The next month passed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited for it to pass. It would have been a relief--yes, distinctly it would have been a relief, at first. But that feeling passed, too. In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to happiness--to freedom from real worries--as far as we can compass that end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a thought. Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the professor. Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!" Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will." But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played--or was supposed to be playing--with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox, saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what he thought about her mother's health. He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time. "Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it--some good doctor." "Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you--I hope you don't think--"