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—