importantly, "we like to be 'em."

"It must be most exciting to be so extraordinary a thing. Do you suppose you could get that flying one to come down where we can see it? Do you know, I never have seen a flying saw-horse in all the nineteen years that I have lived."

"She won't come down unless she wants to," Charlie grumbled.

Sally was recovering, in a measure, from her fit of chuckling. She leaned far forward, below the screen of leaves.

"Oh, yes, I will," she called, in a low, clear voice. "Besides, I want to. Charlie was mistaken about the saw-horse. He meant saurus. And I was a flying lizard and this was a coal tree. From the top of the tree you can't see anything but treetops and swamps. It's millions of years ago, you know. And father's got the skeleton of this very lizard up in his room, and he said that it used to fly right up in the topmost branches of the coal trees and he told me about the sauruses that used to be." She had dropped to the ground. "Oh, it's very interesting."

"It must be," the young man smilingly replied; "and I should suppose that it must be rather interesting for your father to have such a pupil."

"It isn't," Sally returned. "That is—father only told me those things the other day."

The young man laughed. "I guess you must be Professor Ladue's little girl."

"Yes," said Sally, "we are. That is, I am, and this is my brother Charlie."

"The only and original saw-horse. You, I suppose, were a—we'll call it a gynesaurus—"

Sally clapped her hands and gave a little laugh of delight.

"And this," he continued, laying his hand affectionately upon the small head beside him, "is my small sister, Henrietta Sanderson, who would be happy to be any kind of a beast that you tell her about. She is ten years old and she dotes on being strange beasts."

"Oh," cried Sally, "and I'm ten years old, too. Would Henrietta like to come over the wall now? There's a gate farther along."

"Henrietta despises gates. But does your invitation include her brother? I'm Fox Sanderson and I was on my way to see your father."

"Father isn't at home to-day," said Sally; "and, if you could come over, too—"

At that, Fox Sanderson put his hands on the top of the wall and vaulted lightly over. He turned to help Henrietta.

"Now," he said, when she was safely on the right side, "here we all are. What'll we do?"

Henrietta had her brother's hand. "Fox tells lovely stories," she remarked.

"Does he?" asked Sally. "What about?"

"About any kind of a thing that you ask him," answered Henrietta.

"About sauruses?" Sally asked eagerly, turning to him.

"All right," he agreed, smiling; "about sauruses. But I'm afraid it's just a little too cold for you youngsters to sit still and listen to stories. I'll have to keep you moving a bit."

Sally told her mother about it that night. She thought that she never had had such a good time in all her life. Fox Sanderson! Well, he told the most wonderful stories that ever were.

"And, mother," said Sally, all interest, "he had me be a gynesaurus and Henrietta was a—— But what are you laughing at?"

For Mrs. Ladue had burst out laughing. "My dear little girl!" she cried softly. "My dear little girl! A gynesaurus! This Fox Sanderson must be interesting, indeed."

"Then I can play with Henrietta? And father wouldn't mind, do you think? And your head can't be hurting, mother, because you just laughed right out."

CHAPTER IVToC

Professor Ladue again sat on the floor of his room before the skeleton of his lizard, absent-mindedly fingering a bone. Now and then he looked out of the window at the great tree; at that particular spot in the great tree upon which his daughter had been seated, one morning, not so very long before. He may have had a half-formed wish that he might again discover her there.

But I do not know what half-formed wishes he had, concerning the tree, his daughter, or anything else. At all events, Sally did not appear in the tree. Had not he expressed disapproval of that very performance? He could trust her. Perhaps, with a dim consciousness of that fact, and, perhaps, with a certain disappointment that she was to be trusted so implicitly,—she bore, in that respect, not the most remote resemblance to her father,—the professor sighed. Then, still holding the bone which bothered him, he went to his desk. There was a bone missing—possibly more than one—and he would try to draw the missing bone.

He had scarcely got to work when there was a knock at his door. It was a firm knock, but not loud, expressing a quiet determination. Professor Ladue seemed to know that knock. He seemed, almost, as if he had been waiting for it.

"Come!" he cried, with an alacrity which would not have been expected of him.

He pushed back his drawing-board and Sally came in.

"Ah, Miss Ladue!" he cried, with a certain spurious gayety which concealed—something. I don't know what it concealed, and neither did Sally, although she knew well enough that there was something behind it. She feared that it was anxiety behind it, and she feared the cause of that anxiety. "And what," continued the Professor, "can we do for Miss Ladue to-day? Will she have more about this lizard of mine?"

Sally's eyes lighted up and she smiled. "I should like that very much, father, thank you. But I can't, this morning, for I'm taking care of Charlie."

"And is Charlie concealed somewhere about you? Possibly you have him in your pocket?"

Sally giggled. "Charlie's tied to a tree."

"Tied to a tree! Does he submit gracefully?"

"He's an alligator; down by the wall, you know."

"Ah!" exclaimed the professor. "I am illumined. Do you think it is quite for the safety of the passers-by to keep an alligator so close to the road?"

Sally giggled again. "Yes," she returned, "if I'm not gone too long. I came on an errand."

Professor Ladue lost somewhat of his gayety. "State your errand, Sally. I hope—"

But the professor neglected to state what he had hoped. Sally stated her errand with her customary directness.

"Mother wants me to go to dancing-school. Can I?"

"I suppose," returned Professor Ladue airily, "that you can go wherever your legs will carry you. I see no indications of your inability in that direction or in any other. Whether you may go is another question."

Sally did not smile. "Well, then, may I? Have you any objection? Will you let me go?"

"That is a matter which deserves more consideration. Why do you wish to go?"

"Only because mother wants me to," Sally answered. "I like to please mother."

"Oh," said the professor. "Ah! And what, if I may ask, are your own inclinations in the matter?"

"Well," replied Sally slowly. "I—it doesn't seem to me that it would be very interesting to go there just because a lot of other children go. I could have a lot better time playing by myself. That is, I—of course, there's Henrietta, but Margaret Savage is stupid. But," she added hastily, "I do want to go because mother wants me to."

"Oh," the professor remarked, with a slight smile of amusement; "so Margaret Savage is stupid. But why didn't your mother ask me herself?"

"Perhaps she was afraid to," Sally said quietly. "I don't know what the reason was."

"But you think it was that she was afraid to." The smile on his face changed imperceptibly. The change made it a