Concerning Sally

by William John Hopkins

BOOK II

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CHAPTER I[ToC]

Sally was tolerably happy after she got settled. She had cried a few tears into Fox's coat when he was going away and she had sent many messages to Henrietta and to Doctor Galen and to her mother, although she knew that her mother would receive them with her pitiful, vacant smile and would go on wondering where Sally was. She had been told, of course, over and over, but could not seem to grasp the reason or, indeed, the fact.

Sally had wiped her eyes and sighed. "I'm not going to cry any more," she had said; "and I shan't be unhappy, Fox. I just won't be."

"You've had a good deal to make you unhappy, Sally," Fox had replied gently, "but I do hope that you won't be. You can trust Doctor Galen to do the very best for your mother."

"Yes," Sally had returned, smiling; "you and Doctor Galen. You forgot, Fox. And I'm glad that father has gone away. I'm glad—glad," Sally cried passionately. "He didn't do a thing for mother. He only liked to make her feel bad. She'd have died if he'd stayed. And I hope you'll never find him. I hope you never will."

"We're not breaking our necks, trying."

"I'm glad of it. Oh, Fox, I've never said such a thing before, and I never will again. But I just had to or I should have burst. Don't you tell, will you? Don't ever tell anybody."

Fox had promised and had kissed her and had started back, feeling comforted. It was very much better than he had expected, and Sally had made up her mind. There was everything in that.

Sally woke early the next morning. It was not quite light, if it ever could be said to be quite light in that house. But a little light had begun to filter in around the curtains, and Sally looked about the great, dim room, wondering for a moment where she was. Then she remembered; she remembered, too, that Uncle John had breakfast early. Cousin Martha had forgotten to tell her at what time to get up, but there could be no harm in getting up now. Charlie had a little room off her own big one, probably the dressing-room. At that instant Charlie appeared, wandering hesitatingly, clad only in his little pajamas, which had caused some surprise on Cousin Martha's part.

"Oh, how very cunning!" she had exclaimed, as Sally unpacked them.

Now Charlie made a dive for Sally's bed. "I want to get in with you, Sally."

But Sally thought that they had better get dressed, and said so. When Sally said things in that way, there was no appeal, and Charlie submitted, with not more objection than would have been expected, to a rapid sponge; for it had not occurred to Sally, the night before, to find out about a bathtub. It might very well be that the house had been built before the era of bathtubs and that no such useless encumbrance had been added. Cousin Martha herself solved that difficulty for her. There was a gentle tap at her door.

"Sally," called Cousin Martha's voice, "here is your hot water. Do you know about the tub?"

"No," answered Sally, opening the door; "Charlie's had his bath, Cousin Martha, as good a one as I could give him, but I haven't."

"You didn't splash water over the floor, did you?" Cousin Martha asked anxiously, scrutinizing the floor for any signs of wetting.

"I tried not to," Sally replied. "It's hardly light enough to make sure."

Miss Hazen had disappeared into Charlie's room and now reappeared bringing a tub. It was a large shallow pan, a sort of glorified milk pan, and might have been made of cast iron, judging from the way Miss Hazen carried it. It was not of cast iron, but of tin; the kind of tin that cannot be got in these days, even for love.

"There!" said she, setting it down.

"Thank you, Cousin Martha. It will be nice to have that. But you don't need to bring us hot water. We don't use it."

"Why, Sally!" Cousin Martha cried in a horrified voice. "You don't bathe in cold water!" Sally nodded. "Not tempered at all?"

"Just cold water," Sally responded.

"But it will be very cold, later on," remonstrated Cousin Martha. "The water sometimes freezes in the pitcher."

Sally chuckled. "Long as it doesn't freeze solid it's all right. I like it very cold. It prickles and stings me all over. We like it cold, don't we, Charlie?"

Charlie grunted. He did not seem enthusiastic. Miss Hazen sighed as she shut the door.

Breakfast was over, Uncle John had gone, and things had pretty well settled down for the day, and it still seemed very early to Sally. She and Charlie wandered in the yard before eight o'clock. That yard seemed very restricted. In the first place, it was bounded on every side except the front by a high wooden fence. The top of the fence was just about level with the top of Sally's head, so that she couldn't see over it without jumping up or climbing on something. Sally had thought of climbing, of course; but, first, she had to get Charlie acquainted with the yard, so that he would stay down contentedly. Charlie had not yet developed any particular aptitude for climbing trees.

They wandered to the stable, which was at the back of the house, a little to one side, and opened directly upon Box Elder Street. Here they found the man attending to his duties about the stout horse. That man paid but little attention to the children, but continued his work in a leisurely manner. No doubt this was praiseworthy on his part, but it was not what the children had hoped for, and they soon wandered out again and went towards the back of the yard. Here was a vegetable garden on one side and a flower garden on the other, together stretching across from Box Elder Street to a little street that was scarcely more than a lane. Sally had been in Whitby a long time before she found that this was Hazen's Lane. It was most natural to speak of it as "The Lane," and "The Lane" it was.

Back of the two gardens was another high wooden fence; and behind the fence was a row of maples bordering a street. Sally knew it was a street because she could see, over the top of the fence, the fronts of two houses on the other side of it.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "There doesn't seem to be anything very interesting here, does there, Charlie? You can't even see farther than across the street. I suppose Cousin Martha wouldn't like it if we should dig, for there isn't any place to dig but the garden."

Charlie began to whimper.

At this moment there came a thump on the fence at the corner of the Lane. The thumping continued, in a rhythmical manner, as if it were in time with somebody's walking, and progressed slowly along the Lane. Presently there was a double thump at each step, and Sally saw two cloth caps, exactly alike, bobbing up and down, almost disappearing behind the fence at each downward bob.

"It looks like twins," she said.

"Follow 'em along," said Charlie, in some excitement. "Come on, Sally."

So they followed 'em along until the twin caps had got almost opposite the house. Then two shrill voices broke into sudden song.

"Monkey married the baboon's sister,
Smacked his lips and then he kissed 'er;
Kissed so hard he—"

Sally had jumped up on the stringer of the fence, just where the caps would be at the next step. "It is, Charlie!" she cried.

The owners of the two caps had jumped away with an alacrity born of experience, and had started to run. They looked back and stopped.

"Hello!" they cried, together, in surprise. "Is wh—wh—what, Ch—Ch—Charlie?"

"Twins," Sally answered in triumph; "aren't you?"

The twins nodded. "C—c—course we are," said one. "Any—any—any—b—ody know that."

"Wh—wh—what's your n—n—name?" asked the other.

"And wh—wh—who's Ch—Ch—Charlie?"

"My name is Sally Ladue," replied Sally, "and Charlie's my brother." Charlie popped his head above the fence. "We've come," she continued, thinking that she might save the twins the painful process of speech, "we've come to live here."

"W—w—with P—P—Patty H.?" asked one of the twins, in a hoarse whisper.

It was impossible for any one who was not very familiar with them to tell whether it was the same twin who had spoken last or the other one; and Sally had taken her eyes off them when she spoke of Charlie.

"With Uncle John and Cousin Martha," she answered. "I've never called her Patty H. and I don't think it's very respectful."

The twins grinned. "W—w—we c—c—call her P—P—Patty H. be—be—bec—c—cause it's h—h—hard to s—s—say Haa—Ha—Ha—Ha—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 wear a red ribbon in his buttonhole and Dee would wear a blue one, I should know. It's very convenient to know."

The idea of wearing ribbons in their buttonholes did not seem to strike the twins favorably. They shook their heads.

"Well," said Sally hastily, "there's another thing: you were thumping on the fence and singing—"

"We c—c—can s—s—sing all right when we c—c—can't t—t—talk. S—some d—days are go—g—good for t—talking and s—some are b—b—bad. Th—this is a b—bad d—day."

"Yes, I suppose so. But what I was going to say was this: you were singing something that may have been meant to plague Cousin Martha. I want you to promise not to try to plague her. You will promise, won't you?"

The twins grinned again and promised with evident reluctance.

"You g—going to our s—s—school?" inquired Dum suddenly.

"I don't know about schools," Sally replied. "I suppose I'm going to some school, and Charlie, too."

"Ours," Dum began; but at the mention of school Dee started.

"G—g—gee!" he exclaimed. "We g—g—got to h—h—hurry or we'll be l—late. C—c—come on."

The twins were gone. Sally and Charlie got down from the fence.

"They were a funny pair, weren't they, Charlie?"

"Yes, they were. Now, Sally," Charlie went on dismally, "what you goin' to do?"

Sally sighed. It was not nine o'clock and Charlie was in the dumps already. She looked around and there was Miss Hazen just coming out of the front door.

"There's Cousin Martha, Charlie. Let's go and meet her."

Charlie was not in a state to be enthusiastic about anything, certainly not about Cousin Martha. He didn't care; but he went, in a condition of dismal melancholy that touched her.

"Homesick, poor child!" she murmured. "Charlie," she said aloud, "I am going downtown in the carriage, to do some errands. Don't you want to go? You and Sally?"

Charlie thereupon brightened perceptibly. "I'll go if you want me to."

Cousin Martha smiled and turned to Sally, who accepted. "Although," she said, "I want to write a letter. But I suppose there'll be plenty of time after we get back. We've just been talking with the funniest pair of twins. They stutter."

Miss Hazen sighed. "I know. I heard them banging on the fence. They are the Carling twins. Their names are Henry and Horace."

"Harry and Horry," cried Sally. "But which is older?"

"Mercy! I don't know," Cousin Martha answered. "I can't tell them apart. One is just as bad as the other."

"I've an idea," Sally remarked, "that they aren't going to be so bad."

Cousin Martha looked curiously at Sally, but she said nothing and just then the carriage came.

Miss Hazen seemed to find especial delight in Charlie's society on that drive. She talked to him more and more while she went to do her errands. Charlie, on the whole, was not an especially attractive child. He was a handsome boy, but he was apt to be dissatisfied and discontented, which gave his face the kind of expression which such a disposition always gives. He seemed to be developing some of the characteristics of his father. Not that Sally was aware of the characteristics Charlie was developing. Charlie was Charlie, that was all. She saw too much of him—had had the care of him too continuously—to realize the little resemblances which might be evident to one who had less to do with him. It is not unlikely that Miss Hazen realized those resemblances, although she may not have been conscious of it, and that it was just that which was endearing him to her.

Whatever the reason, Cousin Martha got to taking him with her at every opportunity. Charlie was in school every morning, for one of Miss Hazen's errands, on that first day, had been to arrange for school for both Sally and Charlie. Charlie, being at school every morning except Saturday, could not accompany Cousin Martha on her drives in the mornings. Consequently, Cousin Martha changed her habit of more than twenty years' standing and drove in the afternoon. Her father smiled when he heard of it and looked from Charlie to Sally.

"I know of no reason, Patty," he observed quietly, "why the afternoon is not as good a time for driving as the morning. Doesn't this little girl go?"

"Not very often, Uncle John," Sally replied, smiling up at him. "I'm—I'm very busy, and—and I'd rather go anywhere on my own feet."

He patted her head and smiled. He liked to go anywhere on his own feet, too.

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CHAPTER II[ToC]

It was a blustery Saturday toward the last of March. Sally had written her letter to Fox and one to Doctor Galen, more to take up time than because she had anything to say that she thought was worth saying; but the kind doctor seemed to like to get her rather infrequent letters, and he always answered them, although his answers were rather short. But what could she expect of a doctor who was as busy as Doctor Galen? Not much, truly. Cousin Martha had told her so. Perhaps I had better call her Patty. Everybody called her Patty or Miss Patty. Even Sally had fallen into that habit. Miss Patty may have preferred it or she may not have; her preference did not seem to matter. As I was saying, Cousin Patty had told her so, and had intended the telling, it seemed to Sally, rather as a rebuke. Now, Sally did not know why she should be rebuked,—for her conscience was clear. But the fame of Doctor Galen had gone forth in the land and Cousin Patty considered it a great honor that any one of her family connections was under his care. Hence her seeming rebuke.

Sally had finished her letter to the doctor and it was only half-past eight. She sighed as the hall clock—which, by the way, was in the back parlor—struck the half-hour, solemnly, as if it were aware of the importance of its office. That tall clock did its whole duty conscientiously—with Uncle John's help. Sally sat gazing at the clock and meditating. It was no less than astonishing, when you came to think of it, what a lot of things in that house depended upon Uncle John's help. He never made a show of giving it, but a quiet word here and a calm smile there did wonders. He was a regulator, that was what he was; a sort of a pendulum, to make things go right. Sally had become very fond of Uncle John. Cousin Patty—well—she seemed to need a regulator, not to put it any more strongly. Sally smiled as the idea crossed her mind, and she took the end of the pen-holder from its place between her teeth and returned to the perusal of her letter.

Sally always read over her letters, and, having read this one over, she added a postscript telling the doctor—a very private joke between him and her—of Cousin Patty's rebuke. She knew that he would be amused. When she had the doctor's letter sealed, she looked up again at the clock.

"Oh, dear!" she murmured; "it must have stopped." She knew very well that the clock would not be guilty of such misbehavior as long as it had Uncle John's help. "I'll write to Henrietta."

To tell the truth, Sally had not missed Henrietta one half as much as she had missed Fox, but if she did not write her very often it was simply because she forgot it. When she remembered, she was always very sorry and wrote frequently, until she forgot again. Sally's letters to Henrietta came in bunches, with intervals of a month or more between the bunches.

She had not got very far on this one when Uncle John came in. He was very late that morning.

"Sally," he said, "they are flying kites in the Lot. You may like to see them."

For, as I said at the beginning, before I was led off into this digression, it was a blustery Saturday in March.

"Oh!" Sally cried, pushing back her chair. "Are they? Do you mind, Uncle John, if I climb a tree on that side? You can't see over the wall, you know."

Mr. Hazen smiled quietly. "Climb any tree you like," he replied. "You will be careful, Sally, I know; careful of yourself and of the trees. But where is Charlie?"

"Cousin Patty is getting him ready to go out with her." Sally was pretty well relieved of the care of Charlie by this time. "I'll finish this letter when I come in."

She jumped up, snatched up her hood and her coat and slipped her hand into Uncle John's and they went out together. They parted at the foot of the steps and Mr. Hazen walked slowly downtown, smiling to himself in a satisfied way.

Just across Box Elder Street was a high wall. It seemed to Sally to be at least twenty feet high; and the builder of that wall had added insult to injury by cementing it smoothly on the outside—Sally had never seen the inside of it—and by capping it with a smooth and projecting wooden roof. The wooden roof was no longer smooth, but warped with the sun and the rains of many years, and the mouldings on the under edges were coming away in places. But the wall was still absolutely unclimbable, although it was possible to see over it from the upper windows of the house or from the evergreens which surrounded it. Sally preferred the evergreens. To be sure, their heavy branches somewhat interfered with the view, but, at least, they were trees and they were out of doors.

When Sally had found a comfortable perch in a spruce, she looked over into the Lot. The Lot was a relic of the past; of twenty-five or thirty years past. Its latest useful service had been, according to internal evidence, as a cornfield. The boys, running across it with their kites, were sure of this, for the hills were still there and made running on it a work of art, especially if there was a kite at the end of a string to need their attention. Indeed, perhaps I was wrong in putting the flying of kites in the class of useless service. At any rate, that was the only use to which Morton's lot had been put for many years. It was called "The Lot." There was no danger of ambiguity in so speaking of it, any more than there was in speaking of Hazen's Lane as "The Lane." No one would have any doubt at all—no one in Sally's set, at least—as to what was referred to, in either case.

Sally looked out as she best could between the branches of her spruce. She couldn't see much, only a little piece of the field at each opening. It was very unsatisfactory. She saw five or six boys, two of them large boys, bending over something which lay upon the ground. Presently the group divided and the boys stood up; and she saw that what they had been working on was a huge kite of the old-fashioned six-sided kind. She saw, too, that the big boys were Everett Morton and Dick Torrington. At that moment the familiar figures of the Carling twins slipped through a break in the high picket fence from the other street. Immediately, Sally scrambled out of the spruce and ran up Box Elder Street. She had a heightened color, but that might have been due to the exertion of scrambling. It might not have been due to the exertion of scrambling. Scrambling was no unusual exertion for Sally.

Sally's rapid change of base was not because of the restricted view from the tree, although her view was restricted. And it was not because of the Carlings. The Carlings were her devoted slaves; but that fact was an annoyance to her rather than a gratification, and it is conceivable that the presence of the Carlings might have had weight in inducing her to put up with the inconveniences of a restricted view. The object of interest must therefore have been either Everett or Dick or the kite.

At her school Sally was in the fifth class. They did not have forms or grades at that school. Grades are mysterious things which seem to run the wrong way, with no particular point of beginning and no particular ending. A man might be in the fiftieth grade if there were any teachers for it. There seems to be nothing to prevent. But when a boy graduates from the first class, there is a point that brings you up short. Something vital must happen then; and the thing that happens is that the boy either goes to college or goes to work, for it is out of the question to go any farther in that school. You know it without being told.

The boys in Sally's school usually went to college when they graduated from the first class. They were well prepared for it. Everett and Dick were in the first class and they would go away to college in the fall, or, at least, they hoped that they would. There was some doubt about it, for Dick was rather dull and plodding and Everett was neither dull nor plodding. They were four years ahead of Sally. I cannot tell why she had chosen those two to look up to. It is doubtful whether she could have shown adequate cause either, always supposing that she would have been willing to acknowledge the fact.

Dick was the type of the nice English boy. Sally had never seen an English boy or an English man in her whole life; but that did not prevent her from forming an ideal of the type, to which Dick measured up in every particular. He had light hair and that curious brunette coloring that sometimes goes with it; he was invariably pleasant and polite and deliberate in his speech; and he was generally well dressed. Sally was particular about that, almost finicky. If Dick had shown a tendency to overdressing—but he didn't. He had an air of distinction. He also had a sister, Emily, who was in the second class at school. Sally thought that Emily Torrington was the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. She could not imagine any girl more beautiful.

Everett was a great contrast to Dick in every respect. He had no sister. Everett was an only child and his family was very rich, so that he was in great danger of being spoiled. Not that it made any difference to Sally whether he was rich or not. And Everett was handsome, in quite a different way from Dick, and brilliant and dashing. In short, he was fascinating. Many others than Sally had found him so. It was quite likely that a woman would be more permanently happy and contented with Dick than with Everett. I do not mean to imply that Sally had ever indulged in any such reflection. She may have and she may not have; but he fascinated her, as he had fascinated those others of whom I spoke. He didn't know it. Everett Morton had never spoken to Sally. He had never even noticed her. Dick had in his good-natured, pleasant way, but Dick was always polite. Everett was not—always.

So Sally's heart was beating a little rapidly when she pushed through the break in the fence. But she had been running, you remember, for a square and a half.

The big kite was up on end, with one of the smaller boys holding it. It was a huge kite, nearly twice the height of the boy that held it and the top of it was a good foot above Everett's head as he stood in front of it; so big that they had a rope to fly it with, and the end of the rope was tied around Everett's waist. The smaller boys, of course, were clustered about the kite, the Carlings among them. Then Dick and Everett took the rope in their hands, called to the boy to let go, and began to run; and the kite rose, evenly at first, then twitching viciously from side to side. Then it hesitated for an instant, as the tail, dragging on the ground, caught around the legs of one of the Carlings. Sally had not yet become able to tell them apart, at any distance. She saw him struggle, go down with his feet in the air and with the tail of the kite still wrapped around them. She saw the other twin precipitate himself upon the fallen one, try vainly to undo the tail, then busy himself with one of his brother's shoes. The kite suddenly soared, bearing aloft, tied firmly into its tail, a shoe.

The twins remained upon the ground, one pounding the other. Sally thought that the pounded one had already had punishment enough and she ran toward them.

"You j—jay!" cried the upper twin to the under twin, as she came near. "You b—b—bum, you! D—don't you kn—know any b—b—better 'n t—to g—get c—c—caught th—that way? You—"

"Sh—sh—shut up," yelled the under twin, struggling wildly, "y—y—you r—r—rotten old b—beat! L—l—lemmeup!"

"Here," said Sally, imperatively, "let him up. Stop pounding him."

Harry stopped his pounding of Horry and both of the twins looked up, Harry with a sheepish grin and Horry with an expression of the most profound relief.

"S—S—Sally!" they began, in unison. "Oh, I ain't h—h—hurtin' 'im," continued Harry. "Oh, h—h—he ain't h—h—hurtin' m—me," said Horry.

Sally laughed. "Well," she said, "you'll get up." She took Harry by the shoulder. "It's positively disgraceful the way you brothers fight."

Harry got up slowly. "B—b—brothers always f—f—fight," he said apologetically, "if th—th—they're an—an—any—wh—where ne—n—near th—the s—s—same s—size. H—H—Horry 'n-n' I are j—just th—the s—s—same s—s—size. B—b—but I n—n—never h—hurt 'im," he added magnanimously.

Horry had got up, and was standing on one leg, with his stockinged foot against his other knee. He made Sally think of a belligerent stork.

"Y—yer c—c—couldn't, th—that's wh—why," he yelled. Then, sticking his head forward until his face was almost touching his brother's, he vented his scorn in a single yell. "Y—a—ah!"

This was too much for Harry's imitation of goodness, and he gave chase at once. Horry, handicapped by the loss of one shoe, which was now almost out of sight, had made but two jumps when Harry caught him. They clinched and went down in a heap. Sally couldn't tell whether the stockinged foot belonged to the under or the upper twin. She laughed again. They seemed to prefer to fight anyway, so why not let them?

The kite was now up as far as it could go. The rope was all out, and Everett was holding to a post of the fence. Dick came running over the field toward the prostrate twins.

"Here, you twins!" he called. "Stop your fighting. Get up!"

He seized the upper twin, jerked him to his feet and gave him a shake. It proved to be Horry.

"L—l—lemme 'l—l—lone!" cried Horry. "I ain't d—doin' an—an—yth—thing to y—you. Wh—wh—where's m—m—my sh—shoe? G—g—gimme m—my sh—shoe."

Harry scrambled to his feet. "Y—you l—l—let m—m—my b—brother al—l—lone, D—Dick. P—pitch in, H—H—Horry."

Accordingly they both pitched in. Dick had his hands full for a minute. Sally ran up.

"Everett is calling you."

"Pugnacious little beggars!" said Dick.

He knocked their heads together, gently, and ran off, leaving the twins with blazing eyes, looking after him. They began to splutter.

"It's all entirely your own fault," Sally began hastily, "and you know it. Look at the kite."

The kite was pitching in the gusty wind. The tail was not long enough nor the rope either. Occasionally it would dive head down, but Everett always managed to check it, and it rose again, twitching from side to side.

"M—m—my sh—shoe!" Horry cried, after one of the dives. He started off over the field. "I'm g—g—goin' t—to g—g—get it."

The kite dived again, straight down. Horry was almost under it, the sight of his shoe, not more than a hundred feet above his head, making him reckless—if anything was needed to make him so.

"Horry!" Sally called anxiously. "Come away. You'll get hurt."

But he showed no disposition to come away. He followed the kite, keeping just under it, his arms upraised. Sally ran towards him; and at that moment Everett succeeded in checking the downward dive of the great kite, which rose slowly, tugging and twitching at its rope viciously. It was like a live thing compelled to go up against its will and determined to come down. It was pretty low now and it seemed likely that the kite would have its way.

Dick seemed to think so. "It's no use, Ev," he said. "Better let it down easy and we'll put on more ballast."

Everett gritted his teeth and made no reply. If any kite was to get the better of him, it would have to fight for it. He wouldn't give in.

"You'll have it smashed up," Dick warned him quietly.

As he spoke, the kite gave two violent pitches and dived once more. Even Everett could not stop it and it came down like lightning, straight at Horry Carling. Sally saw it and so did Horry. Horry seemed to be paralyzed; and Sally precipitated herself upon him, bearing him to the ground, but a little away from the kite. The next instant the heavy kite struck the ground with great force and two of its sticks broke. It had struck Sally on her outstretched left foot and may have broken something more than kite sticks.

The broken kite fell over upon Sally and Horry. Horry began to struggle.

"L—l—lemme g—g—get out," he yelled.

"Keep still!" said Sally. "I'll get up and then—oh!" Sally was already part way up. There was a terrible pain in her left leg. She felt dizzy. "I—I think—I'll lie down," she murmured; and she fainted.

Sally opened her eyes presently, and smiled vaguely. The kite was gone, she was lying upon her back and Everett and Dick were bending over her, while the Carlings and the other small boys gazed in awe-struck silence.

"Where's the kite?" Sally asked weakly. She was not quite herself yet.

"Never mind about the kite, Sally," Dick answered; "it's broken and I'm glad of it. Where did it hit you?"

"I've a pain in my left leg," said Sally. "It's a pretty hard pain."

Her lips were white as she spoke, and she pressed them together to stop their quivering. She did not mean to cry.

"We'll carry you in," said Dick.

So he and Everett made a chair by crossing their hands, each hand clasping one of the other boy's. Then they stooped down and Sally managed to sit upon their clasped hands. It was the first time that she had seen this device.

"I'm afraid I shall fall off," she said. "Do you mind if I hold on to you?"

Dick laughed quietly. "Put your arms round our necks and you won't fall. It's as easy as a cradle."

Sally's color was quite restored and she was conscious of no pain as she made a triumphal progress along Box Elder Street with one arm about Dick's neck and the other about Everett's. The Carling twins followed closely, Horry absent-mindedly carrying his shoe in his hand, and the other boys came after.

As Dick and Everett started to carry her upstairs, it was the happiest moment that Sally had ever known.

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CHAPTER III[ToC]

Cousin Patty was in Sally's room. Cousin Patty was not, as it chanced, fully dressed.

"Well, Sally," she said, going towards the door, "I must go. It's almost time for the doctor." She paused an instant, then went on plaintively. "He hasn't been here, except professionally, for a long time—some years. But there was a time when he came often." Miss Hazen sighed involuntarily.

The sigh was long and quivering and it interested Sally. "Oh, Cousin Patty," she said eagerly, "will you tell me about it—about that time, I mean?"

Cousin Patty looked at Sally with the soft light of reminiscence in her eyes. "Oh, well," she replied, with affected carelessness and laughing lightly, "perhaps I will, if you are really interested to hear about it. Now I must go, but I'll be back in a few minutes."

She went out and shut the door; and Sally heard a muffled shriek and Cousin Patty's door slammed. An instant later, her own door opened and Doctor Beatty appeared. He was smiling.

"Nearly scared Patty into a fit," he said. "She ought to know my habits by this time."

Miss Patty soon came in again, clothed but not quite in her right mind. Her color was still high and she seemed a little flustered. Doctor Beatty did not turn around.

"Oh, there you are, Patty," he said. "I won't look, you know, until you give the word."

"How absurd!" Miss Patty exclaimed. She meant to be very dignified, but she was very nearly smiling. "But that is to be expected. You always were absurd."

The doctor's visit was a long one; and, when it was done, Miss Patty went to the door with him.

"It has seemed quite like old times," she said softly.

For a moment the doctor did not know what she was talking about. "What?" he asked blankly. "Oh, yes, it has, more or less, hasn't it? Good-bye, Patty. Keep your liver on the job. You're looking a little bit yellow."

There were tears in Miss Patty's eyes when she went back to sit with Sally.

"Doctor Beatty," she remarked after a short silence, "is not what he was in the old days. He seems to have coarsened."

Sally did not know what reply to make, so she made none.

"He never used to say anything about my—my liver," resumed Miss Patty, "when he called. He was practising then, too. It is painful to me to see such a change in a man like him. Now, in the old days, when he used to be here a great deal,—a very great deal, Sally,—he was not at all like that." And Miss Patty sighed.

Just then the maid came up to announce the Carlings.

"An', Miss Patty," she continued significantly, "Charlie's in the kitchen."

"Oh, is he? I'll come right down and get him." The maid withdrew. "The dear little boy!" said Miss Patty. "I suppose he's eating what he ought not to. I'd like to let him have anything he wants, but I know it wouldn't be good for him."

She rose rather hastily, but paused with her hand on the door. "Of course, Sally," she said with a short little laugh, "you are not to think that I had any—Oh, here are the twins, Sally."

Miss Patty fled and the Carlings entered.

"H—h—hello, Sally," they cried. "H—h—how's your l—l—leg?"

Sally laughed. "It's my foot, not my leg, and it doesn't hurt me at all, hardly."

This appeared to upset the concerted programme of the twins.

"B—but y—you s—s—said your l—l—leg hurt," objected Harry.

"Well, so it did," Sally replied; "but it's my foot that's broken."

"Your f—f—foot b—b—broken!" said Horry in astonishment. "H—h—how c—can a f—f—foot b—be b—b—broken? D—d—does it w—work ar—r—round?"

"Not now, for it's all done up stiff in bandages."

Horry was not allowed to pursue his inquiries, for the maid was at the door again, announcing Richard Torrington. Sally sat up straighter, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes rather bright. The twins eyed her with suspicion.

As they passed down the broad stairs Harry nudged Horry again.

"S—S—S—al—l—ly's s—stuck on D—D—Dick," he whispered.

"S—s—sing it," said Horry, chuckling.

"W—w—won't d—do it," replied Harry indignantly. His indignation rose at every step. "Y—you r—r—rotten b—bum, y—you! W—w—wanted t—to m—m—make m—me m—m—make a f—f—" The front door banged behind the twins, and Sally heard no more.

She had heard Harry's whispered remark and had glanced fearfully at Dick. He seemed unconscious, and a great joy surged in Sally's heart.

The first morning that Sally came downstairs—on crutches—she managed her crutches unskillfully and fell half the flight. Uncle John and Cousin Patty, followed closely by Charlie, hurried to her. Uncle John was the most alarmed. He stooped and would have raised her head, but Sally saved him that trouble and smiled at him.

"I'm not hurt one mite," she said. She was not. "Wasn't I lucky?"

He gave a great sigh of relief.

"I was afraid," he replied. "I'm thankful that you're not. Are you sure, Sally?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure." And, to convince him, Sally jumped up, nimbly, and hopped about on one foot.

Uncle John smiled. "It isn't very wise to try such experiments. Now, you're to sit beside me at the table, hereafter. We can't risk that foot, for it would be more of a misfortune to our Sally and to us if anything serious happened to it than she realizes."

Sally had noted the way he spoke of "our Sally"; it was affectionate, genuinely so. There could not be the least doubt about it.

"Now," he continued, "you will please to take my arm."

"Oh, father," remonstrated Miss Patty, "is it safe?"

"Quite safe, Patty," he returned quietly, "and I wish it."

It is not to be wondered at if Sally squeezed his arm a little. She could not say what she wanted to, right there before Cousin Patty and Charlie. It is hard to see why she couldn't, but Uncle John seemed to understand; and they walked solemnly in to breakfast, Sally wielding one crutch and Uncle John the other.

"We're two old cripples, Sally," said he.

---

CHAPTER IV[ToC]

Sally wrote Fox about it all, of course. There would have been no excuse for her if she had not; and she wrote Henrietta, too, although she had some difficulty in making the two letters cover the same ground without saying the same thing. This was one of the times when Sally's letters to Henrietta came in bunches. She alluded to her accident in one of her letters to Doctor Galen, and he answered it almost immediately, giving her four pages of excellent advice and ending by taking it all back.

"Fox tells me," he wrote, "that you have Meriwether Beatty looking after you. In that case please consider all this unsaid. I know something of Doctor Beatty and I am sure you couldn't be in better hands—unless in the hands of Doctor Fox Sanderson. Have you heard that Fox has decided to be a doctor and that he is studying with me besides taking his course in the medical school?"

No, Sally had not heard it. Fox was strangely reticent about himself. He had not mentioned, even, that he had found a tenant for their house; a tenant who would respect all of Sally's little affections—or great affections, if you prefer—for trees from which the gynesaurus had been wont to gaze out over the coal swamps, ages ago; a tenant who, strangely enough, was named Sanderson. She learned this piece of news, or inferred it, from one of Henrietta's letters. Henrietta had supposed that Sally knew it already.

Sally was feeling very tenderly affectionate towards Fox over this news, and very much elated over the doctor's announcement, for it could hardly fail to be evident what prosperity for Fox was implied in Doctor Galen's great good will. She wrote to Fox at once, congratulating him.

"Everybody here seems to think that Doctor Galen is It, and so do I," she went on. "I read Doctor Beatty what Doctor Galen said about him, and you ought to have seen him. He looked pleased as he could be and he smiled—he tried not to—and he positively blushed. Then he began to talk about my foot, but my foot is not worth talking about now. It is almost well. I go about quite easily with my crutches and Uncle John takes me for a walk every morning, before he goes downtown. It makes him late in getting down, but he doesn't seem to mind. Uncle John and I have got quite fond of each other. Really, Fox, Uncle John is the best person here. He is so kind and thoughtful and, Fox, so polite! His politeness seems to be a part of him. Yes, I am very fond of Uncle John. Of course, I am fond of Cousin Patty, too, but I like Uncle John more.

"And there are other ways I have of going out. Dick Torrington has come in every afternoon since I hurt my foot, and, now that I can get about so well, he takes me for a walk. It's very slow business for him, of course, but he doesn't seem to mind, either. It's astonishing how many people don't seem to mind. Dick is very nice and kind and satisfying. He reminds me of you in many ways. He always treats me like a person,—as if I were as old as he is,—not as if I was only a little girl and of no consequence, as Everett Morton seems to think. Dick seems to like to take me out. He is going to take his examinations for Harvard this June, and he is a little afraid he won't pass. He failed in a good many of his preliminaries—is that spelled right?—last year. He isn't very quick at his studies. He says so himself, so he knows it. I hope he will pass and I wish I could help him. Uncle John says Dick's all right. Uncle John takes me to walk again when he gets back, so that I have walking enough for a little girl with crutches. I shan't need them very much longer, but Doctor Beatty wants me to be careful and not to climb trees for quite a while. There aren't any good trees here.

"I hope you know, Fox, that I am very glad you and Henrietta are living in our house and that I appreciate it. Write me about all the old places, will you?"

Fox smiled with amusement at himself to find that he felt a distinct pang at Sally's account of Dick. If Dick was good to her there was no reason in the world why he should not take her walking as much as he would. But he, Fox, missed her companionship. Sally was one to be missed.

Dick did not succeed very well with his examinations. He had as many conditions as it is permitted to a boy to have, and he had to study hard all that summer. So the walks with Dick became less and less frequent until they ceased altogether. Dick is not to be blamed. Sally was only twelve and he could not have known how much his daily companionship meant to her. If he had known, he would have managed, out of the goodness of his heart, to see her oftener than once a week. Dick was the only intimate friend that Sally had.

Uncle John did not desert her merely because Dick had done so. They became almost inseparable; so much so that old Cap'n Forsyth, chancing to meet Mr. Hazen alone, one afternoon, cried out in astonishment.

"Hello, John!" he cried in his great bluff voice, a voice that had been heard, often, above the roaring of the wind in the rigging and the hissing of the seas. "Hello, John! Where's the other one? Anything the matter with her?"

Uncle John smiled quietly. "I hope not, Stephen. I sincerely hope not. I haven't been home yet, or you wouldn't find me alone, I trust."

"I believe you're in love, John," Cap'n Forsyth cried again. He might have been heard a block away.

The smile had not left Mr. Hazen's face. "I believe I am, Stephen. I believe I am."

"She's worth it, is she?" roared Cap'n Forsyth.

Mr. Hazen nodded. "She's worth it, Stephen."

"I'm glad to hear it, John," Cap'n Forsyth shouted. No doubt he thought he was whispering. "It's getting to be as common a sight—you and Sally—as those Carling nuisances. And Patty's just as bad with that little boy brother of hers. I hope he's worth it, too. Good-bye, John."

There was some doubt in Uncle John's mind as to Charlie's being worth it. He and Patty were inseparable, too, and Charlie was not improved. He was in imminent danger of being spoiled, if the mischief was not already done. Uncle John sighed and turned homeward. He found Sally sitting on the front steps, waiting for him.

---

After Dick went, in the fall, Sally had nothing to do but to try to play by herself and devote herself to her studies and miss Dick. She found that she missed him almost as much as she had missed Fox. As for playing by herself, she had had that to do nearly all summer; for, although she had tried, conscientiously, she could not feel any interest in the other girls of her own age. They were uninteresting, somehow. Uncle John was better, and she got into the habit of going down to his office in the afternoons and coming home with him. Miss Patty was very glad to have her do it. It relieved her mind; in case, you know, he should stumble or slip or—or anything else should happen. She felt that Sally was to be relied upon, and so she was; but Miss Patty was putting a rather grave responsibility upon her and she was a little too lonely. It is not good for little girls to be lonely. She was unaware of the responsibility.

Sally's school was a diversion. Diversion seems to be the right word. There were about seventy scholars in the school; and, with six classes, that makes about a dozen scholars to a class, more or less. The lower classes had more and the upper classes, by natural processes of elimination, had less. Sally's class had fourteen; and Sally had no trouble at all in standing at the head of a class of fourteen. It had made Dick envious—no, not envious, for Dick was never that; but it was a constant wonder to him that any one should be able to stand first in fourteen with so little work.

In the great schoolroom, where all the scholars sat when they had no classes to go to, the boys sat on one side and the girls sat on the other. They were given seats according to their rank, the first class at the back of the room and the sixth class right under the eye of the principal, almost under his very hand. In general, this was a good arrangement. It happened, however, that the worst behavior was not in the lowest class, but in the fourth, which was Sally's class. So Sally, from her seat in the fourth row from the front, saw Eugene Spencer, commonly called "Jane," suddenly haled from his seat at her side—Sally sat next to the boys and Jane next to the girls—and, after a severe lecture, assigned a desk within touch of the desk of the principal, Mr. MacDalie.

Jane was a boy of immaculate and ladylike appearance. He listened respectfully to the lecture and received the assignment of the desk with a bow of thanks; all of which behavior was, in itself, unobjectionable. Jane had a knack at that. But it drove the principal, who was a man of irascible temper, into a white-hot rage, which Jane respectfully sat through, apparently undisturbed. A suppressed excitement ran along the rows of boys, who were as if on tiptoe with expectation of what might happen. Sally, herself, was trembling, she found; for it seemed, for a few minutes, as though the principal would do Jane bodily harm. But nothing happened. The white-hot rage cooled quickly, as such rages do; and the principal smiled with amusement, changing in a moment, as such men change, and went on with his hearing of the class in Civil Government.

Sally was very glad that Jane was gone from his seat beside her, for he had almost convulsed her by his pranks on countless occasions and had very nearly made her disgrace herself by laughing aloud. She had fears, however, still; for Jane's new desk was between the principal and the classes that he was hearing, and was on the floor, while the principal's desk was on the platform. Jane, therefore, was, in a measure, concealed from the view of the astute MacDalie, but in full view of the class, which occupied benches a few feet behind him. Moreover, the desks on either side of Jane's—there were three of them in a row, of which Jane occupied the middle one—were occupied, respectively, by the Carlings. The Carlings always occupied those desks. They had got to feeling a sort of proprietorship in them. Jane, however, knew too much to continue his mischief on that day. He was filled to the brim with it, that was all, and it was only a question how long before it would run over.

Sally was glad when the bell called her to a class downstairs; and she sat as if in a trance and watched Jane Spencer gravely fishing in the aquarium tank with a bent pin on the end of a thread. He kept on fishing all through the class hour, unhindered. The single little fish in the tank tugged at the pin occasionally, without result; and, when the bell sounded again, Jane folded up his line and put it in his book.

"No luck," he observed, bowing to the teacher.

"Too bad!" said the teacher sympathetically.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Jane; and he withdrew in good order, leaving the teacher smiling to himself. What was he smiling at, I wonder?

Jane never descended to such behavior as sitting with his feet in his desk, as Oliver Pilcher did. No doubt he considered it undignified and generally bad form, which unquestionably it was. Moreover he would thereby run the risk of getting caught in a situation which he regarded as unprofessional. Oliver Pilcher was caught several times, for it is somewhat difficult to get one's feet out of one's desk as quickly as is necessary to avoid that humiliation. If you do not believe it, try it.

Jane may have tried it or he may not. He preferred a different sort of misbehavior; it was especial balm to his soul to be thought to be misbehaving and then to prove that he was not, for that was a joke on the teacher which was apt, for reasons unknown, to make him hopping mad, and Jane's end seemed to have been attained when he had made the teacher hopping mad. He was apt to appear to be very inattentive in class, thinking—but I do not know what he was thinking. Even Mr. MacDalie was deceived occasionally. Jane would be sitting, looking out of the window, perhaps, with his book face down beside him, while the Latin translation dragged by painful jerks along the other end of the class. Mr. MacDalie would have noted Jane's attitude, as he noted everything, and would call upon him suddenly and, as he supposed, unexpectedly. And Jane would take up his book, deliberately, and, rising, begin at the very word and give a beautiful and fluent translation until he was stopped. Sally saw that happen four times that half-year.

The last time, the principal smiled broadly and lowered his book.

"Well, Eugene," he said,—he almost called him "Jane,"—"you fooled me nicely. That translation was very nearly perfect."

"Thank you, sir," Jane replied gravely; and he sat down and placed his book, face down again, upon the bench beside him and resumed his gazing out of the window.

One day during Dick's Christmas vacation there was a great sleighing party. There was no reason in the world why Sally should have expected to be asked or wanted to be. She told herself so, many times; but she was disappointed, grievously. Mr. Hazen saw it,—any one could see it plainly,—and, because he could not bear that Sally should feel so, he asked her if she wouldn't oblige him by going sleighing with him. And because she couldn't bear to disappoint Uncle John, Sally went. She was grateful to him, too. So it happened that two people, who would have much preferred going anywhere on their own feet, were wrapped in a buffalo robe,—one of the last of them; a robe of which Mr. Hazen was very proud,—and, thus protected against the cold, were being drawn easily behind the stout horse.

At the bottom of her heart, Sally despised sleighing only a degree less than she despised driving in a carriage. She thought she should like riding, but of riding a horse she knew nothing. She had never in her life been on a horse's back. As for sleighing, she thought, as they drove along, that they might as well be in her room, sitting in a seat that was not wide enough for two, with a buffalo robe tucked around their knees. With the window wide open and bells jingled rhythmically before them and an occasional gentle bounce, the effect would not be so very different. As she thought of this, she began to chuckle at the humor of it. You may not see any humor in the idea, but Sally did.

A sleigh turned the next corner suddenly, and a look of anxiety came into Mr. Hazen's face. "That's Cap'n Forsyth," he said. "A most reckless driver. It's best to give him the road if we can."

Sally recognized the captain, in an old blue sleigh, very strongly built. The captain had need of vehicles that were strongly built and he had them built to his order, like a ship. He was standing up in the sleigh and urging on his horse, which was on the dead run. Captain Forsyth kept the middle of the road and made no attempt to turn out. Perhaps he could not.

"Hello, John," he roared, waving his whip. "Hello, Sally."

The horse must have considered that the waving of the whip was an indication that the captain wanted more speed, and he put on an extra burst of it. Captain Forsyth sat down suddenly. It only amused him.

"What d'ye think o' that, John?" he shouted.

"Turn out, turn out, Stephen!" Mr. Hazen called anxiously. He had not succeeded in getting completely out of the road.

"Can't do it, John," replied the captain, regaining his feet. The old blue sleigh struck the other on the port quarter with a crash. It was not the captain's sleigh that was injured.

"Charge it to me, John," the captain roared. He did not turn even his head. "By the sound I've carried away your after davits. Charge it to me." And Captain Forsyth was borne swiftly away.

That "Charge it to me" rang in Sally's ears as it died away upon the breeze. She picked herself up, laughing. Mr. Hazen was not thrown out and was unhurt. The horse stood quietly.

"Are you hurt, Sally?" asked Uncle John anxiously.

"Not a bit; and you aren't, are you? Now, what shall we do?"

"I think there is enough of the sleigh left to carry us both if we go slowly. If not, we'll have to walk."

Presently Sally burst out into a new fit of chuckling. "How funny Captain Forsyth is! What shall you do, Uncle John? Shall you charge it to him, as he said to do?"

"Oh, yes," Uncle John replied. "It would hurt his feelings, if I didn't. He would consider it unfriendly. He has a good many to pay for."

"He had much better go on his own feet," said Sally reflectively.

---

CHAPTER V[ToC]

Sally was fifteen when the final good news came from Fox. She was in Uncle John's office, waiting until he should be ready to go. Uncle John's office was on the second floor of a little old wooden building where it had always been since Uncle John had had an office. He had chosen it because it stood just at the head of a short street leading to a certain wharf—Hazen's Wharf; and because from its windows one could see the length of the street and the length of the wharf and note what was going on there and how many vessels were fitting. The number of vessels that were fitting was surprisingly great, even now, and Sally could see their yards sticking out over the wharf, although their hulls were mostly hidden behind projecting buildings. That view from his office windows had saved Mr. Hazen many steps in the course of a long life. The fact that the business centre of the town had moved up and had left him stranded disturbed him not at all. He was still in his business centre.

So Sally, thinking vaguely of Fox and Henrietta, sat at a window and watched and was very well content with the view of the harbor and the wharf and the ends of yards sticking over it, and as much of the hulls of vessels as she could see, and the row of oil casks with a rough fence of old ships' sheathing behind them, and the black dust of the street. The black dust was stirred up now and then by the feet of horses and by the wheels of the low, heavy truck that they were dragging. Then a man, with a heavy mallet in his hand, approached the row of casks and began to loosen the bungs. It was an operation that had become familiar to Sally and she knew it to be preparation for the work of the gauger, who would come along later and measure what was in the casks. The man with the mallet and the gauger with his stick were familiar figures.

But certain other familiar figures drew into her view and watched the man loosening the bungs, and seemed to be greatly interested in the proceeding. They were the Carlings and Oliver Pilcher. Sally wondered what mischief they were up to. That they were up to some mischief she had not a doubt. The man with the mallet must have been a very trusting, unsuspicious man. It is not at all likely that the angelic faces of the singing twins and Oliver Pilcher were unknown about the wharves. Even if they were, why, boys are all—even the best of them—they are all cut by the same pattern, or they ought to be. Don't we—you and I—feel a sort of contempt for a boy who is not? And don't we call him "sissy" in our hearts? The other boys will not confine their calls of "sissy" to their hearts and it is likely to go hard with that boy.

When the bungs were all loosened, that trusting man with the mallet meandered slowly away, having paid no attention whatever to the boys who watched him so innocently. Sally saw the Carlings looking after him with an alert attention, whatever there was to be done being evidently postponed until he was out of sight. She could not help thinking how differently Jane Spencer would have acted. He would have disdained to wait for the man to disappear, for there would not be any fun in it for him unless there was some interested person present. But Jane Spencer was Jane Spencer and there was only one of him.

The man must have gone into some building, although Sally couldn't be sure, for she couldn't see; but the twins turned their heads and Oliver Pilcher gave a yell and leaped for the row of casks, closely followed by the Carlings, who began chanting loudly. Sally could not hear the words, but the chant marked the time to which Oliver Pilcher leaped into the air and came down with force and precision upon one bung after another. Just one cask behind him came Harry Carling. Sally supposed it was Harry, for the Carlings always went in that order. One cask behind Harry came Horry; and the casks gave out a hollow sound, in accordance with their degrees of emptiness, after the manner of casks,—especially oil casks,—as the three boys landed on their respective bungs.

The boys disappeared behind the corner of a building, but as the chant continued, it was to be inferred that the exercise was not yet finished; and in a moment back they came in the reverse order, landing on the bungs with the same force and precision. For driving bungs solidly, this method is to be commended.

But Horry, perhaps feeling somewhat hurried as he got to the end, missed his last bung, came down with misdirected force upon the slippery staves and landed on his back in the oil-soaked dust. Harry, unable to stop, landed upon him; but Oliver Pilcher made a sidewise spring and cleared them. The twins had forgotten to sing—the moment was too full of excitement—and were stuttering and pounding each other. Their voices were just beginning to change.

Some sound made Oliver Pilcher turn his head. Evidently, he hated to.

"Cheesit!" he cried, beginning to run before the word was out of his mouth.

Harry did not wait to see what was coming, but got to his feet instantly, dragging Horry by an arm, and ran. Horry protested vehemently, but he ran, and the three boys came up the hill, directly toward the office windows, and disappeared around the corner. Down on the wharf the man with the mallet was patiently loosening the bungs again. They came hard.

Sally gasped and chuckled. "Did you see, Uncle John?" For Uncle John was standing at her elbow. "Whose are they? The barrels, I mean."

"They are mine, Sally," he replied, with a sigh. "I saw some of it."

"Oh, it's too bad," said she quickly, "if they are yours."

"It's no great matter. Patrick has plenty of time. It's only a little annoyance."

"And did you see the back of Horry Carling's jacket?" asked Sally, horrified. "How will he ever get it clean?"

"He can't," answered Uncle John briefly.

"Their mother must have a hard time," said Sally thoughtfully, after a moment of silence. "Are you ready to go now?"

"Just about. Here's a letter for you, from Fox, I suppose. I'll be ready by the time you have read it."

Sally thanked him and took the letter. It contained rather momentous news; news about her mother. It was good news, the best that could be, Sally thought. She had been getting good news about her mother all along. Indeed, she had been getting letters from her mother occasionally for nearly two years; mere notes at first, her dear love, scribbled on a scrap of paper. Then they began to be a little longer and at lessening intervals; and for some months now they had been regular letters, not long, to be sure, but letters. The improvement was slow, very slow!

This news was different. Her mother was well enough, at last, to leave Doctor Galen's care. There were several things that she might do; and Fox suggested that Mrs. Ladue come out to her old home to live. Henrietta and he would be happy to continue there, if that met with the approval of all concerned. There would be money enough to carry on the establishment, he thought. But what were Sally's plans? What did she prefer? Meanwhile—

Sally knew very well whose money there would be enough of, if Fox's suggestion were accepted. It would mean that Fox would support them; for she knew, too, that they did not have money enough. Oh, mercy, no, not nearly enough; not enough even for them to pretend that it would do. But she must be with her mother, and Charlie must, too. She would not let Charlie be a bother. It would be a little harder than it used to be, the care of Charlie, for Cousin Patty had—well—and Sally did not say it, even to herself. She felt that it would be almost treason. What should she do? What could she do, for that matter? It needed thought.

So Uncle John found a sober and serious Sally waiting for him. He noted it at once.

"What is it, Sally?" he asked. "Not bad news, I hope?"

He spoke rather anxiously. Sally's worries were his concern; and that was not such a bad state of affairs either.

Sally smiled up at him. "Oh, no," she said. "It's good news, but I have to think what I shall do." And she told him all about it.

They were well on their way home by the time Sally had finished her exposition of the question which troubled her. It was too new to her to have been thought out and Sally presented every aspect as it occurred to her.

"It seems to be a large question," said Uncle John thoughtfully, "for a little girl to have to answer, all by herself." Suddenly he turned and looked at Sally. "Bless me! You aren't little any more. I must stop calling you a little girl. How old are you, Sally?"

"Fifteen last spring," Sally replied. "Had you forgotten, Uncle John?"

"No, oh, no, I suppose not, but it is hard to realize that you are growing up so fast. Why, you are nearly as tall as I am. And how long have you been with us?"

"Almost four years, Uncle John."

"Bless me! So you have, Sally. It seems only last week that you came; and yet, you have always been with us. Well, my dear, I don't find myself quite ready to send you off again, and so I advise you to dismiss the puzzling question from your mind for a day or two. Better let me bother over it awhile. Fox can wait for a few days. He won't mind, will he?"

"No," she said, smiling, "Fox won't mind. He has been waiting four years already."

"Fox is an excellent young man," Mr. Hazen murmured. "I must see what Patty has to say."

Patty had a good deal to say. She came to her father in a hurry and in some agitation that same evening, after Sally had gone to bed. It saved him the trouble of introducing the subject and put the burden of proof on the other side. Not that it mattered particularly to Mr. Hazen where the burden of proof lay. He was accustomed to have his own quiet way. In fact, consultation with Patty was rather an empty formality; but it was a form which he always observed scrupulously.

"Oh, father," she began, rather flurried, "what do you suppose Sally has just told me? Her mother—"

"I know. I was meaning to speak to you about it."

"I am all upset. I can't bear to think of sending Charlie away now." There were tears in poor Miss Patty's eyes.

Mr. Hazen could not quite repress a smile. "True," he said; "I had forgotten him."

"Oh, father!" Miss Patty exclaimed reproachfully. "How could you?"

"It is incomprehensible, but I was thinking of Sally. Never mind, Patty, it comes to the same thing in the end. Would it be quite convenient to ask Sarah Ladue to come here?"

"Ask Cousin Sarah to come here to live?" Miss Patty echoed, in some consternation.

"Why, yes, Patty. I understand that she is likely to live and—"

"Oh, father!" Miss Patty cried again. "You know I didn't mean—"

"I don't pretend," Mr. Hazen resumed, smiling, "to any particular love for Sarah, whom I never saw more than once or twice in my life. Even that must have been many years ago. But, as I recollect, she was a pretty, unassuming young woman whom I thought, at the time, altogether too good for Charles." Miss Patty looked shocked. "Oh, there is nothing gained by pretending to be blind to Charles's weakness. He was a gambler before he left college. I knew it very well. There was nothing to be done. Meddling with other people's children is a vice, Patty. It never does any good. I have some misgivings—" Mr. Hazen paused abruptly. There seemed to him nothing to be gained by following out that line of thought either.

"Some misgivings about what, father?" Patty prompted.

"It doesn't matter, Patty. I have too many misgivings about everything. It is the fault of age. As I come to think of it, Sally looks like her mother. I hope her character—but Sally's character is all right. As to Sarah, we have spare rooms, haven't we?"

"Ye—es," assented Miss Patty reluctantly. She hated to give in, but she might have known that she would have to. She did know it. "But, father,—supporting the whole family—"

"There is no question," said Mr. Hazen quietly; and Patty knew that there was no more to be said. "It is a choice between letting that young Mr. Sanderson support them,—which he would be very glad to do, Patty,—and asking Sarah to come here. I much prefer to ask her. I wish to keep Sally with us and you are not willing to let Charlie go. On this plan we shall keep them both. Will you write to Sarah, proposing it? Write as cordially as you can, Patty, will you? Thank you."

So it happened that Mrs. Ladue came to Whitby in September. It could not be said to have happened, perhaps, but, at all events, she came. They all went down behind the stout horse to meet her; all but Uncle John. There were Cousin Patty and Charlie and Sally herself. Sally's eyes were very bright and there was the old spot of brilliant color in either cheek. Uncle John noticed it. He patted her hand as she got into the carryall, but he did not speak. Miss Patty did, after they got started. Sally was sitting up very straight and she was looking straight ahead and the spots of color were in her cheeks still. It was much as she had looked when she went away from her old home that she so loved. Miss Patty could not understand it. She was even a little afraid, I think.

"Sally," she said hesitatingly, "don't—don't look so—so strained. Surely, this is not a time to feel worried or anxious. Surely, this is a—a joyous occasion."

To Miss Patty's surprise, Sally burst out laughing. As Miss Patty had implied, she did look strained. There may have been something a little hysterical about her laugh. Miss Patty was more afraid than ever. She proposed stopping at the apothecary's and getting a little camphor or—or something.

But Sally protested that she did not need camphor or anything. "You know, Cousin Patty," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "I haven't seen my mother for four years, and I don't know, quite, what to expect. I am very—very fond of my mother, Cousin Patty. I can't help my feelings, but you needn't be afraid"—and Sally laughed a little—"that I am going to have hysterics or anything, for I'm not."

Miss Patty murmured some reply. Sally did not know what it was, and Miss Patty didn't either.

"I don't suppose," Sally continued, "that Charlie remembers mother very well, for he—"

"I do, too," said Charlie, with the pleasant manner which had become usual.

"Very well, then, you do," replied Sally patiently. And she said no more, for they were already turning down the steep hill that led to the station.

In time—it seemed a very long time—but in time the train came in; and Sally watched eagerly the crowd flowing down the steps and spreading out on the platform. Presently, near the end, came Henrietta, as fast as the people would permit. Sally gave a great sigh of relief, for she was beginning to be afraid—and there was Fox. Sally edged impatiently toward the car steps. Fox was not looking at her; he was helping a lady whose eyes wandered eagerly over the waiting people. The lady's mouth drooped at one corner and her hair showed just a little gray behind her lifted veil.

Sally ran forward, elbowing her way without remorse; she had but one thought. Her chin quivered. A wave of tenderness overwhelmed her.

"Oh, mother! Mother, dear! Don't you know me?"

The drooping lips parted in a lovely smile. Sally felt her mother's arms around her. How she had longed for that!

"Why, Sally! Why, my own great girl! Why, darling, don't cry!"

---

CHAPTER VI[ToC]

They soon got used to Mrs. Ladue's gentle presence among them. Uncle John got used to it more quickly than Sally did herself; much more quickly than Cousin Patty did. But then, her coming was none of Cousin Patty's doing, in spite of the fact that it was Cousin Patty who sent the invitation. It took Patty some time to get over that. The things that we are forced to do, however gentle the force may be, are seldom wholly acceptable to us. As for Sally, her happiness was too great to make it possible for her to get used to it immediately. She used to run in when she got home from school and hug her mother. She wanted to make sure that her presence was a "true fact," as she said. She wanted to touch; to be certain that she had not dreamed it.

Mrs. Ladue used to sit beside the table with its stained green cover, in that very homelike back parlor, in the long evenings, with Uncle John in his great chair before the bubbling fire. Miss Patty ran—or, no, she did not run, literally. That would have been most undignified besides being unnecessary; but it was probably unnecessary for Miss Patty to go out so often and stay so long about her household duties. The duties of the household rather oppressed Miss Patty and sat heavily upon her. Household duties? Better be about them, Miss Patty thought. So she flitted nervously in and out twenty times during an evening. She was out more than she was in and her chair on the other side of the fire from Uncle John's was usually empty. She went to glance into the kitchen, to see what Bridget or Mary could be about, it was so quiet there. She hadn't heard a sound for the longest while. "Don't you think I'd better see, father?" And her father would smile quietly and tell her to do as she liked. Or she would wonder whether the maids had locked the cellar door; or there was that window in the pantry; or she had to see Charlie safely into bed, although one would think that Charlie was very nearly old enough to see himself safely into bed. There were things without end; anything that might not be just as Patty thought it should be.

Uncle John and Mrs. Ladue sat quietly through it all, Mrs. Ladue with her sewing or her embroidery or her crochet work or her book. She was not much of an invalid, after all; not enough of an invalid to give any trouble. She had to be careful, that was all. She must not get too tired and she must have plenty of sleep. Those two things Doctor Galen had enjoined upon her at parting, with much impressiveness. And he thought that he might as well drop a line to Meriwether Beatty asking him to keep an eye on her and to let him know how she was getting along. "So you see, my lady, you are not out of my clutches yet," the doctor finished merrily. To which Mrs. Ladue had replied, almost tearfully, that she had no wish to get out of his clutches and that she never could repay him and she didn't want to and she shouldn't try. She liked to feel that she owed her life to him—

"Tut, tut!" said the doctor, smiling. "Don't forget Fox."

And Mrs. Ladue protested that there was not the least danger of her forgetting Fox. She didn't know where they would all be if it had not been for Fox, and she was very fond of him, and she thought—Then Fox, himself, had appeared, and she said no more upon that subject, and they got into their train and presently they came away. But, whatever Mrs. Ladue's thoughts may have been, on that subject or on any other, she said little and seemed to invite confidence. There is no reason to believe that she wished confidences from anybody. It may have been only that she kept her thoughts to herself, for the most part, as Sally did, and that she was straightforward and truthful, as Sally was. That is not to imply that Sally was an exact counterpart of her mother. Probably Sally, in her mother's place, would have done very differently; almost certainly her relations with Professor Charles Ladue would have been different. Even as it was, it will be remembered that he seemed to have a certain fear of his little daughter. He had no fear of his wife. Mrs. Ladue's environment, to use a phrase that needs a deal of explaining before we know exactly what we mean, had been unsuited to her.

The new environment was not unsuited to her, at least as far as Uncle John was concerned. She helped to create an atmosphere of tranquillity; an atmosphere eminently suited to an old man and one to which that particular old man had not been accustomed. There was nothing tranquil or serene about Miss Patty. Uncle John, it is to be presumed, liked tranquillity and serenity. He succeeded in attaining to a surprising degree of it, in his own person, considering. Sally had been a help in the past four years; it was going on to five years now.

He was thinking upon these matters one evening as he sat reading. He was thinking more of them than of the page before him. He put the book down slowly, and looked up. Patty was upstairs with Charlie.

"Sarah," he remarked, "I find it very pleasant to have you with us."

Mrs. Ladue was surprised. There was no occasion for that remark unless Uncle John just wanted to make it. Sally, who had not yet gone upstairs, flushed with sudden pleasure and her eyes shone.

"There, mother!" she cried. "There now! You see. What did I tell—"

In Mrs. Ladue's face the faint color was coming and going. She spoke with some emotion.

"Thank you, Uncle John. It was kind of you to ask us. I find it very pleasant to be here. And that—it would be so easy not to make it pleasant. I haven't—I can't thank you suitably—"

"There is no question of thanks, Sarah," he replied, smiling gravely. "I hope you will put that out of your mind. You give more than you get—you and Sally."

"I am very glad," Mrs. Ladue murmured; "very glad and grateful. Sally is a good girl." Uncle John smiled at Sally. "She would not bother you—"

Mr. Hazen reached forth and patted Sally's hand as it lay on the table. "No. Sally doesn't bother me very much."

"But Charlie," Mrs. Ladue continued, somewhat anxiously,—"Charlie, I'm afraid, does. He has changed a good deal in these four years. He's hard to manage."

"Patty can't manage him, if you mean that," Mr. Hazen agreed. "She doesn't try very hard. But he's developed in the wrong direction, that's all, I think."

"No." There was a curious hardness in Mrs. Ladue's voice and manner. It did not seem possible that she could be speaking of her own little son. "I doubt if he could be developed in any other direction. He's very much like his father. His father was—" She stopped abruptly. "But there is no use in going over that," she added.

Mr. Hazen nodded. "I knew Charles before you did," he observed, "and—but, as you say, there is nothing to be gained by going into that. I may as well speak to Patty—again."

"I have absolutely no influence with Charlie now," Mrs. Ladue sighed. "It is natural enough that I should not have any."

Mr. Hazen's talk with Patty amounted to nothing, as was to be expected. No doubt he did expect it, for it is not to be supposed that he could have lived with Patty Havering for nearly forty years without knowing her traits. She had no real firmness. She had obstinacy enough; a quiet, mulish obstinacy which left her exactly where one found her. She was absolutely untouched by argument or persuasion, to which she made little reply, although she sometimes fretted and grew restive under it. Nothing short of her father's quiet "I wish it, Patty" was of the least avail. She gave in to that because she knew that it was a command, not because she knew that it was right. As to that, was not she always right? She never had the least doubt of it. She sometimes doubted the expediency of an act; it was not expedient to disobey her father's implied commands. Not that she had ever tried it, but she did not think that it would be expedient. I don't think that it would have been either. It was just as well, perhaps, that she never tried it. But, in a matter like this one of Charlie, there was no command direct enough to enforce obedience. You know what I mean, as Miss Patty might have said; thereby implying that she hoped that you did, for she didn't. She was not quite clear about it in her own mind, but there seemed little risk in doing as she wanted to rather than as her father wanted her to. Her own ideas were rather hazy and the more she tried to think it out the more muddled she got. Anyway, she said to herself, as she gave it up, she wouldn't, and she got up from the rocking-chair which she permitted herself in her own room and went briskly about her duties. She had sat there for as much as half an hour. She had been watching Charlie chasing about Morton's lot, for she could see over the high wall as she sat. Most of the boys were tolerant chaps, as most boys are, after a certain age; but some of them were not and some others had not reached that age of tolerance apparently. Fortunately for Miss Patty's peace of mind she did not happen to see any of that.

Miss Patty, however, did not make public her decision, but Mrs. Ladue knew what it was just as well as if she had shouted it from the housetop. Where did a talk with Patty end but where it began? And Mrs. Ladue had been sitting at her own window—she shared Sally's room—she had been sitting at her own window while Patty sat at hers and looked at Charlie over the wall. But Mrs. Ladue watched longer than Patty and she saw several things which Patty was spared; to be sure, the wall was very high and cut off the view from a large part of the lot, but she saw Ollie Pilcher run after Charlie at last and chase him into that part of the lot which she could not see. Ollie was not noted for his patience, but Mrs. Ladue thought the loss of the remnants of it was excusable, in the circumstances. Then there was an outcry and it was not Ollie's voice that cried out.

Mrs. Ladue sighed and got out of her comfortable chair and went downstairs. She hoped she should be ahead of Patty when Charlie came in. She was not, but she and Patty waited together; and Charlie came. He was not crying, but the traces of tears were on his face. Miss Patty gave a little exclamation of horror.

"Charlie," began Mrs. Ladue hurriedly, before Patty could speak, "come up with me. I want to talk with you."

Charlie wanted to go with Cousin Patty; he didn't want to be talked to. He said so with much petulance.

"Let me take the poor child, Sarah," Patty began.

"After I have talked with him, Patty," said Mrs. Ladue patiently. Nobody should know how she dreaded this talk. "Come, Charlie."

She made Charlie mount the stairs ahead of her and she succeeded in steering him into her room. He washed his face with furious haste.

"Charlie, dear boy," she said at last, "I was watching you for a long time this afternoon. You know that I can see very well what goes on in the lot from this window."

He was wiping his face and he exposed his eyes for a moment, gazing at his mother over the edge of the towel. They were handsome eyes and they were filled now with a calculating thoughtfulness, which his mother noted. It did not make her feel any easier.

Charlie considered it worth risking. "Then you saw," he said, still with that petulant note in his voice, "how the boys picked on me. Why, they—"

"I saw, Charlie," Mrs. Ladue interrupted, smiling wearily, "not how the boys picked on you, but how you bothered them. I thought Ollie was very patient and I didn't blame him a bit."

"But he hurt me," Charlie cried in astonishment. It was the most heinous sin that he knew of. Patty would think so.

"You deserved to be hurt. You are eleven, Charlie, and I'm surprised that you don't see that your actions will leave you without friends, absolutely without friends within a few years. Where should we be now, Charlie," continued Mrs. Ladue gently, "if we had had no friends?"

"Guess Cousin Patty'd be my friend," Charlie grumbled. "Guess she would."

"You will wear out even her doting affection if you keep on," replied his mother almost sharply. It was difficult to imagine her speaking with real sharpness. She regretted it instantly. "My dear little son, why won't you do differently? Why do you prefer to make the boys all dislike you? It's for your own good that I have talked to you, and I haven't said so very much. You don't please Uncle John, Charlie. You would be so much happier if you would only do as Sally does and—"

"Huh!" said Charlie, throwing down the towel. "Cousin Patty wants me, mother." And he bolted out of the door.

Tears came to Mrs. Ladue's eyes. Her eyes were still wet when Doctor Beatty came in. He could not help seeing.

"Not crying?" he asked. "That will never do."

Mrs. Ladue smiled. "I have been talking to Charlie," she said, as if that were a sufficient explanation.

Indeed, it seemed to be. That, in itself, was cause for grief. "Ah!" said the doctor. "Charlie didn't receive it with meekness, I judge."

She did not answer directly. "It seems hopeless," she returned at last. "I have been away from him so long that I am virtually a stranger. And Patty—" She did not finish.

Doctor Beatty laughed. "I know Patty. I think I may say that I know her very well. Why, there was one period—" He remembered in time and his tone changed. "Yes, there was one period when I thought I knew her very well. Ancient history," he went on with a wave of his hand,—"ancient history."

Mrs. Ladue said nothing, but she looked sympathetic and she smiled. Doctor Beatty sat down conveniently near her, but yet far enough away to be able to watch her closely.

Meanwhile the doctor talked. It was of little consequence what he talked about, and he rambled along from one subject to another, talking of anything that came into his head; of anything but Mrs. Ladue's health. And the strange thing about it was that she had no inkling as to what the doctor was about. She had no idea that she was under observation. She only thought it queer that he had so much time to devote to talking to her. He couldn't be very busy; but she liked it and would have been sorry to have him give up his visits.

Presently, in his rambling talk, the doctor was once more speaking of the period of ancient history to which he had already thoughtlessly alluded.

"There was a time," he said, regarding Mrs. Ladue thoughtfully, "when I thought I knew Patty pretty well. I used to be here pretty often, you know. She has spoken of it, perhaps?" Mrs. Ladue smiled and shook her head. "Ah, what a blow to vanity! I used to think—but my thoughts were of scarcely more value then than they are now, so it's no matter what I thought. It's a great while—fifteen or twenty years—struggling young doctor in the first flush of youth and a growing practice. Practice like an incubator baby; very, very frail. I suppose I must have been a sentimental young chap; but not so young either. Must have been nearly thirty, both of us. Then the baby got out of the incubator and I couldn't come so often."

He was speaking reminiscently. Then, suddenly, he realized what he was saying and roused himself with a start.

"Patty was charming, of course, charming," he went on, smiling across at Mrs. Ladue. "Yes, much as she is now, with the same charm; the same charm, in moderation."

His eyes were very merry as he finished, and Mrs. Ladue laughed gently.

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "I ought not to laugh—at Patty. It's your fault."

Doctor Beatty looked horror-struck. "Laugh at Patty!" he exclaimed. "Never! Nothing further from my intention. I only run on, like a babbling brook. I'm really not responsible for what I say. No significance to be attached to any observations I may make. You won't mind, will you?"

"I won't mind," Mrs. Ladue agreed. "I don't."

"Thank you. I knew you wouldn't." Doctor Beatty rose and stood for a moment with his hand on the knob of the door. "You're all right for a couple of weeks anyway, or I'd warn you to keep your liver on the job. I always give that advice to Patty, partly because she needs it and partly because it is amusing to witness the starting of a certain train of emotions. Good-bye."

And the doctor went out, leaving Mrs. Ladue smiling to herself. She had forgotten about Charlie.

---

CHAPTER VII[ToC]

Sally graduated from her school in the following June. Of all the persons immediately concerned in that affair, even including Sally herself, I am inclined to believe that Mr. Hazen was the most acutely interested. He was not excited over it. A man of his age does not easily get excited, even if he is of an excitable disposition, which Mr. Hazen was not; but there is reason to think that he had all the hopes and fears which Sally ought to have had, but of which she gave no sign. She had confidence in herself and had no doubts to speak of. At any rate, she did not speak of any, but took the whole thing as a matter of course and one to be gone through with in its due season. For that matter, nobody suspected Mr. Hazen of harboring fears, although it was taken for granted that he had hopes. He gave no outward sign of perturbation, and his fondness for Sally was no secret.

There was never, at that school, any long period without its little diversions. Jane Spencer, to be sure, was in the graduating class and his behavior had been most exemplary for some months; but there was no such inhibition on the behavior of Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings. The Carlings appeared one morning with grotesquely high collars, at the sight of which a titter ran about the schoolroom. The Carlings preserved an admirable gravity. Mr. MacDalie looked up, eyed the twins with marked displeasure, but said nothing, and the titter gradually faded out. The Carlings were aggrieved and felt that they had been guilty of a failure. So they had, in a measure, and Sally could not help feeling sorry for them. She reflected that Jane would never have done anything of that kind. Jane would never have made a failure of anything that he undertook, either. Jane would not have done what Ollie Pilcher did, later, although that effort of Ollie's was a conspicuous success, after its kind.

It was the fashion, among certain of the boys, to have their hair clipped when the warm weather came on. Everett Morton had never had it done, nor had Dick Torrington, nor did Jane Spencer. They were not in the clipped-hair caste. But Ollie Pilcher was; and it was no surprise to the other boys when, a week before school closed, Ollie came with clipped hair showing below his cap. He was just in time, and he went at once and in haste to the schoolroom, removing his cap as he entered the door. The bell in Mr. MacDalie's hand rang as he took his seat.

Mr. MacDalie was not looking at Ollie, as it happened, but those behind Ollie could not help seeing him. A ripple of laughter started; it grew as more of those present caught sight of him. Mr. MacDalie saw him. He chuckled wildly and the laughter swelled into a roar. Rising from the top of Ollie's head of clipped hair was a diminutive braided lock about three inches long, tied with a bow of narrow red ribbon. And Ollie did not even smile while Mr. MacDalie was wiping his eyes before him. His self-control was most admirable.

The laughter finally subsided, for the time being, sufficiently to permit King Ahasuerus and Queen Esther and Mordecai and Haman to hold their audience spellbound for five minutes. That same audience had been held spellbound by that same story throughout the whole of the year just past and through other years; for Mr. MacDalie, for some reason known only to himself and which Sally had tried in vain to guess, had confined his reading so completely to the Book of Esther that his hearers knew the book pretty nearly by heart.

Although an unnatural solemnity prevailed through the reading, the laughter would break out afresh at intervals during the morning. Mr. MacDalie himself resolutely avoided looking in Ollie's direction as long as he remembered. But he would forget, becoming absorbed in his teaching, and his eye would light upon Ollie; and forthwith he would fall to chuckling wildly and to wiping his eyes, and be unable to continue for some minutes. He said nothing to Ollie, however, although that youngster expected a severe reprimand, at least. It is not unlikely that that was the very reason why he did not get it. The next day the braided lock was gone.

These were mere frivolities, perhaps unworthy of being recorded; and there may seem to be an undue prominence given to mental comparisons with Jane. But just at this time there was a good deal of Jane in everything, and whatever was done by anybody naturally suggested to Sally a comparison with what Jane would do. Sally was not without her share of romance, which was, perhaps, more in evidence at this age than at any other. She was just past sixteen, and she happened to be devoted, at this period, to her English history. She is to be excused for her flights of imagination, in which she saw Jane's ancestry traced back, without a break, to the beginning of the fourteenth century; and if the two Spencers of that time were not very creditable ancestors, why, history sometimes distorts things, and if Edward II had chanced to prevail over his wife and son, its verdict might have been different. Jane was not responsible for his ancestors anyway.

Everybody was present at the graduation exercises; everybody, that is, of consequence in Whitby who was not prevented from being present by illness. I allude more especially to the older generation, to the generation of parents. All the mothers, not only of the members of the graduating class, but of any members of any class and even of prospective members, were there because they liked to be; the fathers were there because they thought they ought to be. And there were many besides, of a different generation, who were there for one reason or another. Mr. Hazen was one of these and Everett Morton was another.

It was easy to account for Mr. Hazen's presence, but not so easy to account for Everett's, except that he was not doing much of anything and thought the exercises might prove to be a diversion. Everett spent his time, for the most part, in the pursuit of diversion. He was through college. That does not mean that he had graduated, but, as he said, it meant that he had left it in his sophomore year, upon the breaking-out of the Spanish War, to volunteer; and after a hollow and bloodless campaign in Porto Rico, he had returned, well smeared with glory. Fortunately—or unfortunately, as you look at it—he had escaped the camps. He did not think it worth while to go back to college, and between ourselves, the faculty agreed with him completely. It was the only instance of such agreement in the history of their connection. Then he had got a place in a broker's office which he held for a year and a half, but he had found it not to his liking and he had given it up. Then came a long interval when his only occupation seemed to be the pursuit of diversion. This was in the interval. No doubt he managed to capture, occasionally, the elusive diversion which he pursued so persistently, and no doubt, too, it was of much the kind that is usual in such cases; but, one would think, he found the pursuit of it an occupation more strenuous than that of the broker's office.

Dick could not come, for he was to have a graduation of his own in a short time; in fact, it was hardly more than a few days. But he sent Sally a little note, regretting that he could not be present and wishing her luck; and further and more important, he asked if she and her mother or Miss Patty or all of them would not come up to Cambridge for his Class Day.

Sally had got Dick's note just as they were starting. She handed it to her mother, her gray eyes soft with pleasure—as they had got into the habit of being, these last few years.

"See, mother, dear," she said, "what Dick has asked. Do you suppose we can go, mother, or would it be too much for you? I should like to go."

Mrs. Ladue smiled fondly at her daughter. "Of course you would, darling. I'll see what Patty says, but I guess you can go. Perhaps, if Patty doesn't want to, I can get Doctor Beatty to let me. I believe I should like it myself. Now, don't let the prospect make you forget your part."

"No danger," replied Sally reassuringly. "Now I must run."

Sally had the valedictory, or whatever it is to which the first scholar in the class is entitled. I am not versed in such matters, not having been concerned, at my graduation, with the duties or the privileges of the first scholar of the class. But Sally had kept her place at the head of a dwindling class with no difficulty and Mr. MacDalie expected great things of her. She acquitted herself as well as was expected, which is saying a good deal; and after the exercises were over, she went out with Jane Spencer, leaving her mother and Uncle John and Mr. MacDalie talking together. Patty was talking with Doctor Beatty, who had come in late.

Patty glanced up at Doctor Beatty with a smile. "Does that remind you of anything?" she asked gently, nodding in Sally's direction.

It is to be feared that the doctor was not paying attention. "What?" He brought his chair and his gaze down together. He had been tilting back in the chair and looking at the ceiling. "What? Sally? Her foot, perhaps,—but that's all right years ago and it isn't likely that you meant that. No, Patty, I give it up. What's the answer?"

Miss Patty was disappointed. Perhaps she ought to have got used to being disappointed by Meriwether Beatty, by this time, but she hadn't. She sighed a little.

"No, I didn't mean her foot. I meant her wandering off with Eugene Spencer. He's the handsomest boy in the class. Doesn't it remind you of—of our own graduation and our wandering away—so?"

The doctor roared. "That was a good many years ago, Patty." It was unkind of him to remind her of that. "You couldn't expect me to remember the circumstances. I believe I am losing my memory; from old age, Patty, old age." That was more unkind still, for Patty was but a few months younger than he, and he knew it and she knew that he knew it. "So we wandered away, did we?"

Sally did not hear this conversation, for she was already halfway downstairs with Jane. Neither of them had spoken.

"Jane," she said suddenly.

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. "Sally," he mildly protested, "I wish you wouldn't call me Jane—if you don't mind."

"Why," returned Sally in surprise, "don't you like it? I supposed you did. Of course I won't call you by a name you don't like. I'm very sorry. Eugene, then?"

"If you will. It's rather better than Jane, but it's bad enough."

Sally laughed. "You're hard to please. How would it do for me to call you Hugh—or Earl Spencer. Or, no. I'd have to call you your Grace." She stopped and made him a curtsy; Jane was not to be outdone and, although taken somewhat off his guard, he made her a bow with as much grace as even Piers Gaveston could have put into it.

"Your Highness does me too much honor," he replied solemnly; and they both laughed from sheer high spirits. "No, Sally, you're wrong," he added. "The old gentleman was no relative of mine. But I believe I interrupted you. What were you going to say—right first off, you know, when I asked you not to call me Jane?"

"I was going to tell you that Dick Torrington has asked me to go up for his Class Day."

"Dick Torrington!" exclaimed Jane, mystified. "Why, Sally, he's ever so much older than you."

"Now, Jane, what has—I beg your pardon,—Eugene, but it's hard to remember. But, Eugene, what has the difference in age to do with it? It has never seemed to make any difference to Dick. You know that he's as kind as he can be and probably he just thought that I would enjoy it."

They had passed through the crowded corridor—crowded because, in one of the rooms on that floor, there was in preparation what the papers would call a modest collation—and they were out in the yard. Jane stopped short and looked at Sally with a puzzled expression.

"I wonder, Sally," he said slowly, "if you know—but you evidently don't," he added. He seemed relieved at the result of his inspection. "Of course you'll go, but I can't help wishing you wouldn't."

"Why?" she asked. "I mean to go if I can. Why would you rather I wouldn't?"

He hesitated for some moments. "I don't know that I can tell you. Perhaps you'll understand sometime. Hello! What do you suppose they've got?"

Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings passed rapidly across their line of vision.

"Furtive sort of manner," continued Jane hurriedly. "I'll bet they're hiding something. Let's see what it is. What do you say, Sally?"

Sally nodded and they ran, coming upon the three suddenly. The Carlings started guiltily and seemed about to say something; but although they had opened their mouths, no speech issued.

"Sing it, you twins. What have you got? Come, pony up. We spotted you. Or perhaps you want the free-lunch committee to swoop down on you."

If Sally had not been there the result might have been different. No doubt Jane had made allowance for the moral effect of her presence. The Carlings, severally, were still her slaves; or they would have been if she had let them. They grinned sheepishly and Horry drew something from under his jacket. It was done up in paper, but there was no mistaking it.

Jane reached forth an authoritative hand. Ollie remonstrated. "I say, Jane,—"

"Filcher," remarked Jane, "for filcher you are, although you may have persuaded these poor innocent boys to do the actual filching—Filcher, you'd better suspend further remarks. Otherwise I shall feel obliged to divide this pie into quarters instead of fifths. Quarters are much easier. It is a pie, I feel sure; a squash pie, I do not doubt. Is it quarters or fifths, Filcher?"

As Jane was in possession of the pie, Ollie thought it the part of discretion to compromise. A clump of lilacs hid them from the schoolhouse, and Jane divided the pie, which proved to be filled with raisins, into five parts with his knife.

"I wish to congratulate you, Horry, upon your excellent care of this pie in transit." He passed the plate to Horry as he spoke. "No, this is your piece, Horry. That piece is destined for me. In view of the unavoidable inequality of the pieces, we will give Filcher the plate."

Sally was chuckling as she ate her piece of pie, which she held in her hand.

"Th—th—this w—w—weath—ther's t—t—terrible h—h—hard on p—p—pies," observed Horry thoughtfully, after a long silence.

"It w—w—wouldn't k—k—keep," said Harry, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"It wouldn't," Jane agreed.

Ollie was scraping the plate. "Can't get any more out of that plate," he sighed at last; and he scaled the tin plate into an inaccessible place between the lilacs and the fence.

They moved away slowly. "I wonder," Jane remarked, reflectively, "who sent that pie."

Sally chuckled again. "Cousin Patty sent it," she said.

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CHAPTER VIII[ToC]

Sally found that summer very full. To begin with, there was Dick's Class Day, which was her first great occasion. I do not know what better to call it and it must have been a great occasion for her, for, although it did not last very long,—days never do,—the memory of it has not completely faded even yet; and it was twelve years ago.

As if to make her joy complete, her mother had gone and Miss Patty had not. Not that Sally had ever the least conscious objection to Miss Patty's going anywhere, but Patty always acted as a sort of damper upon too much joy. Poor Patty! She had not the slightest wish to be a sort of a damper and she did not suspect that she was.

Mrs. Ladue was no damper. She had sat in Dick's particular easy-chair, very smiling and content, while Dick brought things to eat and to drink to her and to Sally in the window-seat. And there had been a puzzled look in Dick's eyes all the time that made Mrs. Ladue laugh and made Sally blush whenever she saw it. It was as if Dick's eyes had just been opened; and he found it hard to realize that the blossoming young creature in his window-seat was the same Sally that he had known so well. That and other considerations will explain Mrs. Ladue's laughter well enough, but hardly explain why Sally should have blushed. I don't know why she did and I doubt if she could have told.

Then—for Dick's Class Day was only to begin with—there were his further good-natured attentions, which did not mean anything, of course, Mrs. Ladue told herself, over and over. Of course Dick liked Sally—who would not? And there was more fun in doing anything for her than in doing it for anybody else, for Sally enjoyed everything so much. Dick even took her sailing half a dozen times, although there was nobody else on his parties younger than his sister Emily. And there was Jane; but not on Dick's sailing parties.

Jane's attentions to Sally were constant and rather jealous. How could he help it? Dick was five years older than he, and, at seventeen, five years is a tremendous advantage and one not to be made up by a difference in natural gifts, concerning which there could be no doubt either. Sally had some difficulty in keeping Jane pacified. She may have made no conscious effort to that end, but she accomplished it, none the less.

When fall came, Sally went away to Normal School. It was not far from Whitby, so that she was always within reach, but she had to be away from home—Uncle John Hazen's was really home now—for the greater part of two years. Her absence was a great grief to Uncle John, although nobody suspected it but Sally. It would never have occurred to Patty that it could make much difference to her father whether Sally was here or there. Indeed, she did not think of it at all, being more than ever engrossed in Charlie's career; and Charlie was in need of a friend, although that friend was not Miss Patty.

Another person who missed Sally's presence, if one could judge from his behavior, was Jane Spencer. To be sure, it could have made little difference to him that she was no longer in Whitby, except that Whitby, although farther from Cambridge than Schoolboro', was easier to get to. Nevertheless, as soon as Jane could snatch a day from his arduous academic duties, he went to Schoolboro' and not to Whitby. That was hardly a month after Sally had gone there, and she was unaffectedly glad to see him. Therefore, Jane enjoyed his visit immensely, and he made other visits, which were also to his immense satisfaction, as often as Sally would let him come. There were four that year.

In November of her second year, Sally was called home unexpectedly by an incoherent summons from Patty. She hurried home, filled with fears and misgivings. What had happened to Charlie? She had no doubt that Charlie was at the bottom of it, somehow, or it would not have been Patty who sent the message. Had he had an accident? But Charlie himself met her at the door, looking sulky and triumphant.

Patty was almost hysterical, and it was a long time before Sally could make out what was the matter. It seemed that Charlie had been subjected to the usual mild hazing and, proving a refractory subject, he had had his hands and feet strapped together and had been left lying helpless in the yard. That was a final indignity, reserved for boys who had earned the thorough dislike of their fellows, Sally knew. She was deeply mortified.

Her lips were compressed in the old way that she had almost forgotten.

"I will settle it, Cousin Patty. It won't take long."

Patty had, perhaps, mistaken the meaning of Sally's expression. At all events, Sally looked very decided, which Patty was not.

"Oh, will you, Sally? I felt sure that you would be touched by Charlie's sufferings. He is your brother, you know, and—and all that," she finished, ineffectively, as she was painfully aware.

"Yes," Sally replied, still with that compression of the lips, "he is." She had been about to say more, but had thought better of it.

"Well," said Patty, after waiting some time for Sally to say what she had decided not to, "thank you, Sally. Nobody else could attend to it so well as you." At which speech Sally smiled rather grimly, if a girl of seventeen can smile grimly. Her smile was as grim as the circumstances would allow.

She found Charlie suspiciously near the door.

"Will you go and see old Mac, Sally? Will you?"

"You come into the back parlor with me, Charlie," Sally answered, "and I'll tell you what I'll do."

When Charlie emerged, half an hour later, he was sulkier than ever, but he was no longer triumphant. Sally went back to school that same night. Patty did not summon her again. Sally had a way of settling things which Miss Patty did not altogether like.

Now it chanced that Jane chose the next day for one of his visits. It was not a happy chance. The day itself was dull and gloomy and chilly and Sally had not yet got over the settling of Charlie. Jane, to be sure, did not know about Charlie, but it would have made no difference if he had known about him. Sally greeted him with no enthusiasm; it almost seemed to Jane that she would rather not have seen him.

He looked at her in surprise. "What's the matter, Sally?" he asked. "Why this—this apathy?" He had been about to call it indifference, but decided against it.

Jane was not without wisdom, if he did not show much of it on this particular day. If it had been the case of another and that other had asked his advice, he would have advised him to drop it all and go home again. But, in our own cases, we are all more or less fools. Therefore Jane did not drop it all and go home.

Sally did not smile. "I don't know, Jane," she replied. "There's nothing in particular the matter." Sally had given up the attempt to break the Jane habit and Jane had given up objecting.

"Well?" he asked, after waiting vainly for her to propose a walk. "Shall we go for our usual walk? You know you don't like to stay in, and neither do I."

"I think," said Sally, "that I don't like anything to-day, so what does it matter?" Surely Jane should have taken warning and run. "We'll go out if you like."

Jane looked at her doubtfully, but said nothing, which was probably the best thing he could have said; and they went out, walking side by side, in silence, until they came to a little stream which was dignified by the name of "The River." There was a path along the bank. That path by the river was much frequented at other seasons, but now the trees that overhung it were bare and the wind sighed mournfully through the branches, after its journey across the desolate marsh beyond. On such a day it was not a place to cheer drooping spirits. It did not cheer Sally's.

Jane's spirit began to be affected. He looked at Sally anxiously, but she gave no sign of ever meaning to say another word.

"Sally!" he said.

She glanced at him and tried to smile, but she made no great success of it.

"Well?"

"Now, what is the matter, Sally? Won't you tell me?"

"There's nothing the matter, Jane. I'm simply not in very good spirits."

"Sally," said poor Jane softly, "please cheer up and be light-hearted. This isn't like you at all."

"I can't help it," Sally answered, sighing. "I've tried. It doesn't happen to me often. I'm not good company, am I?"

"You're always good company for me," Jane said simply. Sally did not seem to hear. "Try a pleasant expression," he continued, after a pause, "and see what that does to your spirits."

"Thank you," said she coldly, "for nothing." Then she changed suddenly. "I beg your pardon again, Eugene. I was getting ill-tempered. Would you have me put on a pleasant expression when I don't feel like it?"

He nodded, smiling. "To see the effect upon your spirits."

"As if I were having my photograph taken?" Sally went on, "A sort of 'keep smiling' expression? Think how absurd people would look if they went about grinning."

"There is a certain difference between grinning and smiling," Jane replied, "although I can't define it. And you would not look absurd, Sally, whatever you did."

"Oh, yes, I would," Sally said, more cheerfully than she had spoken yet, "and so would you. No doubt I am absurd very often; as absurd as you are now."

Jane sighed heavily. "I've never seen it, Sally, although I should like to see you absurd in the same way that I am now. I long to. You couldn't be, I suppose."

There was no answer to this remark. Waiting for one and listening, Jane heard only the sighing of the wind across the desolate marsh and in the trees, and the soft noise of the water flowing past. Poor Jane was very wretched, largely, no doubt, because of the dreary day and because Sally was wretched. He did not stop to ask why. Then he did something which was very unwise. Even he, in more sober moments, acknowledged its unwisdom. But, after all, would it have made any great difference if the circumstances had been different—Sally being what she was? I think not. Jane thought not.

Jane leaned a little nearer. "Sally," he said softly, "can't you like me a little? Can't you—"

Sally looked up in surprise. "Why, Jane," she replied simply—and truthfully, "I do like you. You know it."

"But, Sally,"—Jane's heart was pounding so that he could not keep the sound of it out of his voice, and his voice was unsteady enough without that,—"but, Sally, can't you—can't you care for me? I—I love you, Sally. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I—"

"Oh, Jane!" Sally was the picture of dismay; utter and absolute dismay. She had withdrawn from him a little. And she had forgotten the state of her spirits. She was startled out of her apathy. "I didn't know you were going to say that. Why, oh, why did you? What made you?"

"I simply had to. I have been holding it in as long as I could, and I couldn't see you feeling so, without—well, I had to." Jane spoke more rapidly now. "And, Sally, I realize the absurdity of asking you now, when I am not half through college and you are not through school, but we could wait—couldn't we?—and if you only felt as I do, it would be easier. I am—I shall have some money and I—"

With an impatient wave of her hand Sally brushed all that aside.

"That is of no consequence," she said,—"of no sort of consequence. But why did you do it, Jane? Oh, why did you? You have spoiled it all. I suppose we can't be good friends any more." There were tears in her eyes.

"I can't see why." Jane regarded her for some while without speaking. Sally, I suppose, had nothing to say. "Does that mean," he asked at last, "that you don't care for me in the way that I want?"

"I should think you would know," replied Sally gently.

"And—and you can't?"

Sally shook her head.

"Not ever?"

Sally shook her head again.

Jane stood, for a minute, gazing out over the desolate marsh. Then he drew a long breath and turned.

"Well," he said, smiling mirthlessly and raising his hat, "shall I—shall we go back?"

Sally was angry, but I don't know what for. "No," she was decided about it; much more decided than was at all necessary. "You need not trouble to go back with me."

"Oh," said Jane. He smiled again and flushed slowly. "Then, if you will excuse me, I will go to the station."

So Jane was gone—or going—with head held high and a flush on his face. He did not look back. Sally, as she watched him go, had a revulsion of feeling and would have called to him. To what end? She could not change her answer. And the sound died on her lips and she stamped her foot angrily, and watched him out of sight. Then she fled to her room and wept. Why, I wonder? Sally did not know. Suddenly she had lost something out of her life. What? Sally did not know that either. It was not Jane she wept for. Whatever it was, she knew that she could never get it back again; never, never.

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