"Isn't my home. This old house isn't--"

The words died on his lips; for there was a sound behind the half-opened folding-doors at the end of the long room, and an old man appeared there. He seemed to Sally to be a very old man. He had a long white beard and stooped slightly as he made his way slowly toward them.

"Is this Sarah Ladue?" he asked as he came forward. He came near Sally and held out his hand.

"Yes, sir," answered Sally doubtfully, laying her hand in his. "It's Sally."

The old man must have detected the doubt. "Well, Sally," he said kindly, "I am your father's uncle, your Cousin Patty's father." So Cousin Martha and Cousin Patty were one.

"Oh!" returned Sally quickly. "I thought--that is, I'm very glad to see you."

The old gentleman smiled quietly. "And I'm very glad to see you. Don't you want to come into the back parlor? There's a fire in there. You, too, sir," turning to Fox.

"I forgot," interrupted Sally. "I am always forgetting to do it. This is Mr. Sanderson. He is a _very_ kind friend of ours. He came all the way with us just to see that we got here safely. And this is Charlie, sir."

"I am happy to meet a very kind friend of Sally's," the old gentleman said, shaking hands with Fox. "From what I hear, she is in need of kind friends." He held his hand out to Charlie. "Will this little boy shake hands with his Uncle John?"

That appeared to be the last thing that Charlie wished to do, but he did it, sulkily, without a word. Then the old gentleman led the way slowly into the back parlor.

Sally remembered, now, that she had heard her father speak of John Hazen--John Hazen, Junior--with that sneering laugh of his; that cold, mirthless laugh with which he managed to cast ridicule upon anything or anybody. This nice old gentleman must be John Hazen, Junior. But why should a stooping old man with a long white beard be called Junior? Why, on earth, Sally wondered. Surely, such an old man--she would speak to Cousin Martha about it. Perhaps Cousin Martha had a brother who was John, Junior. As for Cousin Martha's father, she had always taken it for granted that he was a disembodied spirit.

There was a coal fire bubbling in the grate in the back parlor. A great easy-chair was drawn up to the fire, and beside it, on the floor, lay the morning paper, where Uncle John had dropped it. There were other easy-chairs in the room, and books and magazines were scattered over the centre table. The centre table had a much-stained green cloth top, Sally noticed. Altogether, this room was cheerful, in its own way, as any room which is lived in must be; as the great front parlor was not. Its way was not the way Sally had been used to. It was too dark, to begin with, and the heavy curtains only half drawn back from the windows kept out most of the light which managed to straggle past the trees.

The old gentleman began to place other chairs, but Fox did it for him.

"Thank you," he said. "And now, as soon as Patty comes back, I shall have to leave you, if you will excuse me. I usually go downtown earlier than this, but I wished to see Sally before I went. I hope you will make yourselves quite at home."

Consideration of just this kind was a new thing for Sally.

"Oh, thank you," she cried, flushing with pleasure. "It was very nice of you to want to wait for me."

The old gentleman again smiled his quiet smile; but before he could say anything, Cousin Martha came in.

"I have some breakfast for you," she announced. "Will you go to your rooms first, or have something to eat first?"

There was no room for doubt as to Charlie's preference in the matter.

Miss Hazen smiled.

"Very well, then," she said. "I think that will be better. Have your breakfast while it is hot. Then I can take you up and get you settled.

The trunks will have got here by that time."

"I will go now, Patty," said her father, "if you will be good enough to help me with my overcoat."

So she stopped in the hall and held his coat and he bade good-bye to every one by name, and went out slowly.

"Does Uncle John go downtown every day?" Sally asked, soon after. She was busy with her breakfast.

"Oh, mercy, yes," Miss Hazen replied. "He is as well able to attend to his business as ever. And he always walks, unless it is very bad walking: icy or very muddy. I am afraid that he might slip and fall, and old bones, you know, do not mend easily."

"Is he--is he," Sally went on, hesitating, "John Hazen, Junior?"

"Yes," answered Cousin Martha. "He has kept the Junior."

Sally did not know just what she meant by that. "I've heard my father speak of John Hazen, Junior," she remarked, "and I didn't know but, perhaps, I might have a Cousin John."

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

Sally was tolerably happy after she got settled. She had cried a few tears into Fox's coat when he was going away and she had sent many messages to Henrietta and to Doctor Galen and to her mother, although she knew that her mother would receive them with her pitiful, vacant smile and would go on wondering where Sally was. She had been told, of course, over and over, but could not seem to grasp the reason or, indeed, the fact.

Sally had wiped her eyes and sighed. "I'm not going to cry any more,"

she had said; "and I shan't be unhappy, Fox. I just won't be."

"You've had a good deal to make you unhappy, Sally," Fox had replied gently, "but I do hope that you won't be. You can trust Doctor Galen to do the very best for your mother."

"Yes," Sally had returned, smiling; "you and Doctor Galen. You forgot, Fox. And I'm glad that father has gone away. I'm glad--glad," Sally cried pa.s.sionately. "He didn't do a thing for mother. He only liked to make her feel bad. She'd have died if he'd stayed. And I hope you'll never find him. I hope you never will."

"We're not breaking our necks, trying."

"I'm glad of it. Oh, Fox, I've never said such a thing before, and I never will again. But I just had to or I should have burst. Don't you tell, will you? Don't ever tell _anybody_."

Fox had promised and had kissed her and had started back, feeling comforted. It was very much better than he had expected, and Sally had made up her mind. There was everything in that.

Sally woke early the next morning. It was not quite light, if it ever could be said to be quite light in that house. But a little light had begun to filter in around the curtains, and Sally looked about the great, dim room, wondering for a moment where she was. Then she remembered; she remembered, too, that Uncle John had breakfast early.

Cousin Martha had forgotten to tell her at what time to get up, but there could be no harm in getting up now. Charlie had a little room off her own big one, probably the dressing-room. At that instant Charlie appeared, wandering hesitatingly, clad only in his little pajamas, which had caused some surprise on Cousin Martha's part.

"Oh, how very cunning!" she had exclaimed, as Sally unpacked them.

Now Charlie made a dive for Sally's bed. "I want to get in with you, Sally."

But Sally thought that they had better get dressed, and said so. When Sally said things in that way, there was no appeal, and Charlie submitted, with not more objection than would have been expected, to a rapid sponge; for it had not occurred to Sally, the night before, to find out about a bathtub. It might very well be that the house had been built before the era of bathtubs and that no such useless enc.u.mbrance had been added. Cousin Martha herself solved that difficulty for her. There was a gentle tap at her door.

"Sally," called Cousin Martha's voice, "here is your hot water. Do you know about the tub?"

"No," answered Sally, opening the door; "Charlie's had his bath, Cousin Martha, as good a one as I could give him, but I haven't."

"You didn't splash water over the floor, did you?" Cousin Martha asked anxiously, scrutinizing the floor for any signs of wetting.

"I tried not to," Sally replied. "It's hardly light enough to make sure."

Miss Hazen had disappeared into Charlie's room and now reappeared bringing a tub. It was a large shallow pan, a sort of glorified milk pan, and might have been made of cast iron, judging from the way Miss Hazen carried it. It was not of cast iron, but of tin; the kind of tin that cannot be got in these days, even for love.