"Well, I'm glad," he said, with satisfaction. "It's been on my mind for some days, and I thought I'd better see what I could do about it.

Your Uncle John said a good deal about you, first and last. He'd be pleased. When you want anything, come to me; though you're not likely to be wanting anything unless it's advice. I've barrels of that ready.

Good-bye, Sally."

Sally went home--if Mrs. Stump's could be called home--rather depressed in spirits. In spite of what people considered her good fortune, she continued in low spirits all through that spring and summer. Patty, to be sure, was covertly hostile, but that was hardly enough to account for it. Sally was aware of the unhealthy state of her mind and thought about it more than was good for her. It is a bad habit to get into; a very reprehensible habit, and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. You never can help doing it when you most shouldn't. It reminded her of the shiftless man's roof, which needed shingling.

Very likely she was only tired with her winter's teaching and with the events which had been crowded into those few weeks. They were important events for her and had been trying. She began to hesitate and to have doubts and to wonder. It was not like Sally to have doubts, and she who hesitates is lost. She said so to herself many times, with a sad little smile which would almost have broken Fox's heart if he had seen it, and would surely have precipitated an event which ought to have been precipitated.

But Fox was not there to see it and to help her in her time of doubt, and to be precipitate and unwise. She found herself wondering whether she had better keep on with her teaching, now that she did not have to. There was less incentive to it than there had been. Was it worth while? Was anything worth while, indeed? What had she to look forward to after years of teaching, when her enthusiasm was spent? Was it already spent? What was there in it but going over the same old round, year after year? What was there at the end? If the children could be carried on, year after year--if they were her own--and Sally blushed faintly and stopped there.

But she wondered whether Henrietta had been right. What Henrietta had said so lightly, the night of the fire, had sunk deeper than Sally knew or than Henrietta had intended. Sally was beginning to think that Henrietta was right and that girls, down at the bottom of their hearts, were looking for men. She didn't like to confess it to herself. She shrank from the whole subject; but why shouldn't they--the girls--provided it is only at the bottom of their hearts?

They did; some of them did, at any rate. It is doubtful whether Sally probed as deep as the bottom of her heart. Perhaps she was afraid to.

Yes, as I started out by saying, no doubt she was only tired,--beat out, as Miss Lambkin would have said; and she was lonelier than she had ever been. She missed Uncle John. It seemed to her that there was n.o.body to whom she could turn. Probably Captain Forsyth had had some such idea when he made his clumsy offer of advice. But Captain Forsyth would not do. Sally would have been glad enough of somebody to turn to. It was a peculiarly favorable time for Fox, if he had only known it. It was a rather favorable time for anybody; for Jane Spencer, or even for Everett Morton. For Everett had begun, as anybody could see with half an eye, as Letty Lambkin put it briskly. Altogether Sally's affairs had become a fit topic of conversation for people who bother themselves about other people's business.

Miss Lambkin did. She had tried to talk with Mrs. Sarjeant about the matter, but Mrs. Sarjeant had promptly shut her up. Whereupon Miss Lambkin, with her head in the air, had betaken herself to Mrs. Upjohn.

Mrs. Upjohn did not shut her up. She wanted to hear what Letty had to tell and she wished to contribute whatever she could, that Letty did not know, to the fund of general information; without seeming to, of course.

"Well, Alicia," Letty began, as soon as she had got into the house and before she had had time to remove her hat, "I thought I'd come and do for you now, even if it is a week before the time I set. Mrs.

Sarjeant can wait awhile, I guess. She can't need me. She told me yesterday that she didn't care to listen to gossip. As if I gossiped, Alicia! Why, I was only saying that Sally Ladue and Everett seemed to be pretty thick now, and I shouldn't wonder if they hit it off. And I shouldn't, either, Mrs. Sarjeant or no Mrs. Sarjeant. Anybody can see he's paying her attention and she's letting him." Miss Lambkin shut her lips with a snap. "Now, isn't he?"

Mrs. Upjohn did not answer her directly. She only laughed comfortably and suggested that they go right up to the sewing-room.

"Patty made you quite a visit, didn't she?" Letty began again, while she hunted scissors and needles and a tape. "Did you have to send her off to Miss Miller's?"

Mrs. Upjohn shook her head.

"That's a good thing. It wouldn't have been pleasant," Miss Lambkin resumed. "I hear that she's feeling real bitter towards Sally and that Sally means to live somewhere else, whether Patty repairs the house or not, but Patty won't hear to it. I notice, though, that nothing's been done to the house yet. I'm told that Patty's going right at it. She'd better, if she wants to live there before next summer, for this is September and the builders are awful deliberate. Now that Doctor Sanderson doesn't let the gra.s.s grow under his feet. Did you know that his new hospital's going to be ready before cold weather? And he hasn't been here, himself, more 'n a day at a time. Where's that little cutting-table, Alicia? In your room? I'll just run in and get it. You sit still."

Mrs. Upjohn did not like to trust Letty alone in her room, for she had the eye of a hawk; but Letty was gone before she could prevent her.

She was back in a moment, and Mrs. Upjohn breathed more freely.

"As I was saying," Miss Lambkin continued, "that Doctor Sanderson had better be looking out if he wants Sally Ladue. Maybe he don't, but I notice that Eugene Spencer's fluttering around her again and Everett's doing more'n flutter.

"It seems queer to think of Everett as anything but what he has been for some years. He isn't much in favor with some of the older men. I heard that Cap'n Forsyth said that he wouldn't trust him with a slush-bucket. And that pup of a brother of Sally's is copying after Everett as well as he can. He's going to college in a couple of weeks and there's no telling what he'll be up to there. I'm glad I don't have the running of him. Everett's no pattern to cut _my_ goods to."

"No," agreed Mrs. Upjohn soberly. "I can't think what has come over Sally. I never thought she would be dazzled, though I won't deny that Everett can be attractive."

"Come to that," snapped Miss Lambkin, "Everett's handsome and rich and, as you say, he knows how to be attractive. Anyway, there's a plenty that would be only too glad to have a chance at him. Now, if you were of a suitable age, Alicia, you'd snap him up quick enough if you had the chance, and you know it."

Mrs. Upjohn only murmured an unintelligible protest, but her color rose. She would have snapped him up, and she knew it. Letty Lambkin was really getting to be unbearable.

CHAPTER X

Charlie Ladue was a bright boy and a handsome boy, and he had good enough manners. His attempts at seeming bored and uninterested only amused certain intelligent persons in Cambridge, to whom he had introductions, and attracted them. He was very young and rather distinguished looking and these were the hallmarks of youth; of youth which wishes to be thought of an experience prehistoric; of youth which dreads nothing else so much as to appear young. He would get over these faults quickly; and these intelligent persons laughed quietly to themselves and continued to ask him to their houses--for a time. But the faults rather grew upon him than lessened, so that he became a nuisance and seemed likely to become worse, and they quietly dropped him, before he was half through his freshman year.

His faults were his own, of course. Faults always are one's own when all is said and done, and they usually come home to roost; but that they had developed to such an extent was largely due to Patty's indulgence and over-fondness. She was to blame, but not wholly. It is hard to fix the blame, even supposing that it would help the matter to fix it. When they came to Whitby, Sally was too young to oppose Miss Patty, and for four years Charlie had no mother; much longer, indeed.

The circ.u.mstances may have been Charlie's undoing, but it is a little difficult to see why the circ.u.mstances did not do the same for Sally, and she was not undone yet. No, I am forced to the conclusion, that, in Charlie's case, circ.u.mstances could not be held responsible for anything more than hurrying things up a little.

As I said, Charlie was very young. He had pa.s.sed his finals with flying colors in the preceding June, nearly two months before his seventeenth birthday, and he was but just seventeen when he began his college career. Whatever may be said, seventeen is too young for a boy to enter college and to be given the large liberties which a boy--a college "man"--has in any of our large colleges. Eighteen or nineteen is a much safer age, especially for a boy like Charlie Ladue. The faults which I have mentioned soon disgusted and repelled the most desirable elements in college and left him with--not one of--the least desirable. Even with them he was only tolerated, never liked, and they got out of him what they could. With them there was no incentive to study, which was a pity, for Charlie did very well with a surprisingly small amount of work, and would have done exceedingly well with a little more, but he needed compulsion in some form. As it was, he very soon got to doing just enough to keep himself afloat. He could study hard when he had to, and he did.

Patty had got to work, at last, upon the repairs to her house. It was October before she made up her mind and well into November before work began; and builders are awful deliberate, as Miss Lambkin had remarked. As the work went on, the time when the house would be ready retreated gradually into the future. But Miss Patty consoled herself with the thought that Charlie would not be able to help her occupy it before the next summer anyway. Although she had insisted that Mrs.

Ladue and Sally should live there as soon as it was ready,--it was a question of pride with Miss Patty, not a question of her wish in the matter,--and although she was expecting them to live there, it was by no means sure that Sally would consent to come. Miss Patty did not trouble herself greatly about that. But the thought that Charlie might not would have filled her with consternation. She was looking forward to the Christmas recess, and to having Charlie with her for two weeks, at least.

But when the Christmas recess arrived and work was over, Charlie, feeling much relieved, sat down to a quiet evening with four congenial spirits who also felt much relieved and who wished to celebrate their temporary freedom in the only way they knew. I was wrong in calling it the only way. It was one of the few ways they knew in which to celebrate anything. When Charlie rose from the table, about midnight, he felt rather desperate, for he had lost heavily. He could not afford to lose heavily.

One of the congenial spirits saw the look upon his face and laughed.

"Don't you care, Ladue," he cried. "All is not lost. You needn't commit suicide yet. We'll stake you. Haven't you got a dollar left?"

Charlie forced a sickly smile, which disappeared the instant he ceased to force it. He pulled out the contents of his pockets. "I've got," he answered, counting soberly, "just fifty-four cents in cash. They'll expect me home to-night--they expected me last night," he corrected himself, "I can't go, for I haven't got the price of a ticket. And I've given you fellows my IOU's," he went on, looking up with an attempt to face it out,--a pitiful attempt,--"for--how much, Ned?"

"Two hundred for mine," Ned replied, spreading Charlie's poor little notes on the table. "Anybody else got 'em?" He looked around, but the others shook their heads. "It seems to be up to me to lend you, Ladue." Carelessly, he tossed a ten-dollar bill across the table. "Go home on that and see if you can't work the house for three hundred or so and take these up. Don't thank me." Charlie had taken the bill and begun to speak. "I'm doing it for cash, not sentiment. What do you suppose these IOU's are worth if you can't work somebody for the money?"

Charlie, reduced to silence, pocketed the bill.

"I've a notion," Ned continued, "that I'll go to town and look in at number seven. Luck's with me to-night. May do something there. Who goes with me?"

The others professed the intention of going to bed.

"You know, don't you," Ned threw out as an inducement, "that some man back in the nineties paid his way through college on number seven?

Made an average of three thousand a year."

"What's that story?" Charlie asked. "I haven't heard it."

Ned enlightened him. "It's nothing much," he said carelessly, "only that some man--it may have been Jones or Smith--in the cla.s.s of ninety-something, used to go in to number seven regularly, two or three times a week all through his four years here, and he made an average of three thousand a year. Broke the bank twice."

Charlie was wide-eyed with amazement. "Why," he began, "if he could do that, I don't see why--"

Ned laughed. "They have," he said. "Don't you run away with the idea that number seven hasn't made a profit out of Davis or Jones or whatever his name was. They advertise it all right. That story has brought them in a great deal more than three thousand a year. But this man had a system; a very simple one, and a very good one."

"What was it?" Charlie asked. "Can you tell me?"

"Certainly I can," Ned answered, smiling. "He had a cool head and he knew when to stop. And there isn't one in three thousand that knows when to stop, if they've got the bug."

"I don't see," Charlie remarked loftily, "why anybody wouldn't know when to stop."

"Well, they don't, kid," Ned replied sharply.

Charlie was silent for a while, digesting the information he had acquired. Ned got up to go.

"Will--will you take me, Ned?" Charlie asked hesitatingly.

Ned looked him over scornfully. The idea did not appeal to him. "You don't want to go, Ladue," he said pityingly. At the bottom of his heart he did not wish to be responsible in the remotest degree for Charlie's career. It did not need a seer to guess at Charlie's weakness. "Number seven is no place for you and I'd advise you to keep out of it. It's a regular game, there; a man's game. They'd skin you alive without a quiver. They won't take any of your pieces of paper and they won't give you back any ten dollars, either. I wouldn't advise you to go there, kid."