"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see your mother--if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after all." Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching Fox's face. "Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about it. Well,--I will." "That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know." "He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is, he never did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but why should she not make it? Fox knew. "You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out." So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion would have come. There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly, "don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do." If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice. Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed. Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes, they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!--uncomfortably aware--and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the professor's soul was--well, it was his; the only one he had. But he did squirm, actually and in the flesh. He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "What is the matter with your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?" Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse." "Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has headaches. What's a headache?" "I don't know," Sally replied, "and she doesn't and I think she ought to." "The definition," remarked the professor coldly, "is to be found in the dictionary, I have no doubt. You might look it up and tell her."