Mrs. Ladue did not push the question further. There were tears in her eyes as she joined Sally. "Oh, mother," cried Sally joyously, "wasn't it fun? Did you ever know that father could be so funny?" "Yes, darling child. He was full of fun and nonsense before we were married, and for some years after." She bent and kissed her daughter, but would say no more. CHAPTER III Sally was not completely deprived of the society of other children, although her temperament made this question a rather difficult one. Her father did not bother himself about Sally's goings and comings, which was quite what would have been expected. Indeed, he bothered himself very little about the doings of his family; as a general thing, he did not know what they did, nor did he care, so long as they refrained from interference with his own actions. They had learned to do that. Mrs. Ladue did bother herself about Sally's doings a good deal, in spite of the difficulty of the question; and one would have thought that she had her fill of difficult questions. She went to the door and looked out. She saw Charlie playing alone near the foot of a tree. He was tied to the tree by a long string, one end of which was about his body, under his arms. "Charlie," she called, "where's Sally?" Charlie looked up, impatiently, and shook his head. Mrs. Ladue repeated her question. "Up there," he answered, pointing into the tree above his head. "And I'm a giraffe in a menagerie and giraffes can't talk, mother." "Oh, excuse me, little giraffe," she said, smiling. "Great, _big_ giraffe. _Not_ little giraffe." Meanwhile there had been a sound of scrambling in the tree and Sally dropped to the ground. "Did you want me, mother?" she asked. "I only thought that you have had the care of Charlie for a long time. Don't you want to go up to Margaret Savage's and play with her?" This was, perhaps, the hundredth time that Mrs. Ladue had asked that question. "No, mother," Sally replied, also for the hundredth time, "I don't. But if you want me to go, I will." Mrs. Ladue laughed outright at her daughter's directness. "Why?" she asked. "I am really curious to know why you don't like to play with other little girls." "They are so stupid, mother," Sally answered quietly. "I have a lot better time alone." "Well, my dear little daughter," began Mrs. Ladue, laughing again; and there she stopped. "I should like, Sally,--I should like it very much, if I could manage to send you to dancing-school this winter." "Very well, mother," said Sally again. "But I don't know what your father would think of the idea." "No," Sally returned. "You can't ever tell, can you?" "Wouldn't you like to go and be with the other children and do what they do?" Sally was quite serious. "I don't think it would be very interesting," she said. "But if you want me to go, I will." Mrs. Ladue sighed; then she laughed. "Well, Sally, dear," she said, "run along and play in your own way. At any rate, I can trust you."