"Thank you, Charlie—Charlie, dear," she answered, hesitating a little; "I do feel very much better. I heard all the happy noise down here and I had to come down."
"Don't apologize, my dear," he protested; "don't apologize, or we shall have to believe that you didn't mean to come because you didn't want to."
Mrs. Ladue took her seat, but made no reply. There was a faint color in her cheeks and she looked almost shyly at her husband. Sally was gazing at her mother, but not in wonder. There was no fathoming Sally. She reached out and pressed her mother's hand.
"You look so very pretty, mother," she whispered.
The color in Mrs. Ladue's cheeks became deeper. "Hush, dear," she whispered in return. "It must be because I am happy."
"I wish we could always be happy," Sally whispered again; "all of us."
There was no way of knowing whether her father had heard these whispers. He might have heard, but he gave no sign, looking into his empty cup and playing with the spoon.
"Sally," he said suddenly, "what do you suppose my little lizard would have done if he had waked up some morning and found his swamp covered with this?" The professor waved his hand toward the window.
Sally was much interested. "Would he have flown away?"
"Wrong," cried the professor, getting up and walking to the window. "Guess again."