“Talking about auto rides,” quietly answered Tavia, recovering herself with an effort. “Wasn’t that a dandy this afternoon? And to think we might have missed that ‘Horatius at the bridge’ business if I had been silly enough to mention that the planking was gone!”
“Don’t talk of it!” exclaimed Dorothy, shuddering. “I cannot bear to think of what might have happened. And, Tavia, you must not think I have adopted the lecture platform for good, but I must say, it was careless of you not to mention about the bridge—especially as you knew what a hill led down to it, and how the Fire Bird can cover hills.”
“Of course you know I entirely forgot it, Doro,” and now Tavia showed some remorse at the reprimand.
“My! There’s the bell!” exclaimed Dorothy as a clang sounded down the corridor. “I had no idea it was so late,” and she jumped up to disrobe. “Quick, or Miss Higley will see our light.”
“Let her,” answered Tavia indifferently. “I don’t feel very well, and would just love something warm—say a nice little cup of tea—”
A tap at the door interrupted her remarks. Dorothy jumped into a large closet and Tavia calmly opened the portal.
It was Miss Higley, the second assistant teacher, with rather a forbidding expression on her wrinkled face, and who, among the girls, bore a reputation characterized as “sour.”
“Why is this?” she demanded, stepping in and brushing Tavia aside.
“I was just thinking of calling you,” answered Tavia, clapping her hand to her waist line. “I have such a dreadful—Oh, dear!” and she sat down without further explanation.
“Do you need anything?” asked Miss Higley, her tone more kindly.
“Oh, no; certainly not,” sighed Tavia. “I would not trouble you. But if I might have a sip of tea—that tea you brought Dorothy did her so much good the other night.”
She paused to allow a proper expression of agony to spread over her face, and gently rubbed her hand over the region covered by her belt.
“I suppose you made that tea yourself, didn’t you? It was so good, Dorothy told me.”
That settled it. For any one to praise Miss Higley’s brew! So few persons really do appreciate a good cup of tea. As usual Tavia had “won out.”
“Why of course I’ll get you a cup. I have just made a small pot—I felt rather—rather tired myself. I don’t, as a rule, drink tea at night, but I was not altogether well. Where is Dorothy?”
“Just slipping on a robe,” with a glance at the closet where her chum was concealed. “I’m afraid I disturbed her,” went on Tavia glibly.
“Well, I’ll get the tea,” Miss Higley remarked, as she started to leave the room. “I’ll bring the pot here and we can take it together.”
“Quick!” called Tavia to Dorothy as the door closed. “Slip on your robe. Tea with Higley! Of all the doin’s!” and she promptly turned a somersault on the hitherto unrumpled bed. “Won’t the girls howl! I do hope she brings biscuits. There, get down your box, you precious miser! Just think of ‘crackering’ Higley!”
Dorothy appeared dumfounded. It had all been arranged so quickly—and there was Miss Higley back again. She carried a tray with a small china teapot and three blue cups to match.
“I thought Dorothy might like a cup,” she remarked in a sort of apologetic way. “There now,” as Tavia and Dorothy relieved her of the tray, “it will be pleasant to have a sip together. Of course we would not do it but for Octavia’s illness.” (Tavia looked to be in dreadful pain at that moment.) “But since we have to give her a cup of tea, we may as well make a virtue of necessity.”
“It is very kind of you, Miss Higley,” Dorothy said, rather hesitatingly. “I’m sure that we—that is I—I mean Tavia—should not have put you to all this trouble—but of course one can’t help being ill,” she hastened to add, for she felt she was rather giving Tavia’s secret away.
“It really is too bad to make all this fuss,” the supposed sufferer interjected. “You went to a lot of trouble for me, Miss Higley, and I appreciate it very much,” and Tavia winked the eye next to Dorothy, but concealed the sign from the sight of the instructress. Tavia was trying hard not to laugh, and her repressed emotion shook the tray to the no small danger of upsetting the teapot, cups and all.
“I never consider my duty any trouble,” answered Miss Higley, seeming to feel the obligation of being dignified. In fact, it did not occur to her just then that she was doing a most unprecedented thing—taking tea with two school girls, and after hours at that! However, she had committed herself, and now there was no way out. Dorothy presented her package of chocolate crackers, and Miss Higley took some, while Tavia arranged the tea tray on the little table.
Surely the scene was mirth-provoking. Dorothy in her pretty blue robe, Tavia with her hair loose, collar off and shoes unlaced, and Miss Higley, prim as ever, in her brown mohair, with the long black cord on her glasses. There the three sat, sipping tea and “making eyes,”—“too full for utterance,” as Tavia would say.
“Such lovely tea,” Dorothy managed to gulp out at the risk of allowing her mouth to get loose in a titter, once the tight line of silence was broken.
Then, all at once they stopped drinking—some one was coming down the hall. Miss Higley arose instantly. The gentle tap on the door was answered by Tavia.
Mrs. Pangborn!
“Oh,” she apologized, “I did not mean to disturb a little social tea. Do sit down, Honorah,” to Miss Higley. “I’m very glad to see you enjoying yourself,” and Mrs. Pangborn meant what she said.
“Oh, indeed, I merely came to administer to a sick girl. Octavia was suddenly taken with cramps.”
Mrs. Pangborn glanced at Tavia.
“But that cup of tea has made me feel so much better,” declared Dorothy’s room-mate, with that kind of truth that mere words make—the kind that challenges falsehood.
“I am always glad to see you looking after the girls, Honorah,” went on the principal, “but I am equally glad to see you consider yourself. I’m sure you have a perfect right to take a cup of tea here. My dear,” to Dorothy, “perhaps you have a sip left?”
Dorothy found there was another cup of the beverage, still warm in the little teapot, and this she poured into her own pink and white china cup for Mrs. Pangborn.
Miss Higley remained standing, seemingly too abashed to move.
“Do finish yours,” said Tavia, pushing the empty chair toward the embarrassed teacher.
But Tavia’s mirth showed through her alleged illness, and Miss Higley began to feel that she had been imposed upon.
“If you—if you will excuse me,” she stammered.
“Oh, do finish your tea,” begged Mrs. Pangborn, and so the severe little teacher was obliged to sit down again.
An hour later Tavia was still trying to “untwist her kinks,” as she described her attacks of muffled laughter.
“Oh, wasn’t it gloriotious!” she exclaimed. “To think I couldn’t get a single twinge in my entire system! If I only could put that sort of a cramp in alcohol, wouldn’t it be an heirloom to Glenwood!”
“Please do stop,” pleaded Dorothy, from under her quilt. “The next time they may bring a doctor and a stomach pump, and if you don’t let me go to sleep I do believe I will call her.”
“You dare to and I’ll get something dreadfully contagious, so you will have to be disinfected and isolated. But Higley the terrible! The abused little squinty-eyed tattle-tale! Oh, when Mrs. Pangborn said she was glad to see her enjoying herself! That persecuted saint enjoying herself! Didn’t she look the part?”
But even such mirth must succumb to slumber when the victim is young and impressionable, so, with yawns and titters, Tavia finally quieted down to sleep.
It seemed to Dorothy that she had scarcely closed her eyes when she was startled by someone moving about the room. She sat up straight to make sure she was not dreaming, and then she saw a white object standing before the mirror!
A beam of moonlight glimmered directly across the glass, and Dorothy could now see that the figure was Tavia.
Surmising that her companion had merely arisen to get a throat lozenge, for she had been taking them lately, Dorothy did not speak, expecting Tavia to return to her bed directly.
But the girl stood there—so long and so still that Dorothy soon called to her.
“What is the matter, Tavia?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” returned the other, without looking around.
“But what are you doing?”
“Making up,” and Dorothy could see her daubing cold cream over her face.
Still convinced that Tavia was busy with some ordinary toilet operation, as she had, of late, become very particular about such matters, Dorothy turned over and closed her eyes. But she could not sleep. Something uncanny seemed to disturb her every time she appeared to be dropping off into a doze.
Finally she sat up again. There was Tavia still before the mirror, daubing something over her face.
“Tavia!” called Dorothy sharply. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Making up,” replied Tavia a second time, and without moving from her original position.
Making up! Surely she was spreading cold cream and red crayon dust all over her face! Had she lost her mind?
For an instant Dorothy stood watching her. But Tavia neither spoke nor turned her head.
“Tavia!” she called, taking hold of the hand that held the red chalk. Dorothy noticed that Tavia’s palm and fingers were cold and clammy! And Tavia’s eyes were open, though they seemed sightless. Dorothy was thoroughly frightened now. Should she call someone? Miss Higley had charge of that wing of the school, and perhaps would know what to do. But Dorothy hesitated to make a scene. Tavia was never ill, and if this was only some queer spell it would not be pleasant to have others know about it.
Then, feeling intuitively, that this “making up” should not be made a public affair, Dorothy determined to get Tavia back into her own bed.
“Are you ill?” she asked, rubbing her own hand over her companion’s greasy forehead.
“Ill? No, indeed,” Tavia replied, as mechanically as she had spoken before. Still she smeared on the cold cream and red crayon.
“Come!” commanded Dorothy, and, to her amazement, the girl immediately laid down the box of cream and the stick of chalk while Dorothy led her to the bed and helped her to make herself comfortable on the pillows.
Then Dorothy quietly went to the dresser and lighted a tiny candle, carrying it over to Tavia’s bedside.
Peering anxiously into her face she found her room-mate sleeping and breathing naturally. There was no evidence of illness, and then, for the first time, it occurred to Dorothy that Tavia had been walking in her sleep! And making-up in her sleep!
What could it mean?
How ghastly that hideous color and the streaks made Tavia’s face appear!
And, as Dorothy sat beside the bed, gazing into that besmeared face, while the flicker of the little candle played like a tiny lime-light over the girl’s cruelly changed features, a strange fear came into Dorothy’s heart!
After all, was Tavia going to disappoint her? Would she fail just when she seemed to have turned the most dangerous corner in her short career—that of stepping from the freedom of girlhood into the more dignified realm of young-ladyship? And would she always be just ordinary Tavia Travers? Always of contradictory impulses, was she never to be relied upon—never to become a well-bred girl?
Tavia turned slightly and rubbed her hand across her face. She seemed to breathe heavily, Dorothy thought, and, as she touched Tavia’s painted cheek she was certain it was feverish. With that promptness of action that had always characterized Dorothy’s work in real emergencies, she snatched the cold cream from the dresser where Tavia had left it, and, with deft fingers, quickly rubbed a generous supply over the face on the pillows.
Although Tavia was waking now Dorothy was determined, if possible, to remove all traces of the red paint before Tavia herself should know that it had been on her cheeks. Briskly, but with a hand gentle and calm, Dorothy rubbed the cream off on her own linen handkerchief, taking the red mixture with it. Nothing was now left on Tavia’s face but a thin coating of the cold cream. That could tell no tales.
Tavia turned to Dorothy and opened her eyes.
“What—what is the matter?” she asked, like one waking from a strange dream.
“Nothing, dear,” answered Dorothy. “But I guess you had some night vision,” and she placed the candle, still lighted, on the dresser.
“Did I call? Did I have the nightmare? Why are you not in bed?”
“I got up to see if you were all right,” answered Dorothy truthfully. “Do you want anything? Shall I get you a nice cool drink from the ice tank?”
Tavia was rubbing her face.
“What’s this on my cheeks?” she asked, bringing down her hand, smeared with cold cream.
“I thought you were feverish,” said Dorothy, “and I put a little cream on your face—cold cream might be better than nothing, I thought, as we had no alcohol.”
Tavia did not seem her natural self, and Dorothy, not slow to note the change in her, was only waiting to see her companion more fully awake, and so out of danger of being shocked suddenly, before calling for help, or, at least, for some medicine.
“My head aches awfully,” said the girl on the bed. “I would like a drink of water—if—if it is not too much trouble.”
A call bell was just at the door and Dorothy touched the gong as she went out into the hall to get the water.
She had scarcely returned with the drink when Miss Higley, in gown and slippers, entered the room. The light had been turned on by this time, and Tavia could see that the teacher was present, but, whether too sick or too sleepy to notice, she seemed to take the situation as a matter of course, and simply drank the water that Dorothy held to her lips, then sank wearily back on her pillow.
Miss Higley, without saying a word, picked up the hand that lay on the coverlet and felt the pulse. Dorothy stood looking anxiously on.
Tavia really seemed sick, and the tinge of scarlet crayon, that remained after Dorothy’s cold cream wash, added a higher tint to the feverish flush that now suffused the girl’s cheeks.
“Yes, she has a fever,” whispered Miss Higley. “But it is not a very high one. I will go and get my thermometer. Meanwhile pick up your garments, Dorothy, so you can take my room, while I stay here the rest of the night.”
Before Dorothy could answer Miss Higley had tiptoed noiselessly from the apartment. Dorothy did not like to leave Tavia—surely it was not anything that might be contagious. But when the teacher returned she insisted on Dorothy going directly to the room at the end of the hall, while she took up her post at the bedside of Tavia.
It seemed so hard to Dorothy to leave her friend there alone with a comparative stranger. As she reluctantly closed the door on Tavia and Miss Higley, Dorothy’s eyes were filled with tears. What could be the matter? All the joking had turned into reality in that short time!
But Tavia was surely not suffering any pain, thought Dorothy, as she seemed so sleepy and did not even murmur when Miss Higley gave her the fever medicine. It flashed across Dorothy’s mind that it might have been better to have acquainted Miss Higley with the way Tavia’s attack came on—to tell her of the scene before the mirror—but somehow, Dorothy felt that she should not be told—that it would be easier for Tavia if her strange actions were not mentioned to any one—even to Tavia herself. Dorothy felt the matter would not be a pleasant one to discuss.
And as no one knew it but Dorothy, she would keep it to herself, unless some development in Tavia’s illness would make it necessary to give the entire history of the case.
With a head almost bursting, it seemed, from the stress of the complication of worry and anxiety, Dorothy finally settled down on Miss Higley’s cretonne couch, while the teacher tried to make herself comfortable in Dorothy’s place, and Tavia Travers lay still and heavy with a fever, all unconscious of the changes that were going on about her.
For three days after that eventful night Tavia was obliged to keep to her room. She had a fever—from a cold the doctor thought—nothing contagious he was positive—but, as a precautionary measure Dorothy was given another room, until the fever should be entirely broken.
But the two friends were not to be separated much longer, for Tavia had quite recovered now, and was up and about her room, receiving notes and flowers from the girls, and recuperating generally.
“The first good rest I’ve had in months,” Tavia told Dorothy, as they sat together again on the little window seat, looking out on the tennis court.
“I do really believe you look better than you did before you were taken ill,” agreed Dorothy, giving her friend a look of unmistakable admiration.
“That’s lucky for me,” Tavia replied with something that sounded like a sigh.
“Why?” asked Dorothy in some surprise.
“Oh, nothing,” was the answer, given rather evasively. “But a girl can’t afford to get scrawny. Fancy yourself slinking down like a cornstalk in the fall! Why, even the unapproachable Dorothy Dale could not well stand the slinking process, to say nothing of an ordinary gawk like me going through it,” and Tavia slyly looked into the mirror. She evidently had some particular reason for being so anxious about her good looks.
Dorothy had been noticing this peculiarity of Tavia’s for some time—she had been so extreme about her toilet articles—using cold cream to massage her face daily, then brushing her hair ardently every night, to say nothing of the steam baths she had been giving her face twice a week.
All this seemed very strange to Dorothy, but when she laughed at Tavia’s new-found pastimes the latter declared she was going to look nice for the summer; and that any girl who did not take care of herself externally was quite as blamable as she who neglected the hidden beauty of heart or brain.
And there was no denying that the “grooming” added much to the charms of Tavia’s personality. Her hair was now wonderfully glossy, her cheeks delicately pink, her arms round and her hands so shapely! All this, applied to a girl who formerly protested against giving so much as half an hour daily to her manicure needs!
Dorothy was anxious to have a serious talk with Tavia, but considered it too soon after her illness to bring about that conversation, so she only smiled now as Tavia set all her creams and stuffs in a row, then stretched herself out “perfectly flat to relax,” as the book directions called for. Fancy Tavia doing a thing like that!
“When I dare—that is as soon as that old Rip Van Winkle of a doctor lets me off,” said Tavia suddenly, “I’m going to get a set of exercisers for myself. I don’t believe we have half enough muscle work.”
“Why, my dear, one would imagine you were training for the circus ring,” said Dorothy laughing.
“Hardly,” replied the other. “I never was keen on bouncing, and circus turns all end with a bounce in the net. Those nets make me creepy—a mattress for mine when on the rebound. Have you been to the post-office?”
“No, but I’m going. Want any stamps?”
“No. But if—if you get a letter for me I wish you wouldn’t put it into Mrs. Pangborn’s box—I expect a little note from a girl, and I’m sure it need not be censored, as the rest of the letters are.”
“But the rule,” Dorothy reminded her gently.
“I believe the United States postal laws are of more importance than the silly, baby rules of Glenwood school,” snapped Tavia with unexpected hauteur, “and it’s against the law for one person to open the letters of another.”
“But Mrs. Pangborn takes the place of our mothers—she is really our guardian when we enter her school. We agree to the rules before we are taken in.”
“No, we were ‘taken in’ when we agreed to the rules,” persisted the other. “Now, as it’s your turn to do the post office this week, I think you might do me a little favor—I assure you the letter I expect is not from some boy. Other girls can smuggle boys’ letters in, and yet I can’t contrive to get a perfectly personal note from a perfectly sensible girl, without the missive being—passed upon by—google-eyed Higley!”
“Oh, Tavia! And she was so kind to you when you were sick.”
“Was she? Then she ought to keep it up, and leave my letters alone!”
“Well,” sighed Dorothy rising, “I must go for the mail at any rate.”
“And you won’t save my one little letter?”
“How could I?” Dorothy pleaded.
“Then if you do get it—see it among the others—couldn’t you leave it there? I will be able to walk down to the post office myself tomorrow.”
“But you couldn’t get the mail.”
“Oh, yes I could,” and Tavia tossed her head about defiantly.
Dorothy was certainly in a dilemma. But she was almost due at the post-office, and could not stay longer to argue, so, clapping on her hat, she bade Tavia good-bye for a short time.
“It palls on me,” Tavia told herself, as she again approached the glass and took up the cold cream jar. “Who would ever believe that I would stoop so low! To deceive my own darling Dorothy! And to make a fool of myself with this ‘mugging’ as Nat would say.”
She dropped heavily into a chair. The thought of Dorothy and Nat had a strange power over the girl—she seemed ashamed to look at her own face when the memory of her dearest friends brought her back again to the old time Tavia—the girl free from vanity and true as steel to Dorothy Dale.
“But the letter,” thought Tavia, recovering herself. “If that letter gets into Mrs. Pangborn’s hands!”
Again she buried her face in her arms. Something seemed to sway her, first one way, then the other. What had caused her to change so in those last few short months? Why were her words so hollow now? Her own “copyrighted” slang no longer considered funny, even by those girls most devoted to her originality? And why, above all else, had she fallen ill after that queer dream about making-up with the cold cream and the red crayon?
“I’m afraid my mind was not built for secrets,” she concluded, “and if I keep on moping this way I can’t say what will happen next.”
Meanwhile Dorothy was making her way back from the village with the letters including one addressed to Octavia Travers. She had determined not to make any attempt at giving the note to Tavia without the school principal’s knowledge, for, somehow she feared Tavia’s honesty in such matters, and, although Dorothy felt certain that Tavia would do nothing she really believed to be wrong, she was afraid her chum might be misled by some outside influence.
With a heavy heart Dorothy laid the mail down on Mrs. Pangborn’s desk. That lady was just coming into the office as Dorothy was about to leave.
“Wait, dear,” said Mrs. Pangborn, “until I see if there is any mail for the girls in your corridor. How is Octavia to-day? I hope she will be able to go out by Sunday. Here, I guess this is a letter for her.” Dorothy almost turned pale as the principal took up the small blue envelope. “Just take it to her—perhaps it will cheer her up,” and she handed Dorothy the missive without attempting to open it or question the postmark. “There, I guess that is all I can give you,” and she put the others in her desk. “Tell Tavia I am anxious to see her out of doors again, and I hope her letter will have good news for her.”
Dorothy turned away with a smile of thanks, not venturing to say a word. She held the blue envelope in her hand, as if it was some tainted thing, for she well knew that the missive was not from home, the postmark “Rochester” standing out plainly on the stamped corner.
Tavia saw her coming, and quickly caught sight of the envelope in her hand.
“There, you old darling!” she exclaimed, giving Dorothy a vigorous hug. “I knew you would bring it to me. How you did ever manage it?”
“Mrs. Pangborn sent it with kind wishes that it might contain good news,” stammered Dorothy. “I made no attempt to get it to you without her knowledge.”
“She had it? And gave it back to you? Why, Dorothy, if she had—but of course it would not really have mattered,” and Tavia slipped the letter into her blouse. “I’m awfully obliged. Did you hear from home?”
“No,” answered Dorothy simply, a flush covering her fair face as she saw Tavia hide the letter. “I’m going out for a few minutes—so you may read that very important note, Tavia.”
“When I was a very small girl,” exclaimed Mollie Richards, otherwise known as Dick, “I used to hope I would die young so I could escape the tooth-filling process, but here I am, doing these dreadful exams, and I haven’t died yet.”
“Never despair,” quoted Rose-Mary. “The worst is yet to come.”
“Cheer up, fellows,” lisped little Nita Brandt, “We’ve been promised a clam-bake when it’s all over.”
“Yes, I fancy it will be all over with me when that clam-bake arrives,” sighed Edna Black. “Since Tavia has ‘turned turtle’ I don’t even have the fun of sneezing for exercise.”
“It’s an ill wind—and so on,” ventured Dick. “That was a most abominable habit of yours—sneezing when you were too lazy to open your mouth to laugh.”
“But I never would have believed that Tavia would get so—so—”
“Batty,” finished Amy Brooks. “It’s slang, but I know of no English word into which the explicit ‘batty’ may be translated.”
“And Tavia of all girls,” added Ned, ponderingly.
“But it seems to agree with her,” declared Cologne. “Haven’t you noticed her petal complexion?”
“Too much like the drug store variety,” objected Nita. “I like something more substantial.”
“Sour grapes,” fired back Ned, who could always be depended on to take Tavia’s part. “Yours is so perfect—”
“Oh, I know—freckles,” admitted the confused Nita with a pout. “Fair skins always freckle.”
“Then why don’t you close the ‘fair’ and raffle off,” suggested Dick. “Much easier than sleeping in lemon juice every night.”
“Molly Richards, you’re too smart!” snapped the abused one.
“Not altogether so,” replied Dick. “At least this abominable French can’t prove it. I have always believed that the only way to acquire a good French accent would be to get acute tonsilitis. Then one might choke out the gutterals beautifully.”
The girls of Glenwood school were supposed to be busy preparing for examinations. They had congregated in little knots, out of doors, scattering under the leafing oaks, and the temptation to gossip was evidently more than mere girls could withstand amid such surroundings.
“There’s Dorothy now,” announced Cologne, as the latter turned into the path.
“Yes, and there’s Tavia,” followed Ned, showing keen pleasure as the late absent one made her appearance on the lawn.
“Now we will have a chance to study her complex—” lisped Nita with rather a malicious tone.
“Suit you better to study your complex—verbs,” snapped Ned, while Tavia and Dorothy came up at that moment.
Profuse greetings were showered upon Tavia, for the girls were well pleased to have her back with them, and it must be admitted that every eye which turned toward her came back in an unanimous vote “beautiful.” Even Nita did not dare cast a dissenting glance—she could not, for indeed Tavia had improved wonderfully, as we have seen, under the “grooming.”
Her hazel eyes shown brighter than ever in her clear peach-blow skin, her hair was not now “too near red” as Nita had been in the habit of declaring, but a true chestnut brown, and as “glossy as her new tan shoes,” whispered Ned to Cologne.
Tavia wore her brown gingham dress, and much to the surprise of her companions, had “her neck turned in.”
“What happened to your collar?” asked Dick, with a merry twinkle in her eyes.
“I happened to it,” answered Tavia promptly. “No sense in having one’s neck all marked up from collars—going about advertising capital punishment.”
“Behold the new woman! We will make her president of our peace conference. But of course we would not expect her to settle her own ‘squabs’ with Nita. We will have a committee of subs, for that department of the work,” said Cologne as she made room for Dorothy at her side, being anxious to get a private word with her. Tavia found a place between Ned and Dick, and soon the others were at least pretending to be at their books, realizing that too much time had already been wasted on outside matters.
The morning typified one of those rare days in June, and the girls on the lawn were like human spring blossoms—indeed what is more beautiful than a wholesome, happy young girl?
She need not be especially beautiful in feature, for health and happiness make her irresistible to the real student of beauty, and the wonderful charm of human life seems nowhere to be so perfectly depicted as in the personality of a young girl.
“At last,” announced Lena Berg, rolling over as the bell for recreation sounded, ending the period of open-air study usually allowed at this season.
Instantly the others were on their feet, and, as quickly had paired off for their favorite pastime. Ned and Tavia were together, Dorothy was with Cologne, and the others had selected their companions to suit their particular fancy.
“Say, Parson,” began Cologne, using the name made for Dorothy from her initials “D. D.,” and placing her arm about Dorothy’s waist, “we’ve got a great scheme on. We’re going swimming!”
“Swimming!” Dorothy almost screamed.
“Exactly that,” insisted Cologne. “Mrs. Pangborn has given the permission and we are to go to Squinty Lake to-morrow afternoon.”
“Squinty Lake?” echoed Dorothy in surprise.
“Well, they call it Sunset, you know, but Ned declares it is ‘Squinty’ as no one can look out of the front of her eyes on the shores of it. But isn’t it too giddy—to go swimming so early. And to think that Higley is the best swimmer of the respected faculty. Now if our dear little Camille Crane were here—Feathers, you know. But I don’t suppose she will be back to the bench this season. Wasn’t it too bad she should break down?” rattled on Cologne. “But for the swimming! Aren’t you perfectly delighted? You haven’t said a single word.”
“Why I haven’t had a chance,” replied Dorothy laughing. “Of course it is lovely to think you can go.”
“I can go! Aren’t you going?”
“I don’t believe so. Tavia is so fond of swimming, and I am sure she would not dare go in the water so soon after her fever. So I guess I’ll stay home to keep her company.”
“Oh, you silly!” exclaimed Cologne. “Why should you stay out on her account?” and, possibly there was a note of jealousy in the girl’s tone, and a hint of it in her manner. “I’m very sure she wouldn’t do as much for you.”
“Indeed she would, Cologne,” Dorothy hurried to say. “You have no idea how kind Tavia can be and has been to me. Why, when I was sick home in Dalton, she stayed with me night and day.”
“Well, I can’t see why you shouldn’t go in bathing when you get a chance. Precious seldom the chance comes at Glenwood.”
“I suppose Mrs. Pangborn has hired the beach,” ventured Dorothy.
“Yes, worse luck. Afraid any one would see our orphan asylum bathing suits.”
“Indeed, I think those brown suits very pretty,” objected Dorothy. “I thought so when I saw them taken out this spring. Of course I have never worn one.”
“Of course you haven’t,” agreed Cologne. “That’s why you like ’em, but you should try to swim dog fashion in one of those knickerbockers. The skirts are built for hoops, but they seemed to run short of goods on the bloomers.”
“But it is awfully good of Mrs. Pangborn to provide for bathing when we will soon be at our own summer quarters for it.”
“Yes, I admitted that much at the start, if you will remember. But, really, Doro, you had better make up your mind to go in. It’s all nonsense to stay out to keep Tavia company. I’m sure she would rather see you in the swim.”
“I’ll see,” answered Dorothy, as they turned back into the path that led to the Hall.
The day following proved to be one of those exceptionally warm days that occasionally come at the end of June, with the express purpose, it would seem, of making life unbearable for those engaged in finishing up a term at school. All the morning the Glenwood pupils lived on the thoughts of the promised swim, to come that afternoon. When dismissal hour did finally drag around little attention was paid to luncheon, all minds and hearts being set on the jaunt to Sunset Lake. This was a summer resort not far from the school, and there was a good sandy stretch for bathing. The season had hardly opened yet, and Mrs. Pangborn was thus able to hire for that afternoon the exclusive right of the sandy shore for her pupils.
Dorothy and Tavia were to go, although neither expected to take the lake bath, for Dorothy was firm in her resolve to stay with Tavia, and so forego one of her favorite pastimes, for Dorothy Dale was counted an excellent swimmer.
In high glee the party started off, under the chaperonage of Miss Higley, and even those pupils who insisted that she was “a bear” were forced to admit that, on this occasion, she was “as meek as a lamb.” The fact was that Miss Higley loved swimming, and knew she was expert at the exercise. So the promised sport was especially welcome to her.
Along the shady road to the lake Dorothy laughed and chatted as merrily as did the others, but Tavia was inclined to pout. She had begged to be allowed to go into the water, declaring that she was entirely recovered and that the swim would do her good. But Mrs. Pangborn would not consent, so Tavia was to take what enjoyment she could derive from watching the others.
When the Glenwood girls reached Sunset Beach the entrance gate to the bathing grounds was locked against all outsiders. A row of bathing houses was placed at the disposal of the young ladies, and there was a matron in attendance. In fact, the pleasure grounds were turned over entirely to Mrs. Pangborn’s pupils and the presence of the white-aproned attendant gave the place a look of the utmost propriety. On this occasion, likewise, the life guard was banished, and, as Dick expressed it, “there never was a man in sight when the girls in brown took their annual.”
While the others were “making themselves frog-like” in the aforementioned suits, Dorothy and Tavia established themselves in an old boat on the shore of the lake.
It was their first visit to the resort as it was their first summer term at Glenwood, and the two girls were charmed with the pretty, picturesque surroundings.
“Not much like our pond in Dalton,” Tavia observed, viewing the placid lake with its great open expanse of sunlit waters.
“No, but that was a splendid little pond for swimming,” Dorothy reminded her companion, never relishing any aspersions thrown in the direction of “dear old Dalton.”
Soon some of the girls appeared on the little boardwalk bordering the lake, and, in unheard of politeness, waited for Miss Higley to come out and take the first plunge. That formality being over there was a wild rush for the water, each one of the girls expecting to have a better time than any of the others.
Nita Brandt and Adele Thomas had not yet learned to swim, so these two were provided with a pair of water-wings to support them, and they “floundered around like a couple of ferry boats,” Tavia declared, as they made all sorts of vain attempts to strike out like the others.
Dick and Cologne were soon engaged in a race, from one float to the other, doing the overhand stroke, and making a fine showing for the first of the season efforts.
“You’re exceeding the speed limit!” shouted Tavia from the boat, as she stood up in the stern and viewed the race with unconcealed interest.
“Get out of the way!” called a dozen voices as the twain with their water-wings anchored directly in Dick’s course.
But the girls floating on the wings could not get upon their feet for they were in water about up to their heads. Every effort they made to touch bottom seemed to send their faces down, while simultaneously two pair of stockings would shoot up above the surface of the lake.
Miss Higley instantly realized that Nita and Adele were out too far—that they were beyond their depth and therefore in danger should the wings (which were muslin bags blown up) burst or slip from under their arms. She did not wait to see the result of the race, but struck out for the now thoroughly frightened girls, who were calling in vain for some one to help them to shore.
As Miss Higley reached them, Dick and Cologne, who had not grasped the situation, came gliding up to the same spot, almost side by side, working earnestly, each to outdistance the other in reaching the float which was the goal.
“Here!” shouted Miss Higley to them. “Stop! Never mind the race! Help get these two girls in. They’re exhausted!”
The two swimmers veered around to Nita and Adele. Yes, Nita was gasping! She had evidently swallowed considerable water. And Adele could not attempt another stroke—her limbs seemed paralyzed.
Without speaking, thinking to save her breath for the struggle, Cologne took a position between the badly frightened girls, while Miss Higley and Dick swung around so that each could grasp an arm, one of Nita and the other of Adele. In this manner the three swimmers towed to shore those who had ventured too far on the water-wings.
For a few minutes there was plenty of excitement at Sunset Beach, everyone gathering around the rescued ones, suggesting both restoratives and punishments to close the incident.
Miss Higley quietly waited for the girls to recover their breaths and other faculties that had been temporarily suspended during the mishap, and then asked why they had ventured out so far.