"Oh, Sally," he said. It appeared as if he might even be afraid of her, just a little, with her seriousness and her direct ways and her great eyes that seemed to see right through a man. He gave a little laugh which he intended to be light. It wasn't. "Oh, all right, Sally. You're a very good girl, my dear." Sally did not smile, but looked at him steadily, waiting for him to say what he had to say. "Tell your mother, Sally," the professor went on, "that I find I have to go into town to attend to an important matter at the college. I may be late in getting out. In fact, she mustn't be worried if I don't come to-night. It is possible that I may be kept too late for the last train. I am sorry that she has a headache. They seem to be getting more frequent." Sally bowed her head gravely. "Yes," she said, "they do." "Well, tell her that I am very sorry. If I could do anything for her, I should, of course, be only too happy. But I can't and there doesn't appear to be any good purpose served by my giving up my trip to town." In this the professor may, conceivably, have been wrong. "Give her my message, my dear, and take good care of Charlie. Good-bye, Sally." The professor stooped and imprinted a cold kiss upon her forehead. Sally received it impassively without expressing any emotion whatever. "Good-bye, father," she said. "I will tell mother." Professor Ladue went out and walked jauntily down the road toward the station. No good purpose will be served, to use his own words, by following him farther at this time. Sally went soberly back to the library, where she had left Charlie; she went very soberly, indeed. No Charlie was to be seen; but, with a skill born of experience, she dived under the sofa and haled him forth, covered with dust and squealing at the top of his lungs. "I hided," he shouted. "Sh--h, Charlie. You'll disturb mother. Poor mother's got a pain in her head." The sombre gray eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she hugged the boy tight. "Oh, Charlie, Charlie! I'm afraid that father's going to do it again." Charlie whimpered in sympathy. Perhaps, too, Sally had hugged him too tight for comfort. His whimper was becoming a wail when she succeeded in hushing him. Then she heard a soft step coming slowly down the stairs. "Now, Charlie," she said reproachfully, "it's too bad. Here's mother coming down. I wish," she began, impatiently; then she checked herself suddenly, for the boy's lips were puckering. "Never mind. Laugh, now." It is not strange that the boy could not accommodate himself to such sudden changes. He was only six. But he tried faithfully, and would have succeeded if he had been given more time. The door opened gently. "Sally, dear," said a soft voice, "I thought that I heard the front door shut. Has your father gone out?"