It was the middle of the next forenoon before Sally got a chance to tell Fox about it; and Fox listened, not too sympathetically. That seemed to him to be the best way to treat it. He would have made light of it, even, for Sally was oppressed by the sense of her own responsibility; but Sally would have none of it. "Don't, Fox, please," she said. "Well," he replied, "I won't, then. But don't you worry, Sally. We'll have your mother fixed up, all right, yet." "How?" she asked. "I haven't decided. But I'm going to bend the whole power of a great mind to the question. When I've found the best way to do it, I'm going to do it. You'll see." Sally sighed with relief. She had not got beyond the stage of thinking that Fox could do anything that he tried to do. Perhaps he could. They were down by the gate, Fox leaning upon it and Sally standing on a bar and swinging it gently. Occasionally she looked down the road. "Here comes father," she said suddenly, in a low voice. "Stay where you are, Sally." Fox checked her impulse to run. The professor was walking fast and he came in at the gate almost immediately. Sally had dismounted. He looked annoyed and would have passed without a word. "Good-morning," said Fox cheerfully. The professor turned, giving Fox one of his smiles which was not a smile at all. If the professor had chanced to turn one of those smiles upon a too confiding dog, the dog would have put his tail between his legs and run. Vivisection came after. "Good-morning," said the professor acidly. "I shall be obliged to delay our session for an hour." "Very well, sir, whenever it is convenient for you." And Fox smiled cheerfully again. The professor turned once more. His eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven, and--well, tousled. In short, the professor looked as if he had been sitting up all night. He had. "You see," said Sally solemnly. Her father was out of hearing, as may be supposed. CHAPTER VIII