Mrs. Ladue was gentle and pretty and sweet-looking; and with a tired look about the eyes that seldom left her now. She had not had that look about the eyes when she married young Mr. Ladue, thirteen years before. There were few women who would not have had it if they had been married to him for thirteen years. That had been a mistake, as it had turned out. For his own good, as well as hers, he should have had a different kind of a wife: none of your soft, gentle women, but a woman who could habitually bully him into subjection and enjoy the process. The only difficulty about that is that he would never have married a woman who habitually bullied. He wanted to do any bullying that there was to be done. Not that he actually did any, as it is usually understood, but there was that in his manner that led one to think that it was just beneath the surface; and by "one" I mean his wife and daughter,--no doubt, I should have said "two." As for Sally, the traditional respect that is due a father from a daughter was all that prevented her from finding out whether it was there. To be sure, his manner toward her was different. It seemed almost as if he were afraid of Sally; afraid of his own daughter, aged ten. Stranger things have happened. If Mrs. Ladue knew that she had made a mistake, thirteen years before, she never acknowledged it to herself when she thought of her children. She beckoned Charlie to her now. "Come here, darling boy," she said, stooping. Charlie came, with a rush, and threw his arms about his mother's neck. "Oh, Charlie," cried Sally quickly, "remember mother's head. Be careful!" Mrs. Ladue smiled gently. "Never mind, Sally. Let him be as he is. It makes my head no worse to have my little boy hugging me. Has your father gone out?" she asked again. Sally's eyes grew resentful. "Yes," she answered. "He left a message for you. He said I was to tell you that he was very sorry you had a headache and that if he could do anything for you he would be only too happy." Sally's voice insensibly took on a mocking quality. "And--and there was something about his being called into town by pressing matters and you were not to be worried if he missed the last train and--and--" She burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, mother, dear, I don't believe a word of it. I'm afraid he'll come back like--like--" Her whole form quivered with the energy of her utterance. There was no doubt that she meant what she said so violently. "I _hate_--" "Hush, darling, hush! Never say that." Mrs. Ladue drew her little daughter close and patted her shoulder. Sally's crying ceased abruptly, but the muscles were all tense under her mother's hand. She smiled bravely.