She had not got very far with her reading when the front door opened and shut. At the sound of it Mrs. Ladue came back, with a start, to the present. She flushed slightly and made a motion as if to hide the letter hastily; but she thought better of it instantly, and she held the letter in her hand, as she had done for some time. But the flush grew and flooded her face with color. And the wave of color receded, according to the manner of waves, and left her face unnaturally pale. There was the sound of steps on the stairs and the door of the room opened and Sally came in.
A breath of the cold still clung about her. "Well, mother, dear," she said, stooping for a kiss, "here I am, at last. I thought I never should get out to-day."
"Some poor infants have to stay after?" asked her mother. "How cold you are, Sally! Is it as bleak and dreary as it looks?"
"Oh, no. It's nice enough, after you've been out a few minutes. At least it's fresh, and that's something, after hours of a schoolroom. And I don't teach infants, if you please, madam."
Mrs. Ladue laughed quietly. "It's all the same to me, Sally," she replied. "I don't know the difference."
Sally sat down on the bed; which was a very reprehensible old habit that she had never been able to shake off. Not that she had ever tried.
"I'm going to get something done about the ventilation," she observed decidedly; "at least in my room. It's wicked to make children breathe such air." She glanced at the letter which her mother still held. "Been writing letters, mother? Who to—if you don't mind my asking?"
"'Who to,' Sally! A fine schoolmarm you are!" said Mrs. Ladue, smiling, in mock reproach. "I hope that is not the example you set."
Sally laughed lightly. "It was pretty bad, wasn't it? But there are times when even the schoolmarm must relax. It hasn't got into my blood yet, and I'm not a universal compendium. But I noticed that you didn't answer my question. You may have objected to its form. To whom is your letter written?"
"Well," her mother answered, hesitating a little, "it isn't written yet. That is, it isn't finished. It is to Fox. Don't you want to add something, dear? Just a few lines? I have asked him if he doesn't want to come on—and bring Henrietta, of course. See, there is room at the end."