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 tellanybody."
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 quitelight, 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, asort 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 theysoon 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—"
"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—Havering."
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 weara 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.
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 ofUncle 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 andslipped 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. Shesaw 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, theyhoped 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 kitewas 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.
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,—averygreat 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.
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 whatDoctor 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 isverynice 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 toliketo 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.