"Then," said her father solemnly, "there would now be nothing left of you but a skeleton which I would be puzzling my brains over. It would be somewhat disconcerting, Sally, to find a skeleton of a little girl among these bones of a past age; very disconcerting, indeed, to find that of Miss Sally Ladue." "But how would you know it was Miss Sally Ladue's skeleton?" asked Sally, her eyes twinkling. "That is a poser," her father answered. "I should know it, though. If there were no other means of identifying it, I should know it for Miss Ladue's by the large bump of inquisitiveness on the skull." "What's my bump of inquisitiveness?" The professor turned towards her. "Hand me that skull on my desk, and I'll show you." Sally obediently handed him the skull. "There it is," he continued. "You can see it, although it is not as large as your own. Come here and let us see if it is." Sally came. "The phrenologists," he began, feeling of her head, "would--hello!" "Ouch!" cried Sally, squirming but giggling irrepressibly, nevertheless. "It is a very large bump," said the professor gravely; "unexpectedly large, even for you. What makes it so large, Sally?" "I--I fell out of a tree yesterday," Sally said. "I suppose it was that." "Ah, yes," the professor returned; "and because the bump was so large by nature it stuck out in a most inappropriate and uncomfortable way and was made more inappropriate and uncomfortable. It might be safer for you if you could fly, like my little lizard." "I wish I could," said Sally; "I wish I could fly into the top of any tree I wanted to." "You find the trees very attractive?" "Yes, I do," Sally replied, simply. "You can see a lot from the top of a tall tree. The trouble is that you can't find big enough branches when you get nearly to the top." "No," observed the professor, "I can't. If I could, I suppose I might climb trees oftener. It is very disconcerting to get almost up, just where the leaves are thickest, and find that I can't get any higher and can't see anything to speak of, either. And twigs that you wouldn't hesitate to trust yourself upon, Sally, are not nearly big enough for me. That," he finished, reflectively, "is, I think, the only reason why I have given up tree-climbing at such an early age." Sally chuckled delightedly. "Did you climb trees when you were a boy, father?" "Huh! Climb trees! Gracious, yes. Used to run right up one side and down the other. Tallest trees I could find, too. Hundreds of feet high. Did I use to climb trees!" The professor turned away in excess of scorn. "Oh!" cried Sally, clapping her hands. "Climb trees!" murmured the professor. "Why, there was one tree that I remember--" He was interrupted, at this point, by a gentle knock at the door. "That sounds like your mother's knock, Sally. Will you be kind enough to see?"