"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 see Sarah."

"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!"



CHAPTER XII

AN UNPROVOKED ATTACK

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 to Dorothy.

"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, as Alice 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 and I 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 in Dalton!

"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.

"Come, Tavia," she said, "the more the merrier. Girls we will be back in time for the picnic," and, taking the "cue" from Alice, Tavia also stepped out, and with her, marched off behind the squire.



CHAPTER XIII

A QUEER PICNIC

And that was to be picnic day!

A queer holiday, indeed, with two girls taken from the classroom— arrested!

Yes, that was what it amounted to, in spite of the jolly way Tavia and Alice trooped off, making "faces" and doing fancy "steps" back of the squire.

Miss Ellis sat at her desk dazed, and stunned. She could not realize it all—a squire coming into her room—threatening her with dismissal, and taking two girls off to the common police court for a "hearing."

She was not a woman given to showing her feelings, but this seemed more than she could bear; tears came into her eyes, fell upon her books and then she bowed her head—she had to cry! Dorothy was at her side instantly.

"Dear Miss Ellis," she murmured, "don't take it so seriously. It will be all right. I'm sure those two girls are well able to take care of themselves, and I suspect Alice went more for mischief than for anything. Perhaps I had better run down to father's office, and tell him about it; he will know exactly what to do."

The girls all looked on with sad faces. They had never before seen Miss Ellis cry in school. But she raised her head now, and seemed better able to control her feelings.

"I think, Dorothy," she said, "it may be better to wait awhile. Something may happen to—save the girls from really going to his office. We will try to study, and perhaps we may have our picnic yet."

But it was a difficult matter to apply minds to books that morning; too much had happened to be turned readily aside for mere school work. Such whispering had never been permitted before, although the girls did try to be kind to Miss Ellis, she looked so sad and worried.

Meanwhile the two girls, Tavia and Alice, had been having their own experiences.

Upon reaching the street they stepped up along side the squire, so that persons in passing thought they were merely walking along to keep the aged man company.

But Ralph Willoby was not so easily misled.

He was just leaving the Bugle office as they came along, and he instantly detected a "story."

"Come on," said Alice, "you can be our counsel. We are under arrest."

"No need," objected the squire, "I am well able to attend to this case."

"But your office is public," answered Ralph, "and I guess I'll go along and see what happens."

"But I say I don't want any interference," and the squire raised his voice. "You newspaper scamps always get things wrong anyway."

"Probably because you do not give us a chance to get them right," retorted Ralph. "This time we will try to stick to facts."

"Well, when I'm ready to give them out you can have them, but not before," insisted the angry squire.

"But I'm going along, just the same," declared Ralph, as Tavia stepped back to walk with him, so that the squire was obliged to go on with Alice, who really seemed to be enjoying the experience.

The office of the justice of the peace was a dingy, dirty little place. It had served Dalton for the small needs of a public office for some years, Squire Sanders, of course, collecting a good income for its yearly rental.

An old bench was stretched in front of the desk.

The girls sank down on this, making queer "faces" and comical gestures.

"My first offense!" sighed Alice, with mock sadness.

"Same here!" said Tavia in similar tone.

"Since you wish it," said Ralph to Alice, "I can act as counsel. You know I really am studying law, and there is nothing like taking cases for experience."

"Now, no skylarking here," called out the squire, "I want to hear all about that case, let me see—the case of—I've got it somewhere," and he turned the soiled pages of the "records" over rather roughly, considering they were supposed to belong to the town of Dalton.

Tavia was biting her lips. She felt every moment the laugh would get the better of her and get out on its own accord, but she tried bravely to suppress it.

Ralph was whispering to Alice. Evidently he was pleased with the information she imparted, for he, too, smiled broadly as the squire called:

"Octavia Travers, step up to the bar!"

"What for?" asked Tavia saucily.

"To swear—take your oath—make your affidavit," called the squire sharply.

"What's the charge?" interrupted Ralph.

"'Sault an' batt'ry," snapped the squire.

"Who signed the warrant?" questioned Ralph further.

"See here young feller!" and the squire rapped his cane vigorously upon the desk, "if you don't let me go on with this case I'll kick you out."

"Oh, no, you won't. I have as much right here as you have, and I intend to see that you do not, in any way, insult the young ladies!"

"You young scamp!" yelled the squire, making a dash for Ralph and bringing his cane down squarely on the young man's head, at which Alice and Tavia screamed.

A moment later the men were scuffling on the floor.

"I'll teach you!" the squire kept yelling.

"Let me go!" shouted Ralph.

"Oh, we must get help!" screamed Alice. "Tavia, run quick, to the office next door. That man is crazy. He will kill Ralph," and, while Tavia ran to one side of the place, Alice hurried to the other, so that all possible help would be called at once.

In a short time the little place was crowded. Some came to aid, and others came to see what was wrong. Alice and Tavia stood by with very white faces. Alice had pulled the squire away from Ralph and the aged man finally had been subdued, that is two men had succeeded in keeping him away from Ralph, but not until the young man had been considerably injured. The squire was still sputtering and those who tried to quiet him had a hard task of it. Every time they would let go his arms he would throw them up with new energy, trying to get at Ralph again, until at last it was found necessary to go to the constables' desk; get out the only pair of handcuffs in Dalton, and put them on the wrists of the obstreperous official.

This, of course, was great fun for the boys who had gathered about, and who had more than one grudge against Squire Sanders. Many a time he had chased them off the coasting hill, he had often spoiled a good day's swimming, and as for apples—a boy never knew when he was safe to "borrow" one from any orchard in Dalton.

But the tables were turned now—and the boys were glad of it. A taste of his own medicine would do the aged man good, they declared.

Not being able to do more than shout and kick, Squire Sanders soon "gave out" and fell back sullenly in a chair near a window. Ralph's head was bleeding.

"Oh, we must get Ralph to the drug store," insisted Alice. "Perhaps Dr. Gray will be there. He is hurt, I am sure," and she was almost in tears, for indeed Ralph looked very much injured—his lip was cut, and girls cannot well stand the sight of blood.

Ralph felt quite well able to walk, he declared, and assured the girls, laughingly, that their case and his would now likely "come up" together in the next term of court.

But just as Alice, Tavia, Ralph, and a few sympathizing friends were ready to leave the office Franklin MacAllister, president of the Selectmen of Dalton, and father of Alice, stepped into the place. He had heard of the disturbance, and having power to act in any such emergency, he hurried to the scene.

"Well," he exclaimed, seeing his daughter there, "what in the world are you doing here?"

"Oh, I made all the trouble," replied Alice, "that is, Tavia and I made it. We were arrested—"

"Arrested!" repeated the father, incredulously.

"Yes, indeed we were. And Mr. Willoby only stepped in to help us when he got in trouble."

Mr. MacAllister talked earnestly to Ralph. Plainly both men were of the same opinion—either Squire Sanders was crazy or he was too old and incompetent to hold office.

"What are we going to do with him, Mr. President?" asked one of the men who had the unpleasant duty of standing by and keeping guard over the squire.

"Bind him over to keep the peace," replied the president. "Squire Sanders," he called, and thereat every one held his or her breath, "this is a sad predicament to find an officer in. In fact the occurrence is a disgrace to the town of Dalton."

The squire shifted uneasily in the chair. He had not spoken coherently since the struggle with Ralph, and was still in an ugly mood. At the same time he understood who now addressed him; the president of the board; the man who had authority to bring matters about so as to deprive him of the office he had held for years.

"Stand up!" called the president, and the squire shuffled awkwardly to his feet.

"What have you to say in this matter? We have a quorum of the board here present and we may as well dispose of this case. There is also another count pending against you. How did you come to let that man Anderson slip out of Dalton so easily—help him out in fact? Was his money better than that of the people of this town, who for years have been paying you for duties that you have never honestly performed?"

At the mention of Anderson, Squire Sanders' face turned from red to a deadly ashen.

"Look out," cautioned Ralph aside to the president, "he is old you know, and might drop at any moment."

"Not a bit of it," went on Mr. MacAllister. "He is too tough for that. Speak up, Sanders. This is your last chance."

But the man never moved his lips. Sullen and beaten he sat there while Mr. MacAllister, recounted some of his misdeeds.

"You have disgraced your office," he declared, "but the most outrageous of your offenses was that of bringing into this office two innocent schoolgirls—doctoring up a charge against them, trying to force them to acknowledge they had taken part in an affair that they had absolutely nothing to do with—and all this you did for the paltry fee that goes with each case on your books. Now, Sanders, I have spoken to the members of the board here present and the verdict in your case is—that you leave Dalton inside of ten days. The penalty for contempt in the matter will be a public trial, and, no doubt, imprisonment."

It was a difficult matter to restrain the boys present. They wanted to cheer—to shout, but were not allowed to do so. Ralph had quite recovered himself now, and so insisted on going alone to the drugstore to have his slight wounds dressed if necessary. Two of the selectmen looked after Sanders, releasing him of the handcuffs, and advising him "to make himself scarce" around Dalton, until the feeling against him had quieted down some. All the defiance had left him now; he scarcely raised his head as he crept out the back way to his rooms next door.

Upon hearing the school story in full Mr. MacAllister decided to take his daughter and Tavia back to the school room himself, and set every thing right with Miss Ellis and her pupils.

"You have had a rough time of it lately," he commented as he and the two girls made their way to the school.

"But Alice is a—a brick!" declared Tavia, in appreciation of her friend's assistance. "She helped us splendidly."

"Glad to hear it," answered the father, "Alice is our tom-boy, but she is true-blue, eh, Bob?" he said patting his daughter affectionately. "You knew what I meant about the man Anderson, did you not, Tavia?" he went on. "That was your 'special friend' I believe."

"Oh, I have met him," replied Tavia laughing, "but I think now the reason the old squire wanted to get me into this trouble was because he thought it might affect Dorothy Dale, as she is my special friend. Somehow the Burlock-Anderson affair seemed to be aimed at the Dales."

"Oh, yes, no doubt of it," answered Mr. MacAllister, "but we think we are on the track of settling the matter now."

Tavia felt she could scarcely wait to tell all this to Dorothy, for she had been wondering what had become of the Anderson affair. Alice looked proudly up at her father as they neared the school.

"They may think you have come to take someone else away," she said laughing. "This has been a queer picnic day."

"Don't worry about that," he answered. "You must have an extra good time to make up for your troubles and disappointment, I will see what I can do for you."

Alice cast a meaning glance at Tavia. If her father undertook to give Dalton school a treat it would surely be something worth while, Alice was sure, and so, with that bright prospect uppermost in her mind, she led her father into the school room.



CHAPTER XIV

THE SECRET

It took but a short time for Mr. MacAllister to explain everything satisfactorily to Miss Ellis and her pupils. He was a gentleman any daughter might well be proud of, and, indeed, Alice showed a pardonable pride as he stood there smiling and assuring the teacher that, as president of the Selectmen of Dalton, he would promise a holiday to the class that would make up in every way for the disappointment of the morning.

When the visitor had departed, Miss Ellis announced she would carry out the intended program as far as a half session was concerned, but, as it was too late to go on the picnic then the pupils might go home and enjoy themselves as they wished.

Tavia and Alice were now regarded as heroines. To think they had really been in the court, and that they had been witnesses to—"a fight," as Tavia declared Squire Sanders' attack on Ralph was "nothing more nor less than a common roll around fight."

Finally the picnic lunches were disposed of, and Tavia took Dorothy's arm as they walked homeward—she had much to tell Dorothy and knew that no girl would interrupt such apparent confidence as "arm in arm" indicated.

"And what do you think Mr. MacAllister said?" began Tavia. "That old Squire Sanders let that horrible man get out of Dalton—the man who frightened us so!"

"Did he?" replied Dorothy, absently.

"And you knew, of course, about poor Miles Burlock—he died when you were sick, so I did not tell you anything about it."

"Yes, father told me."

"What are you thinking of, Doro? You are not listening to me at all."

"I have so much to think of," answered Dorothy, smiling. "I can hardly keep my thoughts in line."

"But you should have seen Alice—Oh, she just pulled the old squire by the collar. She didn't wait for a man to come. And look at my dress! Isn't it a sight? I might have known there would be an earthquake or a fight when I attempted to wear anything like this."

"It is too bad, but that is a straight tear. You can easily mend it."

"But Ralph's eye; that will not darn so neatly. I hope that hateful old squire never shows his ugly 'phiz-mahogony' in Dalton again."

"Do you think Ralph is much hurt?" Dorothy inquired anxiously. "Wasn't it disgraceful?"

"Perfectly rambunctious!" declared Tavia, "although it might have been jolly good fun if Ralph had another fellow in his place—one not quite so careful of the squire's feelings and features. But you should have seen the squire with the handcuffs on! Oh! it was better than the play I saw in Rochester," and Tavia relieved her pent-up jollity by tossing into the air the borrowed lunch box and making "passes" at it, with queer pranks in imitation of the jugglers she had seen at Rochester.

"Tavia," asked Dorothy, very seriously, "do you think you could keep a secret?"

"Keep a secret? Dorothy darling, Dare-me!"

"Now, no joking, Tavia," insisted Dorothy, "this is a matter of importance."

"Oh, I just love importance. That was what mostly happened to me and Alice to-day in the squire's office—importance!"

"Well, if you really can't be serious—

"Oh, but, Doro dear, just try me. I shall weep if you say so, only— pardon, mamselle, but do not, if you please, make that weep too long, a few sniffs only, for I have not with me in this fleshling costume ze 'kerchief," and she made a most ridiculous little French "squat," further evidence of the Rochester play.

"I am afraid Tavia, that trip to your Aunt Mary's has affected your head; they say nothing can do so more effectively than certain kinds of plays."

"Well, the one I saw was the certain kind. Why, last night mother nearly had nervous prostration because I was practicing up in my room. I was trying to do a fall—and I did it all right."

"How foolish you are, Tavia," said Dorothy slightly frowning, "I would not think of such nonsense if I were you."

"Yes, it was awfully foolish, for it knocked the ceiling down in the kitchen, just dusting Johnnie's pompadour. The escape, however, made mother happy, so that the ceiling did not count."

Dorothy "gave in." She had to laugh and did laugh so heartily she was obliged to sit down on the grass to enjoy the "tragedy" as Tavia described the stage fall and the "ceiling drop."

"But the secret?" demanded Tavia, making sure her skirt would not be stained, before taking her place on the grass beside Dorothy.

"Yes, I do want to tell you," answered Dorothy, "Now listen. You know Squire Sanders was particularly anxious that you should stand all the blame for Sarah's accident."

"Particularly anxious? He was dead set on it. Polite language doesn't fit the case."

"Tavia, you really are too slangy. It may be all right just for fun, in talking to girls, but some day you will be sorry. It will become a habit."

"Like Jake Schmid taking the pledge. I saw him yesterday very close to— a saloon!"

"Poor Jake!" said Dorothy with a sigh. "But he does seem to try—"

"To take the pledge? Indeed he does and I admire his perseverance. That's just the way I try to avoid slang."

"I am afraid, Tavia, we will not accomplish much in the way of confidences, if you persist in being—ridiculous," and Dorothy made as if to continue on her way home.

"Sit right down there, Dorothy Dale," insisted Tavia, pulling her friend's skirt, and bringing Dorothy down beside her rather suddenly. "I will have to play the villain and demand that 'secret'!"

"Well, it is simply this: I think I see the motive Squire Sanders had in trying to disgrace you."

"Let me see it quick!" snapped Tavia.

"Didn't your father run against him last year for the office of Town Squire?"

"Certainly," said Tavia, briefly.

"And the only reason he did not get the office was because the squire was so old the men thought it best not to disturb him just then."

"Right, again," answered Tavia.

"Election time is now almost here. Your father would be up for the office again. Don't you see by bringing trouble to you and your folks your father would become unpopular?"

"And get left!"

"Yes; be defeated."

"But he will not!" and Tavia's brown eyes danced significantly. "The squire is down and out. And worse yet he has to run for his money. Now my own dear dad will have a chance. Oh, Doro, I love politics better than eating. I hope some day soon, while Tavia Travers is still in circulation, the women will vote in Dalton same as they do in Rochester- -they don't just exactly vote in Rochester, but a lot of them talk about it."

"Now you must not mention my suspicions," cautioned Dorothy, "for I must speak to father first. It does not seem fair that the Fords should be blamed for making statements about you that, perhaps, the squire put into their heads."

"Dorothy Dale, you would make a first class lawyer, and when you want a job at it I will engage you to defend my case. But I do not see how I am to keep all that momsey. It would be so good to have father back at a desk again. They say he really was a first class justice out in Millville. And he just hates his work now—so little wages; mom cannot seem to make them go around—me and Johnnie; Johnnie mostly gets the knot at the end."

"It certainly would be splendid to have him get the position. And I am sure father will do all he can for him: but I would not mention it to your mother, just yet."

"All right Doro, I have given you my promise, but you have made me so happy!" and Tavia hugged Dorothy so enthusiastically that the latter was obliged to beg off.

"And I tell you what," went on Tavia, "when Pop gets Squire Sander's place I—this—me—you know" and she made another wonderful, sweeping all-around bow, "I will be 'city clerk.' I will keep the books and Dorothy Hill-and-Dale, if ever your name gets on the books it shall be promptly eliminated, elucidated, expurgated—there now! Don't you think I should be in the grad. class? I was looking up words with 'ate' in—my favorite pastime,—and I came across that bunch."

"I do really think, Tavia, that you would do better at school if you only tried. We cannot always have studies that we are especially interested in. It is like the scales in piano practice, they give us the mechanical work for pretty dances and other brilliant pieces."

"Well, we have no piano, so I do not have to worry about that. I suppose you will play at the closing exercises?"

"Miss Ellis has asked me to. But Tavia, we really must be going. I have promised to go over to Sarah's this afternoon."

"May I go with you? I just would like to feel that we had talked it all off, you know. I do not want to think Sarah has any hard feelings."

"Certainly; come, I am sure Sarah will be glad to see you, and her mother is very pleasant. Be careful not to tell too much about to-day's affairs, It might worry Sarah."

"If I forget myself you just squint, and I'll be as mum as a mummy."

So Dorothy and Tavia started off homeward, arm in arm.



CHAPTER XV

DOROTHY IN POLITICS

The news of Squire Sanders' downfall spread rapidly throughout Dalton. To the men interested in public affairs it was no surprise, for they had known, of course, of his shortcomings; but there were those in the town who looked upon the "disgraceful scene" in the office that morning as something too serious for ordinary treatment—it should be brought to the attention of the sheriff, they declared.

Among those of that opinion was Mr. Ford, father of Sarah. He was one of the men who felt they had been wronged, personally, by the squire, and in reference to this matter Mr. Ford called upon Major Dale.

It was late that same afternoon, when Dorothy and Tavia were visiting Sarah, that Mr. Ford arrived at the office of Major Dale.

"I have been a fool," he told the major, "to listen to such arguments as that man made against mere children. Of course my daughter was injured and that angered me; but it was the foolish talk of that old man which made me think I should have revenge—revenge upon a girl no more guilty than a babe in its cradle."

Mr. Ford spoke with much bitterness. Men do not like to make such mistakes, but those of high character are always ready to do what they can to right such wrongs.

"But there was no real harm done?" interrupted the major.

"No harm done! To take two innocent girls into that office and accuse them of—I don't know what! Why, Major, it was simply outrageous," and Mr. Ford paced the floor impatiently.

"It was a lucky thing that my young man, Ralph Willoby, happened along, although it seemed unlucky enough for him. But I believe he is not injured beyond a cut lip and bruised eye. The old squire seemed to have entirely lost control of himself. This comes from keeping incompetent men in office—just through sentiment."

"Exactly. They can do more harm than one would imagine. Think how he talked me into the idea that this poor Travers family should pay my daughter's doctor bill! And I told him to go ahead and collect it!"

Each time that this thought came to Mr. Ford it seemed to him more repugnant. First, that he should have blamed Tavia without investigating the matter himself; next that he should have allowed a man like Squire Sanders to "humbug" him.

"Well," said the major, "we now have it in our power to put the right man in the office of Justice of the Peace. You know John Travers was up for it last year."

"I do, but—he is not of our party."

"Yet you admit he is the right man?"

"I know of no one better fitted for the office."

"Then make it the man this time, and leave the party aside. Franklin MacAllister was in this afternoon. He says the appointment must be made at once, but that your faction in the council will oppose Travers. Your vote can decide the matter."

Mr. Ford was silent for a moment. Men think it almost a sacred obligation to "stick to their party," especially when that party puts the member in office with the understanding that their interests shall be looked after.

"It may cost me my place on the board—" said Mr. Ford thoughtfully, "but that will not affect my family, or my pocket-book—"

"Still you have been a good member," interrupted the major, "and we cannot afford to lose you, either."

"But you said Mac. stated my vote would carry it one way or other?"

"Yes, he has canvassed it."

"Then Travers shall be the man!" and Mr. Ford brought one hand down on the other in a most determined, and defiant manner.

"Strange," said Major Dale, "but the children have settled this for us. My little girl Dorothy had the whole thing planned out, and talked me over to her way. She is very fond of the Travers girl, you know."

The office door opened and Mr. MacAllister entered.

"Hullo!" he said cheerily. "Been lobbying, Major?"

"Seems so."

"Well, Travers has my vote," Mr. Ford hurried to say.

"What, going back on your party?" said Mr. MacAllister, laughing.

"Either that or go back on my own daughter," commented Mr. Ford. "It seems this is the girls' election."

The major could hardly disguise his pride—Dorothy had certainly "been busy" lately, and every undertaking of hers had met with success. A girl, after all, may be something more than a pretty doll, he thought. But the whole thing is to get them to exert their influence in the right direction. See how Dorothy had helped in the liquor crusade. And without "soiling her finger tips," thought the major, proudly.

And while this caucus was being held in the major's office, Dorothy was conducting another sort of meeting at the Ford home.

Tavia and Sarah had "made up" most affectionately. Sickness, sometimes is a powerful teacher, and afforded, in Sarah's case, time to think reasonably which was plainly what she needed.

"I always thought the girls disliked me," she told Tavia, "that, of course, made me dislike most of them. But I did love Dorothy," she hastened to declare, "and I was jealous of her love for you."

"I don't blame you a bit," answered Tavia, in her direct way. "If she should turn 'round and fall in love with you—why then no telling what might happen."

Sarah was now able to walk around with the aid of a cane, and this afternoon she sat out on the porch entertaining her friends.

"I do hope," said Dorothy, "that you will be able to go on the picnic with us, Sarah. Perhaps that, too, will be all the better for being postponed."

"Only my lunch," sighed Tavia, melodramatically. "I shall never be able to put up another such!" and she smacked her lips in remembrance of the good things the borrowed lunch box had contained.

"Perhaps, then, I will be able to invite you to take some of mine," said Sarah politely. "Mother just loves to do up dainty lunches."

"Accepted with pleasure," replied Tavia, imitating society manners. "Make it enough for yourself, plenty for me, and a little to spare. Then we will be sure to come out all right."

Mrs. Ford came out to ask the visitors to remain to tea, but they politely declined. She was especially kind in talking to Tavia, and invited her to come again with Dorothy.

"They say," remarked Dorothy to Tavia, as the girls hurried along the lane, "'that love scarce is love that does not know the sweetness of forgiving,' and it does seem that way, don't you think so?"

"Oh, that was what ailed us all, was it? Not our fault at all, but the fault of some old mildewed poet, that wanted to make good his verses. The 'sweetness of forgiving,' eh? Well, it is better than scrapping, I'll admit, but I wish poets would make up something handier. We went through quite something to find the sweetness."

"Hurry," whispered Dorothy, "I thought I heard something move in the bushes!"

"So did I," admitted Tavia, quickening her pace.

"It is always so lonely in the lane at night, we should have gone around."

"Let's run," suggested Tavia. "One row a day is enough for me."

The bushes stirred suspiciously now, and both girls were alarmed. They were midway in the lane, and could not gain the road, except by running on to the end of the lonely path. Each side was lined with a thick underbrush, and—there was no mistaking it now—someone was stealing along beside them!

Taking hold of hands the girls ran. As they did the figure of a man darted out in the path after them. Not a word was spoken—all their strength was put into speed—to get to the end of the lane before that man should overtake them!

They knew the footing well, although the path was rough with tree stumps and rocks thrown there from the fields at the side.

Suddenly there was an exclamation. Turning quickly Tavia saw the man's form rolling in the deep grass.

"He has fallen over the big stump," she said, "and has rolled into the thick briars. Hurry now, we will get out all right." And, with renewed courage, the girls ran on, reaching the end of the lane in full view of houses, before the "tramp" could possibly overtake them.

"That was the same fellow," declared Tavia. "What in the world does he follow us for?"

"It's all the Burlock business," Dorothy answered. "But hurry, we must give the alarm this time. Perhaps they will be able to catch him."

Out of breath, and very much frightened, the girls reached the center of the village, going directly there instead of turning into a side street to go home.

"Perhaps father is in his office," remarked Dorothy.

"There's Ralph," said Tavia, as that young man emerged from a doorway.

Quicker than it takes to tell it a searching party was formed. The three men who had been talking politics were still in the major's office, and when told of the girl's fright they promptly started out for the lane picking up more help at every turn.

"We will get him if we have to burn down the woods," declared the major, deeply incensed at his daughter's peril.

"And not a gun in the crowd," remarked Mr. MacAllister. "This is where we need our constable."

They had reached the lane now, and it was quite dark. Numbers of men, who had been taking a quiet evening smoke at their own doors joined in the "rounding up" as Mr. Ford called it.

"No Squire Sanders to help him out this time," some one remarked.

Then the men scattered—completely surrounding the place where the tramp had been last seen.

"The only way he could get away from us would be in a balloon," said Mr. MacAllister.

"Or an airship," spoke up someone else.

With heavy clubs and every available weapon to beat down the brush they started out through the lane on the man hunt.

Surely twenty good men should be able to find the one "tramp" now.

But would they?



CHAPTER XVI

THE GIRLS HAVE IT

It was an entirely new experience for Dalton men—searching for a miscreant that spring evening in the lane. But evening wore into nightfall and no trace of the "tramp" had been discovered.

From either end of the lane the men came together at last, and admitted they had been again outwitted by the "slick rascal."

Mr. MacAllister, in dismissing the party, urged them to be at the town meeting that night to vote for a constable, and never had the need of such an official been so plainly demonstrated.

"We must go about to-night," he said, "and notify business persons to be on the lookout for a fellow of this description. Of course, if we had a regular constable we might save ourselves that trouble."

To the old politicians of Dalton, those who always voted promptly, but put off paying taxes until the very last notice had been served upon them, the appointment of John Travers to succeed Squire Sanders, came as a surprise. Poor men are not always popular, and the other candidate, Baldwin Blake, was the sort of fellow it was pleasant to meet—around election times. But John Travers got the office without a dissenting vote in the council—a matter quite as surprising to Mr. Travers as to any man present. Mr. MacAllister whispered aside to Major Dale, when the result of the ballot was made known:

"Travers does not know what a strong pull our young politicians have. This is the girls' campaign."

But when a few hours later, the new squire told his own girl of the good fortune, Tavia declared Dorothy had managed it all.

It was a fact, however regrettable, that Mrs. Travers was not at home to hear the good news. She had gone to see a sick friend that afternoon, and had sent word later that she would remain away all night.

But Mrs. Travers was probably not as blamable in her home-making delinquencies as it might appear. She simply did not know how to make a home. She belonged to that unfortunately large class of women, who have received a so-called "education" from books, but who have never been trained in either discipline or character, which might give the forbearance necessary in meeting the actual trials of life, or in the management of the great American dollar, which might make up, in a measure, for lack of discipline, when that dollar, like the proverbial charity, must cover a multitude of wants. Mrs. Travers had attended a school where embroidery was the chief number in the curriculum, and mathematics (after decimal fractions) made elective. Hence it was that the burden of responsibility came so early to Tavia, who was scarcely better able to undertake it than the mother.

The unfortunate result of this total lack of management might have discouraged a man less optimistic than John Travers, but he always "made allowances," just as he did to-night when the indifferent wife was not there to share in the family's happy hour.

"Maybe I can help you with the books," suggested Tavia, when the possible details of the new position were being discussed.

"Oh, I will have plenty of time to attend to them, daughter," her father replied. "The books I want you to attend to are those at school—I want you to make up for lost time. Dalton people will expect more from us now that they are giving us a chance."

"Dorothy says I do better than I imagine," replied Tavia. "I did not expect to pass—I had been home so much—but if only I could get a 'conditional,' and leave when Dorothy does!"

Ambition had come to Tavia—at last.

Her father wished her to get through school, and she determined, if such a thing was possible she would do it.

"I could study very hard," she told herself, when thinking the matter over very seriously, that night, in her own little cheerless room. "Dorothy has all her work done, and I am sure she will help me."

And what a surprise it would be to every one if she really did get "conditioned" in the studies she failed in, and should actually graduate in the general work.

What a wonderful thing it was to have something definite to work for! Dorothy and Alice had always felt that way, but until to-night Tavia had never known the real joy of doing good work, with the actual reward in sight. Home life had been dreary indeed, school had been little better, the only bright spot in the misplaced life had been put in by Dorothy Dale. And what a power for good had been the quiet, unobtrusive influence!

"I owe every single thing to Dorothy," Tavia declared to her own heart that eventful night, "and I hope some day I will be able to show her I am not ungrateful."



CHAPTER XVII

A GIRL'S WEAPON

Tavia's plans took shape next morning—there was nothing visionary about them. She did surprise her father with a neat breakfast table, and Johnnie surprised himself with a clean linen suit.

"Nothing succeeds like success," said the father, pleased and happy that, at last something had "happened" to brighten the make-shift home.

"And when mother comes," Tavia announced, "she will find that I have discovered how to keep house, for I have already provided for dinner. Now Johnnie, be careful that you do me credit—go right straight to school when it's time, and don't, as you value your place in—in—my heart, miss a single lesson!"

"Good!" said the father, actually taking a tiny rosebud from the clean milk bottle, in the center of the table, and putting it in his buttonhole.

"Would it be silly for a boy to wear a flower?" faltered Johnnie, "Joe Dale often does."

"Indeed every boy in school will know to-day that pop is the 'head constable' so why shouldn't you decorate?" and the sister put in the fresh linen waist a bud that exactly matched the one chosen by the squire.

Mr. Travers recalled that this was the first morning he could remember when his two children sat at table with him. They were always busy or sleeping—any place but where they should be at breakfast time.

"Now, I must see Dorothy before school," said Tavia, leaving the table. "Johnnie, just eat all your toast while I clear up. Then you can bring in fresh water, and some wood to have ready for noon, in case mother should not get home in time to do everything."

Mr. Travers was also in a hurry to get down to the Green, he had made an appointment to talk with Major Dale and he did not delay after breakfast. A new world had been discovered by him—the land of prosperity; ambition for his children, and perhaps even contentment for the incompetent little woman who had suffered too, and who now might find a way and heart to do what seemed not worth while before.

But Dorothy had "anticipated" Tavia's visit and was at the door before the latter had entirely cleared away the table.

"Why!" exclaimed Dorothy, when her eyes rested on the flowers, "you are celebrating!"

"Good reason why!" responded Tavia proudly, "my dad's a squire!"

"I am so glad," murmured Dorothy, giving Tavia a kiss. "Now you will be somebody, won't you?"

"I am already—somebody else. You won't know me; better ask for an introduction," and she walked haughtily to the sink with the last of the dishes.

"Delighted, I'm sure!" simpered Dorothy, imitating the society voice.

"Pray be seated," went on the new Tavia, "I'll be disengaged directly."

Tavia's happiness was so entirely self-evident there was no need for her to make formal expression of it to Dorothy, yet, as she had promised herself to be "just like other girls" Tavia felt the obligation to say something polite.

"I know, Dorothy," she began, "we owe everything to you. But it has really made a new world for us, and now, you will see how we appreciate it. I am going to get through school, if I can, and perhaps, when we get better off, I may go on with you at school and grow up—like you."

"Tavia dear," said Dorothy earnestly, "I am sure you will always be my friend, whether you have a fancy education or not. We have learned more than can be taught from books—we have learned to help each other, and to understand each other."

"Yes, I cannot imagine anything ever coming into our lives that would keep us apart—even distance does not separate minds and hearts."

Tavia had finished her work now, and surprised Dorothy by neatly washing out the dish towels.

Dorothy was ready to go now for it was getting close to the hour for school.

"I must tell you something in confidence," said she, "father thinks he has a clew to the little Burlock girl's whereabouts."

"Yes, and I thought the same thing when what do you suppose?—Aunt Mary writes me that the woman—Mrs. Burlock—is dead!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"Yes, and the society cannot now find her girl—she did have a daughter."

"But surely, in a place like Rochester, they should be able to trace a little girl," Dorothy insisted.

"They should be, but they were not. Aunt Mary wrote that the charitable society had buried the woman, and when a young lady from the organization went back to the rooms with the little girl she allowed her to escape. That is, the young lady went out to buy something and when she came back the girl was gone."

"Did she run away?"

"Haven't the least idea. But say, Doro, we will be late, sure pop, and me putting on airs this morning. Quarter of nine. Now let's see if we can beat last night's record. I'll set the pace," and so saying the girls started off on a run, for it was most desirable that they reach the school a few minutes, at least, before the bell rang.

Dorothy insisted Tavia should go straight to Miss Ellis and tell her how she was so anxious to keep up with her class.

"You might change your mind," Dorothy remarked laughing, "and Tavia, there is nothing like outside help for keeping troublesome resolutions."

"Guess you're right," said Tavia with a sigh. "I may as well clinch it."

"No slang now," interrupted Dorothy. "Graduates never use slang."

"Then I've changed my mind already," pouted Tavia, "I must have slang or die—'Liberty of speech or death!'" she exclaimed with a dramatic gesture.

"Come on," pleaded Dorothy, who was really anxious that Tavia should speak to Miss Ellis before the classes assembled.

To her surprise Tavia learned from her teacher that she had not so very much to make up, and could, no doubt, do it if she tried.

"You have been doing very well lately," said Miss Ellis, "and during the days you were away we had scarcely any new lessons—nothing but review. You were always fair in mathematics when you put your mind to your work. Now let us see if you cannot surprise everyone by getting all through— not conditioned in anything."

Such encouragement was all Tavia needed. She went to work with a will that day, and every time Dorothy glanced over at her (for Dorothy was as anxious for her success as if it were entirely her own affair) she would see Tavia "poring" over her book as if her very life depended upon her accomplishing just so much work and she was bound she would do it.

How quickly the morning passed! It was so different to be busy in school, Tavia thought, so much better than having the hours drag along. At recess Alice hugged her in congratulation.

"I knew he would get it," she said, referring, of course, to the new position of Mr. Travers, "and father says we girls elected him. I see you are already doing credit to the confidence with which Dalton people have intrusted your family."

"I am sure father will give satisfaction," Tavia answered, ignoring the intended compliment for herself. "He had a splendid record in Millville."

"And the picnic," said Alice. "Have you heard it is really coming off this time? Next Monday."

"Then Sarah will be able to come," remarked Tavia, "I am just glad we waited for her."

All the girls agreed it would be especially nice to have a genuine reunion, as this would be the last holiday until vacation, and that, of course, would mean a scattering of classmates.

"It will be a star picnic," declared Alice, as the girls returned to the school room.

"If nothing else happens," said Dorothy with apprehension for which she could not account.

"Why did you say that?" asked Tavia.

"I don't know. But somehow I feel as if something will happen," and Dorothy had sufficient reason afterward to remember the premonition.



CHAPTER XVIII

DOROTHY IN DANGER

Picnic day came at last, and with it there drew up to the gate of Dalton School two four-horse wagons, the regular "straw-ride" variety.

Mr. Ford had provided the conveyances, and when all the girls had been seated on the big side benches with parasols, lunch boxes and "happy smiling faces," the ride itself constituted a thoroughly enjoyable outing.

Sarah was there, between Dorothy and Tavia, and upon her arrival at the school (the wagon had stopped for her as it came up) she received a hearty welcome—an ovation, Tavia called it.

Her face was pale, and her manner nervous, but she whispered aside to Dorothy that she was so happy, and that she could never have been happy with the girls after the trouble if Dorothy had not "straightened every thing out for her."

Miss Ellis, too, seemed very much pleased at the prospect of a happy day—"after all," she thought, "her girls were well worth working for." It was a beautiful day in June and the ride to the woods was perfumed with that rare and wonderful incense—vapory sweetness of flowers warmed by the soft sunshine of early summer.

Blossoms brushed the faces of our friends as the picnic wagons rumbled on and many a wreath of "laurel" was pressed to the brow of fair graduates as the maple leaves in the hands of willing weavers, were made into crowns for the "grads."

A secret was plainly lurking in the eyes of Alice MacAllister. Dorothy had remarked that girls, alone, would probably be lost in the great, dark picnic place, for the pine trees grew so close there, the grounds were often called "Twilight Grove"; but Alice only smiled broadly and replied:

"You just wait—the woods may be enchanted."

"Splendid idea," declared Tavia, "I do need so much a little Brownie or a goblin to help me with my housework. Fancy going home with a dear little Jackanapes to carry my 'dinner pail'!" and at this suggestion every one seemed to enjoy the grotesque idea that Tavia had outlined.

The grove was finally reached, and the happy picnic party lost no time in leaving the wagons, and making for the "best spots."

But no sooner had they entered the great tall gateway than they were set upon by a tribe of very lively goblins, for, from behind tree and bush there darted upon the unsuspecting girls a rollicking, frolicking band of boys—the boys' school having come to the grove to surprise the girls, and help them enjoy the breaking up picnic.

"I told you we might find the woods enchanted," said Alice who, of course had learned of the secret, as it was Mr. MacAllister who provided the wagons for the boys as well as for the girls.

Such running about and such shouting! Some lads had hidden in the pines and now as the girls ran through the grove, the "goblins" dropped down upon their unsuspecting heads.

Tavia and Alice helped make things livelier by gathering up parasols and lunch boxes that had been left in the wagons for safety. These they gave to the boys, who lost no time in forming a brigade, parasols in the air and boxes under arms, to the distress and dismay of the unlucky owners.

But there was still another surprise in store for the school children. When everything was fairly settled down for a day in the woods, a two seated carriage drove in, and in this were President of the Town Council, Franklin MacAllister; the Treasurer of Dalton, Major Dale, Squire Travers and Ralph Willoby.

Wild cheers went up from the woods as the party entered the grove; first for the president, then for the major and a "hip-hip" and series of hurrahs for the new squire.

Certainly it was jolly to have such a crowd in the shady woods. The officials told Miss Ellis they came to get acquainted with the pupils of the Dalton schools. Also, they said, it was quite necessary to look after so important a gathering officially, as there was the lake, and other dangers, to which over enthusiastic youths might be more or less exposed.

Major Dale and Mr. MacAllister only remained long enough to see that everything was satisfactorily started, and then left, charging Ralph Willoby and Squire Travers to act as special officers. That this was a wise precaution was plainly demonstrated before the day ended.

Toward noon the merry-makers scattered throughout the spacious grounds, looking for particularly pleasant spots to eat lunch. This was by no means a difficult matter, for there were rustic benches built around wonderful trees, besides little caves lined with soft pine needles and covered with brown mounds of them.

The diversity of natural beauties made this grove famous, for many miles around, and never before, perhaps, was every nook and corner so thoroughly explored.

Ralph and the squire roamed around, seeing to it that boys in boats kept a safe distance from the falls coming from the gates and old water wheel.

From this falls the roaring of the water could be heard for a considerable distance, and so noisy were the rapids a person might shout at another but a few feet away without being able to make his voice heard.

But the falls had a strange charm for Dorothy, and after lunch she wandered there all alone, just to see, to think and to be quiet. Other attractions had now claimed the attention of her companions, and she sat there, enjoying the falls alone.

She could scarcely hear a voice through the woods, so loudly did the falls splash and splatter.

Who, in her place, could have heard a man stealing up to that very spot? Who could know a scoundrel was there, at that moment ready to seize Dorothy?

A rough hand clutched her slender arm!

That man—Anderson—was glaring into her eyes! Dorothy screamed shrilly.

"Hush!" commanded the man, "or I'll throw you over the falls!" and his hand was upon Dorothy's throat, preventing further outcry.

"Tell me," he growled, "did Miles Burlock leave his money with your father?"

Poor Dorothy felt as if the world had gone, and all the woes of death were upon her!

Looking about him hastily the man loosed his hold on her throat for an answer, but instead another shrill scream rent the air.

"You little fool!" he muttered, "do you want me to throw you over?"

But at that moment an answer came—Ralph Willoby bounded through the grove and had Dorothy in his arms before she could realize he was there! Then with a look of baffled rage the man disappeared.

"Ralph!" whispered Dorothy.

"You are all right now," the young man assured her, putting his arm firmly around the trembling girl, "if you feel faint I can carry you. Do not try to walk."

The noise of the falls was gone now—the sky was all black.

"Oh," gasped Dorothy, "I can't hear, or see, I am—"

It was welcome oblivion, however painful that clutch at her heart.

She could not remember—was it Ralph, or the squire?

She had been thinking how brave Ralph was—But now she could not think, it was all dark night!



CHAPTER XIX

A SURPRISE TRIP

When Ralph Willoby carried his senseless burden to the platform, where, so short a time before, the girl had been as merry as any of her playmates, Squire Travers determined upon one thing—to form a searching party of all the boys to scour the woods from tree to stump and if possible run down the villain who had attacked Dorothy.

The fainting girl was soon revived by the careful ministrations of Miss Ellis, assisted by pupils following her directions; and, before the half-conscious girl realized what had happened to her, the boys were running through the woods, led by the squire and Ralph, bent on finding Anderson.

But such reflections were of little use now that the harm was done. Dorothy was very weak indeed. She felt as if those sinuous fingers were still about her throat, and she could see those terrible eyes peering into hers in spite of all her efforts to forget her awful experience.

Some boys had already been sent off to the nearest place where it would be possible to get a conveyance to take her home, and they now returned with a covered carriage.

Into this Miss Ellis and Dorothy were assisted, while the remainder of the girls were soon ready to leave the grounds in the large picnic wagons.

The boys "to a man" remained in the woods, helping diligently in, what now seemed to be, a useless search.

Over the narrow plank, just above the dam, the man no doubt had escaped to the other side, where the old ruins of a mill, with a big water wheel, made a safe hiding place for the fellow.

Squire Travers was much annoyed and worried over the occurrence. To think such a thing could happen with him right there, in the woods, seemed incredible.

But Ralph assured him a similar thing had happened in the public streets of Dalton, and the same man had gotten away. Why should it be strange then that he would be able to make his escape in a dense woods?

"But he must be caught," insisted the squire, "if we have to canvass the entire town and surrounding places to get him."

Some boys suggested that they disguise themselves as girls impersonating Dorothy and Tavia, and then wait to be "caught" while help remained close at hand. But it was decided such a ruse would hardly work that day, as the man would know well enough the girls would not again leave themselves liable to attack.

It was a very discouraged band of boys, with Squire Travers and Ralph Willoby as their leaders, that wended their way back to Dalton Center that evening. The picnic, of course, had been spoiled, but that did not amount to anything—it was the attack on Dorothy, and the escape of her assailant that concerned the searching party.

The squire and Ralph upon reaching town went directly to the office of President MacAllister, and the result of the meeting held there marked an epoch in the history of the township of Dalton. The new squire had outlined a plan that every suspicious character found in the place should be apprehended at once, and no sooner had this edict gone forth than the suspected ones very quietly took their departure. While it was generally believed the trouble had to do with a personal affair, there seemed danger of course to all, while such persons as this "tramp" were at liberty.

But confidence was at once established by the ruling of the squire, which put an end to the reign of terror, and Dalton became once more a pleasant place to live in.

The details of government had little interest now for Dorothy Dale, as she tossed feverishly about on her bed that night dreaming of the awful man. Dr. Gray had recommended that some one remain with her, on account of her nervous condition, and Tavia insisted on being allowed to sit up with her friend.

A cot was arranged in Dorothy's room for Tavia, but she was too anxious about the sick one to sleep. What if Dorothy should die? What a lonely world this would be for Tavia without her.

Several times during the night Aunt Libby came in and tried to induce Tavia to take another room, and allow her to stay with Dorothy, but the volunteer nurse would not leave her post.

"Do go, Tavia," said Dorothy, who had just opened her eyes, and heard Aunt Libby's argument, "I'm all right now; only nervous."

"But I've promised myself a whole night with you, and I'm not going to be chased away, just at the witching hour," Tavia insisted.

But tired nature produced an argument incontrovertible, and when Tavia stretched out on the comfortable cot, and tried to chat as lively to Dorothy as if it had been mid-day on the side porch, she began to feel drowsy, then she noticed Dorothy did not answer promptly, and so she made her words "long and draggy" as mothers do when babies show signs of "giving in." Presently there was a hush—both nurse and patient were sound asleep.

When Dr. Gray called the next morning he advised a complete change for Dorothy. She was physically well enough, he said, but the shock to her nervous system might result in complete prostration, unless her mind was speedily disabused of the unpleasant memory.

Major Dale knew this advice was wise, and he concluded to send Dorothy to visit his sister, Mrs. Winthrop White, of North Birchland.

"Pleasant company," said the doctor to Major Dale as he left, "is all the girl wants. I wouldn't wonder but that little friend of hers—the lively one,—would help her, if it could be made convenient for her to go along."

Convenient? That uncertainty had nothing to do with circumstances important to his daughter's health, Major Dale decided. If Tavia's company would be beneficial to Dorothy's health Tavia should go to North Birchland with Dorothy.

The question of school did not signify, either, the major reasoned, for if Tavia could not afford to lose the remaining weeks in the term he would see that they were made up for, amply.

Arrangements were quickly made, letters dispatched back and forth, and before the girls had time to think it over themselves, they were told to be ready for the morning train.

"Oh, isn't it perfectly grand!" exclaimed the excited Tavia, "but do you think, Doro, I will be able to behave myself, to eat properly and all that?"

"Why, Tavia," answered Dorothy, "you will find real aristocratic people are as simple as we are in manners; it is only those who try to be 'somebody,' and who do not know how, that make such a fuss over everything. Aunt Winnie is a lovely lady—we call her Winnie from Winthrop, because her own name is Ruth and we have another Aunt Ruth out West."

"Lucky thing I had my 'new' dress, and all the other things Aunt Mary sent by express last week. And father's new suit case his men presented him with when he left the factory—wasn't that providential?" asked Tavia.

Dorothy admitted it was fortunate, and so, as this was the very evening before their departure, the girls arranged such matters as required consultation and then hurried off to attend to so many little things necessary for travelers.

Aunt Libby could not hide a tear when Dorothy put her arms about the wrinkled neck, but when Major Dale helped his daughter to step upon the train platform he was smiling; glad to have her go it seemed. Joe told Johnnie afterwards that was the way soldiers always act when they face trouble.

Mrs. Travers was really glad to have Tavia go, and she did not deny it. It was such a chance for her, she told Aunt Libby, as they went home from the depot, and Tavia, she declared, was a girl who always made the most of her chances.

As the train flew along, or Dalton flew away, as it seemed from the car windows, both girls indulged in a very creditable sentiment—a streak of homesickness.

"It will be fun, of course," remarked Tavia, "but it's creepy to leave them all."

Passengers about them soon attracted their attention sufficiently to make the journey interesting. Tavia had such a way of seeing things to make Dorothy laugh, that little of interest escaped her.

Old ladies with black silk bags were her especial prey, and these she never failed to analyze—according to her own special method.

Women with babies also afforded no end of amusement to Tavia, and when she found a regular nursery cooking outfit in the "end room" of the car she could scarcely be restrained.

"I could make you the nicest clam bouillon," she told Dorothy, "and besides cooking, that little alcohol lamp is just the thing for hair crimping. I will crimp mine if I can find anything to make a hot poker of in this train."

"You really must not touch anything," Dorothy insisted, alarmed lest Tavia should do something reckless.

"Touch anything? Why my dear girl I have tested the entire outfit, and I am going to get one just like it for my hasty breakfasts."

The woman to whom the "entire outfit" belonged was now almost asleep beside her baby, on the end sofa, and Tavia assuring Dorothy she would stay there indefinitely, sallied forth to further investigate the mysteries of a nursery cooking outfit, en route.



CHAPTER XX

EVENTFUL JOURNEY

As Tavia reached the end sofa, upon which a pretty golden-haired baby lay curled beside a sleepy mother, she made a motion to attract the child's attention. The little one saw it at once, promptly slipped down and stole away from the sofa without in the least disturbing the woman.

The tot followed Tavia to the little end room—Dorothy saw her going, and though feeling very drowsy herself (which really was the reason Tavia left her alone) Dorothy kept her eyes opened long enough to see that the mother was sound asleep, and had not missed her baby.

"I am sure Tavia will take good care of her," thought Dorothy, as she settled down for a rest, "she is so fond of children, and it will be a change for the child—traveling must be very tiresome to such little ones."

The train rumbled on. Dorothy thought of home, of the good father and two dear brothers she had left there. Then she wondered what would happen at North Birchland. It was such a lovely summer place, and her relatives there were sure to do all they could to make the stay pleasant.

In the White family there were besides Mrs. Winthrop White, her two sons, Edward and Nathaniel, aged sixteen and fourteen years. Professor White, their father, had died suddenly some years before, while on an expedition out in quest of scientific data, but the White family possessed almost unlimited means, so that Major Dale's sister, while lonely enough in life without her husband, had the pleasant duty of bringing up two talented and good looking boys in a way that befitted the positions they would occupy as their father's sons—the White family being among the most aristocratic in New York state.

Dorothy had not seen her cousins in three years, the boys' time, between vacations, being spent at school, and the intervals of late being occupied with trips abroad. As she traveled on now, and became more and more sleepy Dorothy wondered if Nat were as full of mischief as he used to be when he visited Dalton, and if Ned still spent his spare time chasing butterflies to add new specimen to his collection.

But even these interesting reflections are not to be compared with such sedative influence as the rumbling of a train with a summer breeze coming In the window, and the girl, weary enough from her fright at the falls and its consequent shock to her nervous system soon forgot to think—she was asleep.

Meanwhile Tavia was occupied with the pretty baby in the end compartment. The child was about three years old, and remarkably communicative for her age. The little alcohol lamp, she told Tavia, was used to heat her milk, also to curl her hair, for mamma never took her to the hotel without curls, she said.

To bear out this statement, Lily, that was the little stranger's name, produced from a satchel under the wash basin a tiny pair of curling irons.

It seemed like fate to Tavia,—there was the very thing she had been wishing for—curling tongs.

"Let's try it," she suggested, as Lily prattled on about the wonderful "real" curls that the iron could make.

A careful investigation revealed to Tavia the secrets of the alcohol lamp. Everything was there—even to matches.

Being sure the lamp was placed firmly upon the marble slab, Tavia struck a match and lighted the wick.

"There," she said with evident satisfaction, "that part was easy enough."

"You put the iron right in there," directed Lily, and Tavia promptly followed the advice.

"Sit on my lap while it heats," Tavia told the child, not thinking it safe to allow her to move about in the small place with a strange kind of stove burning.

The child jumped up eager to hear a story. The wood-kind, full of bears with remarkable appetites, pleased her most, Tavia discovered, and it was in such a mental delight that the child passed a very happy little "minute."

"It must be hot—" said Tavia.

She turned and at that very moment a strange flash shot up to the ceiling!

An explosion! Then such a blinding flame!

With the child still in her arms Tavia made a dash for the door. Frantically she pulled at it but it would not open! The child screamed piteously.

"Help! Help!" shouted Tavia, clutching at the knob with one hand, while she clung to the child with the other.

Instantly Dorothy was on her feet and down at that little door.

"Open it!" she screamed, for the smell of smoke had reached her on the outside.

Without waiting for an answer, or for those at hand to act, Dorothy jumped to a seat and grasped the bell rope.

At that moment the door gave in to Tavia's pulling, and she fell headlong out into the aisle with the baby in her arms.

The train stopped, and brakemen were now running through the cars in search of the trouble. Passengers had broken the tool boxes and were fighting the spreading flames with hand grenades and portable extinguishers. Fainting women called for attention—among these being Lily's mother.

Tavia was now lifted to a seat, and Dorothy had called into her ears that the baby was safe—she was not even scratched!

But Tavia was not so fortunate, for an ugly red mark showed where the tongue of fire scorched her, and her hair—

One side was entirely burned off!

Dorothy's heart sank as she noticed the loss, but it was nothing, of course, compared to what might have happened to the baby.

The excitement in the rear of the car had, by this time subsided somewhat, showing that the flames were extinguished. Lily, safe and uninjured, sat in her mother's lap—no danger of her getting away again evidently.

Among the passengers was a doctor who offered his services to Tavia. The burns were slight, he declared but there was danger of shock, and the loss of her beautiful hair was to be regretted.

Tavia tried to laugh to assure Dorothy she was all right, and then she insisted upon talking about the accident.

"The lamp did not explode," she declared. "The fire came from the other end of the room."

The trainmen listened anxiously to this report. They were obliged to make a most careful investigation, and Tavia was very willing to help them. Professional looking men crowded around—one who introduced himself to the doctor as a well known lawyer of Rochester called Dorothy aside and offered to look out for the interests of the injured girl.

"Whatever you think best," Dorothy said, "I have never had any experience with law. But if you think we should take account of it at all I should be most grateful for your help."

Then Tavia was taken into a private compartment, and there, with Dorothy encouraging her, and the lawyer and doctor listening, she told the story of the accident.

"I had lighted the alcohol lamp," she declared, "but I am positive that did not explode. The flash came from behind us—the other end of the room. Then the door would not open—oh how dreadful that was!"

For a moment Tavia covered her eyes, then she resumed:

"I heard Dorothy's voice and that seemed to keep me from falling in the smoke. At last the door opened and that's all I know."

"Now, you just rest here," the doctor advised, "while Mr. French and I do some outside investigating."

Then it was that the important clew was discovered, for at the very door of the little room, where the fire had raged, was found a piece of glass with a label!

Gasoline!

"She was right," declared the lawyer, taking possession of the tell-tale piece of bottle, the railroad men would have been so glad to have seen first, "this tells the story. A bottle of gasoline exploded."

Looking carefully over the damaged room the lawyer made some entries in his note book and, with the doctor, approached Lily's mother. The woman positively refused to make known her name, and even the railroad men had not succeeded in learning who she was.

"That my baby is safe," she declared, "is all I ask. People saw the girl coax her off, but even this I am entirely willing to overlook, and I will positively make no claims against the company."