"No," said Sally. "Are you?"

"Seem to be," Fox returned. "Come on, or we'll lose him."

So they hurried, twisting and winding through streets that Sally did not know. They seemed to be highly respectable streets. Sally wondered where they were going. She wanted to ask Fox, but, evidently, he didn't want to take the time to talk. Henrietta's eyes were brighter than usual and she looked from Fox to Sally with a curiosity which she could not conceal; but Sally, at least, did not notice, and Henrietta said nothing.

"There he is," said Fox, at last.

They had just turned the corner of a street lined with what appeared to Sally to be rather imposing houses. It was a highly respectable street, like the others they had come through, and it was very quiet and dignified. Indeed, there was no one in sight except Professor Ladue, who was sauntering along with the manner of the care-free. His coat was unb.u.t.toned and blowing slightly, although there was that chill in the air that always precedes snow and the wind was rising.

Their steps echoed in the quiet street, and, instinctively, they walked more softly. Strangely enough, they all seemed to have the same feeling; a feeling that the professor might suddenly vanish if he heard them and looked around.

"Now, Sally," Fox continued, speaking somewhat hurriedly, "you run and catch him before he turns that next corner. The street around that corner is only a court with a dozen houses on it. If you don't catch him before he goes into the house in the middle of that block, give it up. Don't try to go in after him, but come back. Henrietta and I will be waiting for you. If you get him, we won't wait. But don't say anything about our being here unless he asks you. He might not like to know that I had followed him."

"But," protested Sally, bewildered, "aren't you going with us? I thought you were going shopping with us."

"If we had caught him before he had left the college. Now, it might be embarra.s.sing--to both your father and to me."

"But your tickets!" wailed Sally in a distressed whisper. They had been speaking like conspirators.

Fox laughed softly. "I have a few cents about me. You can make that right some other time. Now, run!"

So Sally ran. She ran well and quietly and came up with her father just after he had turned that last corner. The professor must have been startled at the unexpectedness of the touch upon his arm, for he turned savagely, prepared, apparently, to strike.

"Father!" cried Sally; but she did not shrink back. "Father! It's only me!"

The look in Professor Ladue's eyes changed. Some fear may have come into it; a fear that always seemed to be latent where Sally was concerned. His look was not pleasant to see directed toward his own little daughter. The savage expression was still there, and a frown, denoting deep displeasure.

"Sally!" he exclaimed angrily. Then he was silent for a time; a time, it is to be presumed, long enough for him to collect his scattered faculties and to be able to speak as calmly as a professor should speak to his daughter, aged ten.

"Sally," he said at last, coldly, "may I ask how you came here?"

"Why," Sally replied, speaking hastily, "I was coming in town, this afternoon,--I planned it, long ago, with mother,--and--"

"Is your mother with you?" the professor interrupted.

To a careful observer he might have seemed more startled than ever; but perhaps Sally was not a careful observer. At all events, she gave no sign.

"Mother had a headache and couldn't come," said Sally quietly. She must have been afraid that her father would ask other questions. It was quite natural that he should want to know who did come with her.

So she went on rapidly. "But I thought I'd come just the same, so I did, and I went to your laboratory, but you'd just gone and I followed on after and I caught you just as you turned this corner, and now I would like to have you go down to the shops with me. I want to buy something for mother and Charlie. Will you go with me, father?"

The professor did not ask any of the questions that Sally feared.

Possibly he had as much fear of the answers as Sally had of the questions. So he asked none of the questions that one would think a father would ask of his little daughter in such circ.u.mstances. As Sally neared the end of her rapid speech, his eyes had narrowed.

"So," he said slowly, "I gather from what you have left unsaid that your mother sent you after me."

There was the faintest suspicion of a sneer in his voice, but he tried to speak lightly. As had happened many times before, he did not succeed.

"She didn't," answered Sally, trying to be calm. Her eyes burned. "She didn't want me to come. I came on my own hook."

"It might have been wiser, Sally," the professor observed judicially, "to do what your mother wished."

Sally made no reply. She would have liked to ask him if he did--if he ever did what her mother wished.

Sally saying nothing and seeming somewhat abashed, the professor found himself calmer. "So that course did not commend itself to your judgment? Didn't think it best to mind your mother. And you went to the laboratory and--who let you in?" he asked suddenly.

"One of the cleaners."

"Oh, one of the cleaners. A very frowzy lady in a faded black skirt and no waist worth mentioning, I presume." The professor seemed relieved. "And you went in, and didn't find me. Very natural. I was not there. And having made up your mind, from internal evidence, I presume, which way I had gone,--but who told you?--oh, never mind.

It's quite immaterial. A very successful trail, Sally; or shall I say shadow? You must have the makings of a clever detective in you. I shouldn't have suspected it. Never in the world."

The professor was quite calm by this time; rather pleased with himself, especially as he had chanced to remark the tears standing in his little daughter's eyes.

"And I never suspected it!" he repeated. Then he laughed; but it was a mirthless laugh. If he had known how empty it would sound, the professor would never have done it.

At his laugh, two of the aforesaid tears splashed on the sidewalk, in spite of Sally's efforts to prevent. The tears may not have been wholly on her own account. She may have felt some pity for her father's pitiful pretense.

She bit her lip. "Will you go with me now, father?" she asked, as soon as she could trust herself to speak at all.

It was always somewhat difficult to account for the professor's actions and to a.s.sign the motive which really guided. The professor, himself, was probably unaware, at the time, of having any motive. So why seek one? It need not concern us.

"Go with you, Sally? Why, yes, indeed. Certainly. Why not?" he agreed with an alacrity which was almost unseemly; as if he challenged anybody to say that that was not just what he had meant to do, all along. "I have some presents to buy--for your mother and Charlie. And for somebody else, too," he murmured, in a tone that was, no doubt, meant for Sally to hear. She heard it.

Sally smiled up at him and took his hand, which she seldom did. It is true that she seldom had the chance. Then she glanced quickly around, to see whether Fox and Henrietta were in sight. The street was deserted.

Professor Ladue b.u.t.toned his coat; but the wind was rising still, and the chill increasing, and his coat was rather light for the season.

What more natural than that he should wish it b.u.t.toned? But Sally would have unb.u.t.toned her coat gladly. She would not have felt the chill; and she almost skipped beside him, as they walked rapidly down toward streets which were not deserted, but crowded with people. As they went, he talked more and more light nonsense, and Sally was happy; which was a state much to be desired, but unusual enough to be worthy of remark.

They were very late in getting home. With the crowds and the snow which had begun to fall, there was no knowing what the trains would be up to. Trains have an unpleasant habit of being late whenever there is any very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. But I suppose there is always somebody on any train who has a very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. There was on this train. Sally had a bad case of the fidgets, thinking of her mother, who must be waiting and waiting and wondering why her little daughter didn't come. It would be bad for her head. The professor, too,--but I don't know about the professor; he may have been in no hurry.

When at last they did get home, after a long wade through snow up to her shoetops, Sally ran up to her mother's room, shedding her wet and snowy things as she ran. She knocked softly and, at the first sound of her mother's voice, she went in and shut the door gently behind her.

The room was nearly pitch dark, but she could see the bed, dimly, and she ran to it and ran into her mother's arms.

"Bless you, Sally, darling!" Mrs. Ladue cried softly. "You don't know how glad I am to have you back."

"I got him, mother, dear," Sally whispered. "I got him. But it was only by the skin of my teeth."

CHAPTER VI

If Sally did get the professor only by the skin of her teeth, she had no need to keep that precarious hold upon him. Providence or the elements, or whatever you wish to call it, took that matter in hand and attended to it with the thoroughness usual in cases in which it undertakes to attend to anything. For Sally awoke the next morning to find her world bound fast in ice. Every twig bore its load except such as had refused to bear it. The birches, in scattered clumps, bowed down to the ground, and the hard crust of the snow was littered with broken branches.

Sally stood at her window, looking out. It was beautiful, there was no denying it; but, as she looked at the birches, every one of them bent to the ground, with the freshly fallen snow covering it, and its top held fast under the crust, her lip curled a little. She didn't think much of a tree which couldn't hold itself up. It seemed to her too much like saving yourself at the price of your self-respect. Better be a self-respecting, upstanding tree, even if you did lose an arm or two; better to go down altogether, if need be, but fighting. Yes, in spite of their beauty, she despised the birches. And, with some such thoughts as these, she turned from the window and dressed quickly.

Nothing came that morning. A horse could hardly get through that crust with safety to his legs. In consequence, the professor had no cream.

Sally fully expected an outburst of rage, which, with the professor, took the form of acidly sarcastic remarks. His remarks, while preserving outward forms of politeness, usually resulted in reducing Mrs. Ladue to tears as soon as she had gained the seclusion of her own room. It was not that Professor Ladue held his wife accountable for such things as heavy snowstorms or sleet-storms--upon full consideration. Such things are usually denominated "acts of G.o.d," and, in contracts, the contractors are expressly relieved from responsibility for failure of performance in consequence. The professor himself, upon full consideration, would have held such exemption quite proper. But his wife was not a contractor and was ent.i.tled to no such exemptions. A professor was ent.i.tled to cream for his breakfast.

Sally, coming down with Charlie, found her father eating his breakfast in solitude and in apparent content, and without cream; certainly without cream. Mrs. Ladue had not appeared. Perhaps she was tired of being reduced to tears on such occasions and had more confidence in Sally than she had in herself. Certainly the professor was less apt to indulge his taste for acid sarcasm with Sally. There is little satisfaction to be got out of it when the only effect upon the hearer is a barely perceptible rise in color and a tightening of the lips. At all events, he did not do what was expected of him.