"I can't see why." Jane regarded her for some while without speaking.

Sally, I suppose, had nothing to say. "Does that mean," he asked at last, "that you don't care for me in the way that I want?"

"I should think you would know," replied Sally gently.

"And--and you can't?"

Sally shook her head.

"Not ever?"

Sally shook her head again.

Jane stood, for a minute, gazing out over the desolate marsh. Then he drew a long breath and turned.

"Well," he said, smiling mirthlessly and raising his hat, "shall I--shall we go back?"

Sally was angry, but I don't know what for. "No," she was decided about it; much more decided than was at all necessary. "You need not trouble to go back with me."

"Oh," said Jane. He smiled again and flushed slowly. "Then, if you will excuse me, I will go to the station."

So Jane was gone--or going--with head held high and a flush on his face. He did not look back. Sally, as she watched him go, had a revulsion of feeling and would have called to him. To what end? She could not change her answer. And the sound died on her lips and she stamped her foot angrily, and watched him out of sight. Then she fled to her room and wept. Why, I wonder? Sally did not know. Suddenly she had lost something out of her life. What? Sally did not know that either. It was not Jane she wept for. Whatever it was, she knew that she could never get it back again; never, never.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Ladue was sitting in her room with a letter in her lap. The letter was unfinished and it seemed likely that it might not be finished; not, at any rate, unless Mrs. Ladue brought her wandering thoughts back to it, although, to be sure, her thoughts may have had more to do with it than appeared. She was gazing absently out of the window and in her eyes there was a look both tender and sad; a look that said plainly that her thoughts were far away and that she was recalling some things--pleasant things and sad--dwelling upon them with fond recollection, no doubt. It was a pity that she had not more things which could be dwelt upon with fond recollection; but it may be that she was dwelling fondly upon the recollection of what might have been. There is much comfort to be got out of that kind of recollection even if it is not very real.

What was before her eyes was the Lot covered with untouched snow billowed by the high wind and glistening, here and there, where that same wind had hardened and polished the surface into a fine crust.

There was the same high wall, its cement covering a trifle less smooth, perhaps, than it had been when Sally first saw it, but giving a scant foothold even yet. And the wall was capped, as it had been since it was built, with its projecting wooden roof, more weather-beaten than ever and with the moulding on the under edges warped away a trifle more, but still holding. There was snow upon that old roof in patches, but the wind had swept most of it clean. And over it all was a dull, leaden sky with more snow in it.

Although all this was before her eyes, she may not have seen any of it; probably she had not. Judging from her look, it was something quite different that she saw. It may have been the early years of her marriage--very early years they must have been and very far away now--when Professor Ladue was still good to her and she still believed in him. Or, perhaps, she was pa.s.sing in review the many kindnesses of Uncle John Hazen and Patty. For Patty had been kind in her own way; and what other way could she use? Every one of us has to be kind or unkind in his own way, after all, in accordance with the natures G.o.d has given us. Perhaps Mrs. Ladue was thinking of Doctor Galen's care--four years of it--or of Fox's goodness. Fox had not got over being good to them yet. And she called down blessings on his head and sighed a tremulous sigh, and looked down at the letter which she had held in her hand all this time, and she began to read it again, although she had already read it over twice.

She had not got very far with her reading when the front door opened and shut. At the sound of it Mrs. Ladue came back, with a start, to the present. She flushed slightly and made a motion as if to hide the letter hastily; but she thought better of it instantly, and she held the letter in her hand, as she had done for some time. But the flush grew and flooded her face with color. And the wave of color receded, according to the manner of waves, and left her face unnaturally pale.

There was the sound of steps on the stairs and the door of the room opened and Sally came in.

A breath of the cold still clung about her. "Well, mother, dear," she said, stooping for a kiss, "here I am, at last. I thought I never should get out to-day."

"Some poor infants have to stay after?" asked her mother. "How cold you are, Sally! Is it as bleak and dreary as it looks?"

"Oh, no. It's nice enough, after you've been out a few minutes. At least it's fresh, and that's something, after hours of a schoolroom.

And I don't teach infants, if you please, madam."

Mrs. Ladue laughed quietly. "It's all the same to me, Sally," she replied. "I don't know the difference."

Sally sat down on the bed; which was a very reprehensible old habit that she had never been able to shake off. Not that she had ever tried.

"I'm going to get something done about the ventilation," she observed decidedly; "at least in my room. It's wicked to make children breathe such air." She glanced at the letter which her mother still held.

"Been writing letters, mother? Who to--if you don't mind my asking?"

"'Who to,' Sally! A fine schoolmarm you are!" said Mrs. Ladue, smiling, in mock reproach. "I hope that is not the example you set."

Sally laughed lightly. "It was pretty bad, wasn't it? But there are times when even the schoolmarm must relax. It hasn't got into my blood yet, and I'm not a universal compendium. But I noticed that you didn't answer my question. You may have objected to its form. To whom is your letter written?"

"Well," her mother answered, hesitating a little, "it isn't written yet. That is, it isn't finished. It is to Fox. Don't you want to add something, dear? Just a few lines? I have asked him if he doesn't want to come on--and bring Henrietta, of course. See, there is room at the end."

Sally took the letter, but she could not have read more than the first two or three lines when she glanced up, with a little half smile of surprise and amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Perhaps I had better not read it, mother, dear," she said gently.

"Did you mean that I should?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Ladue answered carelessly, "read it if you like. There is nothing in my letters to Fox that I want to keep secret from you, Sally."

There was the same little half smile of amus.e.m.e.nt on Sally's lips as she read, and a sort of suppressed twinkle in her eyes. If you wanted to know what Sally's thoughts were--what kind of thoughts--you would soon have got into the habit of watching her eyes. They were merry and grave and appealing and solemn and tender and reproachful and thoughtful and disapproving, according to the need of the hour, although they were seldom solemn or sad now. I suppose the need of the hour did not lie in that direction now; at least, not nearly so often as it had, ten years before. Sally's eyes were well worth watching anyway. They were gray and rather solemn, normally, shaded by long, dark lashes, and gave the impression of darkness and depth; but when she was stirred to anger, whether righteous or not, they could be as cold and as hard as steel. But enough of Sally's eyes. Too much, no doubt.

Mrs. Ladue's reflections, as Sally read, might be supposed to have been rather disquieting. They were not. Presently she laughed. "The letter may seem queer," she said, "but you must remember that I have not seen Fox for four years, and I want to see him. I got very fond of Fox in my years at Doctor Galen's."

Sally looked up. "Of course you did, mother, dear. Of course you did.

It would be very strange if you had not. I am fond of him, too."

Mrs. Ladue smiled in reply and Sally returned to her reading. She began again at the beginning, with the "Dear Fox."

"Dear Fox:" she read. She was not reading aloud. "To begin with what should come last, according to all the rules, in a woman's letter, I want to see you. It is the sole purpose of this letter to tell you that, so you need not look for the important matter in a postscript.

It won't be there, for it is here. Do you know that it is nearly four years since you were here? Is there no matter in connection with my trifling affairs that will serve as an excuse--or is any excuse needed? Can't you and Henrietta come on for a long visit? I know the engagements of a doctor--such a doctor, Fox!--are heavy and that I am very selfish to ask it. Sally would be as glad as I should be to see you both here, I am sure. I will ask her to add a few lines to this when she comes in. She has not got back from school yet.

"Sally seems to be quite happy in her teaching. I remember when she got her first month's salary--she got a position right away, with Mr.

MacDalie--she came flying into the house and met Uncle John in the hall--I was halfway down the stairs--and threw her arms around his neck. The dear old man was startled, as he might well have been. I may have told you all this before. If I have, don't read it. Well, he was startled, as I said, but he smiled his lovely, quiet smile.

"'Bless me, Sally!' he said. 'What's happened? What's the matter?'

"'This is the matter,' she cried, waving something about, somewhere behind his ear. 'I've got my salary. And it's all my own and the first money I ever earned in my whole life.'

"The dear old man smiled again--or rather he hadn't stopped smiling.

'Bless your heart!' he said. 'What a terribly long time to wait, isn't it? But it's hardly true that it is the first money you ever earned.

The first you ever were paid, perhaps, but you've been earning it for years, my dear, for years.'

"Sally kissed him. 'I'm afraid you're partial, Uncle John. But do you know what I'm going to do with my munificent salary?'

"Uncle John shook his head.

"'I should like to pay it to you, on account,' said Sally. 'Oh, I'm not going to,' she added hastily, seeing that he looked hurt, 'but I'm going to pay for all my clothes, after this, and mother's and Charlie's. I'm afraid it won't do much more, yet awhile, but give us pocket-money.'