"Oh." It was evidently a great relief to Mrs. Ladue to know that he hadn't. The tears gathered in her eyes and dropped slowly upon the open letter in her hand as she spoke. "I—thought—I thought that—that—perhaps—"
Sally understood. "Oh, mother, dear, I only wanted to know what you would do—what you would want to do. The thought occurred to me suddenly. I don't know why."
"I don't know, Sally. I don't know. I suppose we ought to go back to him. But I don't know."
Sally laughed and her eyes were cold and hard. If Mr. Ladue had heard that laugh and seen her eyes, I think he would not ask Sally to go back to him. "Oh," she said lightly—but her voice was as hard as her eyes—"oh, there is no doubt about what I would do. I would never go back to him; never at all. You shouldn't, either, mother. So put that bugaboo out of your mind. I hope he won't ever turn up, not ever."
Mrs. Ladue laughed and her laugh was ready and cheerful enough. "Oh, Sally," she said, mildly remonstrating, "we ought not to say that. We ought not even to think it."
"We poor mortals seldom do as we ought, mother, dear," Sally replied lightly. "You needn't have that fear a single minute longer."