a rueful shake of the
head. "'I don't know what the darling girl sees in me, dad, but she has
turned down enough other fellows to know her own mind. At last I
realize what Mrs. Browning's wonderful sonnets--'"

"He DOESN'T say that?" ejaculated the listener, incredulously.

"'She doesn't know I am writing you,'" Mr. Fox read on grimly,
"'because I don't want her to worry about your objecting. But you won't
object when you know her. She doesn't care anything about money, and
says she will stick by me if we have to begin on an
eighty-dollar-a-month job. You don't know how I love her, dad; it has
changed my whole life. It's not just because she's beautiful, and all
that. You will say that I am pretty young, but I know I can count on
you for some sort of job to begin with, and things will work out all
right.'"

"H-m!" said Mrs. Fox. "Yes, you're right, Tony. This is serious!"

"All worked out, you see," said the man, gloomily, as he drummed
absently on the letter.

"Oh, Anthony, I can't help thinking of the Page boy, and that awful
woman! Anthony, shall I go? Could I do any good if I went?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "No, I'll go myself. Don't worry, Fanny,
there's still time. Isn't it a curious thing that it's a quiet little
fellow like Bud that--well, we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to
this woman. She may think he has money of his own, you know. I'll buy
her off if I can. Perhaps I can get him to go off somewhere with me for
a trip. I'll see. Barker can look me up a train, and things here will
have to wait. You'll see about my things, will you, Fanny--have 'em
packed? Oh, and here's the letter--pretty sick reading you'll find it!"

"Be gentle with him!" said Mrs. Fox, deep in the boy's letter.
"Thirty-two! Why, she might be his mother--in some countries she might,
anyway. Anthony!"--her voice stopped him at the door--"IS her name
Sally Mix?"

"Apparently," he said. "Can you beat it? It sounds like a drink!"

"Well," said Mrs. Fox, firmly, as if the name clenched the matter, "it
must be STOPPED, that's all! Sally Mix! I hope she's WHITE!"

II

Just a week later, in Palo Alto, California, Anthony Fox slammed the
gate of Miss Mix's garden loudly behind him, and eyed the Mix homestead
with disapproval. The house was square and white, with doors and
windows open to spring sunlight and air, and was surrounded by a garden
space of flowers and trees and trim brick walks. The click of the gate
brought a