It was not a question and Sally said nothing. After a pause, the professor sighed and spoke again.

"I accept your munificent offer, Sally. There is nothing else to do."

It was his way--it had always been his way to put the giver in the wrong, by a simple turn of words; to make her feel as if it were he who was conferring the favor. Sally felt somehow guilty and apologetic.

"Will you give me your address?" she asked, diffidently--"the address to which you would like your money sent?"

He wrote on a slip of paper with an old stub of a pencil which he pulled from his pocket and handed her the paper. She read it and looked up at him quickly.

"Am I to make them out in this name?" she asked. "It is not--"

"It is not Ladue," he interrupted deliberately, but showing more emotion than he had shown hitherto. "Professor Charles Ladue, I would have you know, Sally, died about ten years ago, in extreme poverty and distress--of mind as well as of body."

Sally's tears overflowed and dropped, unheeded. She put out her hand impulsively, and laid it upon his.

"Oh, father!" she whispered. "I am sorry."

"I believe you are," he said. He rose. "Now I will go back to obscurity. Don't be too sorry for me," he added quickly. "I cultivate it."

CHAPTER XXVI

Mrs. Ladue asked no troublesome questions. Perhaps she thought that she had no need to; that she knew, as well as if she had been told, what Charlie had been doing. Sally had been to see about it, of course, and now it was all right, equally of course. Sally always remedied wrongs as well as anybody could and made them right again. It was a great comfort. And Mrs. Ladue sighed happily and smiled.

Sally thought the smile somewhat ill-timed, but she was glad enough that her mother felt like smiling. That smile exasperated her a little. She had just come back and the past twenty-four hours had been rather crowded. But her mother did not know that. And she was glad enough that her mother had not asked questions, for, if she had been asked, she would have lied, if necessary, for the first time in her life. Her mother did make a remark which, as Sally thought, showed that she knew. Sally had her hand on the door and was on the point of going out.

She turned. "Why, mother!" she exclaimed. "So you knew, all the time, what the trouble was!" She laughed in derision; at herself, chiefly.

"And I took such pains to keep the truth from you!"

"I didn't know, Sally. I only guessed. It's what I have been afraid of for years--the first thing I should have looked for. What else could you expect, with his--"

She did not go on. Sally, fresh from that interview with her father,--it had happened only that morning,--was almost overcome by the memory of it.

"Why, Sally, dear!" cried her mother. "I didn't suppose you felt so.

Don't, dear. It's nothing that we can help--the wanting to, I mean.

And I'm sure you have done more than anybody else could."

Sally regained her self-control with an effort. "I don't feel so bad about Charlie. I've done all that I can--now. But it's rather taken it out of me," she added, with a nervous little laugh.

"Of course, dear. I wish I were good for anything. I know," she said, laughing nervously, in her turn, "that I ought to feel troubled. But I can't, Sally, dear. As long as--" she hesitated and flushed. "I am rather ashamed to say it, but as long as--as your father hasn't turned up, I can't be anything but contented and happy. I find that I've had an absurd feeling--utterly absurd, dear, I know--that he was about to.

It's only since you were on the way that that dread has left me and I've felt contented--so happy and contented. The change came with curious suddenness, about the time your train must have left."

Sally had turned away sharply. "I'm very glad, mother," she replied in a stifled little voice. "I'm glad you can feel so happy. There's no need to feel that dread any more, I think. I'm going out now. Don't be worried if I am late."

"Going to walk, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked diffidently. "You had better tell me what direction you will take--in case Fox comes in, you know.

He always wants to know your direction if you are at all late."

"I'm going out to see him," Sally returned. "I promised to tell him about it."

If Sally had stopped to think of it at all she might have wondered why her mother seemed so glad that she was going to Fox's. But her mind was taken up with thoughts of her father, to the exclusion of everything and everybody else--but one, and Sally was not aware of the exception. Fox was the only person she was free to tell about her father and she was looking forward to it. When she had shared her knowledge--with somebody--it would be less of a burden. It never occurred to her that he might not be glad to know. Wasn't he always glad to know of anything which concerned her--anything at all? And as Sally thought these thoughts a vivid blush spread over her face and her throat. It was a pity that there was n.o.body to see it.

Fox met her at the door. There was a questioning smile on his face as he took her hand. He led the way into his office and Sally sank into an armchair that stood by the table. Fox drew another chair near and sat down. Then he took a little slip of paper from his pocket and laid it by her elbow.

"The rent," he said.

Sally laughed, but she let it lie there.

"Well?" Fox asked.

"Well!" She found that she had very little to say and that little did not come readily. "It is nice to get into a chair that is comfortable without swallowing you whole--as if it would never give you up." She patted an arm of the chair nervously. "I like these low arms."

"Yes," said Fox, "so do I. And--there is no hurry, Sally. Would you like to rest there--just sit and be comfortable for a while? You can have had very little real rest for some time and you must have had much to tire you. Just exactly as you please. I am entirely at your service--as I am always," he added, in a low voice. "I can be attending to my work, and you could begin whenever you were ready, or I will give my undivided attention now."

"Have you got work," Sally began hastily, "that--"

"Oh, there's no hurry about it." And Fox smiled quietly. "But there's enough to do. Routine, mostly."

"Could you do it with me here? Wouldn't you--"

"Couldn't I!" Fox smiled again. "It adds a great deal to my peace of mind to have you in the same room with me, even when you aren't saying anything. And peace of mind, Sally, is--"

"Yes, I know," said Sally, interrupting. "Well, let's try it. You go to your desk and work and I'll sit here and rest. And when the spirit moves me I'll speak."

So Fox went to his desk and Sally watched him as he became more and more absorbed; and, as she watched, there came a light into her eyes which had not been there before. Still she said nothing; only leaned her head back against the chair and watched. Once he looked back at her and smiled. He almost caught that light--that look in her eyes, but Sally managed to quench it in time.

"Resting, Sally?" he asked.

She nodded and he turned back to his desk. The work did not seem difficult. Sally wondered, and in her wonder she forgot, for the moment.

"Couldn't I do that, Fox?"

"To be sure you could," he answered quickly, "if you only would. It isn't half as difficult as what you do at your office."

He had not looked around. Sally was glad of that, for she was blushing--at her own temerity, she told herself. Again there was silence in the room, except for the rustling of papers.

"Fox," said Sally, after five minutes of this, "what would you do with Charlie now? Would you send him back to college?"

He put his papers down and turned. "Does the spirit move you to talk now?"

Again she nodded. "I think so. The little rest has done me good. And I should like to have your advice."

He came to the chair near hers. "What happened after I left you last night?"

"Nothing in particular," she answered. "I don't remember that we said anything of consequence. I had a talk with Charlie, early this morning." She gave him the substance of it; if it could be said to have any substance. "This is the council of war," she added, smiling somewhat wearily, "that is to settle his fate."

Fox sat contemplating the wall. "It seems rather hard to say 'no' to your question," he said at last, slowly, "but I should be inclined to advise it. Have you any a.s.surance--besides Charlie's promise, that is--that he will not return to his bad habits?"