Sally took the letter, but she could not have read more than the first two or three lines when she glanced up, with a little half smile of surprise and amusement.
"Perhaps I had better not read it, mother, dear," she said gently. "Did you mean that I should?"
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Ladue answered carelessly, "read it if you like. There is nothing in my letters to Fox that I want to keep secret from you, Sally."
There was the same little half smile of amusement on Sally's lips as she read, and a sort of suppressed twinkle in her eyes. If you wanted to know what Sally's thoughts were—what kind of thoughts—you would soon have got into the habit of watching her eyes. They were merry and grave and appealing and solemn and tender and reproachful and thoughtful and disapproving, according to the need of the hour, although they were seldom solemn or sad now. I suppose the need of the hour did not lie in that direction now; at least, not nearly so often as it had, ten years before. Sally's eyes were well worth watching anyway. They were gray and rather solemn, normally, shaded by long, dark lashes, and gave the impression of darkness and depth; but when she was stirred to anger, whether righteous or not, they could be as cold and as hard as steel. But enough of Sally's eyes. Too much, no doubt.
Mrs. Ladue's reflections, as Sally read, might be supposed to have been rather disquieting. They were not. Presently she laughed. "The letter may seem queer," she said, "but you must remember that I have not seen Fox for four years, and I want to see him. I got very fond of Fox in my years at Doctor Galen's."
Sally looked up. "Of course you did, mother, dear. Of course you did. It would be very strange if you had not. I am fond of him, too."
Mrs. Ladue smiled in reply and Sally returned to her reading. She began again at the beginning, with the "Dear Fox."
"Dear Fox:" she read. She was not reading aloud. "To begin with what should come last, according to all the rules, in a woman's letter, I want to see you. It is the sole purpose of this letter to tell you that, so you need not look for the important matter in a postscript. It won't be there, for it is here. Do you know that it is nearly four years since you were here? Is there no matter in connection with my trifling affairs that will serve as an excuse—or is any excuse needed? Can't you and Henrietta come on for a long visit? I know the engagements of a doctor—such a doctor, Fox!—are heavy and that I am very selfish to ask it. Sally would be as glad as I should be to see you both here, I am sure. I will ask her to add a few lines to this when she comes in. She has not got back from school yet.
"Sally seems to be quite happy in her teaching. I remember when she got her first month's salary—she got a position right away, with Mr. MacDalie—she came flying into the house and met Uncle John in the hall—I was halfway down the stairs—and threw her arms around his neck. The dear old man was startled, as he might well have been. I may have told you all this before. If I have, don't read it. Well, he was startled, as I said, but he smiled his lovely, quiet smile.
"'Bless me, Sally!' he said. 'What's happened? What's the matter?'