There was a suspicion of moisture again in Sally's eyes. "You make it unnecessarily hard, father," she said gently. "I shall act further if you compel me to." She was reminded of the time when she had asked his permission to go to dancing-school. Her feelings, she found, were much the same as they had been on that occasion. "I am ready to put it in writing if you wish." "Oh, no," said the professor airily. "It is not necessary, Sally. Your word would be all that anybody could require; anybody who knew you." "Thank you," she murmured. It was very low and he gave no sign of having heard it. Again he was silent; then he turned to her. A smile of amusement curled his lip. "There is, at least, no question of sentiment in all this, is there, Sally?" "Oh, I don't know," she murmured more gently than ever. She was not looking at him, but down at the arm of her chair. "There may be, but I must not let it interfere with my judgment--in this matter. There is mother to think of." "Ah! I infer that your mother would not welcome an occasion for reuniting that family which I mentioned." 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.