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,biggiraffe.Notlittle 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'twantto 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'twantto 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—nevertalked."
"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 thatit 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'maren'ta 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."
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 thatanxiety. "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 youmaygo 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 spokewithout 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 professorturned 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'twantto be tied any more.Aren'tan 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!"
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 sheaddressed 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 consentedwith 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 thatchill 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 atime; 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 wentin 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."