His eyes flashed, and his voice trembled. Tavia thought she had never before seen such glassy eyes, and the way he fastened them on her gave her a most uncomfortable feeling. She even felt compelled to promise what he asked, and she did so.

He sauntered off, leaving the girl's head in a whirl. Who was he, and what did he know about her family?

He was right in his assertions about Dalton, also about her father. Surely there could be no harm in listening to his story, and the stone bridge was not far from camp.

Dorothy and Cologne were just appearing above the hill, Dorothy's yellow head bobbing up like some animated flower.

"Oh, you dreadful girl!" called Cologne. "We thought the gypsies had taken you."

"No such luck," answered Tavia, as the two came up to the apple tree. "But I did find some splendid apples. Help yourselves. I must sit down for a minute. I've been up the tree—no, up a tree," she finished with a laugh that neither of her companions understood.

"Harvests!" cried Cologne in delight. "I never knew they were here."

"Neither did I until I found them," replied Tavia foolishly.

"The climb gave you lovely red cheeks; Tavia," said Dorothy. "You ought to take climbing in the next school course."

"No sarcasm now, please, Doro. I don't feel a bit funny."

"But you look it," declared Dorothy, keeping up her teasing manner. "You always look funny when your cheeks get so red—"

"Danger of ignition, I suppose," and Tavia's voice was anything but pleasant. "Oh, there go the Lamberts!" as an auto swished around the road. "I must run away and see them some day—just before we go home, when Cologne won't have time, or heart, to scold."

"You wouldn't!" spoke Cologne. "Mother particularly warned me that we were not to take up with those theatrical folks, and mother is the boss."

"Oh, very well, if you really feel that way about it," and Tavia shrugged her shoulders.

Dorothy was shaking a limb of the apple tree. "What ghost have you seen Tavia?" she asked. "Someone has stolen away all your good nature."

"He's welcome," she replied. "Stagnant good nature doesn't keep well, and I have been keeping mine bottled up ever since you shot that window brush. The shock to my system—" and she imitated the manner of one affected with nerves.

"Yes, it was dreadful on all of us," agreed Dorothy, from whom the change in Tavia's manner could not be hidden. "But you must forget it, and think of the good time we are going to have to-morrow. Think of it! Going out in the real mountains, with real boys for guides! Of course you will have your pick of the boys, Cologne and I must be satisfied with what remains."

Cologne had scarcely spoken since Tavia mentioned the Lamberts, and Dorothy was doing her best to restore good nature and peace to both of her companions. Yet she was greatly annoyed at Tavia's rudeness. Why should she persist in ignoring common courtesy and thus keeping up that Lambert question?

"We must hurry back to the camp with our berries," Cologne at last ventured, "or mother will think some snake has eaten us up."

"And I particularly want to try my hand at berry tarts," declared Dorothy. "I was, at one time, considered quite a 'tarter.'"

Tavia gathered up some apples, and the others took their berry baskets. They walked slowly over the hill back to the camp. Jack was waiting for them.

"Say, girls!" he began as they neared the dining room steps, "the boys have a great scheme on for to-morrow. But I am not to tell you about it."

"Isn't that lovely," came from Tavia in rather mocking tones.

"But I am commissioned to tell you," he went on with an arch look at Tavia, "that you are to rest this afternoon for sufficient unto to-morrow is the weariness thereof."

Then they began to prepare lunch, but Tavia remained outside, asking Jack some seemingly foolish questions.



CHAPTER X

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF TAVIA

After a morning spent in anticipation of the good time Jack had promised (and Jack and his friends did know how to give the girls a good time) something happened just as they were about to start off to the woods.

Tavia was missing!

At first the matter was taken as a joke, as it would be quite like Tavia to run off and hide in the hay loft, or in any other outlandish place; but when, after all kinds of calls, and a thorough search of the premises, she failed to be located, there was reasonable alarm among the campers. The Hays girls from Camp Happy-go-Lucky, had joined the party that intended going into the deep woods, so they, too, aided in the search for Tavia.

"I give up," said Jack finally, mopping his forehead, for in spite of the beautiful bracing air of the mountains, the act of running over the hill and into the valleys made him perspire.

"Isn't it queer!" exclaimed Dorothy, thoroughly alarmed. "I have a feeling that something has happened to her."

"Don't you worry," Jack suggested. "You will be sure to find out that Tavia has happened to something. She has a faculty for that sort of thing. Let us go off on a day's fun. No use spoiling it all on account of a whim—I am sure it is nothing more."

"She did complain of a headache," Cologne remembered, "and I gave her a little soda. She may have thought it best to hide with the headache rather than to worry us about it."

"We haven't tried the brook," suggested pretty Hazel Hays. "I am always afraid of brooks."

"But Tavia swims like a fish," declared Dorothy. "I would never think of harm coming to her in the water."

"Let's try, at any rate," agreed Jack, who never opposed Hazel. "Although, unless that big frog gobbled her up, I cannot imagine any possible danger."

At this the party set off over the hill to the frog pond. Hazel trudged along with Jack, Brendon Hays divided his attention between Dorothy and Cologne, while a very little young man, Claud Miller, by name, and the midget by reputation, took care of Nathalie Weston, a visitor at Camp Lucky.

Every one could joke but Dorothy. To her the situation was beyond that.

"I'll wager we find her up a tree eating apples," lisped Claud. "I never saw a girl so fond of sweet apples as Miss Tavia. She told me so herself."

"Told you, you never saw a girl—now Claud! Don't get excited that way. It's dreadfully hard on your nerves and on your friends."

"But I say, now, Jack——"

"Claud, dear, don't. Save it until we find Tavia, and then say to your heart's content."

Dorothy had run on ahead and was now looking over the little rustic bridge into the frog pond. The water was not deep, but there were plainly footprints along its muddy edge.

"There has been some one here to-day," declared Cologne, "and no one ever comes on our grounds—away up here at any rate."

"They are the footprints of a man," Jack decided. "Did Tavia, by any means, know a man who wore boots size ten?"

"The only folks she knew in these parts are the Lamberts," answered Cologne. "And she did say, even as late as yesterday, that she would run over to see a rehearsal there—when I wasn't looking."

"Jolly!" exclaimed Claud. "I have been wishing so much for a chance to know that younger Lamb. She's the very sweetest——"

"Spring lamb?" asked Cologne, teasingly. "Claud, you should never take spring lamb upon the recommendation of a strange butcher. It might turn out to be mutton."

This sally caused Claud to laugh so vigorously, that he held his hand over his watch pocket apprehensively.

Dorothy was looking under the black bridge. The footprints seemed to turn in beneath the culvert, and then they were lost in the deep, dark mud.

Not one, except perhaps Cologne, knew the thoughts that stirred Dorothy so riotously. What if Tavia had gone over to Lamberts, and so would incur the displeasure of their hostess? Or, if she had met that queer man? But she could not have done that! Reckless as she was, she could not be unaware of the danger of doing such a fool-hardy thing as that!

"I'm going down under that oak tree," declared Hazel, with an arch glance at Jack. "There's trout in that stream, and it's too late to go over to Moose Hill, or Deer Hollow which ever it is."

"Neither," replied Jack. "It's Moose on the level. Yes, we may as well explore Trout Trammel—though I doubt if they'll come up even at the sight of those fly colors you wear, Hazel."

"Don't you like this suit? Why it's the very thing—all the way from New York. And just see the navy emblem."

The invitation brought Jack up very close to the sleeve of Hazel's sailor suit. Yes, he liked that emblem, first rate, and he said so, once or twice.

"I vote for a trip to the Lambs," voiced the dainty Claud. "If no one else wants to go I don't mind, in the least, running over and making inquiries."

"Oh, don't run, Claud;" cautioned Jack. "It's dreadful on your watch pocket. Just walk over and give my love to the girl who wears the rainbow around her head. Tell her that I saw her and she will guess the rest."

"Well, if she happens to be out on the lawn, might I ask her to join in this girl-hunt?"

"Oh, you're hunting a lot!" exclaimed Cologne in something like impatience. "Now, Claud, this it no joke! We are out to find our lively-loving, luckless little friend, Tavia."

"I'm afraid it's useless," sighed Dorothy. "We may just as well wait—perhaps she will return at lunch time."

But lunch time came, and lunch time went by, without any trace or track of Tavia being discovered.

Finally Dorothy broke down, and went to her own room. Cologne followed her, and there, in the secret nook in the big camp farm, the two girls discussed every possible clause of the case, and tried with heroic effort to shed some light on the mystery.

"Was it the Lamberts? Or could it be——"

"Oh, she would never go off with a stranger," declared Dorothy over and over again. "Surely our Tavia has more common sense than that."

"But it is so lonely up here—no," Cologne corrected herself, "you are right, of course, Dorothy. She will be back—just as soon as she feels like coming. That's Tavia!"

But they little knew the danger to which the younger girl had unwittingly exposed herself.

No wonder Tavia could not be found within or without the precincts of the camp.



CHAPTER XI

WHEN THE BOYS CAME

Dorothy had always loved her cousins, Ned and Nat, but when they arrived at the camp, the day after Tavia's disappearance, she fancied she had never before fully appreciated them. They came in the Firebird, their automobile, and declared that they would camp out in the open Maine woods, cook in the open, make soups of lily bulbs, stirred with the aromatic boughs of the spruce, and otherwise conform to all the glorious hardships peculiar to the pioneers—according to the stories told by said pioneers.

But the absence of Tavia put a damper on everything.

"We have got to start out and trace her," Jack Markin told Ned and Nat. "It is inconceivable where she could have gone to."

"We certainly shall start out at once," declared Nat, who was always Tavia's champion, to say nothing of his being her special friend and admirer. "I have known her to do risky things before, but this is the utmost."

"I never saw such a girl," growled Ned. "Just when a fellow expects to have a first-rate time, she puts up something that knocks it out."

Dorothy was disconsolate. Her eyes showed the result of a sleepless night, and her usually pink cheeks were quite pale.

"She would never stay away of her own accord over night," she sighed, "whatever she might do during the day."

"Now, Doro, dear," consoled Cologne, "you must not look at it that way. It is perfectly surprising what may happen, in a perfectly safe way, after one has found out, while before that time such things seem utterly impossible. Haven't we had lots of that at Glenwood?"

"Yes, things do happen that seem anything but likely," Dorothy admitted. "And I do hope that such will be the case this time. I wish we knew!"

"We had a great time in Dalton," said Nat, "the day we went over to see the old place—your old place, Dorothy. The major asked us to go in to look after a leak in the roof, and just as we went into the old plumbing shop we heard a racket. It seems that a fellow named Mortimer Morrison, a stage-struck chap, played a part on the local stage, and while delivering his lines he gave his audience a treat—the real thing in tragics. He went crazy—wild, stark, staring mad! He was an escaped sanitariumite—he got out, found the stage at Dalton, and was having a gay old time when the——" Nat suddenly stopped. "What's the matter, coz?" he asked.

Dorothy was sitting on the rustic bench, at the side of the old corn crib, and she went pale as her cousin told the story. Cologne was beside her, and, as Nat asked what the matter was, Cologne grasped Dorothy's trembling hand.

"What, Dorothy?"

"Why the—man! That man! He is the one who saved the team—the one who wrote the letter to Tavia. I found a part of it. She never told me, but it blew open at—my very feet. And that name was on the piece of paper!"

"Tavia know that—loon!" Ned exclaimed.

"We all knew him—if he is the same one," declared Cologne, for Dorothy was too agitated to speak. "We happened to get in trouble with a hay wagon, and an old team of horses, and he helped us out. Come to think of it he did act queer!"

"And he is around here—now?" asked Nat.

"Yes, I saw some one the other day whom I am sure could be no one else. He had the most peculiar walk. Did you see him in Dalton, Nat?"

"I was just going to tell you that while we were in the plumbing shop a fellow sauntered by. He wore a hat—like a cowboy, and otherwise looked queer. Well, when the plumber sighted him he rushed to the 'phone and called up the only officer in Dalton—Tavia's father, and told him the lunatic was just sauntering down the road. But from last accounts he was still sauntering—the squire didn't overhaul him."

"And likely he was just wise enough to get far away," commented Ned. "Now why on earth would Tavia have anything to do with a specimen of that kind?"

"It would be impossible to guess to what trick he might resort in order to get Tavia to meet him, or to even become interested in his stage schemes. You know Tavia has a very pardonable weakness for anything theatrical," said Dorothy.

"All Tavia's weaknesses are pardonable, as far as you are concerned, coz," ventured Ned.

"But the hunt," interrupted Jack. "We had better get at it. The girl we malign may actually——" He looked at Dorothy and so left the surmise unsaid.

An hour later Ned and Nat, with Jack and Claud, started out in the Firebird, it having been decided that it would be best for all the boys to go together in the auto, as they could then cover any amount of ground, and not have to worry about Dorothy and Cologne. The two girls went their way in the cart, old Jeff, the horse, being looked upon as quite a competent guide.

It was really the first good opportunity that Dorothy had had to see the glories of the Maine woods, but what were they to her to-day? What mattered the long lines of spruce, the dainty larch, or the tangled arbor-vitae, to her now?

To all Cologne's enthusiastic efforts to point out these beauties, as well as to distract Dorothy, she only answered with the most vague acquiescence.

"If we don't find her to-day——" she faltered.

"But we shall," insisted Cologne. "I feel it! Tavia will be back at camp for supper!"

"Are we far from camp now?" asked Dorothy, looking along the fir-lined road to the wilderness beyond.

"No, we are only just around the bend. Would you like to get out and walk? I think I hear the honk of the Firebird."

"I believe I would like to walk," said Dorothy. "I have such a—stagnant feeling. The walk in this air ought to dispel it."

"Suppose we tie Jeff up here, and let him graze, while I go over to that camp"—indicating a white speck between the trees—"and then I may inquire if any one has seen a girl like Tavia pass up Oldtown way?"

"And I might take the other direction, and ask at those camps. I see quite a colony over that way," said Dorothy.

"And we will both meet here in——"

"An hour," finished Dorothy. "If we are to search, there is no sense in running back and forth—so long as we can keep our directions straight."

"And you are sure you won't get lost?" asked Cologne, with a smile. "Perhaps losses are like accidents—they come in groups."

"Oh, I have a compass on my watch guard. Let me see," and after consulting the instrument, she faced north. "I will go due west and come back due east. I surely can't get lost if I follow that."

"Now, Doro, don't go too near the edge of anything. I never saw such edgy-edges as they are up here in Maine. Looks to me as if this part of the world was made last, with the jumping-off places for the men who did the making."

"For the jump back into—eternity? Quite an idea, Cologne," said Dorothy, as the two girls prepared to part.

"Good-bye, Jeff," called Dorothy. "Eat a good meal. We may not get back to camp for lunch," and she patted the old horse.

"Pity we didn't fetch some 'standwiches,'" shouted Cologne, who was already making her way through the thickets that carpeted the path. "If you find any dwarf cherries bring me some, Dorothy."

"Wild strawberries will do me," responded Dorothy, as she, too, got away from the tree where Jeff was tied. "I don't fancy either of us will die of hunger!"

"Not in the Maine woods!" Cologne predicted.

Then they lost sight of each other.

Only Jeff was left to mark the spot from which they started.



CHAPTER XII

THE EDGY-EDGE!

Dorothy stood and looked down. It was a very steep descent, and the bottom, a black sheet of water, that looked like ink.

The danger of the spot seemed to fascinate her. Then the thought that perhaps poor, wilful Tavia had fallen down such a place; that perhaps at that very moment, she lay alone, helpless, at the bottom of a cliff!

"But there is a road down there," Dorothy mused. "I never would have thought to find a roadway along those rocks. Even the Indians, who very likely, made most of these trails, might easily have found a better and safer road to and from the same woodland ways."

Then she remembered that the lumbermen had use of streams in their traffic, and she decided that this was one of the roads made for their log teams.

Still fascinated with the danger, she looked over again. A sudden dizziness seized her. She tried to step back, but the ledge seemed to crumble beneath her feet!

Staring wildly at the black water below, she was pitched forward—down, down, down!

Then she thought the water would save her; that it was not rough and sharp like the rocks! She thought she would rest awhile on that soft bed! After that she ceased to think!

Dorothy Dale lay there alone, unconscious!

Trundling along the narrow roadway, old Josiah Hobbs and his wife, Samanthy, rode in their farm wagon. They had been to town with berries and in the back of the covered vehicle the empty crates told quite as plainly as the contented smile on the wrinkled faces of the couple, that berries were in demand that morning, and that the Hobbs' kind had met a ready market.

Near the elbow in the lower road, at the foot of the precipice, where lay so still the form of pretty Dorothy Dale, the old horse slowed up. Mrs. Hobbs saw the girl lying by the water's edge.

"Mercy on us, Josiah!" she cried. "It's a girl!"

"Sure as you live!" replied the old man, giving the reins a jerk. "What can have happened to the little one?"

"Pray to goodness she ain't dead!" went on Samanthy. "Let me get to her!" and before her husband could straighten his cramped limbs, she had crawled out, and was beside Dorothy.

"Is she?" asked Josiah, hesitating.

"She is," replied the wife. The pair seemed to define each other's meaning in spite of the vagueness of their words.

"But she's awful weakish," whispered the wife. "We got to get her somewhere."

"Samanthy!" and the farmer's voice trembled, "mebby she the gal from the asylum! She that escaped! Let's load her up on the cart and fetch her home."

"You old skinflint! To cal'late on the half-dead girl," and she raised Dorothy's head tenderly. "But all the same she got to get somewhere, and ours is as near as any other house. Here, take hold," she put her arms about the helpless form. "Mercy on us! Lucky if she don't die before we get her there. Make that horse know he's to go. If that whip won't do, yank up a tree and let him have it."

The farmer trembled visibly as he helped put poor Dorothy in the wagon. If she could only have known!

The woman dragged off her apron and her jacket to make something of a pillow for the pretty yellow head, that lay so still. Suddenly Dorothy opened her eyes.

"As sure as you live," whispered Samanthy, "It is that girl from the san—sanitation! I saw her once out with the nurse, and this is her!"

"And there's a reward——"

"Shet up!" she snapped. "Lay still, dearie. You're awful weak and we're taking you home."

"Home!" murmured Dorothy in a dazed way.

"Yes, to mommer and popper!" This from the farmer.

"Shet up, you, Josiah! How do you know she wants to go to them folks! There, dearie, is your head hurt?"

Dorothy only moaned and closed her eyes again.

"Heven't you got a drop of anything? Not even a peppermint? I told you not to eat them all at a gullup," growled the woman. "I never saw the like of you fer gluttonin', Josiah!"

"And I never saw the beat of you fer growlin'. How do you feel, missy?"

"Will—you—shet—up? Josiah Hobbs! Don't you see she's sleepin' like a babe?"

"And do you think it's her? The one from the sanitation?"

"Shet up!"

"And there's a lot of money in that. Well, we need it."

Mrs. Samanthy Hobbs simply pulled the farmer's long shaggy beard that bobbed up and down, goat fashion. Her "shet-ups" seemed exhausted.

Dorothy heard a little—she could hear the rumble of the wagon, and she could feel the hard, rough, but kind hand of the woman who smoothed her brow in a motherly way. That in itself was enough to make her close her eyes and feel content.

What a power is the hand of woman! Even though it be hardened by the hardest kind of work it has in it the magic stroke of tenderness.

"Now, there," Samanthy would murmur, "soon you will be in bed. Then we will fix you all up nice."

Bed! Dorothy thought she was in bed—it was so much better than the stones, and that black water.

But she was getting her senses and with them came pain. Her head hurt, and the wagon jolted so that she was sore all over.

"We have only a few more trots, then we will be at home," soothed Samanthy. "After that you kin sleep in a feather bed—as soft as your own white hands."

She was smoothing those hands—they were very white, and very soft. What had turned Dorothy Dale's camping days into this tragedy? Where was Tavia? And what was to become of Dorothy?

Strange how illness melts the strongest! Dorothy just wanted to rest—to rest—yes, to rest!

At the dingy back door, the old horse stopped. The farmer and his wife almost carried Dorothy in, and the strain made her close her eyes again; made her forget everything.

After much talk between the farmer and his wife, and many contrary directions, Dorothy was finally enveloped in a nightdress that even Tavia in her palmiest days could not have anticipated. It was big, it was broad, it was long, and it was roomy!

But it was sweet and clean, and Dorothy closed her eyes directly after Samanthy Hobbs put to her lips a drink of catnip tea!

"She's the girl from the asylum," whispered the farmer's wife. "Jest keep still and we will git her back all right."



CHAPTER XIII

THE SAD AWAKENING

Such a long, lovely sleep, on that fluffy feather bed! Everything so sweet, so wholesome, even in her half-conscious state Dorothy knew that things about her were right—that they were "homey."

Then the smooth-roughness of that woman's hands, the life of them seemed to cry out comfort, while the harsh flesh told another story.

Twice Dorothy had opened her eyes over a pan of chicken broth. She had to take it, and she was glad of it.

Then, outside in the hall room, that was really nothing more nor less than a landing for the unrailed stairs, she thought she could hear the old-fashioned voice of a very old-fashioned man—he wanted to fetch her something, and he didn't seem to care just what.

"Couldn't I git her a hunk of thet sausage that we brung home?" he begged.

"You loon," was his answer. "Are you set on murder? Do you want to kill her outright?"

This repressed his enthusiasm. "Never do I," he declared, "spite of the reward, Samanthy. Don't she look like what our little 'un ought to look like if—she grew to look?"

"You loon! How could you tell what she ought to have looked like when her own mother never saw her try? Oh, Josiah," and the lines of hardship melted into possibilities, "wouldn't it have been lovely—if she did—live—to look!"

"'Tweren't your fault—nor mine, Samanthy. He knows, and mebby thet's why He sent this 'un. Ain't she purty? And I don't care a durn about the sanitarition folks. Of course—if we've found her—and they want her——"

It was a strange sight. Those two wrinkled old faces peering into the blossom that lay on that feather bed!

"Josiah Hobbs! You are an old loon! I can't see how you kin make out that this is heaven-sent," and she brushed a fly from the white forehead.

"Oh—yes—you—kin, Samanthy. Else why did you shoo thet fly?"

"Shet up! Do you want to rouse her?" and she went over, and pulled down the green curtain with the pink rose border.

"Are you sartin thet—she's the one?"

"Didn't I say I seen her? Are there so many cornsilk heads around here? Now, the question is——"

"Jest what I was a-thinkin': The question is——"

"We kin lock this room—and put the bars ag'in the shutters. But I don't want to scare her."

"It's the best, though. We hev got to make it s'cure. I don't 'magine she'll care fer awhile, any way. And then we kin tote her back to the sanitation."

"Well, we'll see. Now, you sneak off and I'll tuck her in. Poor lamb! To think that she's looney!"

"Ain't it a shame! If our'n was alive we wouldn't care if she could think or not—we would think fer her—wouldn't we, Samanthy?"

"Mebby," she answered, giving the quilt a smoothing. "But there's no tellin'. She might have run off——"

The remainder of the soliloquy was lost in the red and white quilt.

There Dorothy slept. The tin dipper of fresh water was on the wooden chair at her side. The green curtain was drawn down to the very sill of the window. The door was shut—and it was hooked on the outside.

How long she slept she could not by any means know, but certainly the sun had sailed around to the window, that wore no curtain, and through which the glint of a fading day cut in like a faithful friend to poor Dorothy Dale.

She groped her way over to the door. It was bolted, and the windows were securely fastened.

The awful truth forced itself into her fagged brain. She was a prisoner! Why? What had she done? Wasn't that woman kind? And did not the man go to the spring for water? She heard him say so, and he was a feeble old man. Why was she locked—barred in that smothering attic room?

She picked up a heavy block that lay near, and with it rapped vigorously on the bare floor.

A shuffling of feet on the stairs told that she had been heard, and presently the not unkindly face of Samanthy Hobbs made its way into the room.

"Why am I locked in?" gasped Dorothy. "Why do you not let me go back to my friends?"

"Hush there, now, dearie," and she smoothed the hand that lay idly on the red and white quilt, as Dorothy stood beside the bed. "You'll be all right. Don't you go and get bothered. We've sent fer the doctor, and when he comes, he'll fetch you right home to your maw. But you have got to keep quiet, or else the fever will set in, and then there's no tellin'. I told Josiah that we would do fer you like as if you was our'n, but you must not talk, dearie. You must be mournful still."



Dorothy looked keenly into the face that leaned over her. What did it mean? Whom did they take her to be?

"Do you know who I am?" she ventured.

"Why of course we do, lovey. But don't you bother to talk. The doctor will be here in the morning, and he'll take you back to your maw."

"I have no mother," sighed Dorothy. "I am a stranger around here, and I hope you will not keep me from my friends. They are probably looking for me now."

"Course they be. But now a little chicken soup? No? Then a sip of tea. It's revivin'. Josiah! Josiah! Come with that milk! How long does it take to milk a brindle cow?"

The fresh milk was brought, and crowded upon the already well-filled wooden chair.

"Thank you very much," murmured Dorothy, "but I cannot eat or drink. I must go to my friends!"

In spite of her will the tears came. At the sight of them the woman shuffled off. Evidently tears were too much for Samanthy Hobbs.

"I'll leave you a candle—no, I guess I had better jest raise the lattice, and if you wants anything I'll hear you if you knocks. Don't you worry, dearie. Samanthy Hobbs ain't no—well, she ain't, that's all!"

Then Dorothy was alone—all alone in the stuffy room. Could she escape; get out of a window—anything to be in the free open air, and to run—run back to dear old camp?

She tried every crack, every window, the old door, even the hole that opened out on the slant roof.

Barred! Locked! Everything was locked against her!

"Oh, must I die here?" she murmured. Then she fell back on the bed, on the red and white quilt. Sobbing, too weak to cry, too weak to think, but not too weak to know!



CHAPTER XIV

TAVIA'S MISTAKE

Meanwhile Tavia Travers, the light-hearted, reckless Tavia, realized that she had made a dreadful mistake. It was the second afternoon since she had left the camp, and she was at the railroad station, waiting for something unforseen to develop that would enable her to get back to her friends.

It was such a lonely place—away out there in the woods, and she had spent one awful night locked up in that station!

"I'll walk," she declared, "if I cannot get away from here before dark!"

Walk! Fifteen miles to Innernook! With hardly a chance of a single town in between!

It was at the little rustic bridge that she had met the man, according to the appointment made under the harvest apple tree.

"Come with me and I will prove to you that what I say is absolutely correct," he declared. "I have an old uncle out at Breakaway, and he will tell you about the fortune with his own lips—I shall make him do so."

"But is it far?" Tavia had demurred, for she did not just like that glassy stare in the man's eyes, handsome though he was.

"Only a pleasant little train ride—it will do you good to get away from this place. They call it camp—I would call it 'cramp,'" and he chuckled at his attempted joke.

Tavia had not been inclined to go. He had seen that she hesitated.

"Well, if you think I am not brotherly enough, I can take you to my sister Belle. She is surely sisterly enough—she will meet us at Durham."

This had convinced Tavia. Surely if they met his sister at the first station, there could be no harm in her going. And though the story about the fortune might be vapory, it was fun to have had such an experience—to actually run away!

Poor foolish Tavia! Was it fun to run away?

At the station, of course, there had been no sister Belle, but Tavia could not turn back now. This man seemed so compelling—so completely her master! What was his strange power?

On they had gone, he telling all sorts of absurd stories about the money, which, he claimed, was actually secreted in his uncle's house. But long before he reached the station at Breakaway Tavia had decided that he was insane—and that she had been insane not to have realized this awful truth before.

Then she knew that she must humor him—what might happen if she crossed this strange man of iron will, who had only to ask her to do such a ridiculous thing and she did it?

To run away from camp! Fun! Yes, it was funny, very——

"When we get to the station I will go on ahead," he had said, to her immense relief. "Then, when I have told uncle you are coming, and I have gotten him into his good clothes—uncle is very vain when there are ladies around—then I shall return for you," and he had waved himself like a tall young sapling, in that conceited self-conscious pose peculiar to the stage and to—but Tavia was not sure. Perhaps, after all, he might not be altogether unbalanced.

With many protestations of his earnestness he had left her at the little railroad station, and as she saw him saunter down the tan-barked path, she had been glad; then again she was sorry.

It was dreadful to be all alone there, and night coming on. Even the station was locked; to whom could she go or whom could she ask for money to get back to the dear old camp?

For two long hours she had sat there, then the old station agent hobbled along, and opened the ticket office. Tavia told him something of her plight, but instead of saying that she had come away from her friends on the word of a perfect stranger, she pardonably made the man out to be a distant cousin.

"Hum! That fellow with the long hair? Well, I guess they'll git him to-night. He's got loose from the sanitarium on the hill, and there's been a lot of looking for him in the last two weeks. Seems to me he's jest about toured the country," said the old man as he dusted the window shelf with his cap. "I reckon they'll git him now. And you was out with that chap?"

"Why—yes, no, that is——"

"Your cousin, eh? Say, miss, he ain't nobody's cousin. But like as not he thinks he is cousin to the president himself."

"If I could only borrow a dollar!" sighed Tavia.

"Well, you could if I hadn't been caught with that trick twice this summer. Why, if I gave you a dollar, girl, you would make me believe I was your cousin, too."

This retort angered Tavia, and she determined to ask no further favors from this old man. Though he did wear the uniform of a Civil War veteran, he certainly had poor manners.

"What will happen?" she asked herself, confident that something must happen to relieve the situation.

"The best I kin do," growled the old station agent, "will be to fetch you a bite to eat back from my boardin' house; and then let you sleep here till mornin'——"

"Sleep alone in a station!" exclaimed Tavia. "I'm not afraid of anything—but—I don't believe I'd like to stay in this—place all night. I have a horror of rats."

"Rats! No rats around here. I've got the best cat in the country. Switch is his name, an' that's him—he's no slouch."

"But shut up alone with a big strange cat——" and Tavia looked at the animal curled up under the beautifully-blacked and summer-shined stove.

"Well, you kin do as you please, miss, but there ain't no more trains your way to-night, supposin' you did have a ticket."

Tavia looked out over the gloom that was quickly descending upon the little hamlet. Soon it would be night! No one but that station agent in sight! No place to go, but over the hills to his boarding house, or perhaps to some farm house; where, should she have the courage to make her way through the fields up to a cabin, perhaps fierce dogs, that were already howling and barking, would become more her enemies than would be the cat, and the solitude of the station.

"And is there no church—no minister's house where a stranded girl might get shelter?"

"Nice young girls don't often get stranded," replied the old man not unreasonably, "and if I was you I'd keep my trouble purty much to myself. You kin depend upon Sam Dixon. If I say I'll do a thing I'll do it; and no harm will come to you in this here station for a night. Besides, I come over for the ten o'clock train, and I'm back for the milk train before daylight."

Something about this speech convinced Tavia she was unfortunate, and it would be best to keep her trouble to herself, for what would strangers care about her predicament? Could she deny that it was through her own fault that she had been thus situated?

"I'm goin' along now, and say," said the agent, "if you like I'll just lock the office, and give you the outside door key. There ain't no tramps, but if you should be timid, before I come back, just turn the key in the door."

"Oh, thank you," Tavia was compelled to say, for this was a condescension; "I'm sure I shall not be afraid—in the twilight."

"Well, take the key anyhow," and locking the inner office he came out in the open room. "I'll fetch you a bite—I'm glad I ain't got no gals to—get left over from way trains."

How Tavia Travers ever choked down the biscuit and the slice of ham that Sam Dixon brought back to her that night—how she actually fondled old gray Switch, and was glad of his friendly purring during that long, dreary night, as she lay cuddled up in the very farthest corner bench—how the night did, after all, go by, and a very gray dawn bring the welcome step or limp of the station agent, only Tavia—poor unfortunate Tavia—could ever know!

And it was the next day—daylight at last!

To-day she must get back to camp if she had to walk!

Oh, she must get back! Surely something would happen to assist her!



CHAPTER XV

WHEN THE TRAIN CAME IN

In a very dark corner of the station Tavia found a broken washbowl, and from the water pail she carried two cups full of water, with which to refresh her worn and haggard face.

Sam Dixon had brought her word that she might ride back to his boarding house with him, and share his coffee, but she was to say that she was his niece, and that she was on her way to her grandmother's, "like little red riding hood," chuckled Sam, when he disclosed his plan.

Tavia cared little for coffee, but she was weak, and the fear of being again left in the station alone prompted her to accept the well-meant invitation. In fact, she had in her hours of desolation become quite fond of the little old man with the blackthorn cane.

"Yes, I'll go gladly," she answered, and his pleasure could not be doubted.

Accordingly, when the milk train had pulled out, and the station was again locked, Tavia jumped into the narrow carriage beside the old man, and, asking if he would not like to have her drive, she pulled up the reins, and they started off.

Here was a new experience. If only now she could forget the agony that Dorothy must be experiencing, it would not be so dreadful to go at this early morning hour, over the dewy roads, in the ramshackle buggy with her benefactor at her side.

"At any rate," she thought to herself, "I'll have a good story to tell when I do get back to camp."

"Is your place far?" she asked of Sam, more for the sake of talking than of asking.

"Not so very. You see, it has always been rather rough out this way—lumbermen and the like always puttin' up at Dobson's. That's why I thought you was better off in the station, than to try to make your way about last night. And some of them rough fellows stop at my place—that's Dobson's—so while they're out now is your chance to get a hot drink."

As he spoke, a rough man, indeed, passed the carriage in which Tavia and Sam were riding! Wasn't he rough! Tavia instinctively shrugged up closer to the old man beside her.

"Uncle Sam, was that a—woodman?"

Tavia fell in quite naturally to calling the station agent Uncle Sam.

"Yep, he's one of the sort," taking care to keep his smile focussed on the man, who although he was going in the opposite direction was able to keep his eye on Tavia. "You see they are the most suspicious set—takes a man a lifetime to know them, a woman an eternity, and then she has to depend upon their good nature."

Tavia smiled, and hurried the old horse until his ears "sassed her back." They jogged along—every moment nature was getting more and more wideawake, until Tavia feared she would really wake up to the magnitude of her own personal offence, everything else seemed so straightforward and so upright!

Why in the world had she ever listened to the ravings of that man with the soft hat and the hard smile?

After all, Dorothy must be right—and she, Tavia, was wrong. Yes, it was indisputably wrong to do the things that had seemed so smart before—things that Dorothy could never laugh at.

She sighed heavily. Sam heard it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking over his glasses, and under his wrinkles.

"Oh, nothing," Tavia sighed further. "Only I am wondering what my friends are thinking—of—me—about me."

"Well, there's scarcely any doubt about that think," he replied. "Like as not they think you are drowned—no good friend would ever think you were—stranded!"

Sam's logic was irresistible. Tavia had not thought of this contingency; they might think her drowned!

"I must hurry to get back," she said suddenly. "I wonder could I do any little work, at your boarding house, to earn the price of my—ticket?"

"You couldn't manage to stay over until the afternoon, do you think? I have some mending I'd be mighty glad to get done—and then I could give you a ticket," said Sam.

"Oh, that would be splendid!" exclaimed Tavia. "I would willingly wait over even if I had a chance to go sooner, for you have been so good to me, Uncle Sam," she said warmly. "I shouldn't want to go until I had done something for you."

"Then it's a bargain. While you're eatin' your coffee, I'll grab up the things, and you kin mend over in the station. We'll stick to the story that you are my niece, and you kin come inside the office and mend all you like, and it ain't nobody's business. You see, sister died last year, and I ain't had nobody to fix up the things for me since."

"I'll be very glad to do what I can," said Tavia, "but I never was much good at sewing. However, I'll do the very best I can, Uncle Sam."

"Sure you will, and that'll be all right. Here we are. Now, you just wait while I get the horse's oats, and then we'll get ours."

The house before which he drew up was of the old Colonial type—the posts had been white, and imposing at some time, but they were now neither white nor any other true color. Also, they threatened to topple over on the vines, that so kindly did their part in trying to make the old place look alive.

An old man sat on the porch, smoking his pipe. Sam Dixon spoke to him as he passed around the house to get the horse his breakfast. Presently a woman, enveloped in gingham dress, and lost in a gingham sunbonnet, came out and stood in wonderment, looking at Tavia. She glared at her for a moment or two, and then, without speaking a word, entered the house again. This was not a very cordial welcome for Tavia, but she patted the horse, and pretended not to notice the slight. Then Sam came limping along with the oats in a nose bag for Major.

"Now eat," ordered Sam, "and——" Then it struck him that he had not fixed on a name for his "niece." Tavia saw his embarrassment, but before she could suggest a name, he added, "Betsy, you and me's hungry too, I reckon. Let's see what Sarah has to eat in the kitchen."

"All right, Uncle Sam," replied "Betsy," with a smile, "I am hungry."

They entered the house, and soon were seated on the old-fashioned hickory chairs, before some steaming cakes, and equally steaming coffee. Tavia was indeed hungry, and she "fell to," as did Sam, without any unnecessary ceremony.

How strange it was! But what if the folks at camp thought her drowned? At any rate she must earn her ticket back.

What an eternity it seemed since she stole away to that little bridge—she could not bear to think of it now! And what would Dorothy think. Ah, how little Tavia knew what poor Dorothy was thinking at that very moment!

"Now, when you're ready, we'll hop along," said Sam as Sarah came in the room, and looked to see if her guests would take more coffee. "How's things to-day, Sarah?"

"Ain't you heard?" she replied ambiguously.

"No, what?" pressed Sam.

"Why, a girl has 'scaped from the hospital. 'Tain't very safe fer a strange girl to be around here now. It might be her," and she shot an unmistakable threat at Tavia. "Ain't never heard you speak, before, of Betsy, Sam. Where's she bin?"

"Say, Sarah. Is there any money up fer findin' the girl?" he asked, and there was no mistaking his meaning. "'Cause it ain't no use fer you to—speculate on Betsy. She's no house-pital breakaway."

But Sarah looked at Tavia with unveiled suspicion. Tavia felt it—and the thought that she was a stranger, and might be mistaken for the escaped girl, made her most uncomfortable.

It was a relief when Sam returned from up-stairs, his articles that needed mending done up in a clumsy bundle, and his hat cocked on his head with the army badge over the back of his neck.



CHAPTER XVI

A HARROWING EXPERIENCE

When Dorothy awoke, to find herself still in that attic room, to know that it was not all an awful dream, but a terrible reality, the full meaning her position flooded into her strained mind, like some awful deluge of horror!

That the people who held her captive did so for some undefinable reason was perfectly clear; but why they did so, was just as mysterious as was their reason for plying her with coddling words, as if she were a baby.

Realizing that they would not let her go her way, Dorothy determined, as she lay there, with the moonlight making queer shadows on the slant wall, that she would escape that day!

How little did Tavia know of the danger into which she had thrown her best friend!

"And I wonder," thought Dorothy, "if Tavia is safely back at camp? And what do the folks think of me?"

A sigh, as deep as it was sincere, escaped from her lips, and she crawled out of bed to see if daylight was near.

"Such a long night!" she sobbed, "and to think that I am a prisoner!"

The low windows were shut, and the air of the room was stifling. Dorothy groped around to see if she might find the candle that she had noticed on the stand, but it was gone.

"They haven't even left me a match," she told herself. "Did they think I would eat matches?"

Then she decided she would raise a window if she had to break it open. A curtain roller lay on the floor. With this she tried to pry up the uncertain sash, and in doing so she fell over a low stool.

The noise disturbed the folks in the lower rooms, for directly Dorothy heard a shuffle of feet on the stairs.

At first she felt indignant, then her helplessness prompted caution, and she hurried into bed.

The door opened softly.

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Hobbs, who, as Dorothy could see, was enveloped in a robe of the same pattern as that which she herself wore. "Did you call?"

"Oh, thank you. I only wanted a little air," replied Dorothy. "Couldn't we open a window?"

"Well, perhaps we had best not, dearie," replied the woman. "There might be a draught."

"I wish there was," Dorothy could not help replying. Then she quickly added: "Don't you think fresh air is very good at this warm season?"

"Oh, yes, for some folks," said Mrs. Hobbs, tucking the warm bed clothes more warmly about the sweltering girl. "But, you see—well, this room—we don't always open the windows—fer company."

"I will be able to go back to my friends in the morning," said Dorothy promptly. "I am sure it has been very kind of you to take care of me as you have done."

"Now, don't talk too much dearie," ordered the woman. "You see, head troubles—that is, when a girl falls on her head—she has got to be dreadful careful, fer a long time."

"Oh, my head is not hurt," declared Dorothy, as she leaned upon her elbow. "I feel able to walk back to camp now."

"Camp?" asked the woman.

"Why, yes. Didn't you know I came from a camp out Everglade way? I was with one of the other girls from camp when I—got lost," finished Dorothy quite helplessly.

"Some folks don't call them places 'camps,'" Mrs. Hobbs ventured. "But of course the name ain't got anything to do with it."

"What do they call them?" pressed Dorothy.

"Oh, now, you never mind. You will be all right. Jest go off to sleep, and as soon as Josh milks, I'll fetch you a nice drink of the warm suds—it's splendid fer nerves."

Dorothy was completely mystified. Perhaps the old woman was queer, and she might better humor her.

"Well, I may sleep a little more," she said, "and then when daylight comes, I shall be ready to start off. Would you mind handing me my jacket. It has my purse in it, and I want to make sure that it is all right."

Samanthy Hobbs hobbled over to where Dorothy's clothes lay in a heap. She fumbled through the garments, and Dorothy distinctly saw her take the beaded purse in her hand.

"That's it," said Dorothy.

"No pocketbook here," replied the woman.

"Why, that little beaded bag I saw you take from my pocket; that is my purse!"

"Ain't no sign of sech a thing here," declared the woman, who was at that very moment trying to secret the purse in the folds of her robe.

Dorothy was more puzzled than ever. Would this woman steal her pocketbook? How could she ever get away from the place if penniless?

"Give me that purse," the girl demanded, jumping up out of bed, and attempting to get hold of the beaded trifle.

"Josh! Josh!" called the woman. "Come up here and help me! She's gettin' vi'lent!"

"Violent!" repeated Dorothy, "I ought to get—crazy, to be shut up here—this way."

"Well, dearie, I didn't want to scare you," said the woman, in that tantalizing voice, "but if I was you, I wouldn't get any crazier than I was—if I was you."

"Crazy! Do you think I'm crazy? Is that it?" and poor Dorothy fell back upon the bed.

Fortunately Josiah did not hear his wife call, and of course did not come in answer.

"There now, there now!" and Mrs. Hobbs smoothed out the bed things. "I will fetch you some nice, warm milk. And perhaps to-day I'll be able to send you back to your ma."

"I have no mother," insisted Dorothy. "I told you that my name is Dorothy Dale, and my father is Major Dale of the United States army. If any one attempts to—wrong me, he will see that they are punished."

With all the vehemence she could muster up Dorothy spoke these words, and she saw that they had some effect upon Mrs. Hobbs. Would she believe her, and let her go?

"Well, of course, you are a stranger to me," said the woman, "and, as I live, girlie, I intend to do right by you. But it's finding out the right that sometimes makes the wrong."

"Oh, I am sure Mrs. Hobbs you have been kind," Dorothy said, in a sobbing voice, "but you see how dreadfully hard it is to be kept away from one's friends. Why, I don't dare to think how they feel! How my cousins are worrying, and, of course, they have sent word to father. Oh, dear Mrs. Hobbs, help me to get back! Help me to get away to-day, for if I don't—they will think I am—dead!"

Dorothy had actually seized the woman's hands, and was almost kneeling before her. To be away for two days and a night!

The woman looked keenly into Dorothy's blue eyes. She smoothed back the pretty, neglected yellow hair, and she brushed the flaming cheek kindly. "I would not harm you for the world," she declared, "for if you are not the lost girl—you are—an angel!"

"Here, Samanthy!" called Josiah, from below stairs. "Come and git me a cup of coffee. I ain't got all day to wait around! I've got to git to town!"

"All right, Josh. I'll be there right away. Now, dearie, jest you be patient, and everything will come out all right."

"But can't I have a window open? I am almost smothered. You know I am used to almost living out doors."

"Well," then, she whispered, "wait till Josh gets off and I'll slip up and fix you. He's awfully fussy about some things."

There was nothing for Dorothy to do but wait. But how long it seemed! How close the day was, as the sun opened up on that hot roof! Oh, if she did not get away, surely she would go crazy!

She could hear the old farmer grumbling. Evidently he was not pleased about something. But Mrs. Hobbs was cautioning him not to speak so loud. Of course they were afraid of being overheard. "If she opens the window," Dorothy decided, "I'll drop to the piazza roof! Then I can escape! Oh, I must escape!"

She dare not, however, make any preparations to get away until after the farmer had gone to town; until after Mrs. Hobbs had opened the window and until after—she hoped this would happen—after Mrs. Hobbs went off to the fields for her berries.



CHAPTER XVII

STRANGER STILL

"You kin mend furst rate, Betsy," complimented old Sam Dixon, as Tavia plied her needle in the little ticket office, "and do you know, I've taken quite a shine to you? You might be my niece if you liked. I have a penny or two, and there ain't no pockets in shrouds."

Tavia looked up in surprise! After all, might there be "a fortune" somewhere for her or for her family? The thought seemed too absurd.

"Why, Uncle Sam, what do you mean?" she asked.

"Even Sam Dixon can't live forever, sis, and you know it's sort of lonely to think, that, when he goes, there won't be no one to think of him, like he thinks of them. That's why I want your name and address. But there comes the train from the city. Would you mind attendin' to the window while I run out with the mail bag?"

"Certainly I will—I know where the tickets are, and can ask you the price if any one wants to buy one." Wasn't it queer to sell tickets?

But that was the train to the city!

"Oh, Uncle Sam!" called Tavia. "Isn't that the train I should go on?"

"Without giving me your address?" and he was running down the platform with the mail bag. "Couldn't you wait till the next?"

There seemed nothing else to do! But to stay longer away from camp?

Well, she might as well be content now. It was too late to get a ticket, too late to say good-bye to Sam, too late to do anything but attend to the people who came in the station after the train pulled out.

"Have you seen the carriage from the sanitarium?"

The speaker, who had just alighted from the train, addressed Tavia, but the latter was so surprised that she caught her finger in the ticket stamper. Before the little window stood a young woman in the garb of a nurse—and she wanted the carriage from the sanitarium.

"If you will wait a minute or two the agent will be back," said Tavia in her very nicest voice. "He is just putting the mail on the train."

"Dear me!" and the nurse turned away. Then she returned. "Are you his daughter?"

"No, his—his niece," quibbled Tavia. What else could she do just then? And didn't Sam say he would adopt her?

"Well, since you are going to be around here we may as well get acquainted—I shall probably have plenty of calls at the station. I see you are the whole service outfit. The telephone, telegraph, and, I suppose, the—Press Bureau."

"Oh, yes," replied Tavia, not grasping the sarcasm of the "Press" remark. "Uncle Sam has a great deal to attend to."

The nurse laughed to show her pretty teeth, Tavia thought. She was pretty, and her immaculate white linen was immensely becoming.

"My name is—Bell—Mary Bell," she said, "and yours is——"

"Betsy Dixon," replied Tavia. (Oh, what a tangled web we weave!)

"What a charming name—Betsy Dixon! Quite like a—bullet from Molly Pitcher's gun," said the nurse. Tavia smiled but failed to catch the significance of that remark. Betsy was a good old name. Why like a war bullet?

"Here is the station agent," said Tavia, as Sam limped back. "Uncle Sam, have you seen the carriage from the sanitarium?"

Tavia could not overlook the joy in that name—Uncle Sam. It was so simple, and so mouth-fitting.

"Here it comes," replied Sam, also noting how nicely Tavia fell into her role. "But is this the new nurse? I have an important message for Miss Bennet. That's her—in the carriage."

"Miss Bennet! Why, she's my classmate! I never expected to find her, out here in the hills," spoke the stranger.

The carriage drew up to the little platform. Miss Bennet alighted and Miss Bell hurried out to meet her.

"Oh, you dear thing!"—this was very extravagant for trained and graduated nurses—"to think I should meet you here! Isn't it just too nice!" It was Miss Bell who said that.

"Why, Mary Bell!" replied Miss Bennet. "How glad I am to see you! And what a surprise! You are the new nurse! And I never knew it. I'm just starting out on such an interesting case! A young girl, the dearest little thing, has escaped from the sanitarium, and I came out with the carriage to hunt her up. We had word last night that an old farmer—named Hobbs—had caught her. It may not be true, but I am going out there to see. It's a lovely ride. Can you come?"

The girl who escaped! Tavia remembered Sarah's story.

"Miss Bennet, I have a message for you," said Sam, very slowly. "It came in over the wire a half hour ago." And he handed her the yellow slip of paper.

Miss Bennet looked at it.

"Oh, my!" she gasped. "My mother!" and she dropped upon a nearby bench. "She—is—dying!"

Her face turned as white as the linen she wore. Instinctively Tavia ran for the water at the corner of the room. Miss Bell snatched up a paper and started to fan her.

"There, dear, don't faint," said the new nurse. "Of course, you must go to her."

"But! I must go after the escaped girl!" gasped Miss Bennet, and she again almost swooned. "Oh, my darling mother! All I have in the whole, wide world!"

"You go to her. Take my coat and hat, and I will take your case. Agent, what time does a train leave for Mountainview?" She had the telegram in her hand.

"In just two minutes. There's the bell now."

"Come Laura, get into this coat and take my hat. You will reach home before anything serious happens, and perhaps, when your dear mother sees you——. We must hope for the best."

Laura Bennet slipped into her friend's coat and took the little Panama hat that Miss Bell handed to her. "Then you will go after the girl and return her to the sanitarium? It will be your first case. Can you manage it?"

"Certainly I will. You run along for the train. Have you a ticket? Mountainview," she called to Tavia.

Tavia stamped the ticket. Sam was inside, but she had it ready before he had made his way to the window.

"And how shall I know the girl?" asked Miss Bell.

"Know her? Oh, yes! Why, you can't mistake her. She's the prettiest little thing, with yellow hair and blue eyes—there is not another like her. Oh, how frightened I am! It is so good of you, Mary!"

And she was on the train.

Miss Bell got into the wagon with the driver from the sanitarium. Tavia was wishing that the drive had been in the other direction, for then she could have gone in the carriage perhaps, and have caught a train at the switch station. That she was staying so long away from camp now began to worry her. What would Dorothy think!

"Uncle Sam, couldn't I get a train earlier by going over to the station I heard you telephone to?" she asked. "I don't mind a good walk."

"Why, yes, that's so," replied Sam. "Of course I'd like to keep you, Betsy. You make a first-class assistant agent. But I know how you feel, and I wouldn't have you stay longer than you wanted to. There'll be a train here soon for the Junction, and if you are sure you can make the other—you'll have to flag it with your handkerchief—then, if you get left, there will be no train either way. I don't know as you ought to risk it."

"Oh, I can manage very well," she assured him. "I'll take the train, and get the other from the Junction, all right. I am so much obliged to you. I would love to stay longer, if I could, but perhaps I may be able to come up again while I'm at camp." She tried to fix up a little, it was so miserable to have had one's clothes on all night.

"Well, there's the train," and he pulled open the switch, which was operated by a lever in the ticket office. "Good-bye, Betsy, and I won't forget you."

"Nor will I forget you, Uncle Sam," said Tavia with something like real sentiment in her voice. "I am glad I got lost just to have found you."

"Now, don't mix up the instructions," Sam Dixon warned her. "There ain't no agent around the Junction—in fact, there ain't nothin' around there but wild animals."

"Oh, really, wild animals?" she asked in surprise.

"Used to be a great place fer huntin', but beasts don't like the railroad, so you don't need to be afraid of them. Good-bye, Betsy; good-bye!"

And Tavia started for camp.



CHAPTER XVIII

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

Mrs. Hobbs came back to Dorothy as she had promised, and also, as she had promised, she did open a window.

This open window was Dorothy's hope. If she could only slip out of it, and drop to the little piazza below!

Mrs. Hobbs had brought up a cup of warm milk, and a slice of toast. Dorothy took it thankfully, and felt stronger.

"You feel better now?" asked the woman. "I have to go over the hill for berries—we have a great crop to-day, and Josh had to go away on business." If only Dorothy knew what business! "Do you think you'll be all right if I fetch you something to read?"

"Why, of course. I feel very well to-day, and I shall be glad to sit by the window and read," said Dorothy.

"Here's a book. I got it off last year's Christmas tree, but I ain't had no time to read it." She handed Dorothy a volume bound in red and inscribed "Myrtle and Ivy." There was nothing to show whether it was an agricultural guide, a spiritual retreat, or a love song.

"It's a pretty book," said Dorothy, "and I am sure I shall enjoy it."

"Yes, then I'll be off. Only let me tell you one thing dear," and the woman came up very close to Dorothy, "you must promise me not to try to get away until I can take you to the station. Josh has the wagon."

"All right," replied Dorothy with an amused smile. "Why should I try to get away?"

"Don't know, dear, only I must have your promise."

Dorothy felt queer—she had reason to be grateful to Mrs. Hobbs, and to give a promise would involve an obligation. Yet she must make her escape. Some disturbance downstairs saved the girl further anxiety on the question of the promise. Mrs. Hobbs ran down to the door, and she did not return.

The summer morning hours sent in their greeting through the small window that opened above the porch. Dorothy was nervous, she must leave just as soon as she saw Mrs. Hobbs disappear over the hill, when she would be out of the sight of the house. And her purse was gone! Well, once out on the clear roadway, surely some one would befriend her. What a dreadful thing it was to be a prisoner! And not to know why she was imprisoned! Her beautiful hair had not been combed in two days. Dorothy did the best she could to make it smooth with her side comb, but the depth of the hair, and the size of the comb, made the matter of actual hair-dressing a difficult task. But there was fresh water in the basin, and she could wash, which was one comfort. "If only I had my purse," she thought, "with my little looking glass. Well, it will scarcely matter how I look—so long as I do not attract attention."

As if Dorothy could help attracting attention!

Mrs. Hobbs's generous form had dropped behind the hill. There was nothing to wait for now, Dorothy must get out of that window.

The window frame was that sort that runs to the roof and has not far to go. It was really not half a window, but it was large enough for the girl's slim form to slip through. It was no distance to the roof, then she could slide down the post.

Dorothy was out. She sat upon the roof and with a careful move slid toward the edge.

She must stop near a post, as she could not stand up!

Yes, what blessing! She was directly above the post!

Dorothy was not an athlete, but she was always able to climb. She swung around the post—down—down—to the ground!

But no sooner had her feet touched the welcome earth that a shrill scream startled her!

She was puzzled and alarmed until she saw a big, green parrot in a cage. And the bird was screeching to the limit of its capacity. Mrs. Hobbs could hear it! Should Dorothy throw a mat from the porch over its cage!

No, the door was opened, the bird was out,—and it was actually flying at Dorothy!

"Mama! Mama!" it yelled. "Come quick! Come quick!"

Snatching up a stick, Dorothy made an attempt to strike the green thing as it flapped toward her. But she could not hit it! And if she turned to run it would likely settle its claws into her head. Yet she must run! Mrs. Hobbs—

Without time for further thought Dorothy did run; down the lane, and into the road.

The parrot had not followed! Dorothy was out on the road, she could surely get back to camp now. Oh, how glorious it was!

Gratefully she raised her eyes to the clear sky. Her heart sent up its thanks—to the Friend who is never hidden from those who seek Him.

"And there comes a carriage," she told herself, as a rumbling of wheels took her attention. "Perhaps the driver will give me a lift."

The wagon was hidden from view as the road turned sharply just under the oaks. Dorothy waited. Yes, and there was a young woman in the carriage. Wasn't that fortunate?

The carriage turned so close to Dorothy that she had no need to take a single step to hail it. And it was almost stopped, yes; it did stop now.

The young woman in the carriage was garbed in white—a nurse.

"Is this the Hobb's place?" she asked of Dorothy.

"Yes," replied the girl in surprise.

Then the nurse jumped out of the carriage. She looked keenly at Dorothy.

"Do you—stop there?" she asked curiously.

"I have been stopping there," answered Dorothy, now completely mystified by the young woman's manner.

"Is your name——"

"My name is Dorothy Dale, and for some reason I have been—hidden away from my friends," said Dorothy bravely. "I was just about to ask you to assist me to get back to them. I was in camp at Everglade."

"Why, of course I will assist you!" replied the nurse in the most affable manner. "Get right into the carriage, and we will have you back at camp in no time." Dorothy hesitated. The nurse consulted a small note book.

"Come right in, dear. We are going straight down to Everglade," and she touched Dorothy's arm to urge her.

"Strange, I feel so nervous about falling into traps," said Dorothy honestly, looking deeply into the eyes that were investigating every feature of her own fair face. "But you see I did fall, literally, and——"

"Of course, and you were hurt." Dorothy could not understand that caressing manner. It was identical with that exercised by Mrs. Hobbs. "Now, come," and Dorothy did step into the carriage. "We will drive along quickly, so that we may reach camp before luncheon. James, hurry your horse."

For a few moments Dorothy felt as if she must collapse. The strain of her escape from the old house, then her fright from the bird, and her fear that Mrs. Hobbs would overtake her. And now to be actually riding back to camp! What would her friends say to her? Oh, how good it would be to relieve them of all their anxiety, and to be really going back well—comparatively well, at any rate.

"I've had quite a time of it these last two days," she remarked, glancing timidly at the figure in white beside her, "but it seems all things come out right—if we only have patience."

"But I wouldn't talk dear—the sun has been warm, and you are quite overheated. Wouldn't you like to rest your head here, on my lap?"

Dorothy sat up erect. This was surely unheard of. Who was this nurse? Where was she taking her?

"I am perfectly well, thank you," she said in the firmest tones she could command, "and I really would like to know where we are going? Why do you treat me as if I were ill or a child?"

"There, there," and the nurse touched Dorothy's hand. "Of course you are perfectly well, and of course, we are going to camp. James, is your horse asleep?"

But Dorothy was frightened. There was something mysterious in it all. Another wagon approached. It drew slowly along.

Mr. Hobbs!

Dorothy's heart gave a leap as his old wagon stopped! The nurse put her head out of the little curtained window and made signs to him.

"All right! All right!" he replied. "Yes, that's her!"

"That's her!" repeated Dorothy. "That's me! What is this trick? Let me out of this carriage instantly, or I will call for help!"

"If you do not keep quiet, I shall be obliged to restrain you," said the nurse. "Miss Harriwell, we are taking you back to the sanitarium. I am your new nurse."

"Sanitarium! New nurse! Miss Harriwell! I am Dorothy Dale, and I have never been inside a sanitarium!"

The carriage dashed into a driveway! A big brownstone building confronted them.

A corps of nurses hurried out to the path!

When Dorothy saw them she fainted!



CHAPTER XIX

CAMPING DAYS

Tavia got off the train at the Junction, but she did not get on the one that went toward Clamberton—it flew by. She waved her handkerchief—she waved her coat, she told herself she waved her soul, but that train simply would not stop.

And she was miles from nowhere!

"Well, I'll walk it!" she declared. "I don't care how I get there, I'm going to keep my nose toward camp!"

To walk the railroad ties! That was one thing Tavia loathed—they were so regular, so straight, so abominably correct.

"Of course railroad ties were never built for human feet, even the straight and narrow are not as straight as these."

She moved along for a hundred or so of ties, then she threatened to sit down. Tavia was desperate, but even in her present surprising state of mind, the railroad ties were too much for her, and she kept on.

"I might fly," she reflected, looking boldly at the ocean of blue above, "but there isn't a machine in sight."

More and more ties until she came to a small bridge.

"Well, I suppose if I try to walk this thing I shall presently find myself holding a session with some slimy, muddy frogs. Ugh!" and she looked between the ties at the lurking depths of mud and other things on either side of the railroad embankment. "I just hate—uncertainties."

She stepped cautiously a little farther. "Well, if I fall it serves me right. I shouldn't have done this!"

Tavia—poor Tavia!

The place was very lonely. Tavia realized this. She knew instantly that she was in the woods. It may have been her primitive hatred of the forest that inspired this sentiment, but there was always something about the depths of solitude that made her want to laugh—it was positively funny to her. Something must happen.

"If there were a single human being in sight," she sighed. Then she repeated, "I said 'single.'"

It was almost dusk. She thought of old Sam. Wasn't that funny! Then of her mending—shirring socks! When he tried them on he might change his mind about making her his heir.

"And that loon!" This last referred to Morrison. "When I believed him, I may, some day, believe myself!"

She picked out a few more ties, and came to another and larger culvert. "Suppose a train should come," she gasped. The strain of the past few days was having its natural revenge—reaction. Her depression had soured into hilarity. "Well, I'll run the bridge—I have always heard it is the only safe way." She looked up, far beyond the ties. She would have closed her eyes, but that strange feeling of sight-security, which does not depend upon sight, compelled her to look—but not at the ties.

Every time she planted her foot down she expected to go through, foot and all, but, somehow, she did not sink down between the ties.

"It would take a funnel to put me safely down that way," she decided. "I guess I would have to have a very big hole to drop through."

It seemed to Tavia that everything she had to do must be made easy for her, even dropping through railroad ties!

She had crossed the bridge and now she stood for a moment mocking it.

"I should burn my bridges behind me," she mused, "but it takes time and talent, even to burn bridges."

Those who knew Tavia would scarcely have recognized her now, could they have viewed her through the glass with which she was magnifying her faults. Tavia had been tried, she had tried herself, and after having had an opportunity to board any of three trains going toward camp, here she was again—stranded!

"I'm a first-class simpleton," she decided. "Dorothy was right; always right. I'm a rattle-brain; and they think I am drowned. That is more reasonable, and more charitable, than to think I could be so foolish."

"I guess I couldn't get along very well without Dorothy," she went on thinking, as she trudged forward. "She always kept me together. But at least I'll try to do her training justice now. I'll try to walk back to camp."

A narrow path ran beside the rails. This, Tavia thought had been trodden down by tramps. Beyond, there seemed nothing but woods, and it was getting dusk. Well, there must be houses or huts somewhere, and she would walk on.

Peering through the trees, Tavia thought she saw a white speck. It might be a bird—no, it was too large! What could it be?

It moved swiftly—now she could see it was—not a person! But it couldn't be anything else, since there really were no ghosts. But were there really none? Just now Tavia felt as if nothing was certain, not even her own personality.

There it was again, out in the clear path! All in white! Oh, it must be a spirit!

How silly!

"It's a girl," Tavia said aloud. "Oh, how glad I am to see the face of a human being!"

It was a girl, and she moved swiftly toward Tavia.

"Oh, how do you do?" she began. "I was afraid you would not come."

Tavia wondered. Did the girl take her for some one else?

"I'm awfully glad to meet you," answered Tavia, noting how pretty the creature was, what splendid blond hair, and such eyes! "I was just getting—frightened."

"Frightened! Why, we will soon be all right. I have ordered my airship. Can you fly?"

Could she fly? Was the girl crazy?

Then Tavia noticed a strange glare in the wonderful blue eyes. She might be insane! Maybe she was the girl who had escaped from the sanitarium!

"I love to fly—it is my one ambition in life. But they would never let me, so I just came away by myself; and isn't it sweet of you to meet me away out here? There, did you see that bird? That's the way to fly," and the strange girl threw her arms up and down, until Tavia wondered whether she could be fooling, or was really insane.

"I have never tried to fly," replied Tavia, feeling very silly, "but lots of people have gone crazy over it."

The moment she had said "crazy" she felt that she had made a mistake. The girl turned on her as if to strike her.

"Crazy! You call flying crazy! It's crazy to walk, crazy to stand, but it is noble to fly!" and again she worked her arms bird-like.

For the moment Tavia felt like running away. Then she thought that would not be wise, for how did she know but that the girl might have the strength they say insane people have; and that she might hit her with a stone, or do something to injure her? Besides, it seemed better to be with her than alone in that woods. Tavia decided she would humor her.

"Of course, we shall all fly, some day," she said, as the girl turned almost upon her. "I would love to learn how!"

"You shall! I will teach you! My airship is not far away."

"Do you know the road to Everglade?" asked Tavia, without the slightest hope of getting an intelligent answer.

"Why, yes; Everglade?" and her eyes set more deeply. "I have a friend in camp out that way."

In camp! Then she was not altogether insane, for there were many campers at Everglade.

"Yes," said Tavia, "so have I. We can walk along together."

This seemed to satisfy the girl, and she did start to tramp along. Tavia noticed how neatly she was dressed, and did not fail to see a beautiful chain and ornament about her slender white throat.

"But it's a long way," spoke the girl. "My name is Bird of Paradise. What might yours be?"

"Betsy Dixon," replied Tavia aptly. "Yours is a much prettier name. May I call you Birdie?"

"Certainly, and I shall call you Betty. I have a friend named Betty."

For some moments they walked along in silence. The two girls were as different in dress and manner as were Dorothy and Tavia, and the latter noticed how much like Dorothy the strange girl was. About the same height, same colored hair, and the same deep, blue eyes.

"Are there no houses near here?" asked Tavia. "I am afraid night will catch us soon."

"Oh, yes, there is a hotel over that ledge. It is there I am taking you."

Tavia hoped it was true. She had passed through the stage of sensitiveness, and was now only anxious to get somewhere or near somewhere, for the night. She had made up her mind that she would ask the first person she met to help her, with money or by directing her to shelter. There was no longer any doubt as to her distress—night was coming and she was almost worse than alone, and in the woods.

The girl in white walked along humming now, waving her arms every time a bird passed, and when she did speak to Tavia her remarks seemed more rambling than ever.

"We seem miles from every place," remarked Tavia weakly. "I do wish——"

"There! There!" exclaimed the strange girl. "There is my flying station! See that precipice?" pointing to a cliff far out on the ledge of the hill over which they were walking. "Just over there is my station. I told you I was Bird of Paradise. I am not—I am Madam Fly-Fly, the French balloonist. Now watch me!"

"Don't!" shrieked Tavia. But it was too late. The girl had rushed to the edge of the cliff, and with a wild wave of her arms had thrown herself over!

Tavia, stunned at the suddenness of her tragic action, stood for a moment looking down at the heap of white that lay so far below her.

Then she turned cautiously, and started down the dangerous descent herself, clutching at brush and bramble as she tried to reach the girl, who might be dead, in the moss and rocks that made such a beautiful setting for the stream rambling on, unmindful of the terror on its brink.

Tavia must reach the girl; but what then?



CHAPTER XX

HAPLESS TAVIA

Step by step, or rather, move by move, Tavia struggled to reach in safety that heap of white.

"Oh, if she is only alive!" moaned Tavia. "Why did I not induce her to go back to the Junction? I saw she was insane—and now!"

A huge stone offered her a pause in the dangerous descent. She stopped and listened.

Then she called: "Birdie! Birdie!" No answer. "Perhaps she hears and does not know—that name. Madame Fly-Fly?" she called again, and she thought the sleeve moved—always that attempt to fly.

Tavia slid down from the rock, trembling in limb and throbbing in nerves. She had a terrible fear that the girl was either dying or dead. There with her alone!

On a perfectly flat stone the form lay. Tavia was beside it now. She stooped and listened.

"Thank the good Lord she is alive!" gasped Tavia fervently. "I must—lift—her!"

But there was little trouble in turning the light form over, so that the white face looked up into Tavia's.

"Oh!" sighed the girl. "Where am I? Who are you?" There was a change—a great change in her manner.

"Oh, I am so glad you are alive!" breathed Tavia. "And how do you feel?"

"As if something—moved in—my head. Where is mother?"

There was no rambling, she spoke coherently!

"Are you hurt?" pressed Tavia. "If only you can move?"

"I am sure I can," the sufferer replied, at the same time making an effort to sit up. "I feel better—somehow. How did you come to me? I had a terrible dream."

"I met you. Do you remember your name?"

The girl did not answer at once. Then she said very slowly: "I am Mary, but they call me Molly."

"Mary what?"

"Mary Harriwell."

Tavia knew better than to ask more questions just then. She almost forgot their predicament in the joy of seeing the girl apparently sane.

"I wonder if you can walk?"

"I am going to try. Just give me your hand—there, that's it," and the sufferer pulled herself up and stood beside Tavia.

"I wonder might there be a path? I was so alarmed when you fell, that I did not take time to look for one, I just slid down the rocks. But to get up would be very different."

"It is—dark, almost. We will have to look—I can't talk—just now. I have that strange feeling in my head."

"You must not talk. Just follow me, lean on me! Oh, I am sure we will get up safely; and once upon the road we must find some help!"

Tavia was afraid to look with too much scrutiny into the white face, afraid she might again see that wild-eyed warning.

Following the mossy way they trudged along. How far away even the sky was! Could two girls be more desolate?

Thoughts of camp, and of Dorothy, almost crushed Tavia. Young and strong as she was, her experience was beginning to leave its mark. She felt weak, and was hungry!

But the strange girl seemed to have recovered her reason! Tavia must not falter, she must get up, out to the roadway.

"This looks like a path," she said. "Yes, it is a path. See, the brush is trodden down, and the ferns are broken. Oh, some one must have been here lately, and that means that they can not be very far away now!"

"What is your name?" asked the strange girl suddenly.

"Tavia—Tavia Travers. And I am lost—far away from every one!"

Tears welled into Tavia's eyes. Yes, she was lost!

"And I am—lost! How strange that we should meet."

"But are you not hurt? You walk——"

"Yes, something does hurt, but I don't mind, for that awful dream is gone. I can walk, and then when—we are—found——"

"Oh, yes. I am sure you will be all right as soon as we—are—found!"

They had almost reached the crest of the hill. Up there at least they could see.

"I hear a step," said Tavia. "We must hurry."

It was difficult to do that, however, for Mary, or Molly, limped painfully.

The step was plain now, as it crushed the dried leaves and brush.

The figure of a man was next seen. The girls waited. He came along with a free air, and swinging gait. The man wore a slouch hat——

"Oh!" screamed Tavia. "We must run, or hide! It is that dreadful man! That—other—that lunatic!" and she clutched the arm beside her, and dragged the frightened girl to the edge of the roadway.

Mortimer Morrison, with his big, rough, mountain stick, was about to pass!



CHAPTER XXI

AT THE SANITARIUM

When Dorothy recovered consciousness she lay on a white cot, by an open window, and the strange nurse sat beside her.

"Where am I? What am I here for?"

"Your doctor is away, he will be back to-morrow—soon," the nurse corrected herself. "Then perhaps you—may go out."

"But why am I here? This is a hospital, and I am not ill."

"No, not exactly ill," and Mary Bell had her own very serious doubts about the condition of the young patient—never had she seen a demented girl so perfectly sane. "But it is best for you to await your own doctor's orders," she finished.

"My own doctor? What is his name, please?"

"Dr. Ashton. Do you remember him?"

"I have never heard the name before," replied Dorothy, looking about her anxiously at the sanitary appointments of the white room. "I suppose this is a sanitarium for nerves."

"You have been here long enough to know that much," said the nurse with a smile, "but you seem to have a new kind—of nerves."

"I have only been here a few hours, I should judge, but it did seem an eternity. Are they not going to send for my friends? They will be distracted. I have been away from them for so long."

Again that uncertain look came into the face of the nurse. Surely if this girl had been demented she must now be very much better. Her talk was entirely rational.

And Dorothy was thinking: "Surely if they believe I am crazy they must be crazy themselves! The sounds around here are enough to shake any one's nerves."

Some one was singing. The shrill voice rent the air like some weird cry from a lost mind. It made Dorothy shiver.

"You think I am—demented," she asked finally. "But there is some great mistake. I am Dorothy Dale of—Dalton. I was camping at Everglade—and I have had a dreadful time of it since I fell, and was picked up by that old farmer."

Dorothy's eyes were full. She had made up her mind, since her escape from the Hobbs house, that she must wait—wait until those around her saw their mistake. At any rate, it was something to be among intelligent people, if they were nurses and doctors, and as they plainly believed her to be an escaped patient she must wait until some one came to identify her. But now it was very hard, and she was very, very lonely, and very nervous with those poor demented people singing, sighing, laughing and calling from all over the place.

"I am sorry Miss Bennet had to go away, before I saw you," said the nurse, vaguely. "It would have been better——"

"Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, your regular nurse."

"I never had a nurse since I had the measles," said Dorothy, and she really felt inclined to laugh. "Would you mind if I sat up at the window? I feel perfectly strong now, and I want to remember what the blessed world is like."

"Of course you may sit by the window," replied Miss Bell, assisting Dorothy into a robe. "And I don't blame you for wanting to see out of doors. Sometimes I hate being a nurse."

"I should think you would. It is enough to turn one's own head. Oh, I do wish some one who knows me would come! My father and all my folks will be frantic. Is there anything more dreadful than being lost in the Maine woods!"

"You are the strongest sick girl I ever saw," declared the nurse. "I hope I have made no mistake."

"Well, indeed you have," replied Dorothy. "I tell you I am not and have never been a patient at any institution. I thought there was some test of mentality—the eye, isn't it?"

"But nurses cannot make tests," answered Miss Bell. "We have to wait for the dear professional, all-powerful doctors to do that. This is my first day here, and I think I am going to be almost as lonely as you are."

"I am sorry for you, but you may leave if you wish. It is quite different in my case!"

"My dear, if you can only be content to-night, I promise you some one will come to-morrow. They have sent for your mother—Mrs. Harriwell."

"Oh, the mother of the lost girl? Well, she will know. But I must stay all night in this dreadful place—all night?"

"I promise not to leave you. They will send another nurse to relieve me, but I will decline to go. Somehow you have almost convinced me there is a mistake."

"Thank you," replied Dorothy. "Perhaps it will be best not to complain."

She was looking out at the beautiful grounds and thinking of the dear ones whose hearts must be torn with anguish for her. If only she could telegraph!

"Do you think I could send a message?" she asked, "to my friends—to my cousins, at Everglade?"

"I am afraid not—until after the doctor sees you. You see, some other patient—a man named Morrison—is blamed for having helped you to escape."

"Morrison?" repeated Dorothy. "That is the name of the man who is to blame for all this trouble; that is, we blamed him for inducing a friend of mine to leave our camp."

"He has a faculty for inducing people to leave," said Miss Bell. "We hope we will soon be able to catch him—then it is not likely that he will get another chance to exercise that faculty. Three patients left the day that you did."

"The day that she did," corrected Dorothy. "Well, nurse, since you are so kind to me, we must be friends, and I must not make you any unnecessary trouble."

"One has to be kind to you," said the nurse, putting her cheek close to Dorothy's. "I must comb out your hair. It has been neglected."

"Yes, but that will be easily fixed up again. Such matters seem scarcely to trouble me now. There are so many bigger things to think of."

The nurse got comb and brush, and started to smooth out the long, light tresses.

"What is that scratch?" she asked, stopping to look at a mark on Dorothy's neck.

"It may have been the mark left there by Mrs. Hobbs' parrot," said Dorothy, "or it may be one of the scratches I got when I fell over the cliff. You see, I have been having a dreadful time. But when it is all over I will have something worth talking about, to tell at camp. I hope you will call upon us there. You would not be lonely if you knew our boys."

"But if you are not Mary Harriwell, what can have become of her?" asked the nurse with sudden conviction. "And I was sent to find her!"

"But you were directed to find me, were you not?" said Dorothy, in her quick way of helping one out in distress. "I do not see how you could be held responsible."

"But the girl—if she is still at large, she may be dead or injured," said Miss Bell, showing more and more that she did not believe Dorothy to be the person wanted in the sanitarium. "I must ask—did no one here know you—or her? Must we wait for that one doctor?"

"At any rate," said Dorothy, "I was almost ill, and you have saved me from those dreadful people. My folks will never blame you."

"If there is a mistake—I'll run away. I could never stand the disgrace," and the nurse buried her face in her hands.

"It seems to me a perfectly plain case of mistaken identity, and as you knew neither me nor the girl wanted, I do not see how you could have done otherwise than to take me. I am sure I must have looked and acted—demented."

"I am perfectly positive that you are not now," declared Miss Bell. "And no time should be lost in searching for Mary Harriwell."

"Then I could send a message to camp? Let them know I am safe?" and Dorothy sprang up with more emotion than she wished to show, for her every move was being watched.

"Well, the doctor will be here in the morning, and it is night now. There would be no way of straightening this out until you are positively identified."

"What a dreadfully lonely place Maine is! If I were near home—or near any place where people would know me——" Dorothy was saying.

"Miss Bell, you are wanted at the 'phone," interrupted an attendant, appearing at the door. "I'll stay until you get back."

Miss Bell left the room, and Dorothy did not look at the young woman who had taken her place. There was something so humiliating about being suspected of insanity!

"How do you like it here?" asked the newcomer.

"Very well," replied Dorothy, hurt by the sarcasm apparent in the voice.

"Then why did you run away? Didn't we treat you all right?"

Dorothy made no reply. The nurse came over, and glanced at her keenly.

"You look pretty fine. Guess the tramp did you good. They have sent for your mother. She will be here to-morrow. I sent the message, and I told her your mind had cleared up. I hope I made no mistake."

"I hope not," replied Dorothy, feeling that it was useless to try to explain. "I shall be glad—when she comes."

"I'm the night attendant. I will be here in an hour to give you your bath," said the young woman.

"I am perfectly capable of taking my own bath," replied Dorothy, with indignation.

"Perhaps; but we don't trust patients in the water alone. I hope you won't give me any trouble. I'm tired to death to-night."

"I will try not to," said Dorothy.

Soon Miss Bell returned. Her face was flushed and she appeared greatly excited.

"That man Morrison has been seen," she said to the other nurse. "And two more Mary Harriwells have also been seen. Strange thing how many girls can get demented when one is looked for. But the man—they say he is not safe."

"Oh, he's the greatest case we ever had here. He kept us all busy as his audience. He's stage-struck, you know," said the other.

"Have you heard anything of a girl named Tavia Travers?" asked Dorothy timidly. "It was searching for her that brought about all this trouble, and I wonder have they found her yet."

"Tavia Travers," repeated Miss Bell. "A girl who says she is Tavia Travers was seen going along the road with the supposed Mary Harriwell, and of course if she is helping her hide, she may be arrested. Is she a friend of yours?"