Fox was not immediately able to compass the end that was so much to be desired, but he did it, at last, not without misgivings. If Professor Ladue had known, what would he have thought—and said—about such interference with his domestic affairs? There were misgivings on Mrs. Ladue's part, too, and Fox had to overcome those. She was in no condition to combat Fox's wish, poor lady!—especially as it was her own wish, so far as she had any wish in the matter; and she knew that Sally had her heart set upon it. This is the way it happened.
Sally had been regular in her attendance at the dancing-class, all winter, and she had applied herself conscientiously to learn what she went to learn, with more or less success. There is no doubt that she learned the steps, but there is no less doubt that she failed to get the Spirit of Dancing. Indeed,—I speak with hesitation,—the Spirit of Dancing is born, not made. And how should Sally get it if she did not have it already? How should she get it if she did have it already, for that matter? It is not a thing that can be bought; it resembles happiness in that respect. And, although one may buy a very fair kind of an imitation of either, the real thing comes from within. Henrietta had had the Spirit of Dancing born in her; in regard to Sally there is some doubt.
So, if Sally's success was not glittering, it was better than Henrietta had feared it would be, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the close of the last day. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, too. She was unaffectedly glad that it was over. Mrs. Ladue, then experiencing one of her ups, planned a party for Sally and invited the whole dancing-class to it. It was to be a birthday party and was to be on the nineteenthof April, when Sally would have completed her eleventh year. Sally had always been glad that her birthday happened to come on the nineteenth of April, for it was a great help in remembering Leading Dates in American History—or one of them, at least.
They neglected to apprise the professor of the plan, no doubt through forgetfulness. For, how could he fail to be pleased that his daughter was to have a birthday party? He did not find it out until the seventeenth, two days before the event, and then only through the inadvertence of the caterer, who asked him some question about it. The caterer was a new man. He had been employed by Mr. Sanderson. Upon hearing this announcement and without giving the man any reply to his questions, Professor Ladue rushed off to town. He did not even leave word, at home, that Mrs. Ladue must not be alarmed if he failed to make his train. Fox happened to see him walking to and fro on the station platform, evidently fuming, and to guess where he was going and why.
We may be very sure that Fox did not tell Mrs. Ladue, but she found it out the next morning and immediately proceeded to have a down. The up having had its turn, the down was due, of course, but it was a very bad down. Fox telephoned for Doctor Galen.
Doctor Galen came out that afternoon. Sally had not been told, but she knew, somehow, and she was waiting for him by the gate.
"Doctor," she said, "will you let me get you anything that you want and—and wait on mother? Will you?"
The doctor smiled down at her. "Why, my dear little girl—" he began, looking into the earnest gray eyes. He did not finish as he had intended. "I thank you," he said. "If I need anything, you shall get it for me. And you shall wait upon your mother to your heart's content. But I can't tell how much waiting upon she will need until I have seen her."
"Thank you!" Sally cried softly. "I'm glad. I'll takeyou to mother." They started towards the house together. "Oh, I forgot," she added, turning toward him. "I'm Sally Ladue."
The doctor smiled down at her once more. "I gathered as much," he replied, "putting this and that together. I guess that your mother and your father are proud of their little girl."
"I don't think that father is," Sally returned soberly.
The doctor's eyes twinkled. "Why, that would be very strange. By the way, where is your father? In town, at the college?"
Sally flushed to the roots of her hair. "I think he is in town," she answered, looking carefully straight before her.
"Of course, he must have classes." The doctor had noted that fiery flush and had drawn his inference. "One would think," he continued, more to himself than to Sally, "that—er—one would think—" It was none of his business, he reflected, and he could not see, for the life of him, how—"Which is your mother's room, Sally?"
They were just entering the house and the doctor was pulling off his gloves.
"Oh, I'll take you up."
Doctor Galen came out after about half an hour. "Now, Sally," he said cheerfully, "we'll have her all right again, in time. It may take quite a long time, so don't you get impatient if it seems slow, will you, Sally?"
"I'll try not to." Her lip quivered and she began to sob.
"I'm c—crying bec—cause I'm g—glad." Then her sobs stopped suddenly and she looked up at the doctor; but the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Mother can't hear me?"
"No, you blessed child. You come with me, Sally, and cry as much as you like. It'll do you good. And I'll stay until you get through."
So it happened that Fox found them behind a big tree, out of sight from the house, Sally contentedly crying into the doctor's coat. Henrietta had gone on.
"She's all right, Mr. Sanderson. It has done her good to cry. I think she's about through, now."
Sally stopped crying and smiled at them both. "I'm so glad, Fox," she said.
Fox looked inquiringly at the doctor. "Your opinion, then, is that she will get well?"
"Yes, if there are no complications. I shouldn't expect any."
Sally, who had been waiting, apparently, to hear the doctor say this once more, murmured something about her mother and started for the house, running. She overtook Henrietta.
"Sally," continued the doctor, "seems to be a dear child—"
"She is."
"And her father seems to be—well, it isn't necessary for us to say what."
Fox laughed.
"There is only one thing—only one which looms up plainly. You and I have got to think of some way to get Mrs. Ladue away from her present surroundings. It would answer the purpose quite as well—perhaps better," the doctor added thoughtfully,—"if her husband could be removed from the environment. I am speaking rather plainly."
Fox nodded. "I understand," he said. "It is not impossible that Providence and Professor Ladue, working together, may accomplish that. I don't know how," he admitted, seeing the question in the doctor's eyes, "but I think there is going to be an explosion in that college, some day, soon. Professor Ladue—"
"Pig!" murmured Doctor Galen, under his breath.
"Had better look out," Fox finished. "By the way, Doctor, shall we have the party that we had planned for to-morrow—Sally's birthday—or had we better call it off?"
"If you can keep them out of the house," answered thedoctor slowly, "and if they don't make too much noise, I see no objection to it. Mrs. Ladue will probably sleep through it. I have left a mild sleeping-potion—I want to keep her dozing, at any rate, for some days. Arrangements all made, I suppose?"
"They can be unmade easily enough."
"No, no. It isn't worth while. Let Sally have her party. I'll come to it, myself. You tell her so, will you, Mr. Sanderson?"
So Sally had her party. The knowledge that she had it was some comfort to Mrs. Ladue, who, in her comfortable, half-asleep condition, was dimly conscious—and glad—that her illness had made no difference in the plans for Sally. And Doctor Galen had come; ostensibly to the party. To be sure, he spent more than half the time with Mrs. Ladue, mounting the stairs silently, once in a while. Then, if she was sleeping, he would stand and watch her, observing every movement, voluntary and involuntary. They all meant something to him; most of them told him something. If she was not sleeping, she would open her eyes and smile vaguely, being still in that comfortable, dozing state when nothing seems to matter much. Then the doctor would enjoin silence by raising his hand, and she would smile again and close her eyes while he took a turn about the room, quietly, but not so quietly as to make his patient nervous.
It was fortunate that the day was pleasant and warm, for that made it possible to spread the table at some distance from the house, where the noise would not disturb Mrs. Ladue. Doctor Galen leaned against a tree and looked on at the happy crew. When they seemed to be about through their eating and talking, he beckoned to Sally, who came to him at once.
"I must go now, Sally," he said. "Your guests will be going pretty soon, I suppose. You won't let them make too much noise near the house?"
"Why," Sally asked, startled, "is mother—"
"Your mother is doing just what I want her to do," thedoctor replied, interrupting her. "She is doing very well, indeed. It's only a precaution, my dear little girl. I don't want you to worry, Sally. I'll look out for your mother. You needn't do anything but follow the directions I gave you. You can do that easily. And don't worry, Sally, whatever happens."
The quick tears had rushed to Sally's eyes as Doctor Galen spoke. "Oh, yes, indeed, I can," she said, "and I won't." This speech was not as clear as it might have been, and Sally realized it. "Oh, I mean—"
"I know what you mean," the doctor returned, patting her shoulder. "You're a good girl, Sally. Now, I must go."
When the doctor went out at the gate, a few minutes later, he was smiling. I don't know what he was smiling at, but it may have been at the recollection of a kiss which Sally had just bestowed upon him. It had taken him somewhat by surprise. It had been almost as much of a surprise to Sally.
"Well," he said to himself, "that was pretty good pay, considering. But it's just as well that the Mrs. Van Hoofes don't—Hello!"
For there, before him, was Professor Ladue, walking rapidly, his eyes red and bloodshot, and looking generally tousled. The doctor glanced at him, took in these details, and decided quickly that it would be wiser not to speak. Accordingly, he passed the professor with no more than a bow. The professor glared at him, bowed shortly, then half turned.
"A lovely spring afternoon, Doctor," he said, clearly and coldly, with the grimace which did duty for a smile. It was even less like one than usual.
"Charming!" the doctor replied.
"I should not suppose," continued the professor, almost snarling, "that a man of your engagements would have time for profitless excursions into the country."
"Ah," the doctor returned, smiling, "but it was notprofitless. I have been to a birthday party; the party of Miss Sally Ladue."
What reply should the professor have made to that? The professor, at least, did not know. He turned, again, without a word.
Doctor Galen looked after him, still smiling. Then he, too, turned again. "I am sorry for Sally," he murmured, sighing. "But Sanderson is there. He must get her out of it somehow."
Sanderson could not get her out of it, as it happened. The little bunch of guests was halfway down the walk, laughing and talking; even Sally laughed a little, although she did not talk much, and her eye was alert for anybody who might come in at the gate. She hoped, fervently, that nobody would come in at that gate until the girls were out of it and safe at home. Then her father emerged from behind the screen of bushes along the wall and swung the gate wide.
Sally gave one look. "Oh, Fox!" she cried.
But Fox had seen and had run forward.
"Why such haste, Mr. Sanderson?" sneered the professor. "Why such haste? I require no assistance."
He went on toward the house, smiling at the girls as he passed. The way opened quickly before that smile of the professor's, and the laughter and the talk died. The effect was astonishing. And while he made his way rapidly onward, closely followed by Fox, the group of Sally's guests fairly melted away. Once outside the gate, and behind the sheltering screen, they ran.
Sally met Fox just coming out.
"It's all right, Sally," he said. "I persuaded him that no noise is to be made. I persuaded him."
Sally looked at Fox in wonder. "It didn't take long."
"No, it didn't take long." There were curious firm lines about Fox's mouth and his voice was not quite steady. What the nature of the persuasion was, which was so effective and in so short a time, Sally was not likely to know.
Professor Ladue was rather more out of sorts with the world in general than was usual on such occasions. He was very much out of sorts with the world in general and with three of its inhabitants in particular: with his wife, because he was unable, for reasons which Fox had made clear to him in a very short time, to wreak his ill temper upon her; with Fox, because he had succeeded so well in making those reasons clear; and with Doctor Galen, because he was sure that the doctor was attending Mrs. Ladue. Perhaps I should have said that the professor was out of sorts with four persons in particular. The fourth person was Sally. It is hard to see why he should have been put out with her, who had done nothing to deserve it. But she was good and dutiful and she saw through him clearly enough; and by so doing she kindled in him a feeling of helpless resentment.
Of course, we know very well that the professor's behavior was, itself, the real cause of his feeling. The professor knew that well enough. He was not dull-witted, whatever else he was. And, because he knew it, he raged; and, because there was no outlet for his rage, he raged the more, coldly. Those cold rages of his fairly scared Sally, and she was not easily scared.
His rage was not any the less because of a letter that Sally brought up to him, late in the afternoon. She had shrunk from seeing him, but the letter was from the college, bearing the university arms in the corner, and it was for special delivery. So Sally thought that it might be very important. There was no one else to take it to her father, so she took it, and, in obedience to his brief command, and with great inward relief, she tucked it under his door.
The letter was important, although not in the way that Sally had surmised. It was from the provost of the university of which the professor's college was a part, written with the venerable provost's own hand and apparently in some haste. It stated that Mr. Ladue had, that very day, been seen, by the provost and by one other member of the governing body, to issue from a well-known gambling-house. That fact, coupled with the rumors which had persisted for a year or two past, made it imperative that Mr. Ladue should appear before the Board of Governors, at their next meeting, to clear himself; or, if he preferred, Mr. Ladue might send in his resignation at once, such resignation to take effect at the close of the college year.
That was all. One would think that it was quite enough. Professor Ladue looked up from his brief reading.
"Ah!" he cried airily. "The honorable provost addresses me as Mr. Ladue.Mr.Ladue. And so I am to appear before the Board of Governors for the purpose of clearing myself—of what? I am accused of coming out of a house. After all, it is a very quiet, respectable-looking house, indeed, in a quiet street, rubbing elbows with other quiet, respectable-looking houses. Does it happen that the honorable provost and that other member of the governing body have seen more than the outside of that house? Do I appear before the Board of Governors? I do not. And do I send in my resignation like a good little boy? I think not. The honorable provost is a fool. I will write him a letter and tell him so."
So saying, the professor—we may call him the professor for almost the last time—the professor went to his desk and wrote the letter. He was in just the mood to write such a letter and it is to be remembered that he dealt naturally in caustics. Consequently, the letter was an excellent letter; it was exactly what it was meant to be. It was a model of its kind. There is little doubt that it was a poor kind and that it was very unwise to send it. Having been written, it should have been burned—utterly destroyed.It would have served its purpose better. But the professor was in no mood to do what was merely wise. He was pleased with the letter, proud of it. He was so pleased with it that he read it over three times. Then he laughed and signed it.
"That will, perhaps, make them sit up. It would give me some pleasure to be present when he reads it." The professor gazed out into the great tree, musing pleasantly. "No, it can't be done. It is a matter of regret that it cannot."
He sealed the letter and went out, at once, to mail it. He was quite cheerful as he took his hat and his stick from the rack in the hall; so cheerful that Charlie, who happened to catch sight of him, was encouraged to hail him. He answered pleasantly, even buoyantly, so that Sally was sure that she had been right and that the letter which she had carried up had been important.
The cheerfulness of the professor was spurious, but, such as it was, it lasted, unimpaired, until the letter was posted. The mail was just going out, and the postmaster, obliging as postmasters invariably are, held it long enough to slip in the letter to the provost. The professor saw it go; then doubts began to assail him, and his cheerfulness ebbed. He stood irresolute until he heard the train. It was useless to stand irresolute longer. It is always useless to stand irresolute for any length of time whatever. The professor knew that very well. With a quick compression of the lips, he turned homeward. He was no longer cheerful.
No doubt I was wrong in speaking of him as the professor that last time. He was, henceforth, to be Mr. Ladue. His professorial career had been cut off by that letter to the provost as cleanly and as suddenly as by a sharp axe. That would be true of any college. Mr. Ladue did not deceive himself about that. There was a need of adjustment to the new conditions, and he set himself the task of thinking out just what the new conditions were. He was so busy with his thinking that he nearly ran into a young man. The young man had just issued from Mr. Ladue's own gate. But wasit his gate? Mr. Ladue happened to have got to that very matter. There seemed to be a reasonable doubt of it; indeed, as he progressed farther in his thinking-out process and his recollection emerged from the fog of habit, there seemed to be no doubt that it was not his gate at all and that he had been allowed to think of it as his and to call it his, purely on sufferance.
For he remembered, with a shock, a thoughtless moment, a moment of inadvertence,—a moment of insanity,—in which he had made over the place to his wife, Sarah. He had got into the habit of forgetting all about it. Now it was necessary that he should get out of that habit. He had never regretted that act more keenly than at that moment. It was the act of a madman, he told himself impatiently.
As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, the aforesaid young man had gone on his way. If he was to speak, he must speak quickly.
He turned. "Oh, Fox," he said casually, "I am afraid I was rather abrupt a short time ago. Pray accept my apologies."
It was a new rôle for Mr. Ladue. It cost him something to assume it, but it was necessary to his purposes that he should. This was one of the new conditions which must be faced. It was an opportunity which must be seized before it ceased to be. For Fox it was a totally new experience to receive an apology from a man like Mr. Ladue. The experience was so new that he blushed with embarrassment and stammered.
"Oh,—er—that's all right. Certainly. Don't apologize." He managed to pull himself together, knowing that what he had said was not the right thing at all. "And, Professor," he added, "shall we resume our studies when Mrs. Ladue is better?—when she will not be disturbed?"
Fox did not know as much about Mr. Ladue's affairs as we know, or he might not have called him by that title. But yet he might.
"To be sure," answered Mr. Ladue, apparently insurprise; "why not? Is she in a condition to be disturbed by such little matters? I had rather expected to see her, to talk over an important question." If Fox chose to infer that the important question related to certain delinquencies of his own, why, let him think so.
"I am afraid that will be impossible for some time," Fox replied firmly. "Dr. Galen left instructions that she is, on no account, to be disturbed. She is not to be compelled to think. It seems to be important. His instructions were explicit and emphatic on that point."
"Ah," Mr. Ladue remarked calmly. "So Dr. Galen is running my house."
"Yes." There was no lack of firmness in Fox's voice, although he was not flushing now. "Dr. Galen is running your house. That is the situation exactly."
"And may I ask," Mr. Ladue inquired coldly,—"may I venture to ask how it happens that a specialist—one of the most expensive in the city—is in such a position that he can assume to do so?"
"Certainly you may. I will try to make it clear that it was necessary, but it will not alter the situation if I fail. Immediately after your leaving for town, Mrs. Ladue had one of her attacks. It seemed to Sally—and to me—essential that she should have expert advice at once. So—in your absence—I sent for Dr. Galen. I am very glad that I did."
"Do you know what his price will be?"
"I do not. What difference does it make? Mrs. Ladue's life may depend upon her having the best advice there is to be had."
Mr. Ladue did not answer immediately. He could not well say to Fox that that was a matter of less importance to himself than the price that would be charged. Besides, he was not sure that it mattered to him what Dr. Galen charged. He had no intention of paying it. They ought to have known that they could not saddle him with their bills without his consent. Further than that——
"It's all right, of course, Fox," said Mr. Ladue pleasantly, looking up. "I didn't realize that Mrs. Ladue's condition was serious. Thank you. Come in as soon as you think it advisable and we will continue our studies. Good-night."
"Good-night." Fox turned away with a curious mingling of feeling toward Mr. Ladue. He could not help feeling grateful to him, yet he did not trust him. What next?
That was precisely the question Mr. Ladue was asking himself as he walked slowly toward the house. What next? It was most unfortunate that he could not see his wife, most unfortunate. If he could have the chance to talk to his wife, Sarah, now, he thought he could persuade her. Give him but five minutes and he was sure he could persuade her. He would do better to have the papers ready. He wondered whether he dared; and, for an instant, he entertained the idea of having that talk, in spite of Fox and of Dr. Galen. He thought upon it.
"No," he said to himself, "it wouldn't do, under the circumstances. It wouldn't do. We'll have to give that up."
Mr. Ladue deserved no credit for deciding to give that up. It is to be feared that the possibility of evil consequences to his wife, Sarah, played no part in forcing him to that decision. The important thing is that he did so decide. In the short time that remained before dinner, he walked to and fro in his room, thinking hard. He could do that very well when he applied himself to it. At dinner he was unexpectedly pleasant, giving Sally a sense of security that was not at all justified by the event. In that, no doubt, he was doing just what he intended.
That evening, having devoted a certain brief time to thinking to some purpose, he packed his bag and wrote a short note to his wife. It is immaterial what he said in that note, but he ended it with these words: "So you may keep your place, madam, and much good may it do you. In fact, I think that you will have to keep it. You could not give a good deed or a good mortgage without my signature." Itseemed an entirely uncalled-for evidence of his ill humor. What had Mrs. Ladue done to deserve it?
In the morning he came to breakfast as usual, and again he was very pleasant. Indeed, he was so pleasant that the fact excited Sally's suspicions. He was not usually so pleasant on the morning after. And when he had gone to his customary train—carrying a bag, Sally noted—she found his note, sealed, and addressed, in her father's well-known scrawling hand, to her mother. She took possession of the note. Of only one thing was she sure and that was that no note written by her father—and sealed—was going to be delivered to her mother; at least, not without advice.
Later she showed the note to Fox; and he, being as uncertain what ought to be done as Sally was, showed it to Dr. Galen. They three decided, much against their will, to see what Mr. Ladue had said.
"For," Dr. Galen observed, "Mrs. Ladue is not in condition to read a note of any kind. She will not be in that condition for a week, at least. It seems to me, Sally, that you should know what your father says, especially in view of the circumstances. I advise you to open it."
"You do it," said Sally.
So the doctor did it. "Of course," he remarked, as he slid the blade of his knife under the flap, "if, on glancing at it, I see that it is improper for me to read, I shall not read it. But if, as I fear—"
He was reading it. "The cur!" he muttered, as he finished. He handed it to Fox. "You read it, Mr. Sanderson."
Fox read it and chuckled. "I ought not to laugh," he explained, "but it is so—so futile. Delivery to Mrs. Ladue seems out of the question. And, Sally," he went on, "you shall see this if you want to, but I wish that you would not want to. Your father has gone, apparently."
"Yes," said Sally, somewhat puzzled, "I know it; to the university?"
"Not to the university, I think. He seems to have lit out. He says something about getting another position suited tohim. He says some other things that it would give you only pain to read."
Sally's face expressed a curious mingling of anxiety and relief. "I won't read it if you don't want me to," she said. "But—but what—how shall we get any money?"
"Don't you worry about that. We'll manage to raise a few cents when we need to."
Fox had said "we" and that seemed to comfort Sally. Fox turned to the doctor.
"The environment has taken care of itself," he remarked; and the doctor smiled.
It was in all the papers. The honorable provost seemed to wish that the fact of Professor Ladue's break with the authorities of the university should be known, and he graciously allowed himself to be interviewed on the subject once a week. As was to be expected, but one side of the question was presented in these interviews, but that may have worked no injury to Mr. Ladue, who received undeserved credit for his silence. It was just as well. In none of those interviews did the honorable provost give out the letter that Mr. Ladue had written. That letter contained certain pointed passages which the press should not get hold of, if he could help it. Mr. Ladue had some reason to be proud.
Then the reporters began to come out to Mr. Ladue's house, in the hope of an interview with him. They did manage to get a few words with Sally, but the words were very few and then Fox came in. So it came about that Fox Sanderson spent most of his time, from breakfast-time until bedtime, at the Ladues'. Naturally, Henrietta was there, too. Sally was well content with any arrangement which brought them both there all the time.
Those would have been hard times with the Ladues if it had not been for Fox Sanderson. Mrs. Ladue owned the place, to be sure, but she owned very little else; hardly more than enough to pay the taxes. And if Mr. Ladue had been a hard man to extract money from, at least he had kept the tradesmen satisfied; or, if not satisfied, they were never sufficiently dissatisfied to refuse to supply the necessities. It was a different case now, and Sally wondered a good deal how they contrived to get along. She knew that Fox was managing their affairs, but things had been going on in this way for a long time before she got to the point of wonderingwhether he was supplying the money. She reached that point at last, and she asked Fox about it.
She had waited until she got him alone and was sure that they would not be interrupted.
"Fox," she asked without preamble, "where do we get our money?"
Fox was taken by surprise. He had not been expecting any question of the kind. He found himself embarrassed and hesitating.
"Why," he answered, not looking at her, "why—our money? Er—what do you want to know for?"
Sally was regarding him steadily. "Because," she replied, "I think I ought to. Where do we get it?"
"Oh, don't you care, Sally," said Fox carelessly. "We get it honestly."
Sally's earnest regard did not waver. "Of course we get it honestly. But where? I think you ought to tell me, Fox. Do you give it to us?"
Sally, bent upon the one purpose, had not thought of sitting down. She stood squarely before Fox, her fingers interlocked before her, and gazed up into his face. Fox shifted his weight to the other foot as she asked the question. Then he laughed a little.
"I give it to you! What an idea!"
"But do you?" Sally insisted. "You haven't said you don't."
"Let's sit down, Sally," said Fox, attempting a diversion. "Aren't you tired?"
"No, I'm not. But you sit down if you want to. Excuse me for keeping you standing."
Fox found a chair and seated himself comfortably. Sally again faced him, still standing.
"Aren't you going to sit down?" asked Fox, seemingly surprised. "Please do. I can't be satisfied to sit, with you standing." He placed a chair for her.
"All right," Sally moved the chair around so that she would face him, and sat down.
"What a lovely summer day, Sally!" he said. "Isn't it, now?"
Sally laughed. She would not be diverted. "Yes," she said. "But you haven't answered my question."
"Well," asked Fox, sighing, "what is the question?" There seemed to be no escape.
"Where do we get our money? Do you give it to us?"
"But that," he remonstrated, "makes two questions."
The quick tears rushed into Sally's eyes. "Oh, Fox, won't you tell me?"
Fox glanced at her and gave in at once. He told the strict truth, for nothing less would do, for Sally. He couldn't have told anything else, with those solemn, appealing gray eyes looking at him.
"I'll tell you, Sally," he said quickly. "Just trust me."
Sally smiled. It was like a burst of sunshine. "I do."
"I know it," he returned, "and I'm proud of it. Well, I have been advancing what money has been needed for the past three months. You can't say I've given it to you. I'd rather say us, Sally. So you see, you can't say I've given it to us, for we—Henrietta and I—have been here so very much that we ought to pay something. We ought to contribute. I don't like to call it board, but—"
"Why not?" Sally asked, interrupting. "Why don't you like to call it board?"
"Well," Fox answered, rather lamely, "you don't take boarders, you know."
"I don't see," said Sally, brightening distinctly, "I can't see why we don't—why we shouldn't, if mother's well enough. I've been thinking."
"But that's just it. Your mother is not well enough for you to take regular, ordinary boarders. You mustn't think of it."
"Would you call you and Henrietta regular, ordinary boarders?" Sally asked, after a few moments of silence.
Fox laughed. "On the contrary, we are most irregular,extraordinary boarders. But why, Sally? Would you like to have—"
"Oh, yes," cried Sally at once. "I should like it very much. But I don't know whether you would."
"Yes, I should like it very much, too. But there have seemed to be certain reasons why it wasn't best to live here."
"But you live here now," Sally objected; "all but sleeping. We've got rooms enough."
"I'll think it over; and, if I think we can come, we will."
"I hope you will. I should feel comfortabler. Because I don't see how we can ever pay you back; at any rate, not for a long time. We should have to wait until I'm old enough to earn money, or until Charlie is. And I'm four years older."
Fox smiled at the idea of waiting for Charlie. But Sally went on.
"And there's another thing. There's Doctor Galen."
"Oh, so the doctor's the other thing. I'll tell him."
"The money that we have to pay him is the other thing." Sally was very earnest. "Will it be much, do you think?"
"Sally, don't you worry. I asked the doctor just that question and he told me I had better wait until he sent his bill. He hasn't sent it yet."
"Well—will it be as much as a hundred dollars?"
"It is possible that it may be as much as that."
"Oh, will it be more?" Sally was distressed. When should she be able to save—even to earn a hundred dollars. "We can't ever pay it, Fox; not for years and years."
Again Fox told her not to worry. She did not seem to hear him. She was following her thought.
"And, Fox, if you have to pay it, we shall owe you an awful lot of money. Have—have you got money enough?"
Fox Sanderson did not have an "awful lot" of money. That very question had been giving him some anxiety. But he would not let Sally suspect it.
"I guess I'll be able to manage, Sally."
"I hope so. And I've been thinking, Fox, that I ought to help."
"Why, Sally, you do help. Just think of the things you do, every day, helping about your mother, and about the house."
"Yes," she returned, "but I mean about earning money. Those things don't earn money. Couldn't I learn typewriting and go into somebody's office? Or couldn't I teach? Do you have to know a lot of things, to teach, Fox?"
Fox smiled. "Some teachers that I have known," he answered, "haven't known such an awful lot of things. But if you really want to teach, Sally, you ought to be trained for it. At least," he added, more to himself than to Sally, "that is the popular opinion."
Again Sally was distressed. "Do you have to go to college, Fox?"
"Well," answered Fox, smiling, "not exactly, but something of the sort. There's a normal school or the training school for teachers, or whatever they call it."
"Oh, dear!" Sally wailed. "Everything takes so long! I wanted to do something right away. Can't you think of anything, Fox?"
"Not right off the bat. I'll see what thoughts I can raise on that subject. But if I don't think of anything, would you like to plan to be a teacher, Sally?"
"If it would help mother, I would. If that's the best thing we can think of. I'd do anything to help mother. I'd go out scrubbing or I'd sell papers or—or anything."
"Bless your heart!" Fox exclaimed under his breath. "Bless your dear heart, Sally! You needn't go out scrubbing or washing dishes or selling papers or anything of the kind. You can do better than that. And your mother is likely to need your help about as much when you are fitted for teaching as she does now."
"Is—isn't mother getting better?" asked Sally, hesitating.
"Yes," said Fox, "but very slowly; very slowly indeed.Doctor Galen thinks it will be some years before she is herself again. Think, Sally, how much better it will be for you to be getting ready. Suppose she was well now. What would you and she do? How would the conditions be different?"
Sally murmured something about taking boarders.
"Well," Fox observed, "I never have taken 'em and so I have no experience with that end of it. But Henrietta and I have been boarding for a good many years now—ever since mother died—and we have seen a good deal of all kinds of boarders. On the average, they seem to be an unmannerly and ungrateful lot. Don't you be a party to making 'em worse, Sally. Don't you do it."
Sally laughed.
"Besides," he went on, "it's pretty apt to be humiliating."
"I suppose that's something unpleasant," Sally said quietly, "and, of course, it wouldn't be pleasant. I shouldn't expect it to be."
"I don't believe there's any money in it."
Sally paused a moment to digest that phrase. Then she sighed.
"You know more about it than I do. I'll do just what you say, Fox."
The gate clicked and they both looked around.
"Here comes Henrietta," said Fox. "Now we'll all go out in the shade and play. But, Sally," he added hastily, "have you got any rich relatives?"
"Rich relatives!" Sally exclaimed. "Not that I know of. Or, wait. There's Miss Hazen—Martha Hazen. She's a cousin of father's, but I don't know how rich she is. I've never seen her."
"Where does she live?"
"Up in Massachusetts, somewhere. I think she's queer."
"The queerer the better. Your father's cousin, is she? It wouldn't be strange. Can you find out where she lives, Sally?"
Sally thought she could. "And, Fox," she reminded him,—she was afraid he might forget,—"you see if you can't come here to live. Will you, Fox?"
He nodded. Henrietta was at the piazza steps. "I'll ask Doctor Galen about it."
"What'll you ask Doctor Galen about, Fox?" inquired Henrietta. "Are you and Sally talking secrets?"
"I'll ask the doctor what should be done with a very troublesome little sister," he answered, smiling at her.
"You might get rid of her by sending her off to boarding-school," Henrietta remarked. "Not that she wants to go."
"No boarding-school for you yet, young lady. There are one hundred reasons why, and the first is—is so important that the ninety-nine others don't matter."
Fox had caught himself just in time. He had intended to say that he didn't have the money. Well, he hadn't; but he didn't mean to tell Sally so.
"I suppose that first reason," said Henrietta, "is that you can't spare me."
"Wrong. That is the second. And the third is that you are too young. Never mind the others. We are going out to play now, Henrietta." Sally darted into the house. "Where are you going, Sally?"
"After Charlie," she called softly. "I'll be right back. And let's be sauruses!"
"Sauruses it is," Fox returned. "I say, Henrietta, can you climb trees as well as Sally?"
"Well, not quite"—hesitating—"but I'm learning."
"You live in a cave with Charlie," he said decidedly.