o her mother; and naturally she
sided with the latter. Once, and once only, her mother had said to her,
"Sally darling, I don't wish to talk about your father, but to forget
him. I have forgiven him, because of you. Because--how could I have
done without you, kitten?" And thereafter, as Sally's curiosity was
a feeble force when set against the possibility that its gratification
might cause pain to her mother, she suppressed it easily.

But now and again little things would be said in her presence that
would set her a-thinking--little things such as what the Professor
has just said. She may easily have been abnormally sensitive on the
point--made more prone to reflection than usual--by last night's
momentous announcement. Anyhow, she resolved to talk to Tishy about
her parentage as soon as they should get back to the drawing-room,
where they were practising. All the two hours they ought to have played
in the morning Tishy would talk about nothing but Julius Bradshaw.
And look how ridiculous it all was! Because she _did_ call him
"shop-boy"--you know she did--only six weeks ago. Sally didn't see why
_her_ affairs shouldn't have a turn now; and although she was quite
aware that her friend wanted her to begin again where they had left off
before lunch, she held out no helping hand, but gave the preference to
her own thoughts.

"I suppose my father drank," said Sally to Tishy.

"If you don't know, dear, how should I?" said Tishy to Sally. And that
did seem plausible, and made Sally the more reflective.

The holly-leaves were gone now that had been conducive to thought at
Christmas in this same room when we heard the two girls count four
so often, but Sally could pull an azalea flower to pieces over her
cogitations, and did so, instead of tuning up forthwith. Laetitia was
preoccupied--couldn't take an interest in other people's fathers, nor
her own for that matter. She tuned up, though, and told Sally to look
alive. But while Sally looks alive she backs into a conversation of
the forenoon, and out of the pending discussion of Sally's paternity.
Their two preoccupations pull in opposite directions.

"You _will_ remember not to say anything, won't you, Sally dear? Do
promise."

"Say anything? Oh no; _I_ shan't say anything. I never do say things.
What about?"

"You know as well as I do, dear--about Julius Bradshaw."

"Of course I shan't, Tishy. Except mother; she doesn't count. I say,
Tishy!"

"Well, dear. Do look a