"Good-morning, Sally," he said pleasantly.

Sally was much surprised. She was so much surprised that the blood surged into her cheeks in a flood. That was a greater effect than could have been produced by acid sarcasm in any amount. The professor might have noted that. Perhaps he did.

"Good-morning, father," Sally replied, smiling. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, yielding to her impulse, she put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-morning." And she went quickly to her seat, her cheeks blazing.

The professor was so astonished at this act of Sally's,--an act as difficult to foresee and to provide against as an act of G.o.d,--he was so thoroughly astonished, I say, that he spilled some of the coffee which had no cream in it. But let us hope he would not have wanted to provide against that act of G.o.d.

"Well, Sally," he said, laughing lightly, "it's surprising to think what the weather can do when it tries. Only yesterday afternoon, bare ground and scarcely a hint of what was coming. Now, here we are, tied up."

"Tied up?" Sally asked.

"Tied up," he repeated. "There's little doubt about it. No milkman."

He waved his hand. "And there'll be no grocer and no anybody else.

You'll see. No butcher--meat man--we don't have butchers, now. Just think of that, Sally. No meat until spring. How will you like that? We should have been keeping chickens and pigs and we ought to have cows and a calf or two. Then I would take my axe in my hand and my knife and I would sally out to the barn. You would hear sounds of murder and we should have fresh meat. Fresh meat!" The professor looked ferocious.

"And no trains," he added meditatively. "I haven't heard a train this morning and I don't expect to."

"Well," said Sally, "you don't have to take them. What do you care?"

"Ah, true," he replied in the same meditative tone. "Very just, Sally.

I don't have to take them, and what do I care? What do I? Answer, nothing."

The professor waved his hand again and drank his coffee. An irrepressible chuckle came from Sally. She said nothing, but waited for her father to resume. He always did resume when he was in this mood, which was not often.

He put down his empty cup. "And what do we do? We finish our breakfast, which may be a matter of some time, judging from quant.i.ty alone." He pointed to Sally's plate and to Charlie's. Charlie had been eating industriously ever since he sat down. "We finish our breakfast and we loaf awhile, and then we bundle up and try to shovel out; you, Sally, and I and Charlie."

Here he pointed a finger at Charlie, who emitted a roar of delight.

"An' can I shovel with my little snow-shovel? Can I?"

The professor poured for himself another cup of coffee. "You are to have the felicity of shoveling with your little snow-shovel, Charlie.

See that you do good work with it. And Sally shall take the _middle-sized_ snow-shovel, and I will take the GREAT BIG snow-shovel."

Another roar from Charlie, who began to eat faster.

"This coffee, Sally," continued the professor, "would be better if the storm had been less severe. But it does very well. It is most excellent coffee. It is probably better for my health than it would be with cream. For, do you know, Sally, I am well convinced that cream with coffee forms quite another substance, which is deleterious to health and destructive of the ability to sleep, although affecting in no way the desire to do so. And that, Sally, is most unpleasant."

Professor Ladue was speaking in his lecture-room voice and very seriously. Sally was smiling. As he finished, the smile grew into a chuckle and she choked. Charlie, having taken an extraordinarily large mouthful, and being diverted from the ensuing process by the choking of Sally, also choked.

"Sally," said the professor calmly, "your little brother needs your attention. He needs it rather badly, it seems to me." For Charlie had his mouth open and was getting red in the face.

Sally got up hastily and pounded Charlie on the back. That measure being ineffective, she shook him violently. He gasped twice.

"Want to race," he exploded.

The professor looked surprised. "An eating race, Charlie?" he asked.

"Why, my dear boy, I shouldn't stand a ghost of a chance with you. We might make it a handicap, but, even then--"

"Shoveling race," Charlie explained. "You have the great big snow-shovel an' Sally have the middle-sized shovel an' I have the little snow-shovel, an' we race to see who can get the most done."

"Brilliant idea, Charlie, positively glittering," his father returned. "But it would hardly be fair to start us all from scratch, I am afraid. Better make it a handicap, eh?"

"Yes," Charlie replied, not knowing in the least what a handicap was.

Neither did Sally. "What is a handicap, father?" she asked.

Her father explained.

"Oh," she said, approving, "then it makes the race fair, doesn't it?

Every one has as much chance of winning as everybody else. I think that is nice."

"It is an attempt in that direction, Sally. But there are many things about it, about--er--racing--of any kind, that it is just as well you shouldn't know. So I will not try to explain. If every one concerned acts fairly, Sally, and with good judgment, it is nice, as you say."

Sally was not going to be put off. "Why doesn't everybody act fairly?"

The professor waved his hand and shrugged his shoulders; but before he could make any other reply, the door opened softly. He welcomed the opening of the door. It put a stop to Sally's questioning, which was apt to become embarra.s.sing, in certain cases.

A glance at Sally's face would have told Professor Ladue who had opened the door, but it is to be supposed that he knew. Sally jumped up and ran; and the professor rose--rose with some alacrity--and turned.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said pleasantly. "We are all glad to see you. I hope you are feeling better."

Mrs. Ladue smiled happily. One would have thought that Professor Ladue would have tried that manner oftener. It produced much effect with little effort; but I spoke hastily. I do not know how much effort it was.

"Thank you, Charlie--Charlie, dear," she answered, hesitating a little; "I do feel very much better. I heard all the happy noise down here and I had to come down."

"Don't apologize, my dear," he protested; "don't apologize, or we shall have to believe that you didn't mean to come because you didn't want to."

Mrs. Ladue took her seat, but made no reply. There was a faint color in her cheeks and she looked almost shyly at her husband. Sally was gazing at her mother, but not in wonder. There was no fathoming Sally.

She reached out and pressed her mother's hand.

"You look so very pretty, mother," she whispered.

The color in Mrs. Ladue's cheeks became deeper. "Hush, dear," she whispered in return. "It must be because I am happy."

"I wish we could always be happy," Sally whispered again; "all of us."

There was no way of knowing whether her father had heard these whispers. He might have heard, but he gave no sign, looking into his empty cup and playing with the spoon.

"Sally," he said suddenly, "what do you suppose my little lizard would have done if he had waked up some morning and found his swamp covered with this?" The professor waved his hand toward the window.

Sally was much interested. "Would he have flown away?"

"Wrong," cried the professor, getting up and walking to the window.

"Guess again."

Sally gave the question some thought. "I don't know," she said at last.

"Wrong again. Next! Charlie!"