Then--for d.i.c.k's Cla.s.s Day was only to begin with--there were his further good-natured attentions, which did not mean anything, of course, Mrs. Ladue told herself, over and over. Of course d.i.c.k liked Sally--who would not? And there was more fun in doing anything for her than in doing it for anybody else, for Sally enjoyed everything so much. d.i.c.k even took her sailing half a dozen times, although there was n.o.body else on his parties younger than his sister Emily. And there was Jane; but not on d.i.c.k's sailing parties.

Jane's attentions to Sally were constant and rather jealous. How could he help it? d.i.c.k was five years older than he, and, at seventeen, five years is a tremendous advantage and one not to be made up by a difference in natural gifts, concerning which there could be no doubt either. Sally had some difficulty in keeping Jane pacified. She may have made no conscious effort to that end, but she accomplished it, none the less.

When fall came, Sally went away to Normal School. It was not far from Whitby, so that she was always within reach, but she had to be away from home--Uncle John Hazen's was really home now--for the greater part of two years. Her absence was a great grief to Uncle John, although n.o.body suspected it but Sally. It would never have occurred to Patty that it could make much difference to her father whether Sally was here or there. Indeed, she did not think of it at all, being more than ever engrossed in Charlie's career; and Charlie was in need of a friend, although that friend was not Miss Patty.

Another person who missed Sally's presence, if one could judge from his behavior, was Jane Spencer. To be sure, it could have made little difference to him that she was no longer in Whitby, except that Whitby, although farther from Cambridge than Schoolboro', was easier to get to. Nevertheless, as soon as Jane could s.n.a.t.c.h a day from his arduous academic duties, he went to Schoolboro' and not to Whitby.

That was hardly a month after Sally had gone there, and she was unaffectedly glad to see him. Therefore, Jane enjoyed his visit immensely, and he made other visits, which were also to his immense satisfaction, as often as Sally would let him come. There were four that year.

In November of her second year, Sally was called home unexpectedly by an incoherent summons from Patty. She hurried home, filled with fears and misgivings. What had happened to Charlie? She had no doubt that Charlie was at the bottom of it, somehow, or it would not have been Patty who sent the message. Had he had an accident? But Charlie himself met her at the door, looking sulky and triumphant.

Patty was almost hysterical, and it was a long time before Sally could make out what was the matter. It seemed that Charlie had been subjected to the usual mild hazing and, proving a refractory subject, he had had his hands and feet strapped together and had been left lying helpless in the yard. That was a final indignity, reserved for boys who had earned the thorough dislike of their fellows, Sally knew.

She was deeply mortified.

Her lips were compressed in the old way that she had almost forgotten.

"I will settle it, Cousin Patty. It won't take long."

Patty had, perhaps, mistaken the meaning of Sally's expression. At all events, Sally looked very decided, which Patty was not.

"Oh, will you, Sally? I felt sure that you would be touched by Charlie's sufferings. He is your brother, you know, and--and all that," she finished, ineffectively, as she was painfully aware.

"Yes," Sally replied, still with that compression of the lips, "he is." She had been about to say more, but had thought better of it.

"Well," said Patty, after waiting some time for Sally to say what she had decided not to, "thank you, Sally. n.o.body else could attend to it so well as you." At which speech Sally smiled rather grimly, if a girl of seventeen can smile grimly. Her smile was as grim as the circ.u.mstances would allow.

She found Charlie suspiciously near the door.

"Will you go and see old Mac, Sally? Will you?"

"You come into the back parlor with me, Charlie," Sally answered, "and I'll tell you what I'll do."

When Charlie emerged, half an hour later, he was sulkier than ever, but he was no longer triumphant. Sally went back to school that same night. Patty did not summon her again. Sally had a way of settling things which Miss Patty did not altogether like.

Now it chanced that Jane chose the next day for one of his visits. It was not a happy chance. The day itself was dull and gloomy and chilly and Sally had not yet got over the settling of Charlie. Jane, to be sure, did not know about Charlie, but it would have made no difference if he had known about him. Sally greeted him with no enthusiasm; it almost seemed to Jane that she would rather not have seen him.

He looked at her in surprise. "What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.

"Why this--this apathy?" He had been about to call it indifference, but decided against it.

Jane was not without wisdom, if he did not show much of it on this particular day. If it had been the case of another and that other had asked his advice, he would have advised him to drop it all and go home again. But, in our own cases, we are all more or less fools. Therefore Jane did not drop it all and go home.

Sally did not smile. "I don't know, Jane," she replied. "There's nothing in particular the matter." Sally had given up the attempt to break the Jane habit and Jane had given up objecting.

"Well?" he asked, after waiting vainly for her to propose a walk.

"Shall we go for our usual walk? You know you don't like to stay in, and neither do I."

"I think," said Sally, "that I don't like anything to-day, so what does it matter?" Surely Jane should have taken warning and run. "We'll go out if you like."

Jane looked at her doubtfully, but said nothing, which was probably the best thing he could have said; and they went out, walking side by side, in silence, until they came to a little stream which was dignified by the name of "The River." There was a path along the bank.

That path by the river was much frequented at other seasons, but now the trees that overhung it were bare and the wind sighed mournfully through the branches, after its journey across the desolate marsh beyond. On such a day it was not a place to cheer drooping spirits. It did not cheer Sally's.

Jane's spirit began to be affected. He looked at Sally anxiously, but she gave no sign of ever meaning to say another word.

"Sally!" he said.

She glanced at him and tried to smile, but she made no great success of it.

"Well?"

"Now, what is the matter, Sally? Won't you tell me?"

"There's nothing the matter, Jane. I'm simply not in very good spirits."

"Sally," said poor Jane softly, "please cheer up and be light-hearted.

This isn't like you at all."

"I can't help it," Sally answered, sighing. "I've tried. It doesn't happen to me often. I'm not good company, am I?"

"You're always good company for me," Jane said simply. Sally did not seem to hear. "Try a pleasant expression," he continued, after a pause, "and see what that does to your spirits."

"Thank you," said she coldly, "for nothing." Then she changed suddenly. "I beg your pardon again, Eugene. I was getting ill-tempered. Would you have me put on a pleasant expression when I don't feel like it?"

He nodded, smiling. "To see the effect upon your spirits."

"As if I were having my photograph taken?" Sally went on, "A sort of 'keep smiling' expression? Think how absurd people would look if they went about grinning."

"There is a certain difference between grinning and smiling," Jane replied, "although I can't define it. And you would not look absurd, Sally, whatever you did."

"Oh, yes, I would," Sally said, more cheerfully than she had spoken yet, "and so would you. No doubt I am absurd very often; as absurd as you are now."

Jane sighed heavily. "I've never seen it, Sally, although I should like to see you absurd in the same way that I am now. I long to. You couldn't be, I suppose."

There was no answer to this remark. Waiting for one and listening, Jane heard only the sighing of the wind across the desolate marsh and in the trees, and the soft noise of the water flowing past. Poor Jane was very wretched, largely, no doubt, because of the dreary day and because Sally was wretched. He did not stop to ask why. Then he did something which was very unwise. Even he, in more sober moments, acknowledged its unwisdom. But, after all, would it have made any great difference if the circ.u.mstances had been different--Sally being what she was? I think not. Jane thought not.

Jane leaned a little nearer. "Sally," he said softly, "can't you like me a little? Can't you--"

Sally looked up in surprise. "Why, Jane," she replied simply--and truthfully, "I do like you. You know it."

"But, Sally,"--Jane's heart was pounding so that he could not keep the sound of it out of his voice, and his voice was unsteady enough without that,--"but, Sally, can't you--can't you care for me? I--I love you, Sally. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I--"

"Oh, _Jane_!" Sally was the picture of dismay; utter and absolute dismay. She had withdrawn from him a little. And she had forgotten the state of her spirits. She was startled out of her apathy. "I didn't know you were going to say that. Why, oh, why did you? What made you?"

"I simply had to. I have been holding it in as long as I could, and I couldn't see you feeling so, without--well, I had to." Jane spoke more rapidly now. "And, Sally, I realize the absurdity of asking you now, when I am not half through college and you are not through school, but we could wait--couldn't we?--and if you only felt as I do, it would be easier. I am--I shall have some money and I--"

With an impatient wave of her hand Sally brushed all that aside.

"That is of no consequence," she said,--"of no sort of consequence.

But why did you do it, Jane? Oh, why did you? You have spoiled it all.

I suppose we can't be good friends any more." There were tears in her eyes.