"Oh, Sally!" It was a cry of relief. "Couldn't you telegraph first? And couldn't you ask Doctor Beatty to go, instead, or Doctor Sanderson?" "I could ask Doctor Beatty to go, but I don't intend to," she said finally, "and Fox is not here. His hospital isn't ready yet, you know. They couldn't get him any more easily than I can. And as to telegraphing, I don't think that would help." "Well," said Patty doubtfully, "I don't--do you think you ought to go alone?" Sally turned and looked at her. "Why not?" Before the gray eyes Patty's eyes fell. "I--I don't know, exactly. But it hardly seems quite--quite proper for a girl to go alone to--to a college room." Sally chuckled. "I must risk it," she said. "I think I can. And if Charlie is in any trouble I'll do my best to get him out of it." "Oh, Sally!" It was not a cry of relief. Sally paid no attention to that cry of Patty's. "I must go back to get ready," she said. "I haven't any too much time." But Sally did not take the noon train up. Just as she was leaving Mrs. Stump's, she met Charlie coming in. He looked rather seedy and quite forlorn. CHAPTER XI When Charlie went back, he was feeling rather elated, for he had two hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket. That was all the cash Patty could raise without making an appeal to Dick Torrington or making some other arrangement which would have betrayed her, and that would not have done. It would not have done at all. Sally might have heard of it, and Patty, to tell the truth, was afraid of Sally. Sally was so--so decided, you know, and so downright, and she could be so hard about anything that concerned Charlie. Sally was not fair to Charlie--the dear boy! What if he was a little extravagant? All young men must have their fling. So Patty, with but the vaguest ideas of what the fling was,--she could think only of fireworks and yelling, although three hundred dollars will buy a great deal of fireworks and yelling is cheap,--Patty, I say, feeling very low in pocket and in spirits, bade Charlie an affectionate farewell and returned to Miss Miller's. She spent the afternoon in casting up her accounts and in biting the end of her pencil; occupations from which she derived but little satisfaction. She could not seem to make the accounts come out right and the end of a pencil, even the best, becomes a little cloying to the taste in time.