Fox was distinctly relieved. He went on to tell the doctor of his conversation with Sally. "And the other children—except Henrietta—have fought shy of coming to see her since that day of the party," he continued. "I suppose they were frightened. They have scarcely been near her. Not that Sally seems to care. I think she is glad when she thinks of them at all. But she has too much care. She takes life too seriously. Why, that party was on her eleventh birthday, and she wants to go out scrubbing or selling papers. Anything to earn money. We can't let her feel so, Doctor; we just can't."
"Bless her!" said the doctor; "of course we can't. She needn't worry about my bill, and you needn't. Between us, Sanderson, we must look out for these three babes in the wood."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"And, Sanderson," the doctor pursued confidentially, "if you find yourself short of money,—you might, you know,—just let me know. But don't tell anybody, or the Assyrians will be upon me, like the wolf on the fold; and their cohorts won't be gleaming with purple and gold. Not of mine, they won't."
Fox laughed. "Thank you again, Doctor. Thank you very much. But I think I shall be able to carry my end, on that basis."
Fox did carry his end. He and Henrietta moved to the Ladues' as soon as they could, Fox into the professor's old room, with the skeleton of the professor's little lizard on the floor, under the window, and with the professor's desk to work at. He seemed to have been pushed by chance into the professor's shoes, and he did not like it, altogether. He made a faint-hearted protest at the room.
Sally's eyes filled. "Why, Fox," she said, "it's the best room we've got. Isn't it good enough?"
"It's much too good, Sally. I don't expect or want such a good room."
"Oh, is that all!" Sally was smiling now. "If it's good enough, I guess you'll have to be satisfied. It's ever so much convenienter to give you father's room."
So Fox had to be satisfied. Henrietta had the room next Sally's own. That arrangement was "convenienter," too.