Charlie had his mouth full. He looked up in surprise. "What?" he spluttered.

"What would my little lizard have done this morning?"

Charlie was no Fletcherite. He swallowed his mouthful very nearly whole. Then he gasped a little which is not to be wondered at.

"Little lizard would take his little snow-shovel and shovel a great big place--" he began. Then an idea seemed to strike him and he stopped with his mouth open. "No," he cried; "little lizard would be dead."

"Very possibly, Charlie. That's the nearest answer, so far." The professor turned and regarded his son curiously. "I should really like to know how you arrived at that conclusion."

"Lizard died a long time ago," Charlie answered. "Couldn't wake up this morning because you've got the bones upstairs."

The professor laughed. "A very just observation," he remarked. "You have a logical mind, Charles."

Charles slid down from his chair. "I'm through my breakfast," he announced. "Want to shovel."

"You forget our programme, Charlie," said his father. "We are to loaf now. It is always best to eat slowly, masticate your food well, refrain from drinking when you are thirsty, and stand for half an hour after eating. There are other things which I forget. But we will loaf now."

The professor lit a cigarette, after due preliminaries. Mrs. Ladue had finished, apparently. She had come down rather to enjoy the rare occasion than to eat. Perhaps it was a knowledge of that fact which had kept the professor going and a desire--an inexplicable desire--on his part to keep her in her state of happiness. It was seldom possible to account for his actions. At all events, he was accomplishing that end. It was a great pity that his desires did not always run in that direction. It would have been so easy; so very easy for him, and it would have made his wife so very happy. But the time when that would have done any great good may have pa.s.sed already.

The professor followed out his programme religiously, talking when he felt like it, always a pleasant and cheerful flow of irresponsible talk, and loafing conscientiously for half an hour. Mrs. Ladue sat still, saying little, afraid to move lest the movement break the spell. Charlie had slipped out, unnoticed.

Presently there was a great noise on the cellar stairs, sounding like distant thunder. The noise stopped for a moment.

"What's going on?" asked the professor casually. "Socialists in the cellar? Not that I care," he added, with a wave of his cigarette.

"Mere curiosity. I should be glad to meet any socialists; but not in the cellar."

Mrs. Ladue laughed gently. It was a long time since the professor had heard her laugh. That thought occurred to him.

"You will, I think. They are opening the cellar door now. There they come."

For the noise had resumed, and was approaching along the hall. The door of the dining-room swung open suddenly and Charlie entered, earnest and intent and covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind him dragged three snow-shovels, also covered with dust and cobwebs.

Sally sprang for him. "Oh, Charlie--"

He brushed her aside. "I brung your shovel, father," he said, "an'

Sally's. I couldn't lift 'em all at once, an' so I dragged 'em."

The professor bowed. "So I gathered," he replied. "I thank you, Charles."

"But, Charlie," Sally cried, "you're all over dust and so are the shovels. They ought to have been dusted."

Charlie had dropped the shovels on the floor, thinking his mission ended. Now he leaned over and thoughtfully wiped the shovels, one after another, with his hand.

"They are," he said, gazing at his grimy hand, "aren't they? But it was dark an' I couldn't see. Besides, the snow'll clean 'em. I want to shovel an' race, father," he added, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't it time yet?"

"Charlie," said his father, throwing away his cigarette, "in the words of Friar Bacon's bra.s.s head, time is. Come on."

CHAPTER VII

The next month pa.s.sed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited for it to pa.s.s. It would have been a relief--yes, distinctly it would have been a relief, at first. But that feeling pa.s.sed, too.

In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to happiness--to freedom from real worries--as far as we can compa.s.s that end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a thought.

Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the professor.

Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!"

Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will."

But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played--or was supposed to be playing--with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox, saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what he thought about her mother's health.

He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time.

"Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it--some good doctor."

"Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you--I hope you don't think--"

"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see your mother--if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after all."

Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching Fox's face.

"Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about it. Well,--I will."

"That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know."

"He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is, he never did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but why should she not make it? Fox knew.

"You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out."

So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion would have come.

There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly, "don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do."

If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.

Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed.

Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes, they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!--uncomfortably aware--and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the professor's soul was--well, it was his; the only one he had. But he did squirm, actually and in the flesh.

He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "What is the matter with your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?"

Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse."

"Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has headaches. What's a headache?"