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. Janewould 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 notso 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. "Youcouldn'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 theactual 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.
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 everythingso 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. Shehurried 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 bythe 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.
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 havebeen 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 ofthe 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 aposition 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 hispreliminaries 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 withher 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."