The strange story of the reformed man filled Dorothy's brain with exciting thoughts that night, and it was almost morning when she finally fell asleep. Even then she dreamed of all;—the fortune her father was to have in trust, the wicked man who had been trying to get it, and the poor wife and child who were hidden away somewhere, perhaps now starving. In her dreams she became Nellie, and she tried, oh, so hard, to find her own father, the dear major. The worry of it even in sleep gave Dorothy a severe headache, and when she awoke she found her nerves still throbbing and her brow hot and feverish.
"Oh, I'll be so glad to go to school to-day," she thought. "I am tired of all this worry, and it will be good to be back with the girls again."
"Doro, let me in! Let me in!" little Roger was calling at her door, and before she had a chance to finish dressing, her little brother had his soft white arms about her neck.
"Now, don't you look. You can't see until I've given you a quart of kisses, then you have to promise not to cry."
"Cry? What for?" she asked.
"Cross your heart, first," he insisted.
Then she saw that his curls were gone.
"Oh, darling!" she exclaimed, "who did it?"
"Jake, the barber. And daddy said so. He said you should not bother with tangles any more. Now don't you dare cry. You promised."
The girl took the little boy in her arms. Why did they do it just that day, when her head ached, and she had so many worries? Those beautiful curls! How she had loved them!
"Now Doro, you are going to cry, 'cause your eyes look like polly-wogs. And you must be glad that I'm a man, like Joe, now," and the boy sprang from her arms, and stood up like a "major" before her.
Then he was a "man," and her baby no longer. It was not the curls so much, but taking her baby from her, that hurt so.
The loving mother-spirit, that had made Dorothy Dale the girl she was, seemed to grow stronger now with every tear that clouded her eyes. Yes, he bad been her baby, and she had loved him with a wonderful love—sent into her heart, she always thought, by the mother in heaven who watched over them both.
"You have been a very good boy," she managed to say, "and Joe is a very good boy, so, if you can be like him, perhaps I will not be so lonely without the other Roger."
It was an hour later that Dorothy met Tavia in the lane and hurried to school with her. Of course she could not tell her friend what it was that made her so quiet, and it really was hard to keep a secret like that of the mysterious man from Tavia.
Perhaps she could tell her in the afternoon, by that time Mr. Burlock would likely have all his affairs attended to and then he said he would tell the town who the man was for whom the people had been looking.
As Dorothy and Tavia came into the schoolyard they saw Sarah Ford on the swing, that hung from a heavy square frame.
Down went Tavia's books on the grass.
"First for a run under!" she called, and instantly a line of girls formed, while Tavia led, of course, with such a "run under" that Sarah tried to jump to save herself from another like it.
"Hold fast!" shouted the next girl, who already had her arms up to the swing board. Then one after another they jumped to reach the board, and send it higher and higher until the girl on the swing threatened to turn over the frame.
"Oh, please stop!" she cried, "there goes the bell!"
One more "good push" sent her up into the air, and the girls were all gone—school was in.
For one moment Sarah held on and then jumped—into the remains of the janitor's rubbish fire!
Sarah Ford picked herself up. Her white dress was covered with soot and dirt. The classes were called by this time, and she could not go into the cloak room.
"Oh, that horrid mean thing, Tavia Travers!" she thought. "I will not give the girls a chance to laugh at me," and, darting out of the gate, she ran down the lane—away from school.
At the end of the lane the girl turned into an orchard and sank down under an apple tree.
Had she really run away from school? She could not turn back now, and what would her father say? He was so severe about school, he never would take any excuse.
The black soot had almost all blown off her dress. If she had not been so proud always, about her looks, perhaps she would not have noticed it much.
"Oh, what will I do to that girl!" she thought. "It was all her fault, and I'll lose my place too."
The sense of bitterness that filled Sarah Ford's heart was an entirely different sentiment from that which animated Tavia Travers when she made up, the "running under" game. The one was the sense of revenge, bitter and cunning; the other was a matter of school girl's fun, pure and simple.
Sitting there on the grass that revengeful spirit took the form of a resolve in Sarah's heart—to "pay back" Tavia Travers.
Within the schoolroom more than one girl was wondering what had happened to Sarah Ford. Dorothy was worried. Hers was a nature that took all things seriously, while Tavia insisted on looking on "the easy side" as she termed Hope. She was hoping with all her heart now, that Sarah Ford would soon enter the room, but the morning wore on and no Sarah appeared.
At last recess came. Such whispering among the girls—so many theories advanced to account for Sarah's disappearance.
"Playin' hookey," was all Tavia said, in the way she had of making light of things.
"Perhaps she was hurt," whispered Dorothy to Alice MacAllister, a girl who had always been a close friend.
"I don't think so," said Alice, "Even had she fallen there was nothing she could strike on, and I have often jumped when I could not go one bit higher."
"She may have fallen on the rubbish heap," suggested one of the older girls.
At last school was dismissed.
"I'll wager we find her down the lane taking Widow Drew's apple blossoms," remarked Tavia, as she and Dorothy started for home. "She may be going to another party and want a change of decorations,—she wore honey-suckle last time."
"Hush!" Dorothy interrupted, "I thought I heard—"
"Some one moan? So did I," declared Tavia.
They listened a moment.
"There it is again," said Dorothy. "Oh, I'm sure that's Sarah!"
"It was down in the orchard," went on Tavia.
"Help! oh, help me!" came a voice, and this time there was no mistaking the cry; a girl was calling.
Springing over the fence, with Dorothy following her, Tavia ran through the deep grass to the spot from which the sounds came.
Under the apple tree, suffering and helpless, they found Sarah Ford.
"Oh, what has happened!" wailed Dorothy, bending over her.
"You have killed me!" gasped Sarah.
"Is it your ankle?" Tavia asked, trying to find out what could be done to get Sarah home.
"Yes, and you did it!" declared the suffering girl. "You gave me that last push. Oh,—oh. Get a doctor—or I will surely die!" and she buried her head deeper in the grass, writhing in agony.
"Can't you move, Sarah dear?" Dorothy pleaded, "If you only could, perhaps we could make a hand chair and carry you."
"Oh, it would kill me. My leg is surely broken. I can feel the bone. Oh, dear! Oh dear me! What shall I do? What shall I do?" and the unfortunate girl burst into hysterical weeping—
"I'll run and get a wagon—or a carriage—or something," Tavia said nervously, for she was very much frightened at Sarah's condition.
"They never could drive in this rough place," Dorothy sighed. "Listen!There is Joe. Call him. He will help us."
In a moment Joe Dale was beside his sister.
"Why, a man must carry her, of course," he declared promptly, "I just met Ralph Willoby—"
A shrill whistle from Joe, followed by his calling loudly the young man's name, soon brought Ralph to the scene.
"Oh, I am so glad it is you!" said Dorothy. "You will know just what to do, and we—don't want—a crowd."
By this time Sarah showed signs of fainting; her breath came in gasps and her face was very white.
"Run over to the spring Joe, and fetch a cup of water," Ralph commanded. "Now, Miss Ford, you must put your head down flat on the grass—this way. There, that's it. Now try to straighten out so that you can breathe better."
But every move that the suffering girl tried to make caused her such pain that Dorothy fell upon her knees and tried to fan a breath into her white face, to prevent her, if possible, from becoming unconscious.
"Here's Joe, with the water," exclaimed Tavia, running to meet the boy, and hurrying back with the cool liquid.
Ralph pressed the drink to Sarah's lips, while Dorothy waited to bathe the pale face with what water might remain in the cup.
"Oh!" sighed Sarah. "I feel—better. I thought I was going to die."
"You were faint," Ralph exclaimed. "Do you think you can sit up now?"
Not waiting for a reply, the young man slipped his hand under the girl's shoulders, and the next minute he had her in his arms.
It was a sad little procession that followed him. Dorothy almost in tears; Tavia with eyes already overflowing, while Joe kept very close to Ralph, ready to offer any assistance in carrying Sarah to her home.
But Ralph was well able to manage his burden, for the girl was not heavy, and she helped herself some by keeping her arms clasped about his neck. Fortunately the Ford home was not far away.
"There's Mr. Ford," whispered Joe to Tavia, as they reached the gate, and at that moment the man on the porch raised his head from his paper, and saw them coming.
Mr. Ford seemed dazed—he did not stir for a moment but sat there staring wildly at the group now coming up the path.
"Sarah has hurt her ankle," Joe hurried to say, and as his voice roused the man from his frightened attitude, he sprang up and reached to take his daughter from the young man's arms.
"I had better put her on a couch," objected Ralph, "Her ankle seems quite painful."
"What has happened?" asked the father opening the door of the sitting room and making ready the couch under the window.
"The girls did it," gasped Sarah, "that girl there, Tavia Travers!"
"You!" exclaimed the man, making a threatening move towards the accused girl.
"It was an accident," interposed Dorothy, "we do not know how it happened; we found her under a tree in the orchard."
"They do know," persisted the injured girl "They sent me up so high!—oh, get a doctor, quick!"
Ralph had now placed Sarah on the couch, and "while Mr. Ford hurried to call his wife, Ralph and Joe hastened off for Dr. Gray, leaving the three girls together.
"Tell us about it," Dorothy pleaded, not wanting to leave Sarah until she had obtained some idea of how the accident had occurred.
"I'll tell Squire Sanders," answered the girl on the couch, "and then you will be arrested, every one of you who—who tried to kill me!"
"Come!" whispered Tavia to Dorothy as Mrs. Ford appeared. "It only makes matters worse for us to be here."
Then as the mother fell weeping by the couch Tavia and Dorothy left the room.
Dorothy had always been able to influence Tavia, and to show her that to do right would be best in the end, although the doing of it might, at the time, seem very hard, and very unreasonable; but all her efforts now to induce her friend to go with her to school that afternoon and make the necessary explanation to Miss Ellis, were without avail—Tavia absolutely refused to go.
"No matter what comes of it," Dorothy told herself, as she walked sadly along the path, through the lane back to the schoolyard alone, "I'll stand by Tavia. She meant no harm, and was no more to blame than any one else. But I do wish, she had come this afternoon. It looks as if she were afraid or guilty, to run away from it all."
[Illustration: "WELL, THIS MATTER MUST BE FULLY INVESTIGATED," DECLAREDTHE SQUIRE]
The fact that Miles Burlock had not appeared at the Dale home that morning, according to promise was of little interest to Dorothy now. Something might have happened to him. Of course, he certainly seemed determined to settle the business at once, but Dorothy's head and heart were too full of her school friends' troubles to give much thought to the Burlock matter. Major Dale had appeared concerned about it however, and had questioned Dorothy as to whether any one had mentioned to her, at school or on her way there, the fact that the strange man, likely Andrew Anderson, had been seen again in Dalton.
"Be very careful to go around by the road," her father had cautioned her on leaving, "and come directly home from school as I will be anxious," he said, when he kissed her good-bye.
But Dorothy reached school safely, and was soon surrounded by a crowd of curious, and not too thoughtful girls, whose incessant questions added much to her nervous condition. Sharp pains shot through her head, for the excitement of the day had caused the ache of early morning to become a bad attack of neuralgia.
"Please do not bother me so," she pleaded, as the girls plied question after question.
They had heard, of course, of the accident, but how it had happened, and what had become of Tavia, whether she run away or been arrested—these and many similar queries kept the excited scholars buzzing about Dorothy like bees about a hive.
"I do not know how it happened," she insisted, "I wish I did. We found her under the tree, and helped her home. That is all I know about it."
The class took its place. Miss Ellis began to speak but was surprised at that moment to see old Squire Sanders enter the room.
"Oh, oh, he's after Tavia!" whispered May Egner to Dorothy. "I'm glad she is not here."
"Take your seats, young ladies," Miss Ellis directed the class, and then the squire assuming his business attitude, that of holding his black-thorn cane well out in front of his left foot, which member in turn was in advance of its mate, and planting the cane down firmly twice, he began:
"I've come here to investigate a complaint" and he rapped his stick noisily on the floor. "Where's the girl who threw Sarah Ford from the swing, and broke her ankle?"
"Why," stammered Miss Ellis, "I have not heard of any such occurrence.Does any young lady here know anything of it?"
Dorothy was on her feet instantly. Her flushed face betrayed the emotion she tried bravely to hide, but when she spoke her voice rang with truth and confidence.
"Sarah Ford was not thrown from the swing," she began. "We found her suffering under the tree in the orchard. When the bell rang this morning she was on the swing, and I was the last girl to enter the hall. I saw her on the swing then."
A pin, dropped, might have been heard in the room. It was so like a trial to have Dorothy there "giving testimony."
"Well, that ain't the story I have," drawled the squire. "Where's that wild harum-scarum Tavia Travers? She's the one that's blamed."
"Tavia Travers!" called the astonished Miss Ellis, but of course there came no answer.
"Absent!" answered a girl from the back row.
"Can you tell us where she is?" Miss Ellis asked Dorothy.
"At home I believe," answered Dorothy simply.
"Well, this matter must be fully investigated," declared the squire, "thoroughly and fully investigated. Girls or boys who cut up tricks must be punished. Dalton will not stand any nonsense when it comes to life and limb," and again the cane thumped the floor. "I propose, as squire of the borough, to run this thing down to the very end. School girls now-a-days put on too many airs—copyin' after college rowdies with their pranks!"
While the teacher and squire were talking in the hall the pupils took advantage of the opportunity to express their opinions of the case, and what were meant to be whispered remarks soon reached a pitch of voice that called for remonstrance from the squire; and he rapped his cane vigorously on the door. This had the effect of restoring order, and also of bringing punishment upon the entire class for the remainder of the afternoon.
"To think," began Miss Ellis severely, on returning to the room, "that I should be so disgraced. Not enough to have one or two girls accused of—of a crime—but that the rest should so misbehave before an officer of Dalton! I shall be obliged to send to the president of the Board; something I have never before had to do. But this matter must be thoroughly investigated. I am very sorry, Miss Dale, that you should be implicated, sorry for your father's sake. But it all comes of associating with girls who—who will not be governed by those in proper authority," and the teacher adjusted her glasses, satisfied that she at least held a position as head of Dalton School with dignity and "authority" that such an office required.
Poor Dorothy! Her aching head was now bowed on the desk before her, and her sobs were so pitiful, even the most thoughtless girl in the room was silent and sad to see her weeping so.
Alice MacAllister sat upright at her desk. Her strong face assumed a daring expression—that of defiance. Alice was counted a good-natured girl. Something of a romp, perhaps, for her companions often called her "Mack" and she showed a preference for the boyish nickname.
But to see Dorothy weeping so, accused unjustly!
Alice raised her hand for permission to speak. Miss Ellis signed for her to go on.
Again that sense of suppressed excitement was felt in the class room.Something else was going to happen.
"Miss Ellis," began Alice in a firm voice, "Dorothy Dale is not to blame—"
"That is not for you to decide."
"But we were all there, and know as much about it as she does."
"At least she knows enough to keep her place. Sit down at once," and the teacher looked very much annoyed.
"Not until you have heard me," and Alice raised her voice a little.
"Go on! Go on!" murmured the girls about her. "Make her listen."
"Sarah Ford was never hurt in the school yard," declared Alice. "My brother saw her running down the lane just as the bell rang, and she could not stir when Dorothy and Tavia found her."
"Be silent this moment!" called Miss Ellis, rapping her ruler on the desk. "Your brother's story is of no account in this matter."
Dorothy raised her head. The room was in a commotion. Miss Ellis seemed too surprised at the girl's audacity to try to restore order. Perhaps no one was more surprised than Alice herself, for when she spoke first she had no idea of going so far,—it was that remark reflecting upon her brother's veracity that angered her.
Then the sobbing of Dorothy—Alice could not stand it to see her crying that way; better brave dismissal than sit by and listen to that.
With one glance towards Alice—a glance full of gratitude and love.Dorothy arose and asked to be excused.
"I must go home—" she stammered "I have such a sick headache."
"Very well," replied the teacher. "You may go."
"May I also be excused?" asked Alice, not boldly but with politeness restored to her voice.
"By no means," declared Miss Ellis. "I will not brook such insolence."
"I thought I might help Dorothy home," Alice explained, taking her seat again.
Meanwhile Dorothy was looking for her hat in the cloak room. It was a small stuffy place, and the day was unusually sultry, so that Dorothy felt dizzy there, trying to find her hat—and trying to find—Oh! what was the matter? She could not see! Oh, if some one would only come!
Then, with her hands before her, she stumbled and fell,—and all became a terrible blank.
What a day that had been at the Dalton School for girls! Sarah Ford was at home suffering from a badly sprained ankle; Dorothy Dale had been taken home ill from over-excitement, and Tavia Travers, for whom Squire Sanders had been searching, was not to be found anywhere.
The interference of Squire Sanders worried Miss Ellis. A man, especially an official, knows absolutely nothing about girls and their ways, and he is sure to antagonize them in any attempt to force them to betray one another's confidences.
But while the teacher, alone in the school, was reflecting upon the tasks she should soon undertake to perform; Dorothy lay in her little room, hot and feverish, with Aunt Libby beside her, bathing the throbbing head tenderly with cold water and vinegar.
"You've been doin' too much," muttered the old nurse, "a-runnin' newspapers, helpin' drunkards, teachin' housework to that Tavia, though 'twas a charity to show the child how to iron her own frocks. But you see deary, it was too much for you, you as has always had Aunt Libby at your elbow," and the old linen napkin, the softest of those ever ready for headaches, was dipped again into the blue bowl of cool water and strong vinegar, then pressed lightly to the feverish brow. "Try to sleep a bit now," went on the nurse, as Dorothy looked gratefully into the wrinkled face. "All you want is rest, just a good, quiet rest."
Dorothy closed her eyes. They burned so she pulled the napkin from her forehead down over the hot lids. That eased the pain, and perhaps she could sleep, she thought.
Watching her patient closely for a moment, Aunt Libby moved noiselessly to the window, pulled down the shade, pushed the chair against it so the breeze might not disturb it, left the room.
As she turned in the narrow hallway her gingham skirt brushed the crouching form of Joe, who had been waiting at his sister's door, but the aged lady did not know it.
Joe and Roger had been forbidden admission to their sister's room. She was to be left entirely alone, in absolute quiet; even Major Dale, who was assured the attack was not more than a sick headache, did not presume to disturb his daughter, but Joe had been waiting there in the hallway. He had an important message to deliver to his sister, one that "would not keep."
The boy had removed his shoes and now he stole noiselessly into the room.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" he whispered. "Are you asleep?"
Dorothy pushed the napkin from her eyes, and raised her arm to invite her brother's kiss.
"Poor, dear Doro!" he murmured, pressing his cheek to her hot brow. "I am sorry for you—every one is," and he kissed her again. "But I have to hurry. Aunt Libby may come back."
He was looking for something in his blouse.
"I had a note from Tavia," he said. "She has gone away—"
"Gone away!" gasped the sick girl.
"Oh, only for a little while. Where is that note!"
The boy unbuttoned his waist, he even shook it out straight from the string, but no note was to be found in its folds.
"I could not have lost it!" he said, now quite alarmed that the note should have gotten out of his possession.
"What was it about?" asked Dorothy.
"Why—about—about why she went away," stammered the boy, helplessly.
"Don't you know what was in it?"
"No, it was sealed, and no one but you was to open it. Where could I have dropped it? I had it—let me see."
The fear that he had dropped the missive where it might be picked up by those not in sympathy with Tavia, and her troubles, now troubled Joe sorely. He had promised the girl, most particularly, that he would deliver the note to his sister that night, and he waited at Dorothy's door, risking the displeasure of Aunt Libby in keeping that promise. But now the very worst thing had happened—the note was lost!
"Never mind," whispered Dorothy, "perhaps you will find it in your jacket. I am sure she only said good-bye; there could not have been anything so very important in it."
"But if any of the others should get it," he sighed. "They could find out where she went, and she most particularly wanted to hide for a few days."
"Hide!"
"Yes, she told me she was sure Sarah would wake up in a few days and make a 'clean breast of it.' Tavia declared she had done nothing wrong herself, and that she was not afraid of anybody, but, she said, there was going to be trouble, and she never ran into trouble when she could run the other way."
"Well, dear," said the sister, "you had better go to bed now. I am so tired and I feel a little like sleeping. If you find the note, bring it to me in the morning; if you do not find it, there is no need to worry. Tavia will be back to see me as soon as she hears I am sick," and, giving the boy a good night kiss, Dorothy closed her eyes, while Joe crept out of the room as noiselessly as he had entered it.
Two long, dreary days had passed. Dorothy was well again, but, acting upon the advice of Miss Ellis, she remained away from school, to grow strong and take a little rest in the fresh air; to be out of doors as much as possible, the teacher said.
Alice had been to see Dorothy, and had assured her that "every thing was all right," even the misconduct of Alice in "talking back" had been forgiven, the girl herself declared.
But there was no explanation offered as to the accident to Sarah Ford. That was still a mystery to the school girls. Neither had Tavia returned to Dalton. She was visiting her aunt in Rochester Mrs. Travers announced.
Major Dale was at his office again, and the boys were not yet home from school, although the dismissal hour had passed.
There was a rush through the vines at the side of the porch—the next moment Tavia had Dorothy in her arms.
"You poor dear!" she exclaimed between her kisses. "To think that you have been sick all alone—without me!"
Dorothy leaned back in her chair—happy.
Tavia was not so much larger or older than she, but just at that moment she came like one all powerful; Tavia had such a way of being and doing.
"And all on my account," went on Tavia. "I declare you have gotten thin," and she spanned the bare wrist of Dorothy lovingly. "You never wrote, of course, as I asked you to."
The lost note! Perhaps other important matters had been overlooked in its disappearance.
"Is Sarah able to play leap-frog yet?" went on Tavia facetiously. "I hear Squire Sanders has been inquiring for me—just me, Tavia Travers. Ahem! Also my goodness me! Sakes alive! If I had only known the worthy squire wished to hold converse with this—me, you know, I certainly should have postponed my vacation. Who knows what I have missed?"
Dorothy's face showed how pleased she was; it was so good to hear Tavia rattle on that way. As Ralph Willoby had said, her heart was right, and so she made few mistakes where love could be counted on as her guide.
Tavia was stroking Dorothy's head affectionately. The two girls sat on the rustic bench, Dorothy with her head resting upon the other's shoulder.
"I made a discovery in Rochester," said Tavia, when she had exhausted every possible point, covering the sickness of her friend, the fainting in school and all that preceded and followed that occurrence. "Yes, I found out that a woman there, who did washing for my aunt, is named Burlock, and that she has been deserted by her husband—"
"Has she a daughter?" interrupted Dorothy.
"I don't know about that. Aunt Mary said she was such a strange woman, all the time moving, and no one ever could find out just where her rooms were. The way one had to do, to get her to do washing, was to apply to the Charity Bureau."
"But the Bureau must have her address," said Dorothy much interested in the story.
"Well, Aunt Mary said they could not keep track of her either. They know she is a good honest woman, who seems always to be in some trouble—looking for her husband, of course. I made up my mind that the man she is looking for is your friend Miles. Have you seen him lately?"
"No," replied Dorothy, thoughtfully.
"And I've got more news," went on Tavia, "Miss Ellis has planned a picnic for Monday. She is going to take our class to Glen Haven Falls. Do get strong and come, if you don't go I will not."
"Oh, I am sure I will be all right by that time," answered Dorothy, "in fact I am well now. I am only staying out of school because Miss Ellis thought it best. I wonder, Tavia, how we could ever think her unfair. She is the nicest woman—why, when she called she brought me jelly, and one of her splendid roses that she prizes so much. I felt almost guilty to have spoken of her, as I did, about the procession on Memorial Day."
"Well, she has not brought me jelly or roses yet," replied Tavia, "and I hardly think she would, even had I the good fortune to be sick in bed. Yes, I mean it! I would like to see what would happen if I took sick. But no danger. Aunt Mary said she would rather feed two men than give me what I call enough. It is not really enough, you know, but I call it that," and she stretched out on the bench to show how "deliciously lazy" common health makes a girl.
"You certainly do your appetite justice," said Dorothy laughing. "Aunt Libby says it's one thing to eat, and another thing to make your eating 'tell.' Now, you make your food—"
"'Tell.' Certainly I do, and make it 'tell' out loud too. I weigh—how much do you think?"
"About ninety?"
"One hundred and five," declared the girl. "I wish you could go away for a week. I am sure you would pick up and get the peaches back in your cheeks."
"We will go away in vacation time," replied Dorothy. "This month will not be long going around."
"Now I must run back home. I have not had a chance to tell mother a bit of news. You know it was the luckiest thing, ma wanted me to go to Rochester, and when the fuss came all I had to do was clear out. Ma had been waiting for me to get a new dress and she was so tickled when I said I would go in my old one. You see, Dorothy, Aunt Mary gives us lots of things, and no one had been out this spring. Nannie, that's my cousin, is just a little larger than I am, and oh, you should see the scrumbunctious dress I am going to wear to the picnic! It is perfectly—glorious!" and Tavia wheeled around on her toe, threatening her boasted one hundred and five pounds avoirdupois with disaster.
With a promise to be back again in the evening Tavia left Dorothy and hurried across the fields to her home.
"Things seem to be straightening out," thought Dorothy. "Every thing is all right at school, Tavia is back, now if Sarah would only tell—I have a good mind to run over to see her."
It was a warm afternoon and Dorothy had no need to bother with wraps. Aunt Libby was at the side porch so that in passing Dorothy called to her she would be back in a short time, then she crossed through the orchard, going under the very tree in the shade of which Sarah had been found suffering. Dorothy stopped and looked up into the branches. They were very low, some of them, so low that in fruit time girls could pick the apples without climbing for them.
The blossoms were almost gone. Small sprays lay faded on the grass where careless hands had scattered them.
Somehow, it seemed to Dorothy that the tree knew all about the accident; if trees could only talk, she thought. Then, picking up a spray of the freshest blossoms, she hurried on.
To Dorothy's surprise Mrs. Ford was very cordial in her welcome. Dorothy had feared the mother of the injured girl might not be so pleased to see her.
"Walk right in," said Mrs. Ford, opening the door. "I am sure it will do Sarah good to talk with you. She is so lonesome and talks in her sleep about the girls," and she led the way to her daughter's room.
The girl was now sitting up; her injured foot rested on a cushioned chair, while her face still showed signs of suffering.
"Sarah, dear," began Dorothy with an affectionate embrace, "I am so glad to see you up."
"Are you?" asked the other mechanically.
"Yes, indeed," ignoring her cold manner, "we have been so worried about you."
"We? Who?" and Sarah toyed nervously with the coverlet that was thrown over her knees.
"Why all of us; the girls at school. We hope you will soon be able to come back."
"I will never go back. I have had all I want of Dalton School," andSarah tossed her head defiantly.
"Here is a spray of apple blossoms. I brought them from the orchard. They are so sweet," said Dorothy, "I thought they might make you think you were out of doors, when you shut your eyes and smell of them."
She offered the spray to Sarah, but the girl made no sign of accepting it. Dorothy was disappointed. She did not mind the sick girl being fretful, but she had not expected her to be rude.
A rather awkward silence followed. Dorothy had determined if possible, to reach the heart of this queer girl, but her best efforts seemed unsuccessful.
"Well, I had better go," said Dorothy at length, still holding the blossoms in her hand, and standing beside Sarah's chair.
She turned to leave.
"Good-bye," she said. "I hope you will be better soon."
But Sarah caught her dress. "Oh, Dorothy, do not leave me," she wailed. "I am so miserable, so unhappy! Throw the apple blossoms out of the window and come back to me. I need someone! Oh, I feel as if I shall die, all alone here!"
Sobs choked her words, and she seemed struggling for breath.
"Shall I call your mother?" Dorothy asked anxiously.
"No! no!" cried the sick girl. "I only want you. Dorothy Dale help me—you must help me or I shall die," and again Sarah broke into hysterical sobbing.
"What is it, Sarah dear?" pleaded Dorothy. "Tell me how I can help you," and she bent down closer to the weeping girl.
"Oh, I do not know. I have—Oh, Dorothy have you ever tried to injure another?"
"Why, no, dear, and I am sure you have not, either."
"Oh, but I have indeed! I can not bear the pain any longer. I must tell someone—you. You will know how to help me."
A very sad face looked up into Dorothy's. The brown eyes that had always been thought so proud and haughty were now "begging" for help, for pity, and for counsel.
"Tell me about it," said Dorothy, taking a trembling white hand in her own, which was scarcely more steady.
"Did—they—arrest Tavia?" asked Sarah, the words seeming to choke her in their utterance.
"Why, no. Of course they did not," Dorothy replied. "I just left Tavia a half hour ago, and she was as light hearted and happy as ever I have seen her. That little trouble at school did not last long."
"Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Sarah. "The thought of it has just—haunted me!"
"About the accident?" asked Dorothy, trying to help Sarah unburden her mind.
"Yes. I really did not mean to do so wrong. But when I found you were all gone, and I tried to jump—"
"Yes, of course it was very wrong of Tavia to send you up so high just as the bell was going to ring," and Dorothy pressed the other's hand encouragingly.
"Then when I saw my white dress, all black from the ashes, I ran away!"
"Now do not excite yourself, dear," cautioned Dorothy, for she saw how Sarah's face had flushed, and did not like to hear her raise her voice so.
"No, it will not hurt me. The pain of it has been killing me ever since, but now it will go—with my confession!"
"Hush!" whispered Dorothy, "your mother is in the hall."
"Poor mother!" answered Sarah. "She has tried every way to help me, butI could not tell her. It seemed so terrible!"
"But how did you hurt your ankle?" asked Dorothy bluntly.
"I fell out—of—the—tree! I did not mean to do it. I was up there hiding from those who passed in the lane, and all at once the awful thought came to me that I could slip and blame it on Tavia. But I did not mean to do it that way. Oh, Dorothy, how dreadfully I have been punished!" and the sick girl fell to weeping again.
"Never mind dear. We all do wrong sometimes—"
"No, Dorothy Dale, you never do. I have been jealous of your love for Tavia. I have loved you from the first moment I saw you—that day helping a poor drunken man to his feet. I said then I would make you love me, but see how I have failed. You will hate me now."
"No, Sarah dear. You are better and nobler this minute than any other girl in Dalton, for no other likely, has had to make the heroic effort to do right that you have been obliged to go through with. You know the joy there is over one lost lamb when it is returned to the fold?"
Sarah leaned back, and looked up full into Dorothy's face.
"I knew you would know just what to say to me;" she whispered. "Dorothy Dale you are—an—angel," and the big, brown eyes sent out such a look of love, admiration and, at last—happiness.
"It all seemed worse to you, thinking of it here, alone, with no one to say a word to you," continued Dorothy, consolingly. "And then of course, your father was angry. That only showed how fond he is of you."
"Yes. It seems every thing helps one to do wrong. I really never accused Tavia of doing it, only that time when we came in, and then I was so sick and frightened, I had no idea, then, that father would take it all in earnest. But he rushed right off, and when I heard Squire Sanders had been at the school—oh, Dorothy how can I tell you how I felt!"
"But it is all over now," spoke Dorothy soothingly, "and I will take care that every girl in school knows the greatest part of the trouble came from a mistake."
"But I can never go back to that school again—"
"Why, of course you can. I have to make an explanation myself when I go back. You know how hasty Alice is; well she got herself in trouble on my account, and I feel I must say something about it. I was too sick then to know just what to say. So, now that Tavia is back, she will have to give an excuse. Then I can say how the whole trouble was more of a mistake, than anything else, and how we were all really somewhat to blame; perhaps one as much as another."
The setting right of Sarah's wrong—a task which Dorothy had so willingly volunteered to perform,—was by no means so simple a matter as she had attempted to make it. School girls are apt to be fond of excitement, and this bit of trouble brought with it so many interesting experiences—the visit of a real squire, the "insurrection" of Alice; Dorothy falling ill in the cloak room, and that particularly novel occurrence: the disappearance of Tavia Travers. Surely all these features would seem to mark a red letter week on the calendar of "interesting events" at Dalton School. But that was not to be the end of it.
Dorothy intended to make such an explanation to the class, that the entire affair would be cleared up without too much blame resting on Sarah.
A conference with Tavia, held directly after her pathetic interview with Sarah, resulted in the former declaring she would shoulder any blame that could be made to fit her. "For a girl with a sprained ankle, and a bad case of delicate conscience, has troubles enough without inviting more," Tavia told Dorothy. "Besides," she said further, "it really was my fault, for I had determined to get even with her that day, and when I sent her upon the swing I really did not care whether she 'busted' through the clouds or not; I simply sent her flying.
"So, Doro," she concluded "you say whatever you please, and I will 'stand' for it. Only be sure not to let Miss Ellis know you are going to make a speech, for she has 'cut out' all speeches—except her own."
"Tavia, Tavia!" exclaimed Dorothy indignantly, "where ever did you hear such common slang!"
"I picked it up with the 'goods' at Aunt Mary's," replied Tavia laughing, for she really only made use of the expressions to "horrify" Dorothy. "Now," she continued, "be all ready for the picnic. We are only to have a half session, and then go to the Falls."
That evening, after tea, Dorothy found a much-longed-for chance to "visit" her father—talk with him in his own little study, upstairs and away from all disturbances. Since her indisposition the major had not bothered his daughter with any cares of the house or with the children, neither had he talked with her about the Burlock affair; but now, she had something to tell him—Tavia had heard of a woman living in Rochester, of that name—Burlock. What if it were the right party? The one so long sought for by Miles Burlock! And would the major let Dorothy go with Tavia to Rochester, and look for them—the poor mother and little Nellie!
Dorothy found her father in his study waiting for her. How well he looked now, she thought, for the old hale and hearty look, that which so often characterizes the veteran soldier, had returned to his face, making it handsomer than ever because of a lighter shade having settled on his head—he was getting gray the daughter was quick to notice.
"You look better, Little Captain," he said in greeting her.
"I was just thinking the same thing of you," replied Dorothy, laughing.
"That was a case of great minds running in similar trenches," said the father.
"Now, we are going to have a good, long chat," began Dorothy, leaning against the arm of the major's chair so that her head touched his shoulder. "First, I want to tell you some news Tavia has heard of a woman in Rochester named Burlock!"
"Burlock!" repeated the major, and he looked pained somehow; distressed at the mere mention of the name.
"I thought perhaps—it might be the party you—that is, the woman wanted in the Burlock matter," faltered Dorothy.
"I am afraid, daughter," said the major very solemnly, "you have been bothering your young head about affairs much too grave for you to handle. I have always regretted sending you to the Bugle office that morning, so many complications seemed to follow that experiment. Not but what you got out a splendid paper—better than this week's issue for that matter," the major hurried to say, for he noticed a look of disappointment come over Dorothy's face, "but because I seemed to thrust you out into the world, unprotected, and even in danger."
Major Dale pressed his lips to his daughter's brow. Indeed she had always been his little helper, his one dear, only daughter. Her willingness and ambition to help might have misled him, sometimes he might have forgotten she was only fourteen years old, but now, seated there beside him, fussing with his "curls," as she insisted his rather long locks were, she was little Doro again, the baby that had so often climbed on his knee, in that very room, begging for one more story when mother announced "bed time."
The mother was gone now—and Dorothy was sitting there.
"Ah, well!" sighed the major, trying to hide his thoughts, "we must talk of something pleasant."
"But the Burlock affair," ventured Dorothy. "I thought it would be splendid to think of finding them. I have not seen Mr. Burlock in some time. What do you suppose has become of him?"
Major Dale took Dorothy's hand into his own.
"Daughter," he said, "Miles Burlock has passed away."
"Dead!" gasped Dorothy.
"Yes, dead. But he was happy, glad to go, although he left his task unfinished—he had not found his wife and child."
"What happened to him?" Dorothy asked, bewildered at the suddenness of her father's words.
"He died from exhaustion as much as from any thing else. That man Anderson had sent him word to go to Buffalo for 'news.' Believing the message meant good news, that of locating the wife and child, Burlock went, but not before he had legally made me guardian of the lost daughter, and put in my charge the estate that had lately come directly into his hands through the death of Mrs. Douglass. So the poor man managed to settle his affairs before he was called away. He came back to Dalton, sick and discouraged, and determined to put that man Andrew Anderson in jail. But—well it was not to be. Ralph was with him all day and all night. We did all we could to make it easier for him, and Dorothy dear, he closed his eyes—blessing you!"
Dorothy was crying. She tried hard to be brave, but somehow the tears would come—and she had to cry!
"There, there, daughter," said the major consolingly. "I did not want to tell you just yet, but perhaps it is as well now as at any other time. I knew you would be grieved."
"Of course—I am sorry—" sighed Dorothy, "but wasn't it splendid that he had reformed!"
"Yes, and I must confess I was proud to hear a dying man bless your name. He declared that you, a mere child, had saved him from a death of shame. I never knew Dorothy, until Ralph told me there at his bedside, that you had worked so hard to help in the crusade work, even speaking to men like Burlock, when they might not have known how to answer you."
"Oh indeed, father," she hurried to say, "I am sure Mr. Burlock was not intoxicated half the time others thought he was. He seemed so sad always and would sit on a bench, just thinking of his child perhaps, when people called him 'drunk'!" and the girl's eyes flashed indignantly at the thought.
"Well, well, daughter; you were right in showing charity. Yes, charity is the love of God and our neighbor, and it was that love that led you to take the hand of that sick and discouraged man. Ralph told me how you brought him into the Bugle office that afternoon, and how that was the beginning of a new life to Burlock for he never tasted strong drink after that day."
"It was because I was like his own daughter or he thought I was, that he listened to me," said Dorothy, not wanting to claim all the praise her father so prudently gave.
"At any rate you have the joy of knowing, daughter, that you helped a fellow creature find the right path. That joy will never leave you."
For a few moments the two sat there in silence. Dorothy had been favored with many opportunities of "distinguishing herself" as Tavia would say, but this last—the real joy of helping a man save himself—this as the major said, would never leave her.
"And all this trouble about the Ford girl?" inquired the major presently, "has that been settled?"
"Oh, yes, indeed it has," answered Dorothy, scarcely knowing what explanation to make. "Sarah is very hasty, and of course you know how Tavia loves to tease."
"But it seems this was no nonsense. Mr. Ford declared he would make Mr.Travers pay the girl's doctor bill."
"Did he really? I had not heard that. But Tavia was not to blame. Sarah has admitted it was all a misunderstanding."
"Evidently she has not told her father that," the major replied, "for only this morning he assured me he would give the doctor's bill into the hands of a collector."
"Oh, that would be too bad! Tavia's folks are so poor. I must seeSarah."
"Do you have to straighten that matter out also? Well, Little Captain, I am afraid you have a busy time of it. When one is willing to help others it is perfectly surprising how much they can find to do."
"But you see, daddy, someone has to do it,"
"Exactly. I have no objections to you mixing up in school girl affairs; in fact I think that line of work quite as important as book learning. It is the best kind of education, for it fits one for their place in life: but I think, daughter, it might be best for you to give up helping in the crusade. I would rather not have you risk—perhaps insults in that work."
"Of course, if you wish it father," answered Dorothy in a disappointed tone, "but if I could just help out in what Ralph had planned for the girls—a sort of auxiliary work—I would like it. The meetings would be held in the afternoon, and we would have little benefit affairs, to help defray the expenses of the League."
"Oh, that sort of thing," agreed the major, "that would be all right and strictly in a girl's line. Everybody should show sympathy with the movement, for it means more to Dalton than we can estimate. Children, particularly, will be benefited, so that there can be no objection to them helping in their own way."
Dorothy felt greatly relieved now that her father had spoken on this subject, for she had feared he would ask her to give up, entirely, the temperance work she had become so interested in. The most prominent women in Dalton were identified with the movement, and with such leaders surely no girl need be afraid to follow. Besides, as Major Dale said, children would be those most benefited, therefore children should do what they could to help the work along.
"I am so glad you do not object to the Auxiliary, father," she said, as he arose to bid her good night. "Of course I shall never meet another Miles Burlock, and therefore I shall not have to make a personal appeal to any one again," and she looked sadly into her father's face. "Do you think we will ever find little Nellie?"
"Yes, daughter, I feel certain we will soon hear something of the heirs of Miles Burlock. But there now," and he kissed her again, "run along to bed. Your brothers are snoring by this time."
"Good night, daddy dear," she said, pressing his cheek lovingly to her own, "I never forget that I am the daughter of a soldier, and that thought, more than anything else—earthly, takes care of me—guides me aright, and makes me proud of being Dorothy Dale!"
The beautiful month of June was jotting down her days with sweetest floral mottoes—each in its turn paying tribute to the Queen of Months. Roses had come, daisies were weaving the fields into a cloth of white and gold, the side roads of Dalton were framed with clouds of snowy dogwood, and that "rarest of days" the perfect day in June had come. And this was to be the picnic day for the girls of Dalton school.
Tavia was over to Dorothy's house very early. She wanted to borrow a lunch box, and, incidentally, to hear Dorothy's opinion of the "glorious dress" from Rochester.
"Isn't it sweet?" she began pirouetting on the board walk, at the side door of the Dale house, while waiting for Joe to find an empty cracker box for her lunch.
"It is pretty," agreed Dorothy, examining the dress critically. "Those pink ribbons are so becoming to you."
"Cousin Nannie had it made for a party, so it ought to do for a picnic," Tavia said. "How do you feel to-day Doro? I have been thinking you look—sort of 'peaked' as Aunt Libby would say. Have you been worrying about the explanation business? Because if you feel sensitive about it, just leave it to me. I am not the least bit bashful, you know."
"I feel well enough," Dorothy assured her, "and I haven't been worrying—about that any way," and Dorothy smiled to convince her friend that nothing serious was disturbing her peace of mind.
"Well, we assemble at nine you know; check our dinner pails. Thanks Joe, that will do nicely, and if I have any left I will leave it in the box when I return it. After a bluff at study, and an exchange of compliments, for my dress particularly (no one else will have anything like this) we will expect to hear something from you, Doro. Really, this business of making speeches in school is quite an accomplishment. Had I known that Alice was going to 'spout' the way she did that day I left for my vacation—ahem! you noticed Joe, how I said that? Well, I should have postponed the trip had I any idea there would be such stunts going on in lady-like society. But Doro, how is Sarah? Did you see her yesterday?"
"Yes, I saw her just for a moment," and Dorothy looked the other way to hide the serious thoughts that the meeting with Sarah recalled.
"And she has forgiven me for that push into the clouds? Now she is not so bad after all. I feel as if I should bring her some flowers or something; as a peace offering, you know."
"Well, I would not go over just to-day," said Dorothy, "for the doctor is to take the splints off her ankle—"
"Splints? Was it as bad as that? The poor girl, no wonder she—fibbed.I would too, if I had to stand for splints."
"Why don't you say 'stand splints,' and not use that horrid slang," corrected Dorothy.
"But she didn't stand them, she stood for them, with the other foot. You see, Doro, sometimes the much despised slang is—the real thing," and with a tantalizing swish of her skirts, and a most frivolous toss of her head Tavia called "Ta-ta!" and dashed across the fields with the lunch box under her arm.
"She's the kind of girl!" commented Joe, who had been busy making a bow and arrow for Roger. "If her brother Jack had a little of her spunk he would not be where he is."
"Why?" asked Dorothy, "doesn't Johnnie get along well at school?"
"At school?" echoed Joe, "he is never there to get along at all. I think it is clothes that keeps him home. I was going to ask Aunt Libby if any of mine might be spared—"
"Why, of course, you have some that are too small. I will see about them myself. It is too bad those children have no one to manage for them."
"What's the matter with their mother?"
"I don't know—that is—of course they have their mother, but she does not seem to know how to manage."
"And we have you and you do seem to know," responded the boy, trying the bow to make sure it would not shoot backwards. "Well, sis, you're a brick and Tavia, well, she is brick-dust, at any rate, but Jack—well he is Jack, and that is all there is to it. I'm going to ask father to let him carry Bugles next week. What little he could earn would do something for him."
"Mr. Travers is such a nice man," went on Dorothy, "I think Tavia is exactly like him."
"And Jack is like his mother. But we musn't back-bite," seeing the look of reproach on Dorothy's face. "I hope you have a jolly good time at the picnic."
One hour later the girls of Dalton school were crowded around Dorothy, asking all kinds of well-meant questions concerning her health. Tavia, too, came in for her share of the queries, although hers did not relate to health, but to other interesting little confidences, least of which was, by no means, the new dress.
But the fact that her own cousin Nannie gave it to her put Tavia at ease and questions that might otherwise seem impertinent were considered compliments—showing what a "stir" the dress created.
Dorothy looked a trifle pale, and the light blue muslin gown she wore brought out a mere gleam of the pink flush that usually shown in her cheeks. Her blonde curls—the delight of all her friends, fell in a mass about her shoulders, so that even Tavia in the famous pink and white dress did not outdo Dorothy in pretty looks.
Alice wore a buff linen that suited her "golf style" admirably. She had the air of the well-trained college girl, the result, perhaps, of annual trips to the seashore, where she was allowed to indulge in boating, swimming, and other "manly sports" as she termed the exercise.
Belle Miller, otherwise known as "Tinkle," was as "dear and dainty" as ever, in a creamy white swiss, and May Egner wore lavender, although fully conscious of the disastrous effects of picnic sun on that perishable shade. It was a "last year's" gown, so May decided she might better get a few more turns out of it and this, she thought, would be one of the rare occasions, when a lavender might be worn, "with impunity."
All the girls wore appropriate costumes, and, when the classes assembled, the room presented a veritable holiday look. Study seemed the last thing to be thought of amid such gaiety.
Even Miss Ellis wore a white collar and cuffs, a relief from her usual somber black, and as she touched the bell she smiled pleasantly to her pupils, plainly bidding them a happy holiday.
"Young ladies," she began, "we will take a brief review of last Friday's work. It is so near closing time we must not waste an entire day."
Dorothy felt the time had arrived for her to speak.
How she dreaded to mar that happy school hour with such unpleasant reminders of past troubles!
But she had promised Sarah; moreover it was due the entire class that the occurrence should be disposed of honorably.
Tavia was waiting anxiously. Alice also fidgeted at her books. Finally Dorothy raised her hand. The motion was not seen at once by Miss Ellis, but it is safe to say no other person in the room missed it.
A stir of excitement caused the teacher to look up and she bowed toDorothy.
"I am sorry, Miss Ellis," began Dorothy with hesitation, "to refer to anything unpleasant today, but I have promised Sarah Ford to make an explanation for her—she of course could not come herself."
"What is it Dorothy?" asked the teacher, although she no doubt guessed what the girl wished to say.
"I just want to state that Sarah did not intend to blame anyone for her accident—she had only cried that it was our fault when she was suffering so, and did not mean that those about her should have taken it up as they did. She wished me to apologize for her, and to say that the whole thing was an accident, the reports as well as the injury."
"Thank you," said Miss Ellis as Dorothy sat down. "I am very glad indeed that the unpleasant happening has been disposed of."
Alice was on her feet next.
"I also want to apologize, Miss Ellis," she broke out in her "boyish tones," adding: "I should not have spoken as I did, when you asked me to be silent. I was rude to do so."
"A fault atoned for is a lesson learned," commented the teacher, asAlice took her seat.
It seemed to the girls the entire session would be given up to apologies and "love feasts," but when Tavia arose there was a decided murmur through the room.
"Fluffy!" whispered the girl in the very last seat referring to Tavia's fancy dress.
"Full bloom!" said another, meaning that the pink and white dress put the "Tiger Lily," as they called Tavia, in full bloom.
But these remarks had no effect on Tavia.
"I believe," she began bravely, "that I was the real cause of the trouble. I did swing Sarah too high, I was angry about Memorial Day, and blamed her for taking Dorothy's place. I am very sorry."
At that moment a man appeared at the door. It was Squire Sanders!
In he tramped, his cane beating a formidable march in advance of his steps, and his green-black hat kept on his head making a poor show of his manners in a girls' schoolroom.
"I just come in to settle up that little matter of the Ford girl," he drawled. "I see you've got that wild harum-scarum Travers' girl back again."
"The matter has been settled." Miss Ellis interrupted.
"Has, eh? Well, I've not been notified to that effect and I continue my services until I am officially notified to quit," he announced, bringing his cane down in a "full stop."
How odious his presence was in the room at that moment. Tavia's face crimsoned when he referred to her as a "harum-scarum" and only a warning look from Dorothy kept her from replying to his insult.
"I think, Squire Sanders," said Miss Ellis, "that Mr. and Mrs. Ford are satisfied the affair was an accident. It was a misunderstanding—blaming the pupils."
"Accident or no accident, that's no account to me. I'm on this case, and I intend to see it through."
"Mean old thing!" said one girl, somewhat above a whisper, "he just wants the fine. Let's chase him!"
It was quite evident more than one girl felt like "chasing" the obnoxious squire, but he held his ground and continued to punctuate his impolite remarks with that noisy cane.
"I want to see Octavia Travers at my office," he announced, "and I want her to come right along with me now!"
"Squire Sanders!" cried Miss Ellis, shocked and alarmed. "I cannot and will not permit you to take a pupil from this room!"
"Oh, you won't eh?" the squire looked more unpleasantly than ever. "Well, I'd like to see you stop me! Perhaps you would like to give up your job here? There's more after it, and some knows more about the ways of keeping wild girls down than Rachel Ellis does, too. I would advise you not to interfere with an officer. Come along, Miss Travers."
"She will not!" called out Alice. "My father is a town committeeman andI know something about the laws of Dalton. Show us your warrant!"
This was a surprise to Squire Sanders. He never expected his authority would be questioned—and by a mere schoolgirl.
"Warrant, eh?" he sneered. "Maybe you would like to come along yourself, since you are so smart!"
A wild thought flashed through the mind of Alice. What if he should take both her and Tavia to his office!
It would be a case of false arrest, and cost the squire his place inDalton!
"Get ready!" he called again to Tavia, who now seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke, and was smiling broadly.
"Don't move a step!" called Alice, while Miss Ellis looked on helplessly.
"Now, that settles it," cried out the squire, red with anger. "I'll take you, too. Come right along here!"
Alice shot a meaning look at Miss Ellis and stepped out.