off and he dropped it by the side of the

footpath.

"Not there, Charlie," Sally said impatiently. "Inside the gate. We

don't leave overcoats by the side of the road."

"You didn't say inside," Charlie returned sulkily. "I left it where

you said." He opened the gate and cast the offending garment inside.

"And these boots--can I take 'em off?"

"No," said Sally sharply, "of course not. If your feet are hot they'll

have to stay hot. You can't go in your stocking feet in March."

"I don't see why not," grumbled Charlie. "I could take my stockings

off, too."

Sally made no reply to this protest. She took his hand in hers. "Now,

run, Charlie. I'm in a hurry."

So Charlie ran as well as a small boy can run in rubber boots and

along a path that is just muddy enough to be exceedingly slippery.

When they came to the corner that they had to turn to go to Fox's, he

was almost crying and Sally was dragging him. They turned the corner

quickly and almost ran into Henrietta.

"Oh!" cried Henrietta, startled. "Why, Sally!"

Charlie laughed. "Why didn't you go faster, Sally? Then we might have

run into her--plump."

He laughed again, but got no attention from Sally.

"Where's Fox?" she asked.

"He went into town this morning," Henrietta answered. "He told me to

tell you to cheer up. I don't know what it's about, but probably you

do. I was just on my way to tell you. Come on. Let's go back to your

house."

Sally gave a sigh of relief. Fox had not forgotten, after all. There

was nothing to do but to wait; but Sally was rather tired of waiting.

"Well, Henrietta," she said, "then we will. But I want to see Fox as

soon as ever I can."

Fox at that moment was sitting in the private office of a physician--a

specialist in headaches--and was just finishing his story. He had

mentioned no names and it was hardly conceivable that he was talking

about himself. Fox did not look like a person who was troubled with

any kind of aches.

That seemed to be the opinion of the doctor, at any rate. It would

have been your opinion or mine.

"I take it that you are not the patient," he said, smiling.

That doctor was not the type of the grasping specialist; he did not

seem to be the kind of man who would charge as much as a patient would

be likely to be able to pay--all that the traffic would bear. But who

is, when you come to know them? Probably the doctors of that type, in

any large city, could be counted on the fingers of one hand. I know of

one conspicuous example, and one only, and he is dead now. But he

squeezed out large fees while he lived, and became very rich; and he

was so busy with his squeezing that he had no time to enjoy his

gains--I had almost said his ill-gotten gains. But that is by the way.

This doctor of Fox's--we will call him Doctor Galen, for the sake of a

name--this Doctor Galen was a kindly man, who had sat leaning one

elbow on the table and looking out at Fox under a shading hand and

half smiling. That half smile invited confidence, and, backed by the

pleasant eyes, it usually got it. Whether that was the sole reason for

its being is beside the question; but probably it was not.

In response to the doctor's remark, Fox smiled, too, and shook his

head.

"Am I to see this patient of yours?" asked Doctor Galen casually.

Fox was distinctly embarrassed. "Is it absolutely necessary, Doctor?"

he asked, in return. "It is difficult to arrange that--without a

complete change of base," he added. "It might be done, I suppose, but

I don't see how, at this minute."

"The only reason that it might be necessary," said the doctor,

speaking slowly, "is that you may have neglected some symptom that is

of importance, while seeming to you to be of no consequence whatever.

It is always desirable to see a patient. I have to take into account,

for example, the whole life history, which may be of importance--and

it may not."

Fox made no answer to this, but he looked troubled and he drummed with

his fingers upon his knee.

"Can't we assume the patient to be--merely for the sake of fixing our

ideas--" Doctor Galen continued, looking away and searching for his

example, "well--er--Professor Ladue? Or, no, he won't do, for I saw

him a few days ago, in quite his usual health. Quite as usual."

"You know Professor Ladue, then, Doctor?"

"Oh, yes, I know him," the doctor replied dryly. "Well, as I said, he

won't do. Let us suppose that this case were that of--er--Mrs. Ladue."

The doctor looked at Fox and smiled his pleasant smile. "She will

answer our purpose as well as another."

"Do you know Mrs. Ladue, too?"

"No," said Doctor Galen. "No, I have not that pleasure. But I know her

husband. That," he added, "may be of more importance, in the case we

have assumed--with the symptoms as you have related them."

Fox smiled very slightly. "Well, suppose that it were Mrs. Ladue,

then,--as an instance. Assuming that I have given all the symptoms,

what should you say was the matter with her?"

Doctor Galen did not answer for some minutes. "Well," he said at last,

"assuming that you have given all the symptoms correctly--but you

can't have given them all. I have no means of knowing whether there is

any tendency to hardening of the walls of the arteries. How old is

she?" he asked suddenly.

Fox was startled. "I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "Say that she

is thirty-odd--not over thirty-five."

"That is not likely, then," the doctor resumed, "although it is

possible. I should have to see her to be sure of my ground. But,

assuming that there are no complications,--_no_ complications,--there

is probably a very slight lesion in the brain. Or, it may be that the

walls of the arteries in this neighborhood"--the doctor tapped his

head--"are very thin and there is a gradual seepage of blood through

them. To tell the truth, Mr. Sanderson, we can't know very exactly

what is happening until skulls are made of plate glass. But the remedy

is the same, in this case, whatever is happening, exactly."

"What is the treatment?"

"Oh," said Doctor Galen, apparently in surprise, "there is no

treatment. In the hypothetical case which we have assumed, I should

prescribe rest--absolute rest, physical and mental. We must give those

arteries a chance, you know; a chance to build up and grow strong

again. There is the clot to be absorbed, too. It is likely to be very

slight. It may be completely absorbed in a short time. Given time

enough, I should expect a complete recovery."

"How much time?" Fox asked.

"That depends upon how far she has progressed and upon how complete a

mental rest she can get. It might be any time, from a few weeks to a

few years."

Fox hesitated a little. "Then, I suppose, any--er--anxiety might

interfere?"

"Any mental disturbance," Doctor Galen replied decidedly, "would most

certainly retard her recovery. It might even prevent it altogether.

Why, she ought not to think. I hope she has not got so far that she is

unable to think?"

"No, not yet," Fox sighed and rose. "It's not so simple as you might

suppose. But I'm grateful to you, Doctor. I'll see what can be done

and I may call upon you again." He put his hand to his pocket. "Shall

I pay you now?"

Doctor Galen smiled as he checked Fox's motion. "Hadn't you better

wait until you get my bill? Yes, wait if you please."

That smile of Doctor Galen's seemed to envelop Fox in an atmosphere of

kindliness. "You'll send one, Doctor?" he asked doubtfully.

"How do you suppose, sir," said the doctor, smiling more than

ever,--he seemed really amused, that doctor,--"how do you suppose,

sir, that I should pay my grocer, otherwise? You have put yourself

into the clutches of a specialist, Mr. Sanderson. We are terrible

fellows. You are lucky to escape with your life."

"Well," Fox replied, laughing, "I thank you again, Doctor, at any

rate; and for letting me escape with my life."

The doctor let him out by a door that did not open into the outer

office.

"Let me know how you come on with your schemes," the doctor said. "I

am really interested. And, if you find it possible to give me a

half-hour with your patient, I hope you will do so. It will be much

better. Good-bye, Mr. Sanderson."

"I will," said Fox. "Good-bye, Doctor."

The doctor shut the door and touched a button on his desk. He was

still smiling. A nurse appeared noiselessly.

"A nice boy, that, Miss Mather, and a deserving case," he commented.

"I should be glad to be able to believe that all my patients were as

deserving. But I shouldn't make much," he added.

Miss Mather smiled, but made no other reply. The doctor was looking

over a little pile of cards. He took up the card from the top of the

pile.

"Mrs. Van Hoofe, Miss Mather."

The nurse disappeared as noiselessly as she had come; and the doctor

proceeded to smooth out his smile and to assume a properly sympathetic

expression. Mrs. Van Hoofe would, perhaps, help him with his grocer's

bills.

CHAPTER IX

Fox was not immediately able to compass the end that was so much to be

desired, but he did it, at last, not without misgivings. If Professor

Ladue had known, what would he have thought--and said--about such

interference with his domestic affairs? There were misgivings on Mrs.

Ladue's part, too, and Fox had to overcome those. She was in no

condition to combat Fox's wish, poor lady!--especially as it was her

own wish, so far as she had any wish in the matter; and she knew that

Sally had her heart set upon it. This is the way it happened.

Sally had been regular in her attendance at the dancing-class, all

winter, and she had applied herself conscientiously to learn what she

went to learn, with more or less success. There is no doubt that she

learned the steps, but there is no less doubt that she failed to get

the Spirit of Dancing. Indeed,--I speak with hesitation,--the Spirit

of Dancing is born, not made. And how should Sally get it if she did

not have it already? How should she get it if she did have it already,

for that matter? It is not a thing that can be bought; it resembles

happiness in that respect. And, although one may buy a very fair kind

of an imitation of either, the real thing comes from within. Henrietta

had had the Spirit of Dancing born in her; in regard to Sally there is

some doubt.

So, if Sally's success was not glittering, it was better than

Henrietta had feared it would be, and she breathed a sigh of relief at

the close of the last day. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, too. She

was unaffectedly glad that it was over. Mrs. Ladue, then experiencing

one of her ups, planned a party for Sally and invited the whole

dancing-class to it. It was to be a birthday party and was to be on

the nineteenth of April, when Sally would have completed her eleventh

year. Sally had always been glad that her birthday happened to come on

the nineteenth of April, for it was a great help in remembering

Leading Dates in American History--or one of them, at least.

They neglected to apprise the professor of the plan, no doubt through

forgetfulness. For, how could he fail to be pleased that his daughter

was to have a birthday party? He did not find it out until the

seventeenth, two days before the event, and then only through the

inadvertence of the caterer, who asked him some question about it. The

caterer was a new man. He had been employed by Mr. Sanderson. Upon

hearing this announcement and without giving the man any reply to his

questions, Professor Ladue rushed off to town. He did not even leave

word, at home, that Mrs. Ladue must not be alarmed if he failed to

make his train. Fox happened to see him walking to and fro on the

station platform, evidently fuming, and to guess where he was going

and why.

We may be very sure that Fox did not tell Mrs. Ladue, but she found it

out the next morning and immediately proceeded to have a down. The up

having had its turn, the down was due, of course, but it was a very

bad down. Fox telephoned for Doctor Galen.

Doctor Galen came out that afternoon. Sally had not been told, but she

knew, somehow, and she was waiting for him by the gate.

"Doctor," she said, "will you let me get you anything that you want

and--and wait on mother? Will you?"

The doctor smiled down at her. "Why, my dear little girl--" he began,

looking into the earnest gray eyes. He did not finish as he had

intended. "I thank you," he said. "If I need anything, you shall get

it for me. And you shall wait upon your mother to your heart's

content. But I can't tell how much waiting upon she will need until I

have seen her."

"Thank you!" Sally cried softly. "I'm glad. I'll take you to mother."

They started towards the house together. "Oh, I forgot," she added,

turning toward him. "I'm Sally Ladue."

The doctor smiled down at her once more. "I gathered as much," he

replied, "putting this and that together. I guess that your mother and

your father are proud of their little girl."

"I don't think that father is," Sally returned soberly.

The doctor's eyes twinkled. "Why, that would be very strange. By the

way, where is your father? In town, at the college?"

Sally flushed to the roots of her hair. "I think he is in town," she

answered, looking carefully straight before her.

"Of course, he must have classes." The doctor had noted that fiery

flush and had drawn his inference. "One would think," he continued,

more to himself than to Sally, "that--er--one would think--" It was

none of his business, he reflected, and he could not see, for the life

of him, how--"Which is your mother's room, Sally?"

They were just entering the house and the doctor was pulling off his

gloves.

"Oh, I'll take you up."

Doctor Galen came out after about half an hour. "Now, Sally," he said

cheerfully, "we'll have her all right again, in time. It may take

quite a long time, so don't you get impatient if it seems slow, will

you, Sally?"

"I'll try not to." Her lip quivered and she began to sob.

"I'm c--crying bec--cause I'm g--glad." Then her sobs stopped suddenly

and she looked up at the doctor; but the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Mother can't hear me?"

"No, you blessed child. You come with me, Sally, and cry as much as

you like. It'll do you good. And I'll stay until you get through."

So it happened that Fox found them behind a big tree, out of sight

from the house, Sally contentedly crying into the doctor's coat.

Henrietta had gone on.

"She's all right, Mr. Sanderson. It has done her good to cry. I think

she's about through, now."

Sally stopped crying and smiled at them both. "I'm so glad, Fox," she

said.

Fox looked inquiringly at the doctor. "Your opinion, then, is that she

will get well?"

"Yes, if there are no complications. I shouldn't expect any."

Sally, who had been waiting, apparently, to hear the doctor say this

once more, murmured something about her mother and started for the

house, running. She overtook Henrietta.

"Sally," continued the doctor, "seems to be a dear child--"

"She is."

"And her father seems to be--well, it isn't necessary for us to say

what."

Fox laughed.

"There is only one thing--only one which looms up plainly. You and I

have got to think of some way to get Mrs. Ladue away from her present

surroundings. It would answer the purpose quite as well--perhaps

better," the doctor added thoughtfully,--"if her husband could be

removed from the environment. I am speaking rather plainly."

Fox nodded. "I understand," he said. "It is not impossible that

Providence and Professor Ladue, working together, may accomplish that.

I don't know how," he admitted, seeing the question in the doctor's

eyes, "but I think there is going to be an explosion in that college,

some day, soon. Professor Ladue--"

"Pig!" murmured Doctor Galen, under his breath.

"Had better look out," Fox finished. "By the way, Doctor, shall we

have the party that we had planned for to-morrow--Sally's birthday--or

had we better call it off?"

"If you can keep them out of the house," answered the doctor slowly,

"and if they don't make too much noise, I see no objection to it. Mrs.

Ladue will probably sleep through it. I have left a mild

sleeping-potion--I want to keep her dozing, at any rate, for some

days. Arrangements all made, I suppose?"

"They can be unmade easily enough."

"No, no. It isn't worth while. Let Sally have her party. I'll come to

it, myself. You tell her so, will you, Mr. Sanderson?"

So Sally had her party. The knowledge that she had it was some comfort

to Mrs. Ladue, who, in her comfortable, half-asleep condition, was

dimly conscious--and glad--that her illness had made no difference in

the plans for Sally. And Doctor Galen had come; ostensibly to the

party. To be sure, he spent more than half the time with Mrs. Ladue,

mounting the stairs silently, once in a while. Then, if she was

sleeping, he would stand and watch her, observing every movement,

voluntary and involuntary. They all meant something to him; most of

them told him something. If she was not sleeping, she would open her

eyes and smile vaguely, being still in that comfortable, dozing state

when nothing seems to matter much. Then the doctor would enjoin

silence by raising his hand, and she would smile again and close her

eyes while he took a turn about the room, quietly, but not so quietly

as to make his patient nervous.

It was fortunate that the day was pleasant and warm, for that made it

possible to spread the table at some distance from the house, where

the noise would not disturb Mrs. Ladue. Doctor Galen leaned against a

tree and looked on at the happy crew. When they seemed to be about

through their eating and talking, he beckoned to Sally, who came to

him at once.

"I must go now, Sally," he said. "Your guests will be going pretty

soon, I suppose. You won't let them make too much noise near the

house?"

"Why," Sally asked, startled, "is mother--"

"Your mother is doing just what I want her to do," the doctor

replied, interrupting her. "She is doing very well, indeed. It's only

a precaution, my dear little girl. I don't want you to worry, Sally.

I'll look out for your mother. You needn't do anything but follow the

directions I gave you. You can do that easily. And don't worry, Sally,

whatever happens."

The quick tears had rushed to Sally's eyes as Doctor Galen spoke. "Oh,

yes, indeed, I can," she said, "and I won't." This speech was not as

clear as it might have been, and Sally realized it. "Oh, I mean--"

"I know what you mean," the doctor returned, patting her shoulder.

"You're a good girl, Sally. Now, I must go."

When the doctor went out at the gate, a few minutes later, he was

smiling. I don't know what he was smiling at, but it may have been at

the recollection of a kiss which Sally had just bestowed upon him. It

had taken him somewhat by surprise. It had been almost as much of a

surprise to Sally.

"Well," he said to himself, "that was pretty good pay, considering.

But it's just as well that the Mrs. Van Hoofes don't--Hello!"

For there, before him, was Professor Ladue, walking rapidly, his eyes

red and bloodshot, and looking generally tousled. The doctor glanced

at him, took in these details, and decided quickly that it would be

wiser not to speak. Accordingly, he passed the professor with no more

than a bow. The professor glared at him, bowed shortly, then half

turned.

"A lovely spring afternoon, Doctor," he said, clearly and coldly, with

the grimace which did duty for a smile. It was even less like one than

usual.

"Charming!" the doctor replied.

"I should not suppose," continued the professor, almost snarling,

"that a man of your engagements would have time for profitless

excursions into the country."

"Ah," the doctor returned, smiling, "but it was not profitless. I

have been to a birthday party; the party of Miss Sally Ladue."

What reply should the professor have made to that? The professor, at

least, did not know. He turned, again, without a word.

Doctor Galen looked after him, still smiling. Then he, too, turned

again. "I am sorry for Sally," he murmured, sighing. "But Sanderson is

there. He must get her out of it somehow."

Sanderson could not get her out of it, as it happened. The little

bunch of guests was halfway down the walk, laughing and talking; even

Sally laughed a little, although she did not talk much, and her eye

was alert for anybody who might come in at the gate. She hoped,

fervently, that nobody would come in at that gate until the girls were

out of it and safe at home. Then her father emerged from behind the

screen of bushes along the wall and swung the gate wide.

Sally gave one look. "Oh, Fox!" she cried.

But Fox had seen and had run forward.

"Why such haste, Mr. Sanderson?" sneered the professor. "Why such

haste? I require no assistance."

He went on toward the house, smiling at the girls as he passed. The

way opened quickly before that smile of the professor's, and the

laughter and the talk died. The effect was astonishing. And while he

made his way rapidly onward, closely followed by Fox, the group of

Sally's guests fairly melted away. Once outside the gate, and behind

the sheltering screen, they ran.

Sally met Fox just coming out.

"It's all right, Sally," he said. "I persuaded him that no noise is to

be made. I persuaded him."

Sally looked at Fox in wonder. "It didn't take long."

"No, it didn't take long." There were curious firm lines about Fox's

mouth and his voice was not quite steady. What the nature of the

persuasion was, which was so effective and in so short a time, Sally

was not likely to know.

CHAPTER X

Professor Ladue was rather more out of sorts with the world in general

than was usual on such occasions. He was very much out of sorts with

the world in general and with three of its inhabitants in particular:

with his wife, because he was unable, for reasons which Fox had made

clear to him in a very short time, to wreak his ill temper upon her;

with Fox, because he had succeeded so well in making those reasons

clear; and with Doctor Galen, because he was sure that the doctor was

attending Mrs. Ladue. Perhaps I should have said that the professor

was out of sorts with four persons in particular. The fourth person

was Sally. It is hard to see why he should have been put out with her,

who had done nothing to deserve it. But she was good and dutiful and

she saw through him clearly enough; and by so doing she kindled in him

a feeling of helpless resentment.

Of course, we know very well that the professor's behavior was,

itself, the real cause of his feeling. The professor knew that well

enough. He was not dull-witted, whatever else he was. And, because he

knew it, he raged; and, because there was no outlet for his rage, he

raged the more, coldly. Those cold rages of his fairly scared Sally,

and she was not easily scared.

His rage was not any the less because of a letter that Sally brought

up to him, late in the afternoon. She had shrunk from seeing him, but

the letter was from the college, bearing the university arms in the

corner, and it was for special delivery. So Sally thought that it

might be very important. There was no one else to take it to her

father, so she took it, and, in obedience to his brief command, and

with great inward relief, she tucked it under his door.

The letter was important, although not in the way that Sally had

surmised. It was from the provost of the university of which the

professor's college was a part, written with the venerable provost's

own hand and apparently in some haste. It stated that Mr. Ladue had,

that very day, been seen, by the provost and by one other member of

the governing body, to issue from a well-known gambling-house. That

fact, coupled with the rumors which had persisted for a year or two

past, made it imperative that Mr. Ladue should appear before the Board

of Governors, at their next meeting, to clear himself; or, if he

preferred, Mr. Ladue might send in his resignation at once, such

resignation to take effect at the close of the college year.

That was all. One would think that it was quite enough. Professor

Ladue looked up from his brief reading.

"Ah!" he cried airily. "The honorable provost addresses me as Mr.

Ladue. _Mr._ Ladue. And so I am to appear before the Board of Governors

for the purpose of clearing myself--of what? I am accused of coming out

of a house. After all, it is a very quiet, respectable-looking house,

indeed, in a quiet street, rubbing elbows with other quiet,

respectable-looking houses. Does it happen that the honorable provost

and that other member of the governing body have seen more than the

outside of that house? Do I appear before the Board of Governors? I do

not. And do I send in my resignation like a good little boy? I think

not. The honorable provost is a fool. I will write him a letter and

tell him so."

So saying, the professor--we may call him the professor for almost the

last time--the professor went to his desk and wrote the letter. He was

in just the mood to write such a letter and it is to be remembered

that he dealt naturally in caustics. Consequently, the letter was an

excellent letter; it was exactly what it was meant to be. It was a

model of its kind. There is little doubt that it was a poor kind and

that it was very unwise to send it. Having been written, it should

have been burned--utterly destroyed. It would have served its purpose

better. But the professor was in no mood to do what was merely wise.

He was pleased with the letter, proud of it. He was so pleased with it

that he read it over three times. Then he laughed and signed it.

"That will, perhaps, make them sit up. It would give me some pleasure

to be present when he reads it." The professor gazed out into the

great tree, musing pleasantly. "No, it can't be done. It is a matter

of regret that it cannot."

He sealed the letter and went out, at once, to mail it. He was quite

cheerful as he took his hat and his stick from the rack in the hall;

so cheerful that Charlie, who happened to catch sight of him, was

encouraged to hail him. He answered pleasantly, even buoyantly, so

that Sally was sure that she had been right and that the letter which

she had carried up had been important.

The cheerfulness of the professor was spurious, but, such as it was,

it lasted, unimpaired, until the letter was posted. The mail was just

going out, and the postmaster, obliging as postmasters invariably are,

held it long enough to slip in the letter to the provost. The

professor saw it go; then doubts began to assail him, and his

cheerfulness ebbed. He stood irresolute until he heard the train. It

was useless to stand irresolute longer. It is always useless to stand

irresolute for any length of time whatever. The professor knew that

very well. With a quick compression of the lips, he turned homeward.

He was no longer cheerful.

No doubt I was wrong in speaking of him as the professor that last

time. He was, henceforth, to be Mr. Ladue. His professorial career had

been cut off by that letter to the provost as cleanly and as suddenly

as by a sharp axe. That would be true of any college. Mr. Ladue did

not deceive himself about that. There was a need of adjustment to the

new conditions, and he set himself the task of thinking out just what

the new conditions were. He was so busy with his thinking that he

nearly ran into a young man. The young man had just issued from Mr.

Ladue's own gate. But was it his gate? Mr. Ladue happened to have got

to that very matter. There seemed to be a reasonable doubt of it;

indeed, as he progressed farther in his thinking-out process and his

recollection emerged from the fog of habit, there seemed to be no

doubt that it was not his gate at all and that he had been allowed to

think of it as his and to call it his, purely on sufferance.

For he remembered, with a shock, a thoughtless moment, a moment of

inadvertence,--a moment of insanity,--in which he had made over the

place to his wife, Sarah. He had got into the habit of forgetting all

about it. Now it was necessary that he should get out of that habit.

He had never regretted that act more keenly than at that moment. It

was the act of a madman, he told himself impatiently.

As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, the aforesaid young

man had gone on his way. If he was to speak, he must speak quickly.

He turned. "Oh, Fox," he said casually, "I am afraid I was rather

abrupt a short time ago. Pray accept my apologies."

It was a new role for Mr. Ladue. It cost him something to assume it,

but it was necessary to his purposes that he should. This was one of

the new conditions which must be faced. It was an opportunity which

must be seized before it ceased to be. For Fox it was a totally new

experience to receive an apology from a man like Mr. Ladue. The

experience was so new that he blushed with embarrassment and

stammered.

"Oh,--er--that's all right. Certainly. Don't apologize." He managed to

pull himself together, knowing that what he had said was not the right

thing at all. "And, Professor," he added, "shall we resume our studies

when Mrs. Ladue is better?--when she will not be disturbed?"

Fox did not know as much about Mr. Ladue's affairs as we know, or he

might not have called him by that title. But yet he might.

"To be sure," answered Mr. Ladue, apparently in surprise; "why not?

Is she in a condition to be disturbed by such little matters? I had

rather expected to see her, to talk over an important question." If

Fox chose to infer that the important question related to certain

delinquencies of his own, why, let him think so.

"I am afraid that will be impossible for some time," Fox replied

firmly. "Dr. Galen left instructions that she is, on no account, to be

disturbed. She is not to be compelled to think. It seems to be

important. His instructions were explicit and emphatic on that point."

"Ah," Mr. Ladue remarked calmly. "So Dr. Galen is running my house."

"Yes." There was no lack of firmness in Fox's voice, although he was

not flushing now. "Dr. Galen is running your house. That is the

situation exactly."

"And may I ask," Mr. Ladue inquired coldly,--"may I venture to ask how

it happens that a specialist--one of the most expensive in the

city--is in such a position that he can assume to do so?"

"Certainly you may. I will try to make it clear that it was necessary,

but it will not alter the situation if I fail. Immediately after your

leaving for town, Mrs. Ladue had one of her attacks. It seemed to

Sally--and to me--essential that she should have expert advice at

once. So--in your absence--I sent for Dr. Galen. I am very glad that I

did."

"Do you know what his price will be?"

"I do not. What difference does it make? Mrs. Ladue's life may depend

upon her having the best advice there is to be had."

Mr. Ladue did not answer immediately. He could not well say to Fox

that that was a matter of less importance to himself than the price

that would be charged. Besides, he was not sure that it mattered to

him what Dr. Galen charged. He had no intention of paying it. They

ought to have known that they could not saddle him with their bills

without his consent. Further than that----

"It's all right, of course, Fox," said Mr. Ladue pleasantly, looking

up. "I didn't realize that Mrs. Ladue's condition was serious. Thank

you. Come in as soon as you think it advisable and we will continue

our studies. Good-night."

"Good-night." Fox turned away with a curious mingling of feeling

toward Mr. Ladue. He could not help feeling grateful to him, yet he

did not trust him. What next?

That was precisely the question Mr. Ladue was asking himself as he

walked slowly toward the house. What next? It was most unfortunate

that he could not see his wife, most unfortunate. If he could have the

chance to talk to his wife, Sarah, now, he thought he could persuade

her. Give him but five minutes and he was sure he could persuade her.

He would do better to have the papers ready. He wondered whether he

dared; and, for an instant, he entertained the idea of having that

talk, in spite of Fox and of Dr. Galen. He thought upon it.

"No," he said to himself, "it wouldn't do, under the circumstances. It

wouldn't do. We'll have to give that up."

Mr. Ladue deserved no credit for deciding to give that up. It is to be

feared that the possibility of evil consequences to his wife, Sarah,

played no part in forcing him to that decision. The important thing is

that he did so decide. In the short time that remained before dinner,

he walked to and fro in his room, thinking hard. He could do that very

well when he applied himself to it. At dinner he was unexpectedly

pleasant, giving Sally a sense of security that was not at all

justified by the event. In that, no doubt, he was doing just what he

intended.

That evening, having devoted a certain brief time to thinking to some

purpose, he packed his bag and wrote a short note to his wife. It is

immaterial what he said in that note, but he ended it with these

words: "So you may keep your place, madam, and much good may it do

you. In fact, I think that you will have to keep it. You could not

give a good deed or a good mortgage without my signature." It seemed

an entirely uncalled-for evidence of his ill humor. What had Mrs.

Ladue done to deserve it?

In the morning he came to breakfast as usual, and again he was very

pleasant. Indeed, he was so pleasant that the fact excited Sally's

suspicions. He was not usually so pleasant on the morning after. And

when he had gone to his customary train--carrying a bag, Sally

noted--she found his note, sealed, and addressed, in her father's

well-known scrawling hand, to her mother. She took possession of the

note. Of only one thing was she sure and that was that no note written

by her father--and sealed--was going to be delivered to her mother; at

least, not without advice.

Later she showed the note to Fox; and he, being as uncertain what

ought to be done as Sally was, showed it to Dr. Galen. They three

decided, much against their will, to see what Mr. Ladue had said.

"For," Dr. Galen observed, "Mrs. Ladue is not in condition to read a

note of any kind. She will not be in that condition for a week, at

least. It seems to me, Sally, that you should know what your father

says, especially in view of the circumstances. I advise you to open

it."

"You do it," said Sally.

So the doctor did it. "Of course," he remarked, as he slid the blade

of his knife under the flap, "if, on glancing at it, I see that it is

improper for me to read, I shall not read it. But if, as I fear--"

He was reading it. "The cur!" he muttered, as he finished. He handed

it to Fox. "You read it, Mr. Sanderson."

Fox read it and chuckled. "I ought not to laugh," he explained, "but

it is so--so futile. Delivery to Mrs. Ladue seems out of the question.

And, Sally," he went on, "you shall see this if you want to, but I

wish that you would not want to. Your father has gone, apparently."

"Yes," said Sally, somewhat puzzled, "I know it; to the university?"

"Not to the university, I think. He seems to have lit out. He says

something about getting another position suited to him. He says some

other things that it would give you only pain to read."

Sally's face expressed a curious mingling of anxiety and relief. "I

won't read it if you don't want me to," she said. "But--but what--how

shall we get any money?"

"Don't you worry about that. We'll manage to raise a few cents when we

need to."

Fox had said "we" and that seemed to comfort Sally. Fox turned to the

doctor.

"The environment has taken care of itself," he remarked; and the

doctor smiled.

CHAPTER XI

It was in all the papers. The honorable provost seemed to wish that

the fact of Professor Ladue's break with the authorities of the

university should be known, and he graciously allowed himself to be

interviewed on the subject once a week. As was to be expected, but one

side of the question was presented in these interviews, but that may

have worked no injury to Mr. Ladue, who received undeserved credit for

his silence. It was just as well. In none of those interviews did the

honorable provost give out the letter that Mr. Ladue had written. That

letter contained certain pointed passages which the press should not

get hold of, if he could help it. Mr. Ladue had some reason to be

proud.

Then the reporters began to come out to Mr. Ladue's house, in the hope

of an interview with him. They did manage to get a few words with

Sally, but the words were very few and then Fox came in. So it came

about that Fox Sanderson spent most of his time, from breakfast-time

until bedtime, at the Ladues'. Naturally, Henrietta was there, too.

Sally was well content with any arrangement which brought them both

there all the time.

Those would have been hard times with the Ladues if it had not been

for Fox Sanderson. Mrs. Ladue owned the place, to be sure, but she

owned very little else; hardly more than enough to pay the taxes. And

if Mr. Ladue had been a hard man to extract money from, at least he

had kept the tradesmen satisfied; or, if not satisfied, they were

never sufficiently dissatisfied to refuse to supply the necessities.

It was a different case now, and Sally wondered a good deal how they

contrived to get along. She knew that Fox was managing their affairs,

but things had been going on in this way for a long time before she

got to the point of wondering whether he was supplying the money. She

reached that point at last, and she asked Fox about it.

She had waited until she got him alone and was sure that they would

not be interrupted.

"Fox," she asked without preamble, "where do we get our money?"

Fox was taken by surprise. He had not been expecting any question of

the kind. He found himself embarrassed and hesitating.

"Why," he answered, not looking at her, "why--our money? Er--what do

you want to know for?"

Sally was regarding him steadily. "Because," she replied, "I think I

ought to. Where do we get it?"

"Oh, don't you care, Sally," said Fox carelessly. "We get it

honestly."

Sally's earnest regard did not waver. "Of course we get it honestly.

But where? I think you ought to tell me, Fox. Do you give it to us?"

Sally, bent upon the one purpose, had not thought of sitting down. She

stood squarely before Fox, her fingers interlocked before her, and

gazed up into his face. Fox shifted his weight to the other foot as

she asked the question. Then he laughed a little.

"I give it to you! What an idea!"

"But do you?" Sally insisted. "You haven't said you don't."

"Let's sit down, Sally," said Fox, attempting a diversion. "Aren't you

tired?"

"No, I'm not. But you sit down if you want to. Excuse me for keeping

you standing."

Fox found a chair and seated himself comfortably. Sally again faced

him, still standing.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" asked Fox, seemingly surprised.

"Please do. I can't be satisfied to sit, with you standing." He placed

a chair for her.

"All right," Sally moved the chair around so that she would face him,

and sat down.

"What a lovely summer day, Sally!" he said. "Isn't it, now?"

Sally laughed. She would not be diverted. "Yes," she said. "But you

haven't answered my question."

"Well," asked Fox, sighing, "what is the question?" There seemed to be

no escape.

"Where do we get our money? Do you give it to us?"

"But that," he remonstrated, "makes two questions."

The quick tears rushed into Sally's eyes. "Oh, Fox, won't you tell

me?"

Fox glanced at her and gave in at once. He told the strict truth, for

nothing less would do, for Sally. He couldn't have told anything else,

with those solemn, appealing gray eyes looking at him.

"I'll tell you, Sally," he said quickly. "Just trust me."

Sally smiled. It was like a burst of sunshine. "I do."

"I know it," he returned, "and I'm proud of it. Well, I have been

advancing what money has been needed for the past three months. You

can't say I've given it to you. I'd rather say us, Sally. So you see,

you can't say I've given it to us, for we--Henrietta and I--have been

here so very much that we ought to pay something. We ought to

contribute. I don't like to call it board, but--"

"Why not?" Sally asked, interrupting. "Why don't you like to call it

board?"

"Well," Fox answered, rather lamely, "you don't take boarders, you

know."

"I don't see," said Sally, brightening distinctly, "I can't see why we

don't--why we shouldn't, if mother's well enough. I've been thinking."

"But that's just it. Your mother is not well enough for you to take

regular, ordinary boarders. You mustn't think of it."

"Would you call you and Henrietta regular, ordinary boarders?" Sally

asked, after a few moments of silence.

Fox laughed. "On the contrary, we are most irregular, extraordinary

boarders. But why, Sally? Would you like to have--"

"Oh, yes," cried Sally at once. "I should like it very much. But I

don't know whether you would."

"Yes, I should like it very much, too. But there have seemed to be

certain reasons why it wasn't best to live here."

"But you live here now," Sally objected; "all but sleeping. We've got

rooms enough."

"I'll think it over; and, if I think we can come, we will."

"I hope you will. I should feel comfortabler. Because I don't see how

we can ever pay you back; at any rate, not for a long time. We should

have to wait until I'm old enough to earn money, or until Charlie is.

And I'm four years older."

Fox smiled at the idea of waiting for Charlie. But Sally went on.

"And there's another thing. There's Doctor Galen."

"Oh, so the doctor's the other thing. I'll tell him."

"The money that we have to pay him is the other thing." Sally was very

earnest. "Will it be much, do you think?"

"Sally, don't you worry. I asked the doctor just that question and he

told me I had better wait until he sent his bill. He hasn't sent it

yet."

"Well--will it be as much as a hundred dollars?"

"It is possible that it may be as much as that."

"Oh, will it be more?" Sally was distressed. When should she be able

to save--even to earn a hundred dollars. "We can't ever pay it, Fox;

not for years and years."

Again Fox told her not to worry. She did not seem to hear him. She was

following her thought.

"And, Fox, if you have to pay it, we shall owe you an awful lot of

money. Have--have you got money enough?"

Fox Sanderson did not have an "awful lot" of money. That very question

had been giving him some anxiety. But he would not let Sally suspect

it.

"I guess I'll be able to manage, Sally."

"I hope so. And I've been thinking, Fox, that I ought to help."

"Why, Sally, you do help. Just think of the things you do, every day,

helping about your mother, and about the house."

"Yes," she returned, "but I mean about earning money. Those things

don't earn money. Couldn't I learn typewriting and go into somebody's

office? Or couldn't I teach? Do you have to know a lot of things, to

teach, Fox?"

Fox smiled. "Some teachers that I have known," he answered, "haven't

known such an awful lot of things. But if you really want to teach,

Sally, you ought to be trained for it. At least," he added, more to

himself than to Sally, "that is the popular opinion."

Again Sally was distressed. "Do you have to go to college, Fox?"

"Well," answered Fox, smiling, "not exactly, but something of the

sort. There's a normal school or the training school for teachers, or

whatever they call it."

"Oh, dear!" Sally wailed. "Everything takes so long! I wanted to do

something right away. Can't you think of anything, Fox?"

"Not right off the bat. I'll see what thoughts I can raise on that

subject. But if I don't think of anything, would you like to plan to

be a teacher, Sally?"

"If it would help mother, I would. If that's the best thing we can

think of. I'd do anything to help mother. I'd go out scrubbing or I'd

sell papers or--or anything."

"Bless your heart!" Fox exclaimed under his breath. "Bless your dear

heart, Sally! You needn't go out scrubbing or washing dishes or

selling papers or anything of the kind. You can do better than that.

And your mother is likely to need your help about as much when you are

fitted for teaching as she does now."

"Is--isn't mother getting better?" asked Sally, hesitating.

"Yes," said Fox, "but very slowly; very slowly indeed. Doctor Galen

thinks it will be some years before she is herself again. Think,

Sally, how much better it will be for you to be getting ready. Suppose

she was well now. What would you and she do? How would the conditions

be different?"

Sally murmured something about taking boarders.

"Well," Fox observed, "I never have taken 'em and so I have no

experience with that end of it. But Henrietta and I have been boarding

for a good many years now--ever since mother died--and we have seen a

good deal of all kinds of boarders. On the average, they seem to be an

unmannerly and ungrateful lot. Don't you be a party to making 'em

worse, Sally. Don't you do it."

Sally laughed.

"Besides," he went on, "it's pretty apt to be humiliating."

"I suppose that's something unpleasant," Sally said quietly, "and, of

course, it wouldn't be pleasant. I shouldn't expect it to be."

"I don't believe there's any money in it."

Sally paused a moment to digest that phrase. Then she sighed.

"You know more about it than I do. I'll do just what you say, Fox."

The gate clicked and they both looked around.

"Here comes Henrietta," said Fox. "Now we'll all go out in the shade

and play. But, Sally," he added hastily, "have you got any rich

relatives?"

"Rich relatives!" Sally exclaimed. "Not that I know of. Or, wait.

There's Miss Hazen--Martha Hazen. She's a cousin of father's, but I

don't know how rich she is. I've never seen her."

"Where does she live?"

"Up in Massachusetts, somewhere. I think she's queer."

"The queerer the better. Your father's cousin, is she? It wouldn't be

strange. Can you find out where she lives, Sally?"

Sally thought she could. "And, Fox," she reminded him,--she was afraid

he might forget,--"you see if you can't come here to live. Will you,

Fox?"

He nodded. Henrietta was at the piazza steps. "I'll ask Doctor Galen

about it."

"What'll you ask Doctor Galen about, Fox?" inquired Henrietta. "Are

you and Sally talking secrets?"

"I'll ask the doctor what should be done with a very troublesome

little sister," he answered, smiling at her.

"You might get rid of her by sending her off to boarding-school,"

Henrietta remarked. "Not that she wants to go."

"No boarding-school for you yet, young lady. There are one hundred

reasons why, and the first is--is so important that the ninety-nine

others don't matter."

Fox had caught himself just in time. He had intended to say that he

didn't have the money. Well, he hadn't; but he didn't mean to tell

Sally so.

"I suppose that first reason," said Henrietta, "is that you can't

spare me."

"Wrong. That is the second. And the third is that you are too young.

Never mind the others. We are going out to play now, Henrietta." Sally

darted into the house. "Where are you going, Sally?"

"After Charlie," she called softly. "I'll be right back. And let's be

sauruses!"

"Sauruses it is," Fox returned. "I say, Henrietta, can you climb trees

as well as Sally?"

"Well, not quite"--hesitating--"but I'm learning."

"You live in a cave with Charlie," he said decidedly.

CHAPTER XII

To tell the truth, the question of money had been troubling Fox

somewhat, for he did not have an "awful lot," to use Sally's words.

There was enough for him and Henrietta to live upon in great comfort;

but when the amount which will support two people in comfort has to

take care of five, it needs to be spread pretty thin. To be sure,

there was no particular reason why Fox should have felt obliged to

look out for the Ladues. One wonders why he did it. That question had

occurred to him, naturally, but only to be dismissed at once,

unanswered. He could not leave that little family in their misfortunes

without visible means of support, and that was the end of it.

These considerations will serve to explain Fox's state of mind: why he

felt it to be necessary to provide for Sally's future; to see to it

that she should have a future of any kind. They may also explain his

inquiries about rich relatives. Not that he had, at the moment, any

definite idea as to his course of action in the event that she had

such desirable and convenient appendages. In fact, it remained to be

seen whether they were either desirable or convenient. And he wished

very much that it might be considered no impropriety for him and

Henrietta to live at the Ladues'. It would simplify many matters.

Doctor Galen, to whom he spoke, with some hesitation, of this wish of

his, reassured him.

"I should say that it would be a very wise move," said the doctor,

smiling. "Where is the impropriety?"

Fox murmured something about Professor Ladue and about his seeming to

take the management of his family out of the professor's hands. He

felt a little delicate about making any further move in the same

direction.

"Pouf!" the doctor exclaimed scornfully. "Ladue has relinquished all

right to management, and it's a very fortunate thing that he has. Mrs.

Ladue will be very much of an invalid for a number of years, unless

all signs fail. There may be some prying people--but there are always.

You had better tell Sally that you will come at once. I think it most

necessary."

Fox was distinctly relieved. He went on to tell the doctor of his

conversation with Sally. "And the other children--except

Henrietta--have fought shy of coming to see her since that day of the

party," he continued. "I suppose they were frightened. They have

scarcely been near her. Not that Sally seems to care. I think she is

glad when she thinks of them at all. But she has too much care. She

takes life too seriously. Why, that party was on her eleventh

birthday, and she wants to go out scrubbing or selling papers.

Anything to earn money. We can't let her feel so, Doctor; we just

can't."

"Bless her!" said the doctor; "of course we can't. She needn't worry

about my bill, and you needn't. Between us, Sanderson, we must look

out for these three babes in the wood."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"And, Sanderson," the doctor pursued confidentially, "if you find

yourself short of money,--you might, you know,--just let me know. But

don't tell anybody, or the Assyrians will be upon me, like the wolf on

the fold; and their cohorts won't be gleaming with purple and gold.

Not of mine, they won't."

Fox laughed. "Thank you again, Doctor. Thank you very much. But I

think I shall be able to carry my end, on that basis."

Fox did carry his end. He and Henrietta moved to the Ladues' as soon

as they could, Fox into the professor's old room, with the skeleton of

the professor's little lizard on the floor, under the window, and with

the professor's desk to work at. He seemed to have been pushed by

chance into the professor's shoes, and he did not like it,

altogether. He made a faint-hearted protest at the room.

Sally's eyes filled. "Why, Fox," she said, "it's the best room we've

got. Isn't it good enough?"

"It's much too good, Sally. I don't expect or want such a good room."

"Oh, is that all!" Sally was smiling now. "If it's good enough, I

guess you'll have to be satisfied. It's ever so much convenienter to

give you father's room."

So Fox had to be satisfied. Henrietta had the room next Sally's own.

That arrangement was "convenienter," too.

One of the first things he did at the professor's desk was to write a

letter to Miss Martha Havering Hazen. Sally had succeeded in finding

her address.

"She lives in Whitby, Massachusetts," she announced. "I don't know the

name of the street, and I don't know how rich she is."

With this, the affairs of Miss Martha Havering Hazen passed from

Sally's mind. She had other things to attend to. Fox wrote Miss Hazen

a letter in which he set forth, in a very business-like way, the

plight in which the Ladue family found themselves, his desire, and

Sally's, that Sally's future should be provided for, and the manner in

which it was proposed to provide for the aforesaid future. He finished

with the statement that the funds at his command were insufficient for

all the purposes which it was desired to accomplish, and he inquired

whether she were disposed to give any aid and comfort. Then, having

posted this, he waited for the answer.

He waited for the answer so long that he began to fear that his letter

might not have reached Miss Hazen; then he waited until, at last, he

was convinced that she never received it, and he had begun to think

that she must be a myth. When he reached this conclusion, he was

sitting on the piazza and Sally and Henrietta and Doctor Galen were

coming up the path together. Sally had her hands behind her. She came

and stood before Fox, her eyes twinkling.

"Well," she began.

But Fox would not wait. "Sally," he said, interrupting her, "what

makes you think that Miss Martha Hazen is in existence at all. You've

never seen her. I'll bet there's no such a person and never was. She's

a myth."

"What'll you bet?" she asked promptly.

"Anything you like."

"No, I won't bet, for it wouldn't be fair." This settled it for Sally.

In that respect she was different from her father. She was different

from her father in some other important respects, too. "Which hand

will you have, Fox?"

"I guess I'd better have both."

So Sally brought both hands around into view and cast a letter into

his lap. Her eyes danced. "There!" she said. "Now, what'll you bet?"

Doctor Galen was leaning against the railing and Henrietta could not

keep still.

"Oh, Fox," she cried, "open it and let's hear what she says. Sally

showed it to us and we know about it."

"Open it, Sanderson," the doctor put in; "don't keep us all in the

dark. It's suspense that kills."

So Sanderson opened it and read it. It was not a long letter.

The others grew impatient. "Come, come," said the doctor, "tell us. It

doesn't matter what you wrote to her. What does she say?"

"She says," said Fox, smiling, "that, as of course she didn't know me,

she has been obliged to have all my statements investigated. That

accounts for the delay. She has found them all to be true. Gratifying,

isn't it? But the important thing is that she offers to take Sally to

live with her and agrees to educate her properly--if Sally will go."

They were all very sober and nobody spoke. Sally was solemn and the

tears came slowly. None of them had contemplated this, Sally least of

all. She felt as if there had been an earthquake or some such

convulsion of nature.

"Well, Sally," Fox went on at last, in a low voice, "it seems to be up

to you. Will you go?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sally's eyes were wide with anxiety and with

doubt, and the tears dropped slowly, one by one. "How can I, all of a

sudden? It's a tremendous surprise. I don't want to, but if it will

help more than staying at home, I'll go." Suddenly an idea seemed to

have struck her. It must have given her great relief, for the tears

stopped and she looked happy once more. "But," she said eagerly, "how

can I? Who will take care of mother? And what would we do with

Charlie? Really, Fox, I don't see how I can go."

Strangely enough, Fox seemed to be relieved, too. At any rate, he

smiled as though he were.

"Sure enough," he replied, "how can you? We might possibly manage

about your mother," he added, with a glance at the doctor, "but

Charlie is a problem."

Doctor Galen had nodded, in answer to that glance of Fox's. "You

needn't worry about your mother, Sally," he said then. "We would take

good care of her. Do you know that I have a sanitarium for just such

patients? There are nurses and everything to make it convenient. And

there are no bothering children--with their brothers--always

underfoot." As he said that, the doctor smiled and rested his hand,

for a moment, on Henrietta's shoulder. Henrietta turned and laughed up

at him.

"A base libel," Fox remarked. "But all that doesn't take care of

Charlie."

"Might farm him out," the doctor suggested. "What do you think of that

idea, Sally?"

"I don't believe I know what you mean," she answered. "Charlie

wouldn't be much good on a farm, although I suppose a farm would be a

good place for him. Some farms would," she added.

"It depends on the farm, doesn't it?" said Fox. "It generally does.

But don't you care what the doctor meant, Sally. He didn't mean

anything, probably. We aren't going to farm Charlie out anyway. What

shall I say to Martha? That's the immediate point."

Sally chuckled. "I'll write to Martha," she said, as soon as she could

speak; "that is, if you'll let me. I'll thank her ever so much for

offering to take me, and I'll tell her why I can't come. May I, Fox?"

"All right." Fox tossed her the letter. "And, Sally," he called

softly, for she had started into the house, meaning to write her

letter at once. "Sally, if Martha answers your letter, you tell me

what she says."

So Sally wrote to Martha. It took her a long time and she used up

several sheets of her mother's best note-paper before she got a letter

written that she was satisfied to send. Miss Hazen was longer in

replying, although she was not so long as she had been in replying to

Fox. Sally did not care. Indeed, she did not give the matter a

thought. She considered the question settled.

It was not. Miss Hazen must have liked Sally's letter, for she

grudgingly consented to have Charlie come, too, if that was all that

stood in the way of Sally's acceptance of her offer. This was a

surprise to everybody; to none of them more than to Miss Hazen

herself. She had no liking for young children. But she did it. There

seemed to be no escape for Sally now, and she put the letter in Fox's

hand without a word.

"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked, shocked at her tragic face. "Has

the bottom dropped out?"

Sally smiled, but her chin quivered. "It seems to me that it has. You

read it, Fox."

So Fox read it. He was very sober when he looked up and it was a long

time before he spoke.

"Well," he said at last, whimsically, "Martha's put her foot in it

this time, hasn't she? What do you think you're going to do?"

"I don't see how I can refuse any longer," Sally answered, her voice

quivering as well as her chin. "Charlie was the only objection that I

could think of; the only real objection. I s'pose I'll have to go now,

and take Charlie."

Fox did not reply immediately.

Sally's chin quivered more and more, and her tears overflowed. "Oh,

Fox," she wailed, "I don't want to. I don't want to leave mother and

home and--and everybody."

Fox drew her toward him and patted her shoulder. "There, there,

Sally," he said gently. "You shan't go if you don't want to. We'll

manage somehow. Don't feel so badly, Sally. Don't."

Sally's fit of crying was already over. Her tears ceased and she felt

for her handkerchief.

"I won't," she said, with a pitiful little attempt at a smile. "I'm

not going to cry any more. Have--have you got a handkerchief, Fox?"

Fox wiped her eyes. "We'll call a council of war," he said; "you and

Doctor Galen and I will talk it over and decide what shall be done.

Not about Martha," he added hastily. "That's settled, Sally, if you

don't want to go. I'll write to her and tell her that you can't come."

"No," Sally protested earnestly, "it's not settled; at least, not that

way. I'll go if--if that's the best thing for us. I was only crying

because--because I hate to think of leaving. I can't help that, you

know, Fox."

"I know, Sally. I've been through it all."

"And so our council of war," Sally continued, "will decide about that,

too."

The council of war held a long and earnest session and eventually

decided that it was best for Sally to accept Miss Hazen's offer and to

go to Whitby. Sally acquiesced in the decision, but it seemed to Fox

necessary to do a little explaining.

"You know, Sally," he said, "your mother is likely to be a long time

in getting back her health. She won't be herself for a number of

years. It would only be painful to you--"

"I know all that, Fox," Sally interrupted, a little impatiently. She

had had it pretty thoroughly drummed into her. "I know all that, and

it doesn't make any difference whether I think so or not. I see that

it's the best thing for us all that Charlie and I should go, and we

will go. That's settled. But you will write to me often, and let me

know how mother gets along--and tell me the news, won't you?"

"Why, of course I am going to," Fox cried with emphasis. "What did you

think--that we were going to let you slip away from us suddenly,

altogether? Not much. I'm going to write you every blessed week. And

see that you answer my letters every week, too."

Sally felt comparatively cheerful once more. "I will," she answered,

smiling.

"Bless your heart!" said Fox.

Doctor Galen looked aggrieved.

"And where do I come in?" he asked. "Aren't you going to promise to

write me, too? Your mother will be at my sanitarium and I have a good

mind to give orders that Fox Sanderson is to be told nothing about

her. Then you would have to get your information from me."

"I didn't s'pose you'd care to have me, you're so busy." Sally was

pleased. "But I'd love to, Doctor, I'd love to. Do you really want me

to?"

"If you don't, I'll never forgive you. I'm a very cruel man, and that

is the only way to insure good treatment for your mother. You'd

better, Sally." And the doctor wagged his head in a threatening

manner.

Sally laughed. "It'll be your own fault if you get too many letters.

But you needn't answer them, if you don't have time."

"We'll see. We'll see. I guess I shall manage to find a few minutes,

now and then, to write to Miss Sally Ladue."

CHAPTER XIII

It was September before Sally was ready to go to Whitby. Indeed, it

cannot be said that she was ready then, or that she ever would have

been ready, if her wishes only had been involved. But by the middle of

September she had done all the things that she had to do, her

belongings and Charlie's were packed in two small trunks, and there

did not seem to be any excuse for delaying her departure longer.

She had gone, with Doctor Galen, one memorable day, to see the

sanitarium. He, I suppose, had thought that perhaps Sally would feel

better about going if she saw for herself just the way in which her

mother would be taken care of. So he took her all over the building,

himself acting as her guide, and she saw it all. She did feel better.

When she had seen the whole thing and had absorbed as much as the

doctor thought was good for her, they went into town again and had

lunch with Mrs. Galen. There weren't any children and there never had

been. So much the worse for the doctor and for Mrs. Galen. They had

missed the best thing in life, and they knew that they had and

regretted it. After lunch, the doctor went home with Sally. She

thought, with some wonder at it, that the doctor could not have had

much to do that day, for he had given the whole of it to her. There

were many of his patients who thought otherwise--a whole office full

of them; and they waited in vain for the doctor.

A few days later Sally had bidden a last mournful farewell to all her

favorite haunts. She had been devoting her spare time for a week to

that melancholy but pleasant duty. The little lizard would never more

sit high in the branches of the coal trees and look out over the

prospect of treetops and swamp. Never again would the gynesaurus feed

on stove coal plucked, ripe, from the branches whereon it grew. Sally

laughed, in spite of her melancholy, as this thought passed through

her mind; and the gynesaurus stopped eating coal and incontinently

slid and scrambled down the tree, landing on the ground with a thump

which was more like that made by a little girl than that a lizard

would make. And she ran into the house in rather a cheerful frame of

mind. It was almost time for the man to come for their trunks.

Fox met her as she came in. "It's a good chance to say good-bye to

your mother, Sally. She's wandering about in her room."

All of Sally's cheerfulness vanished at that. She knew just how she

should find her mother: aimlessly wandering from one part of the room

to another, intending, always, to do something, and always forgetting

what it was she intended to do. But Sally found Charlie and, together,

they went to their mother.

It was the same sweet, gentle voice that called to them to come in. It

was the same sweet, gentle woman who greeted them. But in her dull

eyes there was scarcely recognition. To Sally it was as though a thick

veil hung always before her mother, through which she could neither

see clearly nor be seen. Her processes of mind were as vague and as

crude as those of a baby. If she was better than she had been, how

very ill she must have been!

Mrs. Ladue did not realize what Sally's good-bye meant. She was

utterly incapable of taking in the changes which were before Sally or

before herself. She returned Sally's good-bye impassively, as though

Sally were going no farther than downstairs; and when Charlie,

impatient and a little frightened, fretted and pulled at Sally's hand,

Mrs. Ladue did not seem to mind. It was as if Charlie were some

strange child, in whom she had no interest. Poor lady!

"Why don't you take him away?" she asked. "He wants to go."

So Sally, choking with tenderness, took him away. She cried a little

on Fox's shoulder.

"It seems to me that I can't bear it, Fox," she sobbed. "To see mother

so--is she really better?"

"You know she is, Sally."

"Yes, I s'pose I do." Sally's sobs gradually ceased. "But it's

terribly slow. She'll have forgotten us by the time she gets well."

"No fear, Sally," Fox replied, with a gentle smile. "No fear of that.

Come, here's the man for our things."

Fox was going with them. Sally dried her eyes while he went to see

about the trunks.

As they walked out at the gate, Fox glanced at Sally. Her lips were

tightly shut and she did not look back once, but she kept her gaze

firmly fixed ahead, as if she were afraid of being turned into a

pillar of salt. Nobody knew how much determination it took for her to

do so. She would have liked to cry again and kiss every tree in the

place. But she wouldn't cry again. She just would not.

Henrietta met them before they had gone far, and rattled on as though

she had been talking on a wager. Sally couldn't talk. And Henrietta

went to the station with them, still talking fast, and stayed with

Sally and Charlie while Fox checked the trunks. Then the train came

and Sally lingered at the door of the car.

"Good-bye, Sally," Henrietta called. "Perhaps I could come to visit

you if you asked me."

"I will if I can," said Sally. "You know it won't be my house and I'm

afraid that Cousin Martha may not find it convenient. If it was my

house I'd ask you now."

The train started. "Good-bye, Sally," Henrietta called again as she

ran along the platform; "I wish I were going with you."

"I wish you were," Sally answered. "Oh, I do wish you were, Henrietta.

Good-bye."

For Henrietta had come to the end of the platform and had stopped.

The train was going almost too fast for her anyway.

"You'd better come inside, Sally." And Fox drew her inside and shut

the door.

Doctor Galen met the little party upon its arrival in the city. There

was nearly an hour before their train left for New York, and the

doctor suggested that they all have lunch together in the station.

Sally started to protest, for did they not have a package containing

cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and bread-and-butter? But the doctor

observed that he had never yet seen the time when a cold lunch did not

come in handy, and they might find use for it later; and, besides, he

had the lunch ordered and a table reserved. A feeling almost of

cheerfulness stole over Sally's spirits; and when, lunch over, they

were parting from the doctor at the steps of the car, Sally looked up

at him somewhat wistfully. He interpreted her look rightly, and bent

down.

"Would you, Sally?" he asked. "And one for Mrs. Galen, too. Remember,

we haven't any children of our own."

At that, Sally threw her arms around his neck and gave him two for

himself and two for Mrs. Galen. The doctor straightened again.

"Bless you, Sally!" he said softly. "I wish you belonged to us. Don't

forget your promise."

CHAPTER XIV

It was very early, as the habits of the Ladue family went, when the

train pulled into the station at Whitby. For Professor Ladue had not

been an early riser. College professors of certain types are not noted

for their earliness. One of these types had been well represented by

Professor Ladue. He had not, to be sure, ever met his classes clad in

his evening clothes; but, no doubt, he would have done so, in time, if

his career had not been cut short.

The train did not go beyond Whitby. One reason why it did not was that

there was nothing beyond but water and no stations of permanence.

There was plenty of time to get out of the train without feeling

hurried. Fox got out and helped Charlie down the steps; and Sally got

out, feeling as if she had already been up half the night. Indeed, she

had, almost, for she had been so afraid of oversleeping that she had

been only dozing since midnight.

"I wonder, Fox," she said as she came down the steps, "whether there

will be any one here to meet us."

"Cast your eye over the crowd," Fox whispered, "and if you see a thin,

haughty lady standing somewhat aloof from the common herd, I'll bet my

hat that's Martha."

Sally chuckled involuntarily, and she cast her eye over the crowd as

Fox had told her to do. There _was_ a lady, who seemed to be somewhat

haughty, standing back by the wall of the station, aloof from the

common herd, but she was not as thin as Sally had expected Cousin

Martha to be. This lady was evidently expecting somebody--or

somebodies--and was watching, with a shadow of anxiety on her face, as

the crowd poured out of the doors and flowed down the steps. Then her

gaze happened to alight upon Sally and her eyebrows lifted, quickly,

and she smiled. Sally smiled as quickly in return and made up her

mind, on the spot, that, if that was Cousin Martha, she should rather

like Cousin Martha.

The lady had come forward at once, with a rapid, nervous walk, and met

them as soon as the crowd would let her.

"Sarah Ladue?" she asked.

"Sally, Cousin Martha," Sally replied. "Everybody calls me Sally."

"Well, I am very glad to see you, Sally." Cousin Martha kissed her on

the cheek; a quick, nervous peck. Sally tried to kiss Cousin Martha

while she had the chance, but she succeeded in getting no more than a

corner of a veil. "How did you know me?"

"I didn't. I only saw that you were looking for somebody, and I

thought it might be me you were looking for."

"Oh, so that was it!" Miss Hazen smiled faintly and sighed. "I thought

that perhaps you might have recognized me from the photograph I once

gave your father. But I forgot that that was a great many years ago."

She sighed again.

Sally tried in vain to remember any photograph of Miss Martha Hazen.

She did remember something else.

"This is Fox Sanderson," she said, holding on to Fox's arm, "who has

just come on to bring us. Fox is _very_ kind. And here is Charlie."

She dragged Charlie forward by the collar. He had been behind her,

absorbed in the movements of the engine.

"Oh, what a pretty boy!" exclaimed Cousin Martha. "How do you do,

Charlie?"

"Not a pretty boy!" cried Charlie.

Sally shook him. "Say very well, I thank you," she whispered.

"Very-well-I-thank-you," Charlie repeated sulkily. "I'm hungry."

Miss Hazen laughed. "Mercy on us!" she said. "We must be getting home

to give you something to eat." She extended the tips of her fingers to

Fox. "I'm very glad to see you, too, Mr. Sanderson. You will come

home with us, too? The carriage is waiting."

"Thank you, Miss Hazen. I must see about the trunks, I suppose;

Sally's and Charlie's. I didn't bring any, for I must go back

to-night."

"Then, perhaps, you will spend the day with us?"

Fox thanked her again and Cousin Martha told him what to do about the

trunks. There was one baggageman, in particular, whom the Hazens had

employed for years when there had been trunks to go or to come. That

that baggageman was now old and nearly as decrepit as his horse and

wagon made no difference.

They were soon in Miss Hazen's stout carriage, behind a single stout

horse. Sally had not noticed, before, that the water was so near. They

went through some very dirty streets, past saloons and tenement-houses.

Miss Hazen regarded them sadly.

"One gets a poor impression of Whitby from the entrance into it," she

observed. "This part of the city has changed very much since my young

days; changed much for the worse. It is a great pity that the railroad

does not come in at some different place. On the hill, now, one would

get a very different impression. But there are parts of the city which

have not changed so very much. Although," she added thoughtfully, "all

the change is for the worse, it seems to me."

There did not seem to be anything to be said that would be of any

comfort. Fox murmured something, and then they drove up an

extraordinarily steep hill. The horse had all he could do to drag them

at a walk. But, looking up the hill, Sally saw a pleasant street with

elms arching over it.

"Oh, how lovely!" she cried. "Do you live in this part of the city,

Cousin Martha?"

"No," Cousin Martha replied, with rather more than a suspicion of

pride in her voice. "Where we live, it is prettier than this."

"Oh," said Sally. Then she recollected.

"There was a very nice man on the boat," she remarked. "He was some

sort of an officer, but I don't know exactly what. He said he lived in

Whitby, and he had several children. The youngest girl is about my

age. Do you know them, Cousin Martha? Their name is Wills."

"Wills? Wills? I don't think I know any Willses."

"He seemed to know who you were," Sally prompted. "He knew right away,

as soon as ever I told him where I was going."

"It is likely enough," said Miss Hazen, trying to speak simply. The

attempt was not a conspicuous success. "Many people, whom we don't

know, know who we are. The Willses are very worthy people, I have no

doubt, but you are not likely to know them."

"He said that, too," Sally observed.

Miss Hazen looked as if she would have liked to commend Mr. Wills's

discrimination; but she did not and they continued their drive in

silence. The streets seemed all to be arched over with elms; all that

they drove through, at all events. Presently they reached the top of

the hill and turned into a street that was as crooked as it could be.

It turned this way and that and went, gently, uphill and down; but,

always, it seemed to be trying to keep on the top of the ridge. Sally

remarked upon it.

"You might call this the Ridge Road," she said; "like Ridge Road in

Philadelphia. I have never been on the Ridge Road in Philadelphia,"

she added hastily, fearing that Cousin Martha might think she was

pretending to be what she was not, "but I have always imagined that it

was something like this."

Fox and Miss Hazen laughed. "Not much like it, Sally," said Fox.

"Or," Sally resumed, "you might call it the Cow Path. It is crooked

enough to be one."

"That is just what it used to be called," said Miss Hazen. "It was not

a very poetical name, but we liked it. They changed the name, some

years ago."

"What?" Sally asked. "What did they change it to?"

"Washington Street," answered Cousin Martha plaintively. "It seemed to

us that it was not necessary to call it Washington Street. There is no

individuality in the name."

Fox laughed again. "Not a great deal," he agreed.

Miss Hazen smiled and sighed.

"We cling to the old names," she continued. "We still call this

street, among ourselves, the Cow Path, and Parker Street is still West

India Lane, and Smith Street is Witch Lane. The old names are more

picturesque and romantic. There seemed to be no sufficient reason for

changing them. For us, they are not changed."

Washington Street--the Cow Path, as Miss Hazen preferred to call

it--had upon it a great many handsome places. They were big houses, of

stone, for the most part, or covered with stucco, although a few of

them were of wood; and they were set well back from the street, behind

well-kept lawns with clumps of shrubbery or of trees scattered at

careful random. Sally did not see one of these old places with the

rather formal garden, with its box hedges, in front of the house, but

she saw a good many with gorgeous gardens at the side, and many with

the gardens, apparently, at the back.

They were very different, these great places, from her own home. Her

own home might have occupied a whole square, as many of these did, if

it had been in a city. It was not in a city, but in what was scarcely

more than a village and the trees were where nature had set them. The

whole place--Sally's own place--had an atmosphere of wildness quite in

keeping with coal trees and sauri. These places, if they had had no

more care than the professor had been accustomed to give to his, would

have a pathetic air of abandon and desolation. What would a poor

little gynesaurus do here?

They turned off of the Cow Path and Miss Hazen brightened perceptibly.

"We are getting near home," she remarked. "Our house is on the next

corner."

"Oh, is it?" Sally asked. "What street is this?"

"This is Box Elder and our house is on the corner of Apple Tree."

Sally laughed. "How funny!" she said. "And what pretty names!"

"We think they are pretty names. Now, here we are."

They were just turning in between granite gateposts that were green

with dampness, and Sally looked up with a lively interest. She caught

a glimpse of a wooden front fence of three octagonal rails; but it was

only a glimpse, for the view was cut off, almost immediately, by the

row of great evergreens which stood just back of the fence. There were

two other evergreens in the middle of the plot of lawn, and the elms

on the streets stretched their branches far over, nearly to the house.

Altogether, it gave a depressing effect of gloom and decay, which the

aspect of the house itself did not tend to relieve.

It was a wooden house, large and square, although not so large as

those on the Cow Path. It had a deeply recessed doorway with four

wooden columns extending up two stories to support the gable. The

house was not clap-boarded, but was smooth and sanded and its surface

was grooved to look like stone. It might once have been a fair

imitation of granite, but the time was in the distant past when the

old house would have fooled even the most casual observer. And it gave

them no welcome; nobody opened the door at their approach, or, at

least, nobody on the inside. The door did not open until Cousin Martha

opened it herself, disclosing a dark and gloomy interior.

"Come in, Sally," she said; "and you, too, Mr. Sanderson, if you

please. If you will wait in the parlor for a moment, I will see about

some breakfast for you. I have no doubt you are both hungry as well as

Charlie. We have had our breakfast."

Sally wondered who the "we" might be. It had not occurred to her until

that moment that there might be somebody else in that great gloomy

house besides Cousin Martha.

"Sally," cried Charlie fretfully as they entered the dark parlor. "I

want to go home. I want to go to my own home, Sally."

"Hush, Charlie," said Sally. "This is our home now. Hush. Cousin

Martha may hear you."

Charlie would not hush. He was tired and hungry, although they had had

an apology for a breakfast, the remains of their cold lunch, before

six o'clock.

"Isn't my home. This old house isn't--"

The words died on his lips; for there was a sound behind the

half-opened folding-doors at the end of the long room, and an old man

appeared there. He seemed to Sally to be a very old man. He had a long

white beard and stooped slightly as he made his way slowly toward

them.

"Is this Sarah Ladue?" he asked as he came forward. He came near Sally

and held out his hand.

"Yes, sir," answered Sally doubtfully, laying her hand in his. "It's

Sally."

The old man must have detected the doubt. "Well, Sally," he said

kindly, "I am your father's uncle, your Cousin Patty's father." So

Cousin Martha and Cousin Patty were one.

"Oh!" returned Sally quickly. "I thought--that is, I'm very glad to

see you."

The old gentleman smiled quietly. "And I'm very glad to see you. Don't

you want to come into the back parlor? There's a fire in there. You,

too, sir," turning to Fox.

"I forgot," interrupted Sally. "I am always forgetting to do it. This

is Mr. Sanderson. He is a _very_ kind friend of ours. He came all the

way with us just to see that we got here safely. And this is Charlie,

sir."

"I am happy to meet a very kind friend of Sally's," the old gentleman

said, shaking hands with Fox. "From what I hear, she is in need of

kind friends." He held his hand out to Charlie. "Will this little boy

shake hands with his Uncle John?"

That appeared to be the last thing that Charlie wished to do, but he

did it, sulkily, without a word. Then the old gentleman led the way

slowly into the back parlor.

Sally remembered, now, that she had heard her father speak of John

Hazen--John Hazen, Junior--with that sneering laugh of his; that cold,

mirthless laugh with which he managed to cast ridicule upon anything

or anybody. This nice old gentleman must be John Hazen, Junior. But

why should a stooping old man with a long white beard be called

Junior? Why, on earth, Sally wondered. Surely, such an old man--she

would speak to Cousin Martha about it. Perhaps Cousin Martha had a

brother who was John, Junior. As for Cousin Martha's father, she had

always taken it for granted that he was a disembodied spirit.

There was a coal fire bubbling in the grate in the back parlor. A

great easy-chair was drawn up to the fire, and beside it, on the

floor, lay the morning paper, where Uncle John had dropped it. There

were other easy-chairs in the room, and books and magazines were

scattered over the centre table. The centre table had a much-stained

green cloth top, Sally noticed. Altogether, this room was cheerful, in

its own way, as any room which is lived in must be; as the great front

parlor was not. Its way was not the way Sally had been used to. It was

too dark, to begin with, and the heavy curtains only half drawn back

from the windows kept out most of the light which managed to straggle

past the trees.

The old gentleman began to place other chairs, but Fox did it for him.

"Thank you," he said. "And now, as soon as Patty comes back, I shall

have to leave you, if you will excuse me. I usually go downtown

earlier than this, but I wished to see Sally before I went. I hope you

will make yourselves quite at home."

Consideration of just this kind was a new thing for Sally.

"Oh, thank you," she cried, flushing with pleasure. "It was very nice

of you to want to wait for me."

The old gentleman again smiled his quiet smile; but before he could

say anything, Cousin Martha came in.

"I have some breakfast for you," she announced. "Will you go to your

rooms first, or have something to eat first?"

There was no room for doubt as to Charlie's preference in the matter.

Miss Hazen smiled.

"Very well, then," she said. "I think that will be better. Have your

breakfast while it is hot. Then I can take you up and get you settled.

The trunks will have got here by that time."

"I will go now, Patty," said her father, "if you will be good enough

to help me with my overcoat."

So she stopped in the hall and held his coat and he bade good-bye to

every one by name, and went out slowly.

"Does Uncle John go downtown every day?" Sally asked, soon after. She

was busy with her breakfast.

"Oh, mercy, yes," Miss Hazen replied. "He is as well able to attend to

his business as ever. And he always walks, unless it is very bad

walking: icy or very muddy. I am afraid that he might slip and fall,

and old bones, you know, do not mend easily."

"Is he--is he," Sally went on, hesitating, "John Hazen, Junior?"

"Yes," answered Cousin Martha. "He has kept the Junior."

Sally did not know just what she meant by that. "I've heard my father

speak of John Hazen, Junior," she remarked, "and I didn't know but,

perhaps, I might have a Cousin John."

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

Sally was tolerably happy after she got settled. She had cried a few

tears into Fox's coat when he was going away and she had sent many

messages to Henrietta and to Doctor Galen and to her mother, although

she knew that her mother would receive them with her pitiful, vacant

smile and would go on wondering where Sally was. She had been told, of

course, over and over, but could not seem to grasp the reason or,

indeed, the fact.

Sally had wiped her eyes and sighed. "I'm not going to cry any more,"

she had said; "and I shan't be unhappy, Fox. I just won't be."

"You've had a good deal to make you unhappy, Sally," Fox had replied

gently, "but I do hope that you won't be. You can trust Doctor Galen

to do the very best for your mother."

"Yes," Sally had returned, smiling; "you and Doctor Galen. You forgot,

Fox. And I'm glad that father has gone away. I'm glad--glad," Sally

cried passionately. "He didn't do a thing for mother. He only liked to

make her feel bad. She'd have died if he'd stayed. And I hope you'll

never find him. I hope you never will."

"We're not breaking our necks, trying."

"I'm glad of it. Oh, Fox, I've never said such a thing before, and I

never will again. But I just had to or I should have burst. Don't you

tell, will you? Don't ever tell _anybody_."

Fox had promised and had kissed her and had started back, feeling

comforted. It was very much better than he had expected, and Sally had

made up her mind. There was everything in that.

Sally woke early the next morning. It was not quite light, if it ever

could be said to be quite light in that house. But a little light had

begun to filter in around the curtains, and Sally looked about the

great, dim room, wondering for a moment where she was. Then she

remembered; she remembered, too, that Uncle John had breakfast early.

Cousin Martha had forgotten to tell her at what time to get up, but

there could be no harm in getting up now. Charlie had a little room

off her own big one, probably the dressing-room. At that instant

Charlie appeared, wandering hesitatingly, clad only in his little

pajamas, which had caused some surprise on Cousin Martha's part.

"Oh, how very cunning!" she had exclaimed, as Sally unpacked them.

Now Charlie made a dive for Sally's bed. "I want to get in with you,

Sally."

But Sally thought that they had better get dressed, and said so. When

Sally said things in that way, there was no appeal, and Charlie

submitted, with not more objection than would have been expected, to a

rapid sponge; for it had not occurred to Sally, the night before, to

find out about a bathtub. It might very well be that the house had

been built before the era of bathtubs and that no such useless

encumbrance had been added. Cousin Martha herself solved that

difficulty for her. There was a gentle tap at her door.

"Sally," called Cousin Martha's voice, "here is your hot water. Do you

know about the tub?"

"No," answered Sally, opening the door; "Charlie's had his bath,

Cousin Martha, as good a one as I could give him, but I haven't."

"You didn't splash water over the floor, did you?" Cousin Martha asked

anxiously, scrutinizing the floor for any signs of wetting.

"I tried not to," Sally replied. "It's hardly light enough to make

sure."

Miss Hazen had disappeared into Charlie's room and now reappeared

bringing a tub. It was a large shallow pan, a sort of glorified milk

pan, and might have been made of cast iron, judging from the way Miss

Hazen carried it. It was not of cast iron, but of tin; the kind of tin

that cannot be got in these days, even for love.

"There!" said she, setting it down.

"Thank you, Cousin Martha. It will be nice to have that. But you don't

need to bring us hot water. We don't use it."

"Why, Sally!" Cousin Martha cried in a horrified voice. "You don't

bathe in cold water!" Sally nodded. "Not tempered at all?"

"Just cold water," Sally responded.

"But it will be very cold, later on," remonstrated Cousin Martha. "The

water sometimes freezes in the pitcher."

Sally chuckled. "Long as it doesn't freeze solid it's all right. I

like it very cold. It prickles and stings me all over. We like it

cold, don't we, Charlie?"

Charlie grunted. He did not seem enthusiastic. Miss Hazen sighed as

she shut the door.

Breakfast was over, Uncle John had gone, and things had pretty well

settled down for the day, and it still seemed very early to Sally. She

and Charlie wandered in the yard before eight o'clock. That yard

seemed very restricted. In the first place, it was bounded on every

side except the front by a high wooden fence. The top of the fence was

just about level with the top of Sally's head, so that she couldn't

see over it without jumping up or climbing on something. Sally had

thought of climbing, of course; but, first, she had to get Charlie

acquainted with the yard, so that he would stay down contentedly.

Charlie had not yet developed any particular aptitude for climbing

trees.

They wandered to the stable, which was at the back of the house, a

little to one side, and opened directly upon Box Elder Street. Here

they found the man attending to his duties about the stout horse. That

man paid but little attention to the children, but continued his work

in a leisurely manner. No doubt this was praiseworthy on his part, but

it was not what the children had hoped for, and they soon wandered

out again and went towards the back of the yard. Here was a vegetable

garden on one side and a flower garden on the other, together

stretching across from Box Elder Street to a little street that was

scarcely more than a lane. Sally had been in Whitby a long time before

she found that this was Hazen's Lane. It was most natural to speak of

it as "The Lane," and "The Lane" it was.

Back of the two gardens was another high wooden fence; and behind the

fence was a row of maples bordering a street. Sally knew it was a

street because she could see, over the top of the fence, the fronts of

two houses on the other side of it.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "There doesn't seem to be anything very

interesting here, does there, Charlie? You can't even see farther than

across the street. I suppose Cousin Martha wouldn't like it if we

should dig, for there isn't any place to dig but the garden."

Charlie began to whimper.

At this moment there came a thump on the fence at the corner of the

Lane. The thumping continued, in a rhythmical manner, as if it were in

time with somebody's walking, and progressed slowly along the Lane.

Presently there was a double thump at each step, and Sally saw two

cloth caps, exactly alike, bobbing up and down, almost disappearing

behind the fence at each downward bob.

"It looks like twins," she said.

"Follow 'em along," said Charlie, in some excitement. "Come on,

Sally."

So they followed 'em along until the twin caps had got almost opposite

the house. Then two shrill voices broke into sudden song.

"Monkey married the baboon's sister,

Smacked his lips and then he kissed 'er;

Kissed so hard he--"

Sally had jumped up on the stringer of the fence, just where the caps

would be at the next step. "It is, Charlie!" she cried.

The owners of the two caps had jumped away with an alacrity born of

experience, and had started to run. They looked back and stopped.

"Hello!" they cried, together, in surprise. "Is wh--wh--what,

Ch--Ch--Charlie?"

"Twins," Sally answered in triumph; "aren't you?"

The twins nodded. "C--c--course we are," said one.

"Any--any--any--b--ody know that."

"Wh--wh--what's your n--n--name?" asked the other.

"And wh--wh--who's Ch--Ch--Charlie?"

"My name is Sally Ladue," replied Sally, "and Charlie's my brother."

Charlie popped his head above the fence. "We've come," she continued,

thinking that she might save the twins the painful process of speech,

"we've come to live here."

"W--w--with P--P--Patty H.?" asked one of the twins, in a hoarse

whisper.

It was impossible for any one who was not very familiar with them to

tell whether it was the same twin who had spoken last or the other

one; and Sally had taken her eyes off them when she spoke of Charlie.

"With Uncle John and Cousin Martha," she answered. "I've never called

her Patty H. and I don't think it's very respectful."

The twins grinned. "W--w--we c--c--call her P--P--Patty H.

be--be--bec--c--cause it's h--h--hard to s--s--say

Haa--Ha--Ha--Ha--_Hav_ering."

Sally had hard work to suppress her chuckles. The other twin made no

effort to suppress his; he laughed heartlessly.

His brother turned upon him. "Sh--sh--shut up, you b--b--bum, you! You

c--c--couldn't s--s--say it."

Sally essayed to be peacemaker. "You know," she said hesitatingly,

"that you are so much alike that I can't tell you apart. You're just

like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and you seem to quarrel just the same

as they did. Now, you're Tweedledum," she went on, pointing at one,

and then at the other, "and you're Tweedledee. If Dum would wear a

red ribbon in his buttonhole and Dee would wear a blue one, I should

know. It's very convenient to know."

The idea of wearing ribbons in their buttonholes did not seem to

strike the twins favorably. They shook their heads.

"Well," said Sally hastily, "there's another thing: you were thumping

on the fence and singing--"

"We c--c--can s--s--sing all right when we c--c--can't t--t--talk.

S--some d--days are go--g--good for t--talking and s--some are

b--b--bad. Th--this is a b--bad d--day."

"Yes, I suppose so. But what I was going to say was this: you were

singing something that may have been meant to plague Cousin Martha. I

want you to promise not to try to plague her. You will promise, won't

you?"

The twins grinned again and promised with evident reluctance.

"You g--going to our s--s--school?" inquired Dum suddenly.

"I don't know about schools," Sally replied. "I suppose I'm going to

some school, and Charlie, too."

"Ours," Dum began; but at the mention of school Dee started.

"G--g--gee!" he exclaimed. "We g--g--got to h--h--hurry or we'll be

l--late. C--c--come on."

The twins were gone. Sally and Charlie got down from the fence.

"They were a funny pair, weren't they, Charlie?"

"Yes, they were. Now, Sally," Charlie went on dismally, "what you

goin' to do?"

Sally sighed. It was not nine o'clock and Charlie was in the dumps

already. She looked around and there was Miss Hazen just coming out of

the front door.

"There's Cousin Martha, Charlie. Let's go and meet her."

Charlie was not in a state to be enthusiastic about anything,

certainly not about Cousin Martha. He didn't care; but he went, in a

condition of dismal melancholy that touched her.

"Homesick, poor child!" she murmured. "Charlie," she said aloud, "I am

going downtown in the carriage, to do some errands. Don't you want to

go? You and Sally?"

Charlie thereupon brightened perceptibly. "I'll go if you want me to."

Cousin Martha smiled and turned to Sally, who accepted. "Although,"

she said, "I want to write a letter. But I suppose there'll be plenty

of time after we get back. We've just been talking with the funniest

pair of twins. They stutter."

Miss Hazen sighed. "I know. I heard them banging on the fence. They

are the Carling twins. Their names are Henry and Horace."

"Harry and Horry," cried Sally. "But which is older?"

"Mercy! I don't know," Cousin Martha answered. "I can't tell them

apart. One is just as bad as the other."

"I've an idea," Sally remarked, "that they aren't going to be so bad."

Cousin Martha looked curiously at Sally, but she said nothing and just

then the carriage came.

Miss Hazen seemed to find especial delight in Charlie's society on

that drive. She talked to him more and more while she went to do her

errands. Charlie, on the whole, was not an especially attractive

child. He was a handsome boy, but he was apt to be dissatisfied and

discontented, which gave his face the kind of expression which such a

disposition always gives. He seemed to be developing some of the

characteristics of his father. Not that Sally was aware of the

characteristics Charlie was developing. Charlie was Charlie, that was

all. She saw too much of him--had had the care of him too

continuously--to realize the little resemblances which might be

evident to one who had less to do with him. It is not unlikely that

Miss Hazen realized those resemblances, although she may not have been

conscious of it, and that it was just that which was endearing him to

her.

Whatever the reason, Cousin Martha got to taking him with her at every

opportunity. Charlie was in school every morning, for one of Miss

Hazen's errands, on that first day, had been to arrange for school for

both Sally and Charlie. Charlie, being at school every morning except

Saturday, could not accompany Cousin Martha on her drives in the

mornings. Consequently, Cousin Martha changed her habit of more than

twenty years' standing and drove in the afternoon. Her father smiled

when he heard of it and looked from Charlie to Sally.

"I know of no reason, Patty," he observed quietly, "why the afternoon

is not as good a time for driving as the morning. Doesn't this little

girl go?"

"Not very often, Uncle John," Sally replied, smiling up at him.

"I'm--I'm very busy, and--and I'd rather go anywhere on my own feet."

He patted her head and smiled. He liked to go anywhere on his own

feet, too.

CHAPTER II

It was a blustery Saturday toward the last of March. Sally had written

her letter to Fox and one to Doctor Galen, more to take up time than

because she had anything to say that she thought was worth saying; but

the kind doctor seemed to like to get her rather infrequent letters,

and he always answered them, although his answers were rather short.

But what could she expect of a doctor who was as busy as Doctor Galen?

Not much, truly. Cousin Martha had told her so. Perhaps I had better

call her Patty. Everybody called her Patty or Miss Patty. Even Sally

had fallen into that habit. Miss Patty may have preferred it or she

may not have; her preference did not seem to matter. As I was saying,

Cousin Patty had told her so, and had intended the telling, it seemed

to Sally, rather as a rebuke. Now, Sally did not know why she should

be rebuked,--for her conscience was clear. But the fame of Doctor

Galen had gone forth in the land and Cousin Patty considered it a

great honor that any one of her family connections was under his care.

Hence her seeming rebuke.

Sally had finished her letter to the doctor and it was only half-past

eight. She sighed as the hall clock--which, by the way, was in the

back parlor--struck the half-hour, solemnly, as if it were aware of

the importance of its office. That tall clock did its whole duty

conscientiously--with Uncle John's help. Sally sat gazing at the clock

and meditating. It was no less than astonishing, when you came to

think of it, what a lot of things in that house depended upon Uncle

John's help. He never made a show of giving it, but a quiet word here

and a calm smile there did wonders. He was a regulator, that was what

he was; a sort of a pendulum, to make things go right. Sally had

become very fond of Uncle John. Cousin Patty--well--she seemed to

need a regulator, not to put it any more strongly. Sally smiled as the

idea crossed her mind, and she took the end of the pen-holder from its

place between her teeth and returned to the perusal of her letter.

Sally always read over her letters, and, having read this one over,

she added a postscript telling the doctor--a very private joke between

him and her--of Cousin Patty's rebuke. She knew that he would be

amused. When she had the doctor's letter sealed, she looked up again

at the clock.

"Oh, dear!" she murmured; "it must have stopped." She knew very well

that the clock would not be guilty of such misbehavior as long as it

had Uncle John's help. "I'll write to Henrietta."

To tell the truth, Sally had not missed Henrietta one half as much as

she had missed Fox, but if she did not write her very often it was

simply because she forgot it. When she remembered, she was always very

sorry and wrote frequently, until she forgot again. Sally's letters to

Henrietta came in bunches, with intervals of a month or more between

the bunches.

She had not got very far on this one when Uncle John came in. He was

very late that morning.

"Sally," he said, "they are flying kites in the Lot. You may like to

see them."

For, as I said at the beginning, before I was led off into this

digression, it was a blustery Saturday in March.

"Oh!" Sally cried, pushing back her chair. "Are they? Do you mind,

Uncle John, if I climb a tree on that side? You can't see over the

wall, you know."

Mr. Hazen smiled quietly. "Climb any tree you like," he replied. "You

will be careful, Sally, I know; careful of yourself and of the trees.

But where is Charlie?"

"Cousin Patty is getting him ready to go out with her." Sally was

pretty well relieved of the care of Charlie by this time. "I'll finish

this letter when I come in."

She jumped up, snatched up her hood and her coat and slipped her hand

into Uncle John's and they went out together. They parted at the foot

of the steps and Mr. Hazen walked slowly downtown, smiling to himself

in a satisfied way.

Just across Box Elder Street was a high wall. It seemed to Sally to be

at least twenty feet high; and the builder of that wall had added

insult to injury by cementing it smoothly on the outside--Sally had

never seen the inside of it--and by capping it with a smooth and

projecting wooden roof. The wooden roof was no longer smooth, but

warped with the sun and the rains of many years, and the mouldings on

the under edges were coming away in places. But the wall was still

absolutely unclimbable, although it was possible to see over it from

the upper windows of the house or from the evergreens which surrounded

it. Sally preferred the evergreens. To be sure, their heavy branches

somewhat interfered with the view, but, at least, they were trees and

they were out of doors.

When Sally had found a comfortable perch in a spruce, she looked over

into the Lot. The Lot was a relic of the past; of twenty-five or

thirty years past. Its latest useful service had been, according to

internal evidence, as a cornfield. The boys, running across it with

their kites, were sure of this, for the hills were still there and

made running on it a work of art, especially if there was a kite at

the end of a string to need their attention. Indeed, perhaps I was

wrong in putting the flying of kites in the class of useless service.

At any rate, that was the only use to which Morton's lot had been put

for many years. It was called "The Lot." There was no danger of

ambiguity in so speaking of it, any more than there was in speaking of

Hazen's Lane as "The Lane." No one would have any doubt at all--no one

in Sally's set, at least--as to what was referred to, in either case.

Sally looked out as she best could between the branches of her spruce.

She couldn't see much, only a little piece of the field at each

opening. It was very unsatisfactory. She saw five or six boys, two of

them large boys, bending over something which lay upon the ground.

Presently the group divided and the boys stood up; and she saw that

what they had been working on was a huge kite of the old-fashioned

six-sided kind. She saw, too, that the big boys were Everett Morton

and Dick Torrington. At that moment the familiar figures of the

Carling twins slipped through a break in the high picket fence from

the other street. Immediately, Sally scrambled out of the spruce and

ran up Box Elder Street. She had a heightened color, but that might

have been due to the exertion of scrambling. It might not have been

due to the exertion of scrambling. Scrambling was no unusual exertion

for Sally.

Sally's rapid change of base was not because of the restricted view

from the tree, although her view was restricted. And it was not

because of the Carlings. The Carlings were her devoted slaves; but

that fact was an annoyance to her rather than a gratification, and it

is conceivable that the presence of the Carlings might have had weight

in inducing her to put up with the inconveniences of a restricted

view. The object of interest must therefore have been either Everett

or Dick or the kite.

At her school Sally was in the fifth class. They did not have forms or

grades at that school. Grades are mysterious things which seem to run

the wrong way, with no particular point of beginning and no particular

ending. A man might be in the fiftieth grade if there were any

teachers for it. There seems to be nothing to prevent. But when a boy

graduates from the first class, there is a point that brings you up

short. Something vital must happen then; and the thing that happens is

that the boy either goes to college or goes to work, for it is out of

the question to go any farther in that school. You know it without

being told.

The boys in Sally's school usually went to college when they graduated

from the first class. They were well prepared for it. Everett and Dick

were in the first class and they would go away to college in the fall,

or, at least, they hoped that they would. There was some doubt about

it, for Dick was rather dull and plodding and Everett was neither dull

nor plodding. They were four years ahead of Sally. I cannot tell why

she had chosen those two to look up to. It is doubtful whether she

could have shown adequate cause either, always supposing that she

would have been willing to acknowledge the fact.

Dick was the type of the nice English boy. Sally had never seen an

English boy or an English man in her whole life; but that did not

prevent her from forming an ideal of the type, to which Dick measured

up in every particular. He had light hair and that curious brunette

coloring that sometimes goes with it; he was invariably pleasant and

polite and deliberate in his speech; and he was generally well

dressed. Sally was particular about that, almost finicky. If Dick had

shown a tendency to overdressing--but he didn't. He had an air of

distinction. He also had a sister, Emily, who was in the second class

at school. Sally thought that Emily Torrington was the most beautiful

girl she had ever seen. She could not imagine any girl more beautiful.

Everett was a great contrast to Dick in every respect. He had no

sister. Everett was an only child and his family was very rich, so

that he was in great danger of being spoiled. Not that it made any

difference to Sally whether he was rich or not. And Everett was

handsome, in quite a different way from Dick, and brilliant and

dashing. In short, he was fascinating. Many others than Sally had

found him so. It was quite likely that a woman would be more

permanently happy and contented with Dick than with Everett. I do not

mean to imply that Sally had ever indulged in any such reflection. She

may have and she may not have; but he fascinated her, as he had

fascinated those others of whom I spoke. He didn't know it. Everett

Morton had never spoken to Sally. He had never even noticed her. Dick

had in his good-natured, pleasant way, but Dick was always polite.

Everett was not--always.

So Sally's heart was beating a little rapidly when she pushed through

the break in the fence. But she had been running, you remember, for a

square and a half.

The big kite was up on end, with one of the smaller boys holding it.

It was a huge kite, nearly twice the height of the boy that held it

and the top of it was a good foot above Everett's head as he stood in

front of it; so big that they had a rope to fly it with, and the end

of the rope was tied around Everett's waist. The smaller boys, of

course, were clustered about the kite, the Carlings among them. Then

Dick and Everett took the rope in their hands, called to the boy to

let go, and began to run; and the kite rose, evenly at first, then

twitching viciously from side to side. Then it hesitated for an

instant, as the tail, dragging on the ground, caught around the legs

of one of the Carlings. Sally had not yet become able to tell them

apart, at any distance. She saw him struggle, go down with his feet in

the air and with the tail of the kite still wrapped around them. She

saw the other twin precipitate himself upon the fallen one, try vainly

to undo the tail, then busy himself with one of his brother's shoes.

The kite suddenly soared, bearing aloft, tied firmly into its tail, a

shoe.

The twins remained upon the ground, one pounding the other. Sally

thought that the pounded one had already had punishment enough and she

ran toward them.

"You j--jay!" cried the upper twin to the under twin, as she came

near. "You b--b--bum, you! D--don't you kn--know any b--b--better 'n

t--to g--get c--c--caught th--that way? You--"

"Sh--sh--shut up," yelled the under twin, struggling wildly,

"y--y--you r--r--rotten old b--beat! L--l--lemmeup!"

"Here," said Sally, imperatively, "let him up. Stop pounding him."

Harry stopped his pounding of Horry and both of the twins looked up,

Harry with a sheepish grin and Horry with an expression of the most

profound relief.

"S--S--Sally!" they began, in unison. "Oh, I ain't h--h--hurtin' 'im,"

continued Harry. "Oh, h--h--he ain't h--h--hurtin' m--me," said Horry.

Sally laughed. "Well," she said, "you'll get up." She took Harry by

the shoulder. "It's positively disgraceful the way you brothers

fight."

Harry got up slowly. "B--b--brothers always f--f--fight," he said

apologetically, "if th--th--they're an--an--any--wh--where ne--n--near

th--the s--s--same s--size. H--H--Horry 'n-n' I are j--just th--the

s--s--same s--s--size. B--b--but I n--n--never h--hurt 'im," he added

magnanimously.

Horry had got up, and was standing on one leg, with his stockinged

foot against his other knee. He made Sally think of a belligerent

stork.

"Y--yer c--c--couldn't, th--that's wh--why," he yelled. Then, sticking

his head forward until his face was almost touching his brother's, he

vented his scorn in a single yell. "Y--a--ah!"

This was too much for Harry's imitation of goodness, and he gave chase

at once. Horry, handicapped by the loss of one shoe, which was now

almost out of sight, had made but two jumps when Harry caught him.

They clinched and went down in a heap. Sally couldn't tell whether the

stockinged foot belonged to the under or the upper twin. She laughed

again. They seemed to prefer to fight anyway, so why not let them?

The kite was now up as far as it could go. The rope was all out, and

Everett was holding to a post of the fence. Dick came running over the

field toward the prostrate twins.

"Here, you twins!" he called. "Stop your fighting. Get up!"

He seized the upper twin, jerked him to his feet and gave him a shake.

It proved to be Horry.

"L--l--lemme 'l--l--lone!" cried Horry. "I ain't d--doin'

an--an--yth--thing to y--you. Wh--wh--where's m--m--my sh--shoe?

G--g--gimme m--my sh--shoe."

Harry scrambled to his feet. "Y--you l--l--let m--m--my b--brother

al--l--lone, D--Dick. P--pitch in, H--H--Horry."

Accordingly they both pitched in. Dick had his hands full for a

minute. Sally ran up.

"Everett is calling you."

"Pugnacious little beggars!" said Dick.

He knocked their heads together, gently, and ran off, leaving the

twins with blazing eyes, looking after him. They began to splutter.

"It's all entirely your own fault," Sally began hastily, "and you know

it. Look at the kite."

The kite was pitching in the gusty wind. The tail was not long enough

nor the rope either. Occasionally it would dive head down, but Everett

always managed to check it, and it rose again, twitching from side to

side.

"M--m--my sh--shoe!" Horry cried, after one of the dives. He started

off over the field. "I'm g--g--goin' t--to g--g--get it."

The kite dived again, straight down. Horry was almost under it, the

sight of his shoe, not more than a hundred feet above his head, making

him reckless--if anything was needed to make him so.

"Horry!" Sally called anxiously. "Come away. You'll get hurt."

But he showed no disposition to come away. He followed the kite,

keeping just under it, his arms upraised. Sally ran towards him; and

at that moment Everett succeeded in checking the downward dive of the

great kite, which rose slowly, tugging and twitching at its rope

viciously. It was like a live thing compelled to go up against its

will and determined to come down. It was pretty low now and it seemed

likely that the kite would have its way.

Dick seemed to think so. "It's no use, Ev," he said. "Better let it

down easy and we'll put on more ballast."

Everett gritted his teeth and made no reply. If any kite was to get

the better of him, it would have to fight for it. He wouldn't give in.

"You'll have it smashed up," Dick warned him quietly.

As he spoke, the kite gave two violent pitches and dived once more.

Even Everett could not stop it and it came down like lightning,

straight at Horry Carling. Sally saw it and so did Horry. Horry seemed

to be paralyzed; and Sally precipitated herself upon him, bearing him

to the ground, but a little away from the kite. The next instant the

heavy kite struck the ground with great force and two of its sticks

broke. It had struck Sally on her outstretched left foot and may have

broken something more than kite sticks.

The broken kite fell over upon Sally and Horry. Horry began to

struggle.

"L--l--lemme g--g--get out," he yelled.

"Keep still!" said Sally. "I'll get up and then--oh!" Sally was

already part way up. There was a terrible pain in her left leg. She

felt dizzy. "I--I think--I'll lie down," she murmured; and she

fainted.

Sally opened her eyes presently, and smiled vaguely. The kite was

gone, she was lying upon her back and Everett and Dick were bending

over her, while the Carlings and the other small boys gazed in

awe-struck silence.

"Where's the kite?" Sally asked weakly. She was not quite herself yet.

"Never mind about the kite, Sally," Dick answered; "it's broken and

I'm glad of it. Where did it hit you?"

"I've a pain in my left leg," said Sally. "It's a pretty hard pain."

Her lips were white as she spoke, and she pressed them together to

stop their quivering. She did not mean to cry.

"We'll carry you in," said Dick.

So he and Everett made a chair by crossing their hands, each hand

clasping one of the other boy's. Then they stooped down and Sally

managed to sit upon their clasped hands. It was the first time that

she had seen this device.

"I'm afraid I shall fall off," she said. "Do you mind if I hold on to

you?"

Dick laughed quietly. "Put your arms round our necks and you won't

fall. It's as easy as a cradle."

Sally's color was quite restored and she was conscious of no pain as

she made a triumphal progress along Box Elder Street with one arm

about Dick's neck and the other about Everett's. The Carling twins

followed closely, Horry absent-mindedly carrying his shoe in his hand,

and the other boys came after.

As Dick and Everett started to carry her upstairs, it was the happiest

moment that Sally had ever known.

CHAPTER III

Cousin Patty was in Sally's room. Cousin Patty was not, as it chanced,

fully dressed.

"Well, Sally," she said, going towards the door, "I must go. It's

almost time for the doctor." She paused an instant, then went on

plaintively. "He hasn't been here, except professionally, for a long

time--some years. But there was a time when he came often." Miss Hazen

sighed involuntarily.

The sigh was long and quivering and it interested Sally. "Oh, Cousin

Patty," she said eagerly, "will you tell me about it--about that time,

I mean?"

Cousin Patty looked at Sally with the soft light of reminiscence in

her eyes. "Oh, well," she replied, with affected carelessness and

laughing lightly, "perhaps I will, if you are really interested to

hear about it. Now I must go, but I'll be back in a few minutes."

She went out and shut the door; and Sally heard a muffled shriek and

Cousin Patty's door slammed. An instant later, her own door opened and

Doctor Beatty appeared. He was smiling.

"Nearly scared Patty into a fit," he said. "She ought to know my

habits by this time."

Miss Patty soon came in again, clothed but not quite in her right

mind. Her color was still high and she seemed a little flustered.

Doctor Beatty did not turn around.

"Oh, there you are, Patty," he said. "I won't look, you know, until

you give the word."

"How absurd!" Miss Patty exclaimed. She meant to be very dignified,

but she was very nearly smiling. "But that is to be expected. You

always were absurd."

The doctor's visit was a long one; and, when it was done, Miss Patty

went to the door with him.

"It has seemed quite like old times," she said softly.

For a moment the doctor did not know what she was talking about.

"What?" he asked blankly. "Oh, yes, it has, more or less, hasn't it?

Good-bye, Patty. Keep your liver on the job. You're looking a little

bit yellow."

There were tears in Miss Patty's eyes when she went back to sit with

Sally.

"Doctor Beatty," she remarked after a short silence, "is not what he

was in the old days. He seems to have coarsened."

Sally did not know what reply to make, so she made none.

"He never used to say anything about my--my liver," resumed Miss

Patty, "when he called. He was practising then, too. It is painful to

me to see such a change in a man like him. Now, in the old days, when

he used to be here a great deal,--a _very_ great deal, Sally,--he was

not at all like that." And Miss Patty sighed.

Just then the maid came up to announce the Carlings.

"An', Miss Patty," she continued significantly, "Charlie's in the

kitchen."

"Oh, is he? I'll come right down and get him." The maid withdrew. "The

dear little boy!" said Miss Patty. "I suppose he's eating what he

ought not to. I'd like to let him have anything he wants, but I know

it wouldn't be good for him."

She rose rather hastily, but paused with her hand on the door. "Of

course, Sally," she said with a short little laugh, "you are not to

think that I had any--Oh, here are the twins, Sally."

Miss Patty fled and the Carlings entered.

"H--h--hello, Sally," they cried. "H--h--how's your l--l--leg?"

Sally laughed. "It's my foot, not my leg, and it doesn't hurt me at

all, hardly."

This appeared to upset the concerted programme of the twins.

"B--but y--you s--s--said your l--l--leg hurt," objected Harry.

"Well, so it did," Sally replied; "but it's my foot that's broken."

"Your f--f--foot b--b--broken!" said Horry in astonishment. "H--h--how

c--can a f--f--foot b--be b--b--broken? D--d--does it w--work

ar--r--round?"

"Not now, for it's all done up stiff in bandages."

Horry was not allowed to pursue his inquiries, for the maid was at the

door again, announcing Richard Torrington. Sally sat up straighter,

and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes rather bright. The twins eyed

her with suspicion.

As they passed down the broad stairs Harry nudged Horry again.

"S--S--S--al--l--ly's s--stuck on D--D--Dick," he whispered.

"S--s--sing it," said Horry, chuckling.

"W--w--won't d--do it," replied Harry indignantly. His indignation

rose at every step. "Y--you r--r--rotten b--bum, y--you! W--w--wanted

t--to m--m--make m--me m--m--make a f--f--" The front door banged

behind the twins, and Sally heard no more.

She had heard Harry's whispered remark and had glanced fearfully at

Dick. He seemed unconscious, and a great joy surged in Sally's heart.

The first morning that Sally came downstairs--on crutches--she managed

her crutches unskillfully and fell half the flight. Uncle John and

Cousin Patty, followed closely by Charlie, hurried to her. Uncle John

was the most alarmed. He stooped and would have raised her head, but

Sally saved him that trouble and smiled at him.

"I'm not hurt one mite," she said. She was not. "Wasn't I lucky?"

He gave a great sigh of relief.

"I was afraid," he replied. "I'm thankful that you're not. Are you

sure, Sally?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure." And, to convince him, Sally jumped up, nimbly,

and hopped about on one foot.

Uncle John smiled. "It isn't very wise to try such experiments. Now,

you're to sit beside me at the table, hereafter. We can't risk that

foot, for it would be more of a misfortune to our Sally and to us if

anything serious happened to it than she realizes."

Sally had noted the way he spoke of "our Sally"; it was affectionate,

genuinely so. There could not be the least doubt about it.

"Now," he continued, "you will please to take my arm."

"Oh, father," remonstrated Miss Patty, "is it safe?"

"Quite safe, Patty," he returned quietly, "and I wish it."

It is not to be wondered at if Sally squeezed his arm a little. She

could not say what she wanted to, right there before Cousin Patty and

Charlie. It is hard to see why she couldn't, but Uncle John seemed to

understand; and they walked solemnly in to breakfast, Sally wielding

one crutch and Uncle John the other.

"We're two old cripples, Sally," said he.

CHAPTER IV

Sally wrote Fox about it all, of course. There would have been no

excuse for her if she had not; and she wrote Henrietta, too, although

she had some difficulty in making the two letters cover the same

ground without saying the same thing. This was one of the times when

Sally's letters to Henrietta came in bunches. She alluded to her

accident in one of her letters to Doctor Galen, and he answered it

almost immediately, giving her four pages of excellent advice and

ending by taking it all back.

"Fox tells me," he wrote, "that you have Meriwether Beatty looking

after you. In that case please consider all this unsaid. I know

something of Doctor Beatty and I am sure you couldn't be in better

hands--unless in the hands of Doctor Fox Sanderson. Have you heard

that Fox has decided to be a doctor and that he is studying with me

besides taking his course in the medical school?"

No, Sally had not heard it. Fox was strangely reticent about himself.

He had not mentioned, even, that he had found a tenant for their

house; a tenant who would respect all of Sally's little affections--or

great affections, if you prefer--for trees from which the gynesaurus

had been wont to gaze out over the coal swamps, ages ago; a tenant

who, strangely enough, was named Sanderson. She learned this piece of

news, or inferred it, from one of Henrietta's letters. Henrietta had

supposed that Sally knew it already.

Sally was feeling very tenderly affectionate towards Fox over this

news, and very much elated over the doctor's announcement, for it

could hardly fail to be evident what prosperity for Fox was implied in

Doctor Galen's great good will. She wrote to Fox at once,

congratulating him.

"Everybody here seems to think that Doctor Galen is It, and so do I,"

she went on. "I read Doctor Beatty what Doctor Galen said about him,

and you ought to have seen him. He looked pleased as he could be and

he smiled--he tried not to--and he positively blushed. Then he began

to talk about my foot, but my foot is not worth talking about now. It

is almost well. I go about quite easily with my crutches and Uncle

John takes me for a walk every morning, before he goes downtown. It

makes him late in getting down, but he doesn't seem to mind. Uncle

John and I have got quite fond of each other. Really, Fox, Uncle John

is the best person here. He is so kind and thoughtful and, Fox, so

polite! His politeness seems to be a part of him. Yes, I am very fond

of Uncle John. Of course, I am fond of Cousin Patty, too, but I like

Uncle John more.

"And there are other ways I have of going out. Dick Torrington has

come in every afternoon since I hurt my foot, and, now that I can get

about so well, he takes me for a walk. It's very slow business for

him, of course, but he doesn't seem to mind, either. It's astonishing

how many people don't seem to mind. Dick is _very_ nice and kind and

satisfying. He reminds me of you in many ways. He always treats me

like a person,--as if I were as old as he is,--not as if I was only a

little girl and of no consequence, as Everett Morton seems to think.

Dick seems to _like_ to take me out. He is going to take his

examinations for Harvard this June, and he is a little afraid he won't

pass. He failed in a good many of his preliminaries--is that spelled

right?--last year. He isn't very quick at his studies. He says so

himself, so he knows it. I hope he will pass and I wish I could help

him. Uncle John says Dick's all right. Uncle John takes me to walk

again when he gets back, so that I have walking enough for a little

girl with crutches. I shan't need them very much longer, but Doctor

Beatty wants me to be careful and not to climb trees for quite a

while. There aren't any good trees here.

"I hope you know, Fox, that I am very glad you and Henrietta are

living in our house and that I appreciate it. Write me about all the

old places, will you?"

Fox smiled with amusement at himself to find that he felt a distinct

pang at Sally's account of Dick. If Dick was good to her there was no

reason in the world why he should not take her walking as much as he

would. But he, Fox, missed her companionship. Sally was one to be

missed.

Dick did not succeed very well with his examinations. He had as many

conditions as it is permitted to a boy to have, and he had to study

hard all that summer. So the walks with Dick became less and less

frequent until they ceased altogether. Dick is not to be blamed. Sally

was only twelve and he could not have known how much his daily

companionship meant to her. If he had known, he would have managed,

out of the goodness of his heart, to see her oftener than once a week.

Dick was the only intimate friend that Sally had.

Uncle John did not desert her merely because Dick had done so. They

became almost inseparable; so much so that old Cap'n Forsyth, chancing

to meet Mr. Hazen alone, one afternoon, cried out in astonishment.

"Hello, John!" he cried in his great bluff voice, a voice that had

been heard, often, above the roaring of the wind in the rigging and

the hissing of the seas. "Hello, John! Where's the other one? Anything

the matter with her?"

Uncle John smiled quietly. "I hope not, Stephen. I sincerely hope not.

I haven't been home yet, or you wouldn't find me alone, I trust."

"I believe you're in love, John," Cap'n Forsyth cried again. He might

have been heard a block away.

The smile had not left Mr. Hazen's face. "I believe I am, Stephen. I

believe I am."

"She's worth it, is she?" roared Cap'n Forsyth.

Mr. Hazen nodded. "She's worth it, Stephen."

"I'm glad to hear it, John," Cap'n Forsyth shouted. No doubt he

thought he was whispering. "It's getting to be as common a sight--you

and Sally--as those Carling nuisances. And Patty's just as bad with

that little boy brother of hers. I hope he's worth it, too. Good-bye,

John."

There was some doubt in Uncle John's mind as to Charlie's being worth

it. He and Patty were inseparable, too, and Charlie was not improved.

He was in imminent danger of being spoiled, if the mischief was not

already done. Uncle John sighed and turned homeward. He found Sally

sitting on the front steps, waiting for him.

* * * * *

After Dick went, in the fall, Sally had nothing to do but to try to

play by herself and devote herself to her studies and miss Dick. She

found that she missed him almost as much as she had missed Fox. As for

playing by herself, she had had that to do nearly all summer; for,

although she had tried, conscientiously, she could not feel any

interest in the other girls of her own age. They were uninteresting,

somehow. Uncle John was better, and she got into the habit of going

down to his office in the afternoons and coming home with him. Miss

Patty was very glad to have her do it. It relieved her mind; in case,

you know, he should stumble or slip or--or anything else should

happen. She felt that Sally was to be relied upon, and so she was; but

Miss Patty was putting a rather grave responsibility upon her and she

was a little too lonely. It is not good for little girls to be lonely.

She was unaware of the responsibility.

Sally's school was a diversion. Diversion seems to be the right word.

There were about seventy scholars in the school; and, with six

classes, that makes about a dozen scholars to a class, more or less.

The lower classes had more and the upper classes, by natural processes

of elimination, had less. Sally's class had fourteen; and Sally had no

trouble at all in standing at the head of a class of fourteen. It had

made Dick envious--no, not envious, for Dick was never that; but it

was a constant wonder to him that any one should be able to stand

first in fourteen with so little work.

In the great schoolroom, where all the scholars sat when they had no

classes to go to, the boys sat on one side and the girls sat on the

other. They were given seats according to their rank, the first class

at the back of the room and the sixth class right under the eye of

the principal, almost under his very hand. In general, this was a good

arrangement. It happened, however, that the worst behavior was not in

the lowest class, but in the fourth, which was Sally's class. So

Sally, from her seat in the fourth row from the front, saw Eugene

Spencer, commonly called "Jane," suddenly haled from his seat at her

side--Sally sat next to the boys and Jane next to the girls--and,

after a severe lecture, assigned a desk within touch of the desk of

the principal, Mr. MacDalie.

Jane was a boy of immaculate and ladylike appearance. He listened

respectfully to the lecture and received the assignment of the desk

with a bow of thanks; all of which behavior was, in itself,

unobjectionable. Jane had a knack at that. But it drove the principal,

who was a man of irascible temper, into a white-hot rage, which Jane

respectfully sat through, apparently undisturbed. A suppressed

excitement ran along the rows of boys, who were as if on tiptoe with

expectation of what might happen. Sally, herself, was trembling, she

found; for it seemed, for a few minutes, as though the principal would

do Jane bodily harm. But nothing happened. The white-hot rage cooled

quickly, as such rages do; and the principal smiled with amusement,

changing in a moment, as such men change, and went on with his hearing

of the class in Civil Government.

Sally was very glad that Jane was gone from his seat beside her, for

he had almost convulsed her by his pranks on countless occasions and

had very nearly made her disgrace herself by laughing aloud. She had

fears, however, still; for Jane's new desk was between the principal

and the classes that he was hearing, and was on the floor, while the

principal's desk was on the platform. Jane, therefore, was, in a

measure, concealed from the view of the astute MacDalie, but in full

view of the class, which occupied benches a few feet behind him.

Moreover, the desks on either side of Jane's--there were three of them

in a row, of which Jane occupied the middle one--were occupied,

respectively, by the Carlings. The Carlings always occupied those

desks. They had got to feeling a sort of proprietorship in them. Jane,

however, knew too much to continue his mischief on that day. He was

filled to the brim with it, that was all, and it was only a question

how long before it would run over.

Sally was glad when the bell called her to a class downstairs; and she

sat as if in a trance and watched Jane Spencer gravely fishing in the

aquarium tank with a bent pin on the end of a thread. He kept on

fishing all through the class hour, unhindered. The single little fish

in the tank tugged at the pin occasionally, without result; and, when

the bell sounded again, Jane folded up his line and put it in his

book.

"No luck," he observed, bowing to the teacher.

"Too bad!" said the teacher sympathetically.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Jane; and he withdrew in good order, leaving the

teacher smiling to himself. What was he smiling at, I wonder?

Jane never descended to such behavior as sitting with his feet in his

desk, as Oliver Pilcher did. No doubt he considered it undignified and

generally bad form, which unquestionably it was. Moreover he would

thereby run the risk of getting caught in a situation which he

regarded as unprofessional. Oliver Pilcher was caught several times,

for it is somewhat difficult to get one's feet out of one's desk as

quickly as is necessary to avoid that humiliation. If you do not

believe it, try it.

Jane may have tried it or he may not. He preferred a different sort of

misbehavior; it was especial balm to his soul to be thought to be

misbehaving and then to prove that he was not, for that was a joke on

the teacher which was apt, for reasons unknown, to make him hopping

mad, and Jane's end seemed to have been attained when he had made the

teacher hopping mad. He was apt to appear to be very inattentive in

class, thinking--but I do not know what he was thinking. Even Mr.

MacDalie was deceived occasionally. Jane would be sitting, looking

out of the window, perhaps, with his book face down beside him, while

the Latin translation dragged by painful jerks along the other end of

the class. Mr. MacDalie would have noted Jane's attitude, as he noted

everything, and would call upon him suddenly and, as he supposed,

unexpectedly. And Jane would take up his book, deliberately, and,

rising, begin at the very word and give a beautiful and fluent

translation until he was stopped. Sally saw that happen four times

that half-year.

The last time, the principal smiled broadly and lowered his book.

"Well, Eugene," he said,--he almost called him "Jane,"--"you fooled me

nicely. That translation was very nearly perfect."

"Thank you, sir," Jane replied gravely; and he sat down and placed his

book, face down again, upon the bench beside him and resumed his

gazing out of the window.

One day during Dick's Christmas vacation there was a great sleighing

party. There was no reason in the world why Sally should have expected

to be asked or wanted to be. She told herself so, many times; but she

was disappointed, grievously. Mr. Hazen saw it,--any one could see it

plainly,--and, because he could not bear that Sally should feel so, he

asked her if she wouldn't oblige him by going sleighing with him. And

because she couldn't bear to disappoint Uncle John, Sally went. She

was grateful to him, too. So it happened that two people, who would

have much preferred going anywhere on their own feet, were wrapped in

a buffalo robe,--one of the last of them; a robe of which Mr. Hazen

was very proud,--and, thus protected against the cold, were being

drawn easily behind the stout horse.

At the bottom of her heart, Sally despised sleighing only a degree

less than she despised driving in a carriage. She thought she should

like riding, but of riding a horse she knew nothing. She had never in

her life been on a horse's back. As for sleighing, she thought, as

they drove along, that they might as well be in her room, sitting in a

seat that was not wide enough for two, with a buffalo robe tucked

around their knees. With the window wide open and bells jingled

rhythmically before them and an occasional gentle bounce, the effect

would not be so very different. As she thought of this, she began to

chuckle at the humor of it. You may not see any humor in the idea, but

Sally did.

A sleigh turned the next corner suddenly, and a look of anxiety came

into Mr. Hazen's face. "That's Cap'n Forsyth," he said. "A most

reckless driver. It's best to give him the road if we can."

Sally recognized the captain, in an old blue sleigh, very strongly

built. The captain had need of vehicles that were strongly built and

he had them built to his order, like a ship. He was standing up in the

sleigh and urging on his horse, which was on the dead run. Captain

Forsyth kept the middle of the road and made no attempt to turn out.

Perhaps he could not.

"Hello, John," he roared, waving his whip. "Hello, Sally."

The horse must have considered that the waving of the whip was an

indication that the captain wanted more speed, and he put on an extra

burst of it. Captain Forsyth sat down suddenly. It only amused him.

"What d'ye think o' that, John?" he shouted.

"Turn out, turn out, Stephen!" Mr. Hazen called anxiously. He had not

succeeded in getting completely out of the road.

"Can't do it, John," replied the captain, regaining his feet. The old

blue sleigh struck the other on the port quarter with a crash. It was

not the captain's sleigh that was injured.

"Charge it to me, John," the captain roared. He did not turn even his

head. "By the sound I've carried away your after davits. Charge it to

me." And Captain Forsyth was borne swiftly away.

That "Charge it to me" rang in Sally's ears as it died away upon the

breeze. She picked herself up, laughing. Mr. Hazen was not thrown out

and was unhurt. The horse stood quietly.

"Are you hurt, Sally?" asked Uncle John anxiously.

"Not a bit; and you aren't, are you? Now, what shall we do?"

"I think there is enough of the sleigh left to carry us both if we go

slowly. If not, we'll have to walk."

Presently Sally burst out into a new fit of chuckling. "How funny

Captain Forsyth is! What shall you do, Uncle John? Shall you charge it

to him, as he said to do?"

"Oh, yes," Uncle John replied. "It would hurt his feelings, if I

didn't. He would consider it unfriendly. He has a good many to pay

for."

"He had much better go on his own feet," said Sally reflectively.

CHAPTER V

Sally was fifteen when the final good news came from Fox. She was in

Uncle John's office, waiting until he should be ready to go. Uncle

John's office was on the second floor of a little old wooden building

where it had always been since Uncle John had had an office. He had

chosen it because it stood just at the head of a short street leading

to a certain wharf--Hazen's Wharf; and because from its windows one

could see the length of the street and the length of the wharf and

note what was going on there and how many vessels were fitting. The

number of vessels that were fitting was surprisingly great, even now,

and Sally could see their yards sticking out over the wharf, although

their hulls were mostly hidden behind projecting buildings. That view

from his office windows had saved Mr. Hazen many steps in the course

of a long life. The fact that the business centre of the town had

moved up and had left him stranded disturbed him not at all. He was

still in his business centre.

So Sally, thinking vaguely of Fox and Henrietta, sat at a window and

watched and was very well content with the view of the harbor and the

wharf and the ends of yards sticking over it, and as much of the hulls

of vessels as she could see, and the row of oil casks with a rough

fence of old ships' sheathing behind them, and the black dust of the

street. The black dust was stirred up now and then by the feet of

horses and by the wheels of the low, heavy truck that they were

dragging. Then a man, with a heavy mallet in his hand, approached the

row of casks and began to loosen the bungs. It was an operation that

had become familiar to Sally and she knew it to be preparation for the

work of the gauger, who would come along later and measure what was

in the casks. The man with the mallet and the gauger with his stick

were familiar figures.

But certain other familiar figures drew into her view and watched the

man loosening the bungs, and seemed to be greatly interested in the

proceeding. They were the Carlings and Oliver Pilcher. Sally wondered

what mischief they were up to. That they were up to some mischief she

had not a doubt. The man with the mallet must have been a very

trusting, unsuspicious man. It is not at all likely that the angelic

faces of the singing twins and Oliver Pilcher were unknown about the

wharves. Even if they were, why, boys are all--even the best of

them--they are all cut by the same pattern, or they ought to be. Don't

we--you and I--feel a sort of contempt for a boy who is not? And don't

we call him "sissy" in our hearts? The other boys will not confine

their calls of "sissy" to their hearts and it is likely to go hard

with that boy.

When the bungs were all loosened, that trusting man with the mallet

meandered slowly away, having paid no attention whatever to the boys

who watched him so innocently. Sally saw the Carlings looking after

him with an alert attention, whatever there was to be done being

evidently postponed until he was out of sight. She could not help

thinking how differently Jane Spencer would have acted. He would have

disdained to wait for the man to disappear, for there would not be any

fun in it for him unless there was some interested person present. But

Jane Spencer was Jane Spencer and there was only one of him.

The man must have gone into some building, although Sally couldn't be

sure, for she couldn't see; but the twins turned their heads and

Oliver Pilcher gave a yell and leaped for the row of casks, closely

followed by the Carlings, who began chanting loudly. Sally could not

hear the words, but the chant marked the time to which Oliver Pilcher

leaped into the air and came down with force and precision upon one

bung after another. Just one cask behind him came Harry Carling. Sally

supposed it was Harry, for the Carlings always went in that order.

One cask behind Harry came Horry; and the casks gave out a hollow

sound, in accordance with their degrees of emptiness, after the manner

of casks,--especially oil casks,--as the three boys landed on their

respective bungs.

The boys disappeared behind the corner of a building, but as the chant

continued, it was to be inferred that the exercise was not yet

finished; and in a moment back they came in the reverse order, landing

on the bungs with the same force and precision. For driving bungs

solidly, this method is to be commended.

But Horry, perhaps feeling somewhat hurried as he got to the end,

missed his last bung, came down with misdirected force upon the

slippery staves and landed on his back in the oil-soaked dust. Harry,

unable to stop, landed upon him; but Oliver Pilcher made a sidewise

spring and cleared them. The twins had forgotten to sing--the moment

was too full of excitement--and were stuttering and pounding each

other. Their voices were just beginning to change.

Some sound made Oliver Pilcher turn his head. Evidently, he hated to.

"Cheesit!" he cried, beginning to run before the word was out of his

mouth.

Harry did not wait to see what was coming, but got to his feet

instantly, dragging Horry by an arm, and ran. Horry protested

vehemently, but he ran, and the three boys came up the hill, directly

toward the office windows, and disappeared around the corner. Down on

the wharf the man with the mallet was patiently loosening the bungs

again. They came hard.

Sally gasped and chuckled. "Did you see, Uncle John?" For Uncle John

was standing at her elbow. "Whose are they? The barrels, I mean."

"They are mine, Sally," he replied, with a sigh. "I saw some of it."

"Oh, it's too bad," said she quickly, "if they are yours."

"It's no great matter. Patrick has plenty of time. It's only a little

annoyance."

"And did you see the back of Horry Carling's jacket?" asked Sally,

horrified. "How will he ever get it clean?"

"He can't," answered Uncle John briefly.

"Their mother must have a hard time," said Sally thoughtfully, after a

moment of silence. "Are you ready to go now?"

"Just about. Here's a letter for you, from Fox, I suppose. I'll be

ready by the time you have read it."

Sally thanked him and took the letter. It contained rather momentous

news; news about her mother. It was good news, the best that could be,

Sally thought. She had been getting good news about her mother all

along. Indeed, she had been getting letters from her mother

occasionally for nearly two years; mere notes at first, her dear love,

scribbled on a scrap of paper. Then they began to be a little longer

and at lessening intervals; and for some months now they had been

regular letters, not long, to be sure, but letters. The improvement

was slow, very slow!

This news was different. Her mother was well enough, at last, to leave

Doctor Galen's care. There were several things that she might do; and

Fox suggested that Mrs. Ladue come out to her old home to live.

Henrietta and he would be happy to continue there, if that met with

the approval of all concerned. There would be money enough to carry on

the establishment, he thought. But what were Sally's plans? What did

she prefer? Meanwhile--

Sally knew very well whose money there would be enough of, if Fox's

suggestion were accepted. It would mean that Fox would support them;

for she knew, too, that they did not have money enough. Oh, mercy, no,

not nearly enough; not enough even for them to pretend that it would

do. But she must be with her mother, and Charlie must, too. She would

not let Charlie be a bother. It would be a little harder than it used

to be, the care of Charlie, for Cousin Patty had--well--and Sally did

not say it, even to herself. She felt that it would be almost

treason. What should she do? What could she do, for that matter? It

needed thought.

So Uncle John found a sober and serious Sally waiting for him. He

noted it at once.

"What is it, Sally?" he asked. "Not bad news, I hope?"

He spoke rather anxiously. Sally's worries were his concern; and that

was not such a bad state of affairs either.

Sally smiled up at him. "Oh, no," she said. "It's good news, but I

have to think what I shall do." And she told him all about it.

They were well on their way home by the time Sally had finished her

exposition of the question which troubled her. It was too new to her

to have been thought out and Sally presented every aspect as it

occurred to her.

"It seems to be a large question," said Uncle John thoughtfully, "for

a little girl to have to answer, all by herself." Suddenly he turned

and looked at Sally. "Bless me! You aren't little any more. I must

stop calling you a little girl. How old are you, Sally?"

"Fifteen last spring," Sally replied. "Had you forgotten, Uncle John?"

"No, oh, no, I suppose not, but it is hard to realize that you are

growing up so fast. Why, you are nearly as tall as I am. And how long

have you been with us?"

"Almost four years, Uncle John."

"Bless me! So you have, Sally. It seems only last week that you came;

and yet, you have always been with us. Well, my dear, I don't find

myself quite ready to send you off again, and so I advise you to

dismiss the puzzling question from your mind for a day or two. Better

let me bother over it awhile. Fox can wait for a few days. He won't

mind, will he?"

"No," she said, smiling, "Fox won't mind. He has been waiting four

years already."

"Fox is an excellent young man," Mr. Hazen murmured. "I must see what

Patty has to say."

Patty had a good deal to say. She came to her father in a hurry and

in some agitation that same evening, after Sally had gone to bed. It

saved him the trouble of introducing the subject and put the burden of

proof on the other side. Not that it mattered particularly to Mr.

Hazen where the burden of proof lay. He was accustomed to have his own

quiet way. In fact, consultation with Patty was rather an empty

formality; but it was a form which he always observed scrupulously.

"Oh, father," she began, rather flurried, "what do you suppose Sally

has just told me? Her mother--"

"I know. I was meaning to speak to you about it."

"I am all upset. I can't bear to think of sending Charlie away now."

There were tears in poor Miss Patty's eyes.

Mr. Hazen could not quite repress a smile. "True," he said; "I had

forgotten him."

"Oh, father!" Miss Patty exclaimed reproachfully. "How could you?"

"It is incomprehensible, but I was thinking of Sally. Never mind,

Patty, it comes to the same thing in the end. Would it be quite

convenient to ask Sarah Ladue to come here?"

"Ask Cousin Sarah to come here to _live_?" Miss Patty echoed, in some

consternation.

"Why, yes, Patty. I understand that she is likely to live and--"

"Oh, father!" Miss Patty cried again. "You know I didn't mean--"

"I don't pretend," Mr. Hazen resumed, smiling, "to any particular love

for Sarah, whom I never saw more than once or twice in my life. Even

that must have been many years ago. But, as I recollect, she was a

pretty, unassuming young woman whom I thought, at the time, altogether

too good for Charles." Miss Patty looked shocked. "Oh, there is

nothing gained by pretending to be blind to Charles's weakness. He was

a gambler before he left college. I knew it very well. There was

nothing to be done. Meddling with other people's children is a vice,

Patty. It never does any good. I have some misgivings--" Mr. Hazen

paused abruptly. There seemed to him nothing to be gained by following

out that line of thought either.

"Some misgivings about what, father?" Patty prompted.

"It doesn't matter, Patty. I have too many misgivings about

everything. It is the fault of age. As I come to think of it, Sally

looks like her mother. I hope her character--but Sally's character is

all right. As to Sarah, we have spare rooms, haven't we?"

"Ye--es," assented Miss Patty reluctantly. She hated to give in, but

she might have known that she would have to. She did know it. "But,

father,--supporting the whole family--"

"There is no question," said Mr. Hazen quietly; and Patty knew that

there was no more to be said. "It is a choice between letting that

young Mr. Sanderson support them,--which he would be very glad to do,

Patty,--and asking Sarah to come here. I much prefer to ask her. I

wish to keep Sally with us and you are not willing to let Charlie go.

On this plan we shall keep them both. Will you write to Sarah,

proposing it? Write as cordially as you can, Patty, will you? Thank

you."

So it happened that Mrs. Ladue came to Whitby in September. It could

not be said to have happened, perhaps, but, at all events, she came.

They all went down behind the stout horse to meet her; all but Uncle

John. There were Cousin Patty and Charlie and Sally herself. Sally's

eyes were very bright and there was the old spot of brilliant color in

either cheek. Uncle John noticed it. He patted her hand as she got

into the carryall, but he did not speak. Miss Patty did, after they

got started. Sally was sitting up very straight and she was looking

straight ahead and the spots of color were in her cheeks still. It was

much as she had looked when she went away from her old home that she

so loved. Miss Patty could not understand it. She was even a little

afraid, I think.

"Sally," she said hesitatingly, "don't--don't look so--so _strained_.

Surely, this is not a time to feel worried or anxious. Surely, this is

a--a joyous occasion."

To Miss Patty's surprise, Sally burst out laughing. As Miss Patty had

implied, she did look strained. There may have been something a little

hysterical about her laugh. Miss Patty was more afraid than ever. She

proposed stopping at the apothecary's and getting a little camphor

or--or something.

But Sally protested that she did not need camphor or anything. "You

know, Cousin Patty," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "I

haven't seen my mother for four years, and I don't know, quite, what

to expect. I am very--very _fond_ of my mother, Cousin Patty. I can't

help my feelings, but you needn't be afraid"--and Sally laughed a

little--"that I am going to have hysterics or anything, for I'm not."

Miss Patty murmured some reply. Sally did not know what it was, and

Miss Patty didn't either.

"I don't suppose," Sally continued, "that Charlie remembers mother

very well, for he--"

"I do, too," said Charlie, with the pleasant manner which had become

usual.

"Very well, then, you do," replied Sally patiently. And she said no

more, for they were already turning down the steep hill that led to

the station.

In time--it seemed a very long time--but in time the train came in;

and Sally watched eagerly the crowd flowing down the steps and

spreading out on the platform. Presently, near the end, came

Henrietta, as fast as the people would permit. Sally gave a great sigh

of relief, for she was beginning to be afraid--and there was Fox.

Sally edged impatiently toward the car steps. Fox was not looking at

her; he was helping a lady whose eyes wandered eagerly over the

waiting people. The lady's mouth drooped at one corner and her hair

showed just a little gray behind her lifted veil.

Sally ran forward, elbowing her way without remorse; she had but one

thought. Her chin quivered. A wave of tenderness overwhelmed her.

"Oh, mother! Mother, dear! Don't you know me?"

The drooping lips parted in a lovely smile. Sally felt her mother's

arms around her. How she had longed for that!

"Why, Sally! Why, my own great girl! Why, darling, don't cry!"

CHAPTER VI

They soon got used to Mrs. Ladue's gentle presence among them. Uncle

John got used to it more quickly than Sally did herself; much more

quickly than Cousin Patty did. But then, her coming was none of Cousin

Patty's doing, in spite of the fact that it was Cousin Patty who sent

the invitation. It took Patty some time to get over that. The things

that we are forced to do, however gentle the force may be, are seldom

wholly acceptable to us. As for Sally, her happiness was too great to

make it possible for her to get used to it immediately. She used to

run in when she got home from school and hug her mother. She wanted to

make sure that her presence was a "true fact," as she said. She wanted

to touch; to be certain that she had not dreamed it.

Mrs. Ladue used to sit beside the table with its stained green cover,

in that very homelike back parlor, in the long evenings, with Uncle

John in his great chair before the bubbling fire. Miss Patty ran--or,

no, she did not run, literally. That would have been most undignified

besides being unnecessary; but it was probably unnecessary for Miss

Patty to go out so often and stay so long about her household duties.

The duties of the household rather oppressed Miss Patty and sat

heavily upon her. Household duties? Better be about them, Miss Patty

thought. So she flitted nervously in and out twenty times during an

evening. She was out more than she was in and her chair on the other

side of the fire from Uncle John's was usually empty. She went to

glance into the kitchen, to see what Bridget or Mary _could_ be about,

it was so quiet there. She hadn't heard a sound for the longest while.

"Don't you think I'd better see, father?" And her father would smile

quietly and tell her to do as she liked. Or she would wonder whether

the maids had locked the cellar door; or there was that window in the

pantry; or she had to see Charlie safely into bed, although one would

think that Charlie was very nearly old enough to see himself safely

into bed. There were things without end; anything that _might_ not be

just as Patty thought it should be.

Uncle John and Mrs. Ladue sat quietly through it all, Mrs. Ladue with

her sewing or her embroidery or her crochet work or her book. She was

not much of an invalid, after all; not enough of an invalid to give

any trouble. She had to be careful, that was all. She must not get too

tired and she must have plenty of sleep. Those two things Doctor Galen

had enjoined upon her at parting, with much impressiveness. And he

thought that he might as well drop a line to Meriwether Beatty asking

him to keep an eye on her and to let him know how she was getting

along. "So you see, my lady, you are not out of my clutches yet," the

doctor finished merrily. To which Mrs. Ladue had replied, almost

tearfully, that she had no wish to get out of his clutches and that

she never could repay him and she didn't want to and she shouldn't

try. She _liked_ to feel that she owed her life to him--

"Tut, tut!" said the doctor, smiling. "Don't forget Fox."

And Mrs. Ladue protested that there was not the least danger of her

forgetting Fox. She didn't know where they would all be if it had not

been for Fox, and she was very fond of him, and she thought--Then Fox,

himself, had appeared, and she said no more upon that subject, and

they got into their train and presently they came away. But, whatever

Mrs. Ladue's thoughts may have been, on that subject or on any other,

she said little and seemed to invite confidence. There is no reason to

believe that she wished confidences from anybody. It may have been

only that she kept her thoughts to herself, for the most part, as

Sally did, and that she was straightforward and truthful, as Sally

was. That is not to imply that Sally was an exact counterpart of her

mother. Probably Sally, in her mother's place, would have done very

differently; almost certainly her relations with Professor Charles

Ladue would have been different. Even as it was, it will be remembered

that he seemed to have a certain fear of his little daughter. He had

no fear of his wife. Mrs. Ladue's environment, to use a phrase that

needs a deal of explaining before we know exactly what we mean, had

been unsuited to her.

The new environment was not unsuited to her, at least as far as Uncle

John was concerned. She helped to create an atmosphere of

tranquillity; an atmosphere eminently suited to an old man and one to

which that particular old man had not been accustomed. There was

nothing tranquil or serene about Miss Patty. Uncle John, it is to be

presumed, liked tranquillity and serenity. He succeeded in attaining

to a surprising degree of it, in his own person, considering. Sally

had been a help in the past four years; it was going on to five years

now.

He was thinking upon these matters one evening as he sat reading. He

was thinking more of them than of the page before him. He put the book

down slowly, and looked up. Patty was upstairs with Charlie.

"Sarah," he remarked, "I find it very pleasant to have you with us."

Mrs. Ladue was surprised. There was no occasion for that remark unless

Uncle John just wanted to make it. Sally, who had not yet gone

upstairs, flushed with sudden pleasure and her eyes shone.

"There, mother!" she cried. "There now! You see. What did I tell--"

In Mrs. Ladue's face the faint color was coming and going. She spoke

with some emotion.

"Thank you, Uncle John. It was kind of you to ask us. I find it very

pleasant to be here. And that--it would be so easy not to make it

pleasant. I haven't--I can't thank you suitably--"

"There is no question of thanks, Sarah," he replied, smiling gravely.

"I hope you will put that out of your mind. You give more than you

get--you and Sally."

"I am very glad," Mrs. Ladue murmured; "very glad and grateful. Sally

is a good girl." Uncle John smiled at Sally. "She would not bother

you--"

Mr. Hazen reached forth and patted Sally's hand as it lay on the

table. "No. Sally doesn't bother me very much."

"But Charlie," Mrs. Ladue continued, somewhat anxiously,--"Charlie,

I'm afraid, does. He has changed a good deal in these four years. He's

hard to manage."

"Patty can't manage him, if you mean that," Mr. Hazen agreed. "She

doesn't try very hard. But he's developed in the wrong direction,

that's all, I think."

"No." There was a curious hardness in Mrs. Ladue's voice and manner.

It did not seem possible that she could be speaking of her own little

son. "I doubt if he could be developed in any other direction. He's

very much like his father. His father was--" She stopped abruptly.

"But there is no use in going over that," she added.

Mr. Hazen nodded. "I knew Charles before you did," he observed,

"and--but, as you say, there is nothing to be gained by going into

that. I may as well speak to Patty--again."

"I have absolutely no influence with Charlie now," Mrs. Ladue sighed.

"It is natural enough that I should not have any."

Mr. Hazen's talk with Patty amounted to nothing, as was to be

expected. No doubt he did expect it, for it is not to be supposed that

he could have lived with Patty Havering for nearly forty years without

knowing her traits. She had no real firmness. She had obstinacy

enough; a quiet, mulish obstinacy which left her exactly where one

found her. She was absolutely untouched by argument or persuasion, to

which she made little reply, although she sometimes fretted and grew

restive under it. Nothing short of her father's quiet "I wish it,

Patty" was of the least avail. She gave in to that because she knew

that it was a command, not because she knew that it was right. As to

that, was not _she_ always right? She never had the least doubt of it.

She sometimes doubted the expediency of an act; it was not expedient

to disobey her father's implied commands. Not that she had ever tried

it, but she did not think that it would be expedient. I don't think

that it would have been either. It was just as well, perhaps, that she

never tried it. But, in a matter like this one of Charlie, there was

no command direct enough to enforce obedience. You know what I mean,

as Miss Patty might have said; thereby implying that she hoped that

you did, for she didn't. She was not quite clear about it in her own

mind, but there seemed little risk in doing as she wanted to rather

than as her father wanted her to. Her own ideas were rather hazy and

the more she tried to think it out the more muddled she got. Anyway,

she said to herself, as she gave it up, she wouldn't, and she got up

from the rocking-chair which she permitted herself in her own room and

went briskly about her duties. She had sat there for as much as half

an hour. She had been watching Charlie chasing about Morton's lot, for

she could see over the high wall as she sat. Most of the boys were

tolerant chaps, as most boys are, after a certain age; but some of

them were not and some others had not reached that age of tolerance

apparently. Fortunately for Miss Patty's peace of mind she did not

happen to see any of that.

Miss Patty, however, did not make public her decision, but Mrs. Ladue

knew what it was just as well as if she had shouted it from the

housetop. Where did a talk with Patty end but where it began? And Mrs.

Ladue had been sitting at her own window--she shared Sally's room--she

had been sitting at her own window while Patty sat at hers and looked

at Charlie over the wall. But Mrs. Ladue watched longer than Patty and

she saw several things which Patty was spared; to be sure, the wall

was very high and cut off the view from a large part of the lot, but

she saw Ollie Pilcher run after Charlie at last and chase him into

that part of the lot which she could not see. Ollie was not noted for

his patience, but Mrs. Ladue thought the loss of the remnants of it

was excusable, in the circumstances. Then there was an outcry and it

was not Ollie's voice that cried out.

Mrs. Ladue sighed and got out of her comfortable chair and went

downstairs. She hoped she should be ahead of Patty when Charlie came

in. She was not, but she and Patty waited together; and Charlie came.

He was not crying, but the traces of tears were on his face. Miss

Patty gave a little exclamation of horror.

"Charlie," began Mrs. Ladue hurriedly, before Patty could speak, "come

up with me. I want to talk with you."

Charlie wanted to go with Cousin Patty; he didn't want to be talked

to. He said so with much petulance.

"Let me take the poor child, Sarah," Patty began.

"After I have talked with him, Patty," said Mrs. Ladue patiently.

Nobody should know how she dreaded this talk. "Come, Charlie."

She made Charlie mount the stairs ahead of her and she succeeded in

steering him into her room. He washed his face with furious haste.

"Charlie, dear boy," she said at last, "I was watching you for a long

time this afternoon. You know that I can see very well what goes on in

the lot from this window."

He was wiping his face and he exposed his eyes for a moment, gazing at

his mother over the edge of the towel. They were handsome eyes and

they were filled now with a calculating thoughtfulness, which his

mother noted. It did not make her feel any easier.

Charlie considered it worth risking. "Then you saw," he said, still

with that petulant note in his voice, "how the boys picked on me. Why,

they--"

"I saw, Charlie," Mrs. Ladue interrupted, smiling wearily, "not how

the boys picked on you, but how you bothered them. I thought Ollie was

very patient and I didn't blame him a bit."

"But he _hurt_ me," Charlie cried in astonishment. It was the most

heinous sin that he knew of. Patty would think so.

"You deserved to be hurt. You are eleven, Charlie, and I'm surprised

that you don't see that your actions will leave you without friends,

absolutely without friends within a few years. Where should we be now,

Charlie," continued Mrs. Ladue gently, "if we had had no friends?"

"Guess Cousin Patty'd be my friend," Charlie grumbled. "Guess she

would."

"You will wear out even her doting affection if you keep on," replied

his mother almost sharply. It was difficult to imagine her speaking

with real sharpness. She regretted it instantly. "My dear little son,

why won't you do differently? Why do you prefer to make the boys all

dislike you? It's for your own good that I have talked to you, and I

haven't said so very much. You don't please Uncle John, Charlie. You

would be _so_ much happier if you would only do as Sally does and--"

"Huh!" said Charlie, throwing down the towel. "Cousin Patty wants me,

mother." And he bolted out of the door.

Tears came to Mrs. Ladue's eyes. Her eyes were still wet when Doctor

Beatty came in. He could not help seeing.

"Not crying?" he asked. "That will never do."

Mrs. Ladue smiled. "I have been talking to Charlie," she said, as if

that were a sufficient explanation.

Indeed, it seemed to be. That, in itself, was cause for grief. "Ah!"

said the doctor. "Charlie didn't receive it with meekness, I judge."

She did not answer directly. "It seems hopeless," she returned at

last. "I have been away from him so long that I am virtually a

stranger. And Patty--" She did not finish.

Doctor Beatty laughed. "I know Patty. I think I may say that I know

her very well. Why, there was one period--" He remembered in time and

his tone changed. "Yes, there was one period when I thought I knew her

very well. Ancient history," he went on with a wave of his

hand,--"ancient history."

Mrs. Ladue said nothing, but she looked sympathetic and she smiled.

Doctor Beatty sat down conveniently near her, but yet far enough away

to be able to watch her closely.

Meanwhile the doctor talked. It was of little consequence what he

talked about, and he rambled along from one subject to another,

talking of anything that came into his head; of anything but Mrs.

Ladue's health. And the strange thing about it was that she had no

inkling as to what the doctor was about. She had no idea that she was

under observation. She only thought it queer that he had so much time

to devote to talking to her. He couldn't be very busy; but she liked

it and would have been sorry to have him give up his visits.

Presently, in his rambling talk, the doctor was once more speaking of

the period of ancient history to which he had already thoughtlessly

alluded.

"There was a time," he said, regarding Mrs. Ladue thoughtfully, "when I

thought I knew Patty pretty well. I used to be here pretty often, you

know. She has spoken of it, perhaps?" Mrs. Ladue smiled and shook her

head. "Ah, what a blow to vanity! I used to think--but my thoughts were

of scarcely more value then than they are now, so it's no matter what I

thought. It's a great while--fifteen or twenty years--struggling young

doctor in the first flush of youth and a growing practice. Practice

like an incubator baby; very, very frail. I suppose I must have been a

sentimental young chap; but not so young either. Must have been nearly

thirty, both of us. Then the baby got out of the incubator and I

couldn't come so often."

He was speaking reminiscently. Then, suddenly, he realized what he was

saying and roused himself with a start.

"Patty was charming, of course, charming," he went on, smiling across

at Mrs. Ladue. "Yes, much as she is now, with the same charm; the same

charm, in moderation."

His eyes were very merry as he finished, and Mrs. Ladue laughed

gently.

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "I ought not to laugh--at Patty. It's your

fault."

Doctor Beatty looked horror-struck. "Laugh at Patty!" he exclaimed.

"Never! Nothing further from my intention. I only run on, like a

babbling brook. I'm really not responsible for what I say. No

significance to be attached to any observations I may make. You won't

mind, will you?"

"I won't mind," Mrs. Ladue agreed. "I don't."

"Thank you. I knew you wouldn't." Doctor Beatty rose and stood for a

moment with his hand on the knob of the door. "You're all right for a

couple of weeks anyway, or I'd warn you to keep your liver on the job.

I always give that advice to Patty, partly because she needs it and

partly because it is amusing to witness the starting of a certain

train of emotions. Good-bye."

And the doctor went out, leaving Mrs. Ladue smiling to herself. She

had forgotten about Charlie.

CHAPTER VII

Sally graduated from her school in the following June. Of all the

persons immediately concerned in that affair, even including Sally

herself, I am inclined to believe that Mr. Hazen was the most acutely

interested. He was not excited over it. A man of his age does not

easily get excited, even if he is of an excitable disposition, which

Mr. Hazen was not; but there is reason to think that he had all the

hopes and fears which Sally ought to have had, but of which she gave

no sign. She had confidence in herself and had no doubts to speak of.

At any rate, she did not speak of any, but took the whole thing as a

matter of course and one to be gone through with in its due season.

For that matter, nobody suspected Mr. Hazen of harboring fears,

although it was taken for granted that he had hopes. He gave no

outward sign of perturbation, and his fondness for Sally was no

secret.

There was never, at that school, any long period without its little

diversions. Jane Spencer, to be sure, was in the graduating class and

his behavior had been most exemplary for some months; but there was no

such inhibition on the behavior of Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings. The

Carlings appeared one morning with grotesquely high collars, at the

sight of which a titter ran about the schoolroom. The Carlings

preserved an admirable gravity. Mr. MacDalie looked up, eyed the twins

with marked displeasure, but said nothing, and the titter gradually

faded out. The Carlings were aggrieved and felt that they had been

guilty of a failure. So they had, in a measure, and Sally could not

help feeling sorry for them. She reflected that Jane would never have

done anything of that kind. Jane would never have made a failure of

anything that he undertook, either. Jane would not have done what

Ollie Pilcher did, later, although that effort of Ollie's was a

conspicuous success, after its kind.

It was the fashion, among certain of the boys, to have their hair

clipped when the warm weather came on. Everett Morton had never had it

done, nor had Dick Torrington, nor did Jane Spencer. They were not in

the clipped-hair caste. But Ollie Pilcher was; and it was no surprise

to the other boys when, a week before school closed, Ollie came with

clipped hair showing below his cap. He was just in time, and he went

at once and in haste to the schoolroom, removing his cap as he entered

the door. The bell in Mr. MacDalie's hand rang as he took his seat.

Mr. MacDalie was not looking at Ollie, as it happened, but those

behind Ollie could not help seeing him. A ripple of laughter started;

it grew as more of those present caught sight of him. Mr. MacDalie saw

him. He chuckled wildly and the laughter swelled into a roar. Rising

from the top of Ollie's head of clipped hair was a diminutive braided

lock about three inches long, tied with a bow of narrow red ribbon.

And Ollie did not even smile while Mr. MacDalie was wiping his eyes

before him. His self-control was most admirable.

The laughter finally subsided, for the time being, sufficiently to

permit King Ahasuerus and Queen Esther and Mordecai and Haman to hold

their audience spellbound for five minutes. That same audience had

been held spellbound by that same story throughout the whole of the

year just past and through other years; for Mr. MacDalie, for some

reason known only to himself and which Sally had tried in vain to

guess, had confined his reading so completely to the Book of Esther

that his hearers knew the book pretty nearly by heart.

Although an unnatural solemnity prevailed through the reading, the

laughter would break out afresh at intervals during the morning. Mr.

MacDalie himself resolutely avoided looking in Ollie's direction as

long as he remembered. But he would forget, becoming absorbed in his

teaching, and his eye would light upon Ollie; and forthwith he would

fall to chuckling wildly and to wiping his eyes, and be unable to

continue for some minutes. He said nothing to Ollie, however, although

that youngster expected a severe reprimand, at least. It is not

unlikely that that was the very reason why he did not get it. The next

day the braided lock was gone.

These were mere frivolities, perhaps unworthy of being recorded; and

there may seem to be an undue prominence given to mental comparisons

with Jane. But just at this time there was a good deal of Jane in

everything, and whatever was done by anybody naturally suggested to

Sally a comparison with what Jane would do. Sally was not without her

share of romance, which was, perhaps, more in evidence at this age

than at any other. She was just past sixteen, and she happened to be

devoted, at this period, to her English history. She is to be excused

for her flights of imagination, in which she saw Jane's ancestry

traced back, without a break, to the beginning of the fourteenth

century; and if the two Spencers of that time were not very creditable

ancestors, why, history sometimes distorts things, and if Edward II

had chanced to prevail over his wife and son, its verdict might have

been different. Jane was not responsible for his ancestors anyway.

Everybody was present at the graduation exercises; everybody, that is,

of consequence in Whitby who was not prevented from being present by

illness. I allude more especially to the older generation, to the

generation of parents. All the mothers, not only of the members of the

graduating class, but of any members of any class and even of

prospective members, were there because they liked to be; the fathers

were there because they thought they ought to be. And there were many

besides, of a different generation, who were there for one reason or

another. Mr. Hazen was one of these and Everett Morton was another.

It was easy to account for Mr. Hazen's presence, but not so easy to

account for Everett's, except that he was not doing much of anything

and thought the exercises might prove to be a diversion. Everett spent

his time, for the most part, in the pursuit of diversion. He was

through college. That does not mean that he had graduated, but, as he

said, it meant that he had left it in his sophomore year, upon the

breaking-out of the Spanish War, to volunteer; and after a hollow and

bloodless campaign in Porto Rico, he had returned, well smeared with

glory. Fortunately--or unfortunately, as you look at it--he had

escaped the camps. He did not think it worth while to go back to

college, and between ourselves, the faculty agreed with him

completely. It was the only instance of such agreement in the history

of their connection. Then he had got a place in a broker's office

which he held for a year and a half, but he had found it not to his

liking and he had given it up. Then came a long interval when his only

occupation seemed to be the pursuit of diversion. This was in the

interval. No doubt he managed to capture, occasionally, the elusive

diversion which he pursued so persistently, and no doubt, too, it was

of much the kind that is usual in such cases; but, one would think, he

found the pursuit of it an occupation more strenuous than that of the

broker's office.

Dick could not come, for he was to have a graduation of his own in a

short time; in fact, it was hardly more than a few days. But he sent

Sally a little note, regretting that he could not be present and

wishing her luck; and further and more important, he asked if she and

her mother or Miss Patty or all of them would not come up to Cambridge

for his Class Day.

Sally had got Dick's note just as they were starting. She handed it to

her mother, her gray eyes soft with pleasure--as they had got into the

habit of being, these last few years.

"See, mother, dear," she said, "what Dick has asked. Do you suppose we

can go, mother, or would it be too much for you? I should like to

go."

Mrs. Ladue smiled fondly at her daughter. "Of course you would,

darling. I'll see what Patty says, but I guess you can go. Perhaps, if

Patty doesn't want to, I can get Doctor Beatty to let me. I believe I

should like it myself. Now, don't let the prospect make you forget

your part."

"No danger," replied Sally reassuringly. "Now I must run."

Sally had the valedictory, or whatever it is to which the first

scholar in the class is entitled. I am not versed in such matters, not

having been concerned, at my graduation, with the duties or the

privileges of the first scholar of the class. But Sally had kept her

place at the head of a dwindling class with no difficulty and Mr.

MacDalie expected great things of her. She acquitted herself as well

as was expected, which is saying a good deal; and after the exercises

were over, she went out with Jane Spencer, leaving her mother and

Uncle John and Mr. MacDalie talking together. Patty was talking with

Doctor Beatty, who had come in late.

Patty glanced up at Doctor Beatty with a smile. "Does that remind you

of anything?" she asked gently, nodding in Sally's direction.

It is to be feared that the doctor was not paying attention. "What?"

He brought his chair and his gaze down together. He had been tilting

back in the chair and looking at the ceiling. "What? Sally? Her foot,

perhaps,--but that's all right years ago and it isn't likely that you

meant that. No, Patty, I give it up. What's the answer?"

Miss Patty was disappointed. Perhaps she ought to have got used to

being disappointed by Meriwether Beatty, by this time, but she hadn't.

She sighed a little.

"No, I didn't mean her foot. I meant her wandering off with Eugene

Spencer. He's the handsomest boy in the class. Doesn't it remind you

of--of our own graduation and our wandering away--so?"

The doctor roared. "That was a good many years ago, Patty." It was

unkind of him to remind her of that. "You couldn't expect me to

remember the circumstances. I believe I am losing my memory; from old

age, Patty, old age." That was more unkind still, for Patty was but a

few months younger than he, and he knew it and she knew that he knew

it. "So we wandered away, did we?"

Sally did not hear this conversation, for she was already halfway

downstairs with Jane. Neither of them had spoken.

"Jane," she said suddenly.

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. "Sally," he mildly protested,

"I wish you wouldn't call me Jane--if you don't mind."

"Why," returned Sally in surprise, "don't you like it? I supposed you

did. Of course I won't call you by a name you don't like. I'm very

sorry. Eugene, then?"

"If you will. It's rather better than Jane, but it's bad enough."

Sally laughed. "You're hard to please. How would it do for me to call

you Hugh--or Earl Spencer. Or, no. I'd have to call you your Grace."

She stopped and made him a curtsy; Jane was not to be outdone and,

although taken somewhat off his guard, he made her a bow with as much

grace as even Piers Gaveston could have put into it.

"Your Highness does me too much honor," he replied solemnly; and they

both laughed from sheer high spirits. "No, Sally, you're wrong," he

added. "The old gentleman was no relative of mine. But I believe I

interrupted you. What were you going to say--right first off, you

know, when I asked you not to call me Jane?"

"I was going to tell you that Dick Torrington has asked me to go up

for his Class Day."

"Dick Torrington!" exclaimed Jane, mystified. "Why, Sally, he's ever

so much older than you."

"Now, Jane, what has--I beg your pardon,--Eugene, but it's hard to

remember. But, Eugene, what has the difference in age to do with it?

It has never seemed to make any difference to Dick. You know that he's

as kind as he can be and probably he just thought that I would enjoy

it."

They had passed through the crowded corridor--crowded because, in one

of the rooms on that floor, there was in preparation what the papers

would call a modest collation--and they were out in the yard. Jane

stopped short and looked at Sally with a puzzled expression.

"I wonder, Sally," he said slowly, "if you know--but you evidently

don't," he added. He seemed relieved at the result of his inspection.

"Of course you'll go, but I can't help wishing you wouldn't."

"Why?" she asked. "I mean to go if I can. Why would you rather I

wouldn't?"

He hesitated for some moments. "I don't know that I can tell you.

Perhaps you'll understand sometime. Hello! What do you suppose they've

got?"

Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings passed rapidly across their line of

vision.

"Furtive sort of manner," continued Jane hurriedly. "I'll bet they're

hiding something. Let's see what it is. What do you say, Sally?"

Sally nodded and they ran, coming upon the three suddenly. The

Carlings started guiltily and seemed about to say something; but

although they had opened their mouths, no speech issued.

"Sing it, you twins. What have you got? Come, pony up. We spotted you.

Or perhaps you want the free-lunch committee to swoop down on you."

If Sally had not been there the result might have been different. No

doubt Jane had made allowance for the moral effect of her presence.

The Carlings, severally, were still her slaves; or they would have

been if she had let them. They grinned sheepishly and Horry drew

something from under his jacket. It was done up in paper, but there

was no mistaking it.

Jane reached forth an authoritative hand. Ollie remonstrated. "I say,

Jane,--"

"Filcher," remarked Jane, "for filcher you are, although you may have

persuaded these poor innocent boys to do the actual filching--Filcher,

you'd better suspend further remarks. Otherwise I shall feel obliged to

divide this pie into quarters instead of fifths. Quarters are much

easier. It is a pie, I feel sure; a squash pie, I do not doubt. Is it

quarters or fifths, Filcher?"

As Jane was in possession of the pie, Ollie thought it the part of

discretion to compromise. A clump of lilacs hid them from the

schoolhouse, and Jane divided the pie, which proved to be filled with

raisins, into five parts with his knife.

"I wish to congratulate you, Horry, upon your excellent care of this

pie in transit." He passed the plate to Horry as he spoke. "No, this

is your piece, Horry. That piece is destined for me. In view of the

unavoidable inequality of the pieces, we will give Filcher the plate."

Sally was chuckling as she ate her piece of pie, which she held in her

hand.

"Th--th--this w--w--weath--ther's t--t--terrible h--h--hard on

p--p--pies," observed Horry thoughtfully, after a long silence.

"It w--w--wouldn't k--k--keep," said Harry, wiping his mouth on the

back of his hand.

"It wouldn't," Jane agreed.

Ollie was scraping the plate. "Can't get any more out of that plate,"

he sighed at last; and he scaled the tin plate into an inaccessible

place between the lilacs and the fence.

They moved away slowly. "I wonder," Jane remarked, reflectively, "who

sent that pie."

Sally chuckled again. "Cousin Patty sent it," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

Sally found that summer very full. To begin with, there was Dick's

Class Day, which was her first great occasion. I do not know what

better to call it and it must have been a great occasion for her, for,

although it did not last very long,--days never do,--the memory of it

has not completely faded even yet; and it was twelve years ago.

As if to make her joy complete, her mother had gone and Miss Patty had

not. Not that Sally had ever the least conscious objection to Miss

Patty's going anywhere, but Patty always acted as a sort of damper

upon too much joy. Poor Patty! She had not the slightest wish to be a

sort of a damper and she did not suspect that she was.

Mrs. Ladue was no damper. She had sat in Dick's particular easy-chair,

very smiling and content, while Dick brought things to eat and to

drink to her and to Sally in the window-seat. And there had been a

puzzled look in Dick's eyes all the time that made Mrs. Ladue laugh

and made Sally blush whenever she saw it. It was as if Dick's eyes had

just been opened; and he found it hard to realize that the blossoming

young creature in his window-seat was the same Sally that he had known

so well. That and other considerations will explain Mrs. Ladue's

laughter well enough, but hardly explain why Sally should have

blushed. I don't know why she did and I doubt if she could have told.

Then--for Dick's Class Day was only to begin with--there were his

further good-natured attentions, which did not mean anything, of

course, Mrs. Ladue told herself, over and over. Of course Dick liked

Sally--who would not? And there was more fun in doing anything for her

than in doing it for anybody else, for Sally enjoyed everything so

much. Dick even took her sailing half a dozen times, although there

was nobody else on his parties younger than his sister Emily. And

there was Jane; but not on Dick's sailing parties.

Jane's attentions to Sally were constant and rather jealous. How could

he help it? Dick was five years older than he, and, at seventeen, five

years is a tremendous advantage and one not to be made up by a

difference in natural gifts, concerning which there could be no doubt

either. Sally had some difficulty in keeping Jane pacified. She may

have made no conscious effort to that end, but she accomplished it,

none the less.

When fall came, Sally went away to Normal School. It was not far from

Whitby, so that she was always within reach, but she had to be away

from home--Uncle John Hazen's was really home now--for the greater

part of two years. Her absence was a great grief to Uncle John,

although nobody suspected it but Sally. It would never have occurred

to Patty that it could make much difference to her father whether

Sally was here or there. Indeed, she did not think of it at all, being

more than ever engrossed in Charlie's career; and Charlie was in need

of a friend, although that friend was not Miss Patty.

Another person who missed Sally's presence, if one could judge from

his behavior, was Jane Spencer. To be sure, it could have made little

difference to him that she was no longer in Whitby, except that

Whitby, although farther from Cambridge than Schoolboro', was easier

to get to. Nevertheless, as soon as Jane could snatch a day from his

arduous academic duties, he went to Schoolboro' and not to Whitby.

That was hardly a month after Sally had gone there, and she was

unaffectedly glad to see him. Therefore, Jane enjoyed his visit

immensely, and he made other visits, which were also to his immense

satisfaction, as often as Sally would let him come. There were four

that year.

In November of her second year, Sally was called home unexpectedly by

an incoherent summons from Patty. She hurried home, filled with fears

and misgivings. What had happened to Charlie? She had no doubt that

Charlie was at the bottom of it, somehow, or it would not have been

Patty who sent the message. Had he had an accident? But Charlie

himself met her at the door, looking sulky and triumphant.

Patty was almost hysterical, and it was a long time before Sally could

make out what was the matter. It seemed that Charlie had been

subjected to the usual mild hazing and, proving a refractory subject,

he had had his hands and feet strapped together and had been left

lying helpless in the yard. That was a final indignity, reserved for

boys who had earned the thorough dislike of their fellows, Sally knew.

She was deeply mortified.

Her lips were compressed in the old way that she had almost forgotten.

"I will settle it, Cousin Patty. It won't take long."

Patty had, perhaps, mistaken the meaning of Sally's expression. At all

events, Sally looked very decided, which Patty was not.

"Oh, will you, Sally? I felt sure that you would be touched by

Charlie's sufferings. He is your brother, you know, and--and all

that," she finished, ineffectively, as she was painfully aware.

"Yes," Sally replied, still with that compression of the lips, "he

is." She had been about to say more, but had thought better of it.

"Well," said Patty, after waiting some time for Sally to say what she

had decided not to, "thank you, Sally. Nobody else could attend to it

so well as you." At which speech Sally smiled rather grimly, if a girl

of seventeen can smile grimly. Her smile was as grim as the

circumstances would allow.

She found Charlie suspiciously near the door.

"Will you go and see old Mac, Sally? Will you?"

"You come into the back parlor with me, Charlie," Sally answered, "and

I'll tell you what I'll do."

When Charlie emerged, half an hour later, he was sulkier than ever,

but he was no longer triumphant. Sally went back to school that same

night. Patty did not summon her again. Sally had a way of settling

things which Miss Patty did not altogether like.

Now it chanced that Jane chose the next day for one of his visits. It

was not a happy chance. The day itself was dull and gloomy and chilly

and Sally had not yet got over the settling of Charlie. Jane, to be

sure, did not know about Charlie, but it would have made no difference

if he had known about him. Sally greeted him with no enthusiasm; it

almost seemed to Jane that she would rather not have seen him.

He looked at her in surprise. "What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.

"Why this--this apathy?" He had been about to call it indifference,

but decided against it.

Jane was not without wisdom, if he did not show much of it on this

particular day. If it had been the case of another and that other had

asked his advice, he would have advised him to drop it all and go home

again. But, in our own cases, we are all more or less fools. Therefore

Jane did not drop it all and go home.

Sally did not smile. "I don't know, Jane," she replied. "There's

nothing in particular the matter." Sally had given up the attempt to

break the Jane habit and Jane had given up objecting.

"Well?" he asked, after waiting vainly for her to propose a walk.

"Shall we go for our usual walk? You know you don't like to stay in,

and neither do I."

"I think," said Sally, "that I don't like anything to-day, so what

does it matter?" Surely Jane should have taken warning and run. "We'll

go out if you like."

Jane looked at her doubtfully, but said nothing, which was probably

the best thing he could have said; and they went out, walking side by

side, in silence, until they came to a little stream which was

dignified by the name of "The River." There was a path along the bank.

That path by the river was much frequented at other seasons, but now

the trees that overhung it were bare and the wind sighed mournfully

through the branches, after its journey across the desolate marsh

beyond. On such a day it was not a place to cheer drooping spirits. It

did not cheer Sally's.

Jane's spirit began to be affected. He looked at Sally anxiously, but

she gave no sign of ever meaning to say another word.

"Sally!" he said.

She glanced at him and tried to smile, but she made no great success

of it.

"Well?"

"Now, what is the matter, Sally? Won't you tell me?"

"There's nothing the matter, Jane. I'm simply not in very good

spirits."

"Sally," said poor Jane softly, "please cheer up and be light-hearted.

This isn't like you at all."

"I can't help it," Sally answered, sighing. "I've tried. It doesn't

happen to me often. I'm not good company, am I?"

"You're always good company for me," Jane said simply. Sally did not

seem to hear. "Try a pleasant expression," he continued, after a

pause, "and see what that does to your spirits."

"Thank you," said she coldly, "for nothing." Then she changed

suddenly. "I beg your pardon again, Eugene. I was getting

ill-tempered. Would you have me put on a pleasant expression when I

don't feel like it?"

He nodded, smiling. "To see the effect upon your spirits."

"As if I were having my photograph taken?" Sally went on, "A sort of

'keep smiling' expression? Think how absurd people would look if they

went about grinning."

"There is a certain difference between grinning and smiling," Jane

replied, "although I can't define it. And you would not look absurd,

Sally, whatever you did."

"Oh, yes, I would," Sally said, more cheerfully than she had spoken

yet, "and so would you. No doubt I am absurd very often; as absurd as

you are now."

Jane sighed heavily. "I've never seen it, Sally, although I should

like to see you absurd in the same way that I am now. I long to. You

couldn't be, I suppose."

There was no answer to this remark. Waiting for one and listening,

Jane heard only the sighing of the wind across the desolate marsh and

in the trees, and the soft noise of the water flowing past. Poor Jane

was very wretched, largely, no doubt, because of the dreary day and

because Sally was wretched. He did not stop to ask why. Then he did

something which was very unwise. Even he, in more sober moments,

acknowledged its unwisdom. But, after all, would it have made any

great difference if the circumstances had been different--Sally being

what she was? I think not. Jane thought not.

Jane leaned a little nearer. "Sally," he said softly, "can't you like

me a little? Can't you--"

Sally looked up in surprise. "Why, Jane," she replied simply--and

truthfully, "I do like you. You know it."

"But, Sally,"--Jane's heart was pounding so that he could not keep the

sound of it out of his voice, and his voice was unsteady enough

without that,--"but, Sally, can't you--can't you care for me? I--I

love you, Sally. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I--"

"Oh, _Jane_!" Sally was the picture of dismay; utter and absolute

dismay. She had withdrawn from him a little. And she had forgotten the

state of her spirits. She was startled out of her apathy. "I didn't

know you were going to say that. Why, oh, why did you? What made you?"

"I simply had to. I have been holding it in as long as I could, and I

couldn't see you feeling so, without--well, I had to." Jane spoke more

rapidly now. "And, Sally, I realize the absurdity of asking you now,

when I am not half through college and you are not through school, but

we could wait--couldn't we?--and if you only felt as I do, it would be

easier. I am--I shall have some money and I--"

With an impatient wave of her hand Sally brushed all that aside.

"That is of no consequence," she said,--"of no sort of consequence.

But why did you do it, Jane? Oh, why did you? You have spoiled it all.

I suppose we can't be good friends any more." There were tears in her

eyes.

"I can't see why." Jane regarded her for some while without speaking.

Sally, I suppose, had nothing to say. "Does that mean," he asked at

last, "that you don't care for me in the way that I want?"

"I should think you would know," replied Sally gently.

"And--and you can't?"

Sally shook her head.

"Not ever?"

Sally shook her head again.

Jane stood, for a minute, gazing out over the desolate marsh. Then he

drew a long breath and turned.

"Well," he said, smiling mirthlessly and raising his hat, "shall

I--shall we go back?"

Sally was angry, but I don't know what for. "No," she was decided

about it; much more decided than was at all necessary. "You need not

trouble to go back with me."

"Oh," said Jane. He smiled again and flushed slowly. "Then, if you

will excuse me, I will go to the station."

So Jane was gone--or going--with head held high and a flush on his

face. He did not look back. Sally, as she watched him go, had a

revulsion of feeling and would have called to him. To what end? She

could not change her answer. And the sound died on her lips and she

stamped her foot angrily, and watched him out of sight. Then she fled

to her room and wept. Why, I wonder? Sally did not know. Suddenly she

had lost something out of her life. What? Sally did not know that

either. It was not Jane she wept for. Whatever it was, she knew that

she could never get it back again; never, never.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Ladue was sitting in her room with a letter in her lap. The

letter was unfinished and it seemed likely that it might not be

finished; not, at any rate, unless Mrs. Ladue brought her wandering

thoughts back to it, although, to be sure, her thoughts may have had

more to do with it than appeared. She was gazing absently out of the

window and in her eyes there was a look both tender and sad; a look

that said plainly that her thoughts were far away and that she was

recalling some things--pleasant things and sad--dwelling upon them

with fond recollection, no doubt. It was a pity that she had not more

things which could be dwelt upon with fond recollection; but it may be

that she was dwelling fondly upon the recollection of what might have

been. There is much comfort to be got out of that kind of recollection

even if it is not very real.

What was before her eyes was the Lot covered with untouched snow

billowed by the high wind and glistening, here and there, where that

same wind had hardened and polished the surface into a fine crust.

There was the same high wall, its cement covering a trifle less

smooth, perhaps, than it had been when Sally first saw it, but giving

a scant foothold even yet. And the wall was capped, as it had been

since it was built, with its projecting wooden roof, more

weather-beaten than ever and with the moulding on the under edges

warped away a trifle more, but still holding. There was snow upon that

old roof in patches, but the wind had swept most of it clean. And over

it all was a dull, leaden sky with more snow in it.

Although all this was before her eyes, she may not have seen any of

it; probably she had not. Judging from her look, it was something

quite different that she saw. It may have been the early years of her

marriage--very early years they must have been and very far away

now--when Professor Ladue was still good to her and she still believed

in him. Or, perhaps, she was passing in review the many kindnesses of

Uncle John Hazen and Patty. For Patty had been kind in her own way;

and what other way could she use? Every one of us has to be kind or

unkind in his own way, after all, in accordance with the natures God

has given us. Perhaps Mrs. Ladue was thinking of Doctor Galen's

care--four years of it--or of Fox's goodness. Fox had not got over

being good to them yet. And she called down blessings on his head and

sighed a tremulous sigh, and looked down at the letter which she had

held in her hand all this time, and she began to read it again,

although she had already read it over twice.

She had not got very far with her reading when the front door opened

and shut. At the sound of it Mrs. Ladue came back, with a start, to

the present. She flushed slightly and made a motion as if to hide the

letter hastily; but she thought better of it instantly, and she held

the letter in her hand, as she had done for some time. But the flush

grew and flooded her face with color. And the wave of color receded,

according to the manner of waves, and left her face unnaturally pale.

There was the sound of steps on the stairs and the door of the room

opened and Sally came in.

A breath of the cold still clung about her. "Well, mother, dear," she

said, stooping for a kiss, "here I am, at last. I thought I never

should get out to-day."

"Some poor infants have to stay after?" asked her mother. "How cold

you are, Sally! Is it as bleak and dreary as it looks?"

"Oh, no. It's nice enough, after you've been out a few minutes. At

least it's fresh, and that's something, after hours of a schoolroom.

And I don't teach infants, if you please, madam."

Mrs. Ladue laughed quietly. "It's all the same to me, Sally," she

replied. "I don't know the difference."

Sally sat down on the bed; which was a very reprehensible old habit

that she had never been able to shake off. Not that she had ever

tried.

"I'm going to get something done about the ventilation," she observed

decidedly; "at least in my room. It's wicked to make children breathe

such air." She glanced at the letter which her mother still held.

"Been writing letters, mother? Who to--if you don't mind my asking?"

"'Who to,' Sally! A fine schoolmarm you are!" said Mrs. Ladue,

smiling, in mock reproach. "I hope that is not the example you set."

Sally laughed lightly. "It was pretty bad, wasn't it? But there are

times when even the schoolmarm must relax. It hasn't got into my blood

yet, and I'm not a universal compendium. But I noticed that you didn't

answer my question. You may have objected to its form. To whom is your

letter written?"

"Well," her mother answered, hesitating a little, "it isn't written

yet. That is, it isn't finished. It is to Fox. Don't you want to add

something, dear? Just a few lines? I have asked him if he doesn't want

to come on--and bring Henrietta, of course. See, there is room at the

end."

Sally took the letter, but she could not have read more than the first

two or three lines when she glanced up, with a little half smile of

surprise and amusement.

"Perhaps I had better not read it, mother, dear," she said gently.

"Did you mean that I should?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Ladue answered carelessly, "read it if you like. There

is nothing in my letters to Fox that I want to keep secret from you,

Sally."

There was the same little half smile of amusement on Sally's lips as

she read, and a sort of suppressed twinkle in her eyes. If you wanted

to know what Sally's thoughts were--what kind of thoughts--you would

soon have got into the habit of watching her eyes. They were merry and

grave and appealing and solemn and tender and reproachful and

thoughtful and disapproving, according to the need of the hour,

although they were seldom solemn or sad now. I suppose the need of the

hour did not lie in that direction now; at least, not nearly so often

as it had, ten years before. Sally's eyes were well worth watching

anyway. They were gray and rather solemn, normally, shaded by long,

dark lashes, and gave the impression of darkness and depth; but when

she was stirred to anger, whether righteous or not, they could be as

cold and as hard as steel. But enough of Sally's eyes. Too much, no

doubt.

Mrs. Ladue's reflections, as Sally read, might be supposed to have

been rather disquieting. They were not. Presently she laughed. "The

letter may seem queer," she said, "but you must remember that I have

not seen Fox for four years, and I want to see him. I got very fond of

Fox in my years at Doctor Galen's."

Sally looked up. "Of course you did, mother, dear. Of course you did.

It would be very strange if you had not. I am fond of him, too."

Mrs. Ladue smiled in reply and Sally returned to her reading. She

began again at the beginning, with the "Dear Fox."

"Dear Fox:" she read. She was not reading aloud. "To begin with what

should come last, according to all the rules, in a woman's letter, I

want to see you. It is the sole purpose of this letter to tell you

that, so you need not look for the important matter in a postscript.

It won't be there, for it is here. Do you know that it is nearly four

years since you were here? Is there no matter in connection with my

trifling affairs that will serve as an excuse--or is any excuse

needed? Can't you and Henrietta come on for a long visit? I know the

engagements of a doctor--such a doctor, Fox!--are heavy and that I am

very selfish to ask it. Sally would be as glad as I should be to see

you both here, I am sure. I will ask her to add a few lines to this

when she comes in. She has not got back from school yet.

"Sally seems to be quite happy in her teaching. I remember when she

got her first month's salary--she got a position right away, with Mr.

MacDalie--she came flying into the house and met Uncle John in the

hall--I was halfway down the stairs--and threw her arms around his

neck. The dear old man was startled, as he might well have been. I may

have told you all this before. If I have, don't read it. Well, he was

startled, as I said, but he smiled his lovely, quiet smile.

"'Bless me, Sally!' he said. 'What's happened? What's the matter?'

"'This is the matter,' she cried, waving something about, somewhere

behind his ear. 'I've got my salary. And it's all my own and the first

money I ever earned in my whole life.'

"The dear old man smiled again--or rather he hadn't stopped smiling.

'Bless your heart!' he said. 'What a terribly long time to wait, isn't

it? But it's hardly true that it is the first money you ever earned.

The first you ever were paid, perhaps, but you've been earning it for

years, my dear, for years.'

"Sally kissed him. 'I'm afraid you're partial, Uncle John. But do you

know what I'm going to do with my munificent salary?'

"Uncle John shook his head.

"'I should like to pay it to you, on account,' said Sally. 'Oh, I'm

not going to,' she added hastily, seeing that he looked hurt, 'but I'm

going to pay for all my clothes, after this, and mother's and

Charlie's. I'm afraid it won't do much more, yet awhile, but give us

pocket-money.'

"'Very well, Sally, if that will give you pleasure,' said Uncle John.

'I like to pay for your clothes, my dear, but just as you please.'

"Those are sentiments which a girl does not often hear. Have you,

perhaps, said to somebody--but I won't ask. Sally's salary is enough

to do much more than pay for our clothes now.

"Charlie goes to college this next fall. I think there is little or no

doubt of his getting in. He did very well with his preliminaries last

June. He is very bright, I think, but I sometimes tremble to think of

all that lies before him. Do you realize, Fox, that Sally is almost

twenty-one and that it is ten years--almost ten years--since that

terrible time when--"

The letter broke off here. That last sentence must have started Mrs.

Ladue upon her gazing out of the window.

Sally looked up soberly. "I'll add my request to yours, if you like,"

she remarked; "but it's hardly likely that Fox will come just because

we ask him--in the middle of winter. He must be very busy. But I hope

he'll come. I should dearly like to see him--and Henrietta, of

course--" She interrupted herself.

"Have you spoken to Patty about Fox, mother?" she asked,--"about his

coming here?"

Her mother smiled whimsically. "Not exactly to Patty," she replied. "I

spoke to Uncle John."

"That is the same thing, in effect," said Sally, chuckling. "Much the

same thing, but speaking to Patty might save her self-respect."

"I thought," Mrs. Ladue suggested gently, "that if the idea seemed to

come from Uncle John it would do that. It is a little difficult to

convince Patty and--and I didn't like to seem to press the matter."

Sally bent forward and kissed her. "I beg your pardon," she said. "No

doubt you are right."

She took the pen and wrote a few lines in her firm, clear hand. Then

she tossed the letter into her mother's lap and sat silent, gazing out

of the window, in her turn, at the old, familiar wall and at the snow

beyond.

"Mother," she asked suddenly, "what would you do--what would you like

to do if father should happen to turn up?"

Her mother was startled out of her usual calm. Her hand went up

instinctively to her heart and she flushed and grew pale again and she

looked frightened.

"Why, Sally," she said. She seemed to have trouble with her

breathing. "Why, Sally, he hasn't--you don't mean--"

Apparently she could not go on. "No, no," Sally assured her hastily,

"he hasn't. At least, he hasn't that I know of."

"Oh." It was evidently a great relief to Mrs. Ladue to know that he

hadn't. The tears gathered in her eyes and dropped slowly upon the

open letter in her hand as she spoke. "I--thought--I thought

that--that--perhaps--"

Sally understood. "Oh, mother, dear, I only wanted to know what you

would do--what you would want to do. The thought occurred to me

suddenly. I don't know why."

"I don't know, Sally. I don't know. I suppose we ought to go back to

him. But I don't know."

Sally laughed and her eyes were cold and hard. If Mr. Ladue had heard

that laugh and seen her eyes, I think he would not ask Sally to go

back to him. "Oh," she said lightly--but her voice was as hard as her

eyes--"oh, there is no doubt about what I would do. I would never go

back to him; never at all. You shouldn't, either, mother. So put that

bugaboo out of your mind. I hope he won't ever turn up, not ever."

Mrs. Ladue laughed and her laugh was ready and cheerful enough. "Oh,

Sally," she said, mildly remonstrating, "we ought not to say that. We

ought not even to think it."

"We poor mortals seldom do as we ought, mother, dear," Sally replied

lightly. "You needn't have that fear a single minute longer."