"Yes," sighed Dorothy. Then she fell to thinking how terrible it all was.

"It began the day we had the hay wagon accident," she decided. "The moment that man crossed our path he—left his shadow, as dear father would say. Well, to-morrow I must be set free again."

The nurses were talking quietly together. A shuffling in the hall disturbed them.

"A new patient?" asked Dorothy.

"No, likely an old one returned," was all the information she got.



CHAPTER XXII

THE CLEW

"I cannot go another step," sighed the girl with Tavia, just as Morrison passed.

"Hush!" cautioned Tavia. "I would rather die than have him see us! I simply cannot stand the thoughts of it all, and on his account."

They had succeeded in getting behind a huge tree at the side of the path. The man sauntered along and stopped within five feet of them.

The sick girl was cringing with pain. The injured foot became more painful every moment.

"What is he looking for?" whispered Tavia. "If he only——"

"There's some one else coming," said Molly. "I hear voices."

"Yes. A crowd of men! They must not see us," declared Tavia. "Oh, they are in uniform! They are after some one!"

"Me!" moaned Molly. "Oh, don't let them take me! I must stay with you. I can get help——"

They crouched down in the deep grass. The man out on the path was still there, beating a tree with his stick. He did not seem to notice the approaching crowd.

The strangers were up to him now.

"That's him!" the girls heard them say. "That's Morrison."

"Who are you?" demanded the queer man.

"Well, we are just friends," said a tall man with a gold-trimmed cap. "We have been looking for you. Won't you come over to the hotel and stay for the night?"

"Not much," replied Morrison. "I never go into hotels—I only go on the legitimate stage. I was never a cheap actor."

"Well, come along to the legitimate stage then," said the man kindly. "We will take good care of you."

"I have lost a friend," went on Morrison, in a rambling way, "and until she is found I do not leave these woods."

Tavia's heart stood still. Would the men find them?

"Oh," sighed the girl with the injured foot, "I will throw myself into the creek before I will go back to the——"

"Hush! They have got him!"

Two strong men had taken hold of Morrison. At the signal of a shrill whistle two other men came up the path.

Morrison struggled frantically. In the excitement Tavia and Molly stepped out of their hiding place, but there was so much confusion trying to overcome Morrison, that the girls were not noticed.

"Oh, mercy!" gasped Molly, "they will hurt him."

"Not likely," said Tavia. "They are hospital attendants."

"There is the wagon! Oh, I remember it! They took me in that!"

"Molly, dear! You are not to remember anything—except that you are with me!"

"But what shall we do when they go? It is night!"

"We will find shelter some place. I am an expert on finding shelter!"

The girl rested her head against Tavia's shoulder. Whatever compunction Tavia had felt for her part in the unfortunate state of affairs, she felt at ease now in the thought that she had saved this girl. That the hospital men were attending to Morrison, and that he would soon be out of reach of harming her, also consoled Tavia.

"It is not bad here," she said. "I am sure there are cottages near by."

"I—don't—remember," breathed Molly. "I guess I was never out this way before."

"If only I knew—— But what is the use of my acting like a baby?" exclaimed Tavia. "I am sure the folks at camp think me dead. Dorothy, especially, will be heartbroken."

"They are taking him away!"

The men had seized the struggling Morrison, and were carrying him to the roadside, where the wagon stood waiting.

Tavia wondered if she was doing right or wrong in not making her presence known. Then she thought how hard it would be to have Mary again placed in a sanitarium, and she decided to fight her way alone. But it was getting dark. They could now barely see the men lifting that struggling form into the closely-covered wagon.

"I wonder how they knew he was here?" mused Tavia. "If they had not found him what would have become of us?"

"Oh, my foot! I am sure something is broken!"

With these words Molly sank down, helpless. The wagon had rattled off, and again the girls were alone in that deep wood, with night settling down.

"I am strong," declared Tavia. "I can carry you."

"But where can we go? Oh, I did not know I was hurt! I am afraid my leg is broken!" sobbed Molly.

"There must be some house or hut near here," declared Tavia, "and I will carry you along until we reach it. We can not spend the night here, starving."

The strange girl was indeed light in weight. Naturally slight, her sickness had also taken flesh from her, so that when Tavia put her arms about her, and the other threw her arms over Tavia's shoulders, the two trudged along over the rough path, and soon were out on a roadway.

"There is a camp over there," said Tavia, as they came in sight of something white, just showing through the sunset. "We must go to that."

"I can walk," insisted Molly. "It is too much——"

"So can I carry you," argued Tavia, "and if you have any bones broken you must not strain them further."

It did seem a long way to the tent, but the road that led up to it showed travel, and was therefore more easily followed.

"Strange I am not afraid of anything," murmured Molly. "If we do have to stay in the woods all night, I shall not be afraid."

"That is because you are stunned—you had a very bad fall," said Tavia. "I feel that way myself—I have gone through a great deal, lately, too."

"Now, let me walk—it is only a step," begged Molly, at the same moment getting down from Tavia's arms. "Here we are right at the tent."

Welcome shelter! Never were two girls more in need of it.

"And the queer part of it is," said Tavia, "I am supposed to be a joke—to get and take everything funny. This is certainly no joke. How do you feel, dear? I hope these people will let us in. We may get some camping days after all."

They timidly made their way to the tent. It was closed!

"No lights," remarked Molly. "Oh, Tavia. My head hurts again!"

"Mercy!" exclaimed Tavia, without showing why she was so alarmed. "Do you suppose it is just a headache or——"

Molly had sunk down on her knees. Tavia sprang to the flap of the tent, and dragged the rope from the stake.

"Empty!" she cried. "But we must get in. Come, Molly, I can lift you, and whoever may be the owners of the camp, surely they will not turn us out to-night."

"But if they are rough men——"

"No, rough men do not furnish a tent like this. See the pictures pinned up; and what is this?"

Tavia had lighted a candle that was placed conveniently near the flap, with matches at hand, showing that whoever lived in the tent intended to return at dark, and so had their light ready. Beside this candle was a printed slip of paper. Tavia read:

"A thousand dollars reward for information that will lead to the finding, dead or alive, of Dorothy Dale and Tavia Travers."

"Dorothy gone too!" shrieked Tavia. "Then they are scouring the woods for us, and that is why this camp is deserted!"

"If only I could walk!" breathed Molly.

"Never mind. We will stay here—until something else happens—but who can tell what that may be!"

The shock of the news about Dorothy absolutely stunned Tavia. With it went all her strength, all her courage, and she felt then like lying down to die!



CHAPTER XXIII

DOROTHY'S ESCAPE

When Miss Bell returned to Dorothy's room in the sanitarium, after her talk over the telephone, Dorothy saw that her anxiety had reached a state of prostration. She seemed convinced that she had taken to the institution the wrong girl, and the dread of disgrace, especially as she was a new nurse in the house, seemed to weigh very heavily upon her. She would come up and look into Dorothy's face, examine the pupils of her eyes, and then go away sighing.

"Are you sorry I am not demented?" asked Dorothy, with as much in her voice as she could command. "Just think what a good time you will have, when we get back to camp."

"I will run away," was the only reply the new nurse would make.

Night came, and the nurse lay down to rest. Dorothy pretended to do the same thing, but she had resolved to get out of that sanitarium, without bringing disgrace on this young woman. But the attempt would be fraught with danger. If she were caught, not only would she be returned to the sanitarium, but she knew there was another ward——

Dorothy did not permit herself to think of this. "I am going to get away before daylight," she said. "Then, when the mother of the missing girl comes and I have gotten away, they will not know whether it was her daughter, or me."

But to get away would mean trouble for the nurse also. She would be blamed for leaving Dorothy unguarded!

"The other attendant comes in at five in the morning," decided Dorothy, "then I must—go!"

It was an awful thought! She could hear the guards pacing up and down the corridors, she had seen the high fence with its iron palings, and as to gates—there were guards all about them.

"The nurse's clothes!" thought Dorothy. "If I could get into Miss Bell's things! They are here—in her suit-case. Then I might walk out! But I would faint if they spoke to me? No, I would not, I must have courage! I must be brave! In getting out I may save my dear folks more anxiety, and I can save this poor little woman!"

She looked kindly down at the sleeping nurse. The face, even in sleep, was troubled, and the young woman tossed uneasily.

Every hour the clock struck in the outside hall, but Dorothy heard it in her prison room. Her mind was first forming this plan, and then that, until she felt, if she did not get some sleep, she would never be able to carry out any plan at all. Finally, as the steps and voices in the hall grew fainter, Dorothy did fall asleep, but only to wake with a start just as the clock struck five.

A tap sounded at the door. Miss Bell was dressed and waiting. The nurses were going down to breakfast, and as she left Dorothy, with a pleasant word, the other attendant stepped in, picked up a novel, and without noticing Dorothy, any more than if she had been wooden, she sank lazily down in a chair, and started to read.

How could Dorothy get on her disguise now? She sighed heavily, and almost gave up her plan. But not quite, for in desperate straits one clings to the proverbial straw, and now Dorothy was clutching frantically at—anything—at hope.

A man poked his head in at the door.

"Hello, Tom!" said the attendant, in no polite voice, "What have you got for me?"

The man winked, and Dorothy turned away. "Can't you leave her?" he whispered.

The woman looked at Dorothy, who pretended to be almost stupid. She had hidden her face in her hands.

"I guess she'll keep," Dorothy heard her say, and with that the nurse stepped out of the door, and Dorothy heard a laugh in the hall. But she did not yet dare to move. In another moment the woman returned. "I have got to go out for a minute," she said; "just take this pill and sleep. You look tired."

Dorothy saw in the woman's hand a slip of yellow paper. Of course it was some message that would violate the rules. And the woman had given her some medicine to make her sleep.

"I am too sleepy now," said Dorothy. "Let me alone."

That was all the attendant wanted. Quickly she went out, and then Dorothy jumped up. It was but a moment's work to open the suit-case, and slip on the plain, white, linen dress. Then for something on her head. Yes! the cap, there it was all ready to be put on for the day's work. The looking glass reflected a new Dorothy!

She did look like a nurse, and then no one yet knew Miss Bell. But she might be back from breakfast at any moment!

Hurry, Dorothy! Hurry!

One more look! The long dress seemed strange, but not so strange as the agitation that filled her heart and tingled her nerves.

She opened the door, and went out into the hall, just as an attendant was turning out the electrics, for it was daylight.

"Good morning!" said the first guard, sitting in his big chair, while the marble hall seemed like an ocean to Dorothy.

"Good morning!" replied Dorothy lightly.

Then the nurses were leaving breakfast. She could hear the voices. If only she could get out before Miss Bell came!

"Did you see the new girl?" she heard some one say.

"Yes, and she has been called into the office!"

That would give Dorothy time!

More guards—so many there seemed to be now, and each with his "good morning!" But Dorothy had taken courage. She felt better out of that room; it was glorious to be so near freedom.

"Is that the new nurse?" said a big man, who actually stood at the door.

"Looks like her," replied another, with something like a sneer.

"She'd be a lot of good with any one but—babies," said a third. Then he stepped up to Dorothy. She felt as if she would drop down. "Out early," he said, peering into her frightened face.

"Yes, is that time right?" she asked on the spur of the moment, thinking to divert his attention from her face.

He looked up at the big clock. "If it was right—it wouldn't be here," he replied with a laugh. "But don't get lost. You are on duty at seven," he went on, "but I guess a sniff of air won't do you any harm. We all take what we can get in that line."

"Yes," and Dorothy tried to smile. He had not discovered her! But when Miss Bell reached the room——

Oh, if she could only fly—over those big stone walls. But the outside was even more closely guarded than was the inside, especially since two patients had so lately escaped.

Down the steps went the trembling girl. How splendid it was in the fresh morning air!

"And if I can only get a message back to camp," she was thinking. "What will happen to dear father if I am not soon discovered?"

Over the stone walk she sped. She glanced down the path. The front gate was impossible. Back of the institution she saw a great barn—then water! Oh, if she could but pass the stablemen. They would not be as keen to suspect as would be the guards.

Every one seemed busy. They were cleaning the horses, and fixing up the big stables. Merry morning words floated through the air, and it seemed to Dorothy that her presence, that of a nurse, as they supposed, was always the signal for some joke, or some frivolous remark. But there was no harm in this, she thought. Inside of stone walls everybody must be akin.

"Hello, there!" called a rather young man, who in shirt sleeves, was rubbing down a horse. "Where are you going so early?"

Dorothy scarcely dared answer. But fate saved her, for at that moment the horse took fright at something and broke away from its post.

Instantly there was confusion, and Dorothy was forgotten. Up on the terrace were patients out in the air with guards, and in that direction dashed the horse, while every man from the stable ran after it.

This left Dorothy almost free.

She saw a summer-house on the edge of a lake. Yes, and there was a canoe!

What a chance!

She shoved that canoe over the smooth grass, straight for the water. The paddles were inside, and Dorothy knew that once she was upon the water she could escape.

Shouts from the terrace almost stunned her. She pushed the canoe into the stream, slid into the frail bark, and started off, just as the stablemen came back over the grounds with the fractious horse!



CHAPTER XXIV

A LONELY RIDE

No sooner had Dorothy paddled around the bend in the stream that led into the river, than she heard the alarm bell of the sanitarium ring.

"That's the alarm for me!" she told herself, "but they can never see me in this narrow pass. How fortunate that no one saw me take the boat. And I suppose they think I escaped from the front gate during the excitement about the horse."

Dorothy was right in her surmise. So reasonable did it seem that she had passed out by the front gate, when the guards came to the rescue of those in danger from the frightened horse, that no one thought of looking at the rear of the institution.

"I wonder where I am going?" she thought. "Perhaps this river runs into a dangerous rapid. I have always heard that Maine waters are full of surprises."

"At any rate, this is lovely," she went on musingly, "and, somehow, I feel that I will get back to camp before nightfall."

The water was as smooth as glass, and in the sunshine that every moment became more insistant, Dorothy, in her linen dress, paddled away with all the skill she had acquired in dear old Glenwood School lake. She had discarded the nurse's cap, and the coat, and as her own suit was beneath the linen, she was only waiting for an opportunity to discard the skirt.

"It pulls," she thought. "I might as well drop it now."

At this she stood up in the canoe very cautiously, and with one move of her hand dropped the skirt into the bottom of the boat. "There, that's more like paddling," she thought.

Adjusting herself again, she picked up the blade and plied it through the clear water.

Suddenly the report of a gun startled her! Was it at her that the shot had been fired?

Glancing over at the bank she saw something fall.

Could some person have been shot? The season for shooting was not opened, but perhaps——

Then her alarm subsided. A man, who looked like an Indian, or a lumberman, was pulling at something—it was a beautiful young deer!

Indignation filled her heart. But what could she do? Alone on that water, and that man so near with his gun!

Fortunately, he was so interested in looking at his game that he thought it not worth while to look at whoever might be passing in the skiff; so, once more, Dorothy slid out of danger down the placid stream.

In all her trouble she had kept the little watch and her compass, and just now it occurred to her that by consulting the magnetic instrument she could tell whether she was going in the direction of Everglade.

She paused in her action to look at the trembling needle.

"Yes, I am going toward camp—due east."

How lightly she paddled along! It seemed now that the sanitarium was past finding, for the noise of the bell and the whistle had ceased, and that everything, even the talking of the man to himself as he pulled the deer over his shoulders, was gone, and Dorothy was all alone on the delightful lake, moving toward camp. It all seemed like some horrible dream—all but the thought that she was going back—back to her dear ones, who must be so anxious.

"I hope I have saved poor Miss Bell," she thought. "That girl seemed to dread something more than the mere mistake in taking me in instead of the other patient."

She slowed up, to gather some water lilies. "I'll take them to Cologne," she thought. "I wonder where the girls are? I suppose scouring the country for me. Well, Tavia must have been found, at any rate. Poor foolish Tavia! I hope they have not blamed her."

A gentle swish of the water startled her. She turned to see two canoes approaching!

"Are they after me?" she thought, and her heart jumped. "I must have some excuse ready if they question me. I will just say I am from Camp Capital, and have come out for exercise. They may not know how far away our camp is."

She heard the other paddles in the lake. Then they ceased to cut the water. On either side of her canoe the two other craft suddenly appeared.

"What if this boat is marked!" she thought. "If it should have some lettering to show it is from the sanitarium!"

That was the first time this had occurred to her. But the canoeists were now actually looking very pleasantly at her—two young men. They seemed too well-mannered to speak, and Dorothy wanted so much to speak with them, now that she felt they had no idea of her predicament.

Finally one said: "We beg your pardon, but might you have a bit of canvas, that you could let us take? We have a small leak in the side of this canoe and the water is coming in."

Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. Then she looked about her boat—although she knew it was quite empty when she slid it into the water.

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "I never carry anything for such an emergency."

"It's a delightful morning," said the other young man, out of pure civility. "Have you been out long?"

"Oh, no, not very—that is, it does not seem long to me," stammered Dorothy still afraid that she would be caught in some new trap. "I love the water."

"You seem to," agreed the young man with the college cap. "We have been out with a searching party. Have you heard of the strange disappearance of two young girls?"

Dorothy gasped. "Two?" she repeated.

"I suppose we ought to say three, since one from a sanitarium has not yet been discovered. But the insane, they say, have some weird manner of attracting self preservation."

"Have they been dragging the lake?" asked Dorothy, her voice all a-tremble.

"No, not yet, although many have wanted to. But we have so many people lost in these woods every summer, that we feel it is a case of that kind. We suppose the girls, who did not go off together, met later somehow, and in trying to make their way back, got deeper into the woods."

"And their folks from camp?" asked Dorothy.

"We have not been to see them," said the young man, "but some of the boys there are friends of ours, and as soon as we have looked this place over, as well as we can do it, we are going up to Everglade. The girl's father is an old soldier, and they say he is still a soldier in this trouble."

Dorothy felt as if she must speak—must ask them to take her back to the camp, wherever it might be. But suppose they should take her for that demented girl? No, she must find her way on alone. Perhaps she could follow them.

By this time the two canoeists had glided on ahead. Dorothy felt as if her heart would choke her! Then her father was still bearing up, waiting for her! She must soon reach him!

A shout from the bank, and the two young men turned into shore. "Come on," some one called. "We have a clew. Get in here. We must get over to——"

But that was all Dorothy heard, and again she was alone on the lake.

For the space of a moment or so she felt that she had made a mistake, then came the awful thought of that sanitarium, and the knowledge that the people from there were searching everywhere for her.

"No, I will go down the lake a little farther. At least I am free now," she told herself.

It was nearing noon, she could tell by the sun, and she felt the need of food. Just below her she could see that the lake broadened, and there she determined to stop.

Her arms were getting stiff, and the sun burned down on her head, which was uncovered.

"Seems to me I hear voices," she thought. "I must go in to shore."

Gracefully she swung into the grassy bank. No sooner had her paddle sent her boat within reach of shore than she saw——

"Oh, my! It is our camp!" she yelled frantically, jumping out, and attempting to run up the hill toward the barn. But eager ears had heard her voice.

The next moment Dorothy Dale was clasped in the arms of her father.



CHAPTER XXV

LOOKING FOR TAVIA

What joy there was in that camp when Major Dale actually carried in Dorothy!

A signal had been arranged to notify those in the woods if any good news came, and as Major Dale placed his daughter in the arms of Cologne, Mrs. Markin ran out of doors, and blew the big horn, until she had no more breath left.

This was heard by Jack, Ned and Nat, who were just then preparing to drag the lake.

There were no words to express the joy all felt, but Dorothy looked around for Tavia, and asked frantic questions.

"You must not think of her," insisted Mrs. Markin, bringing in some warm tea. "You have done enough for her. Of course," she hurried to add, seeing the look that came into Dorothy's face, "we will find her, but you are not to leave this camp—well, I don't know when we will let you leave it again."

"Oh, you darling!" Cologne was crying hysterically. "I can never let you out of my sight again! To think that I should have done so in those deep woods."

"I have had a great time exploring," said Dorothy, sipping the refreshing tea, "and I think, Cologne, that there are many kinds of camping days. But if you will only let me go out, I have an idea I know where Tavia might be."

Then she told of her trip on the lake, and how quickly the young canoeists left the water to answer a call of a clew having been found.

Ned stood looking down at Dorothy, to make sure that she was in the flesh. Mrs. White had not been told of Dorothy's disappearance. They felt, however, that they would have had to notify her had Dorothy remained away until another sundown.

Nat was speechless. His handsome face showed the signs of his days and nights of anxiety, and he was not entirely relieved since there was even now no clew to Tavia.

"Let's go up the river," he suggested. "At least Dorothy is safe, and we can leave her, but Tavia——"

"I could not stay indoors," declared Dorothy. "I should go to pieces! The only thing that will save me is action. Let me help look for Tavia!"

She pleaded and begged, and at last Mrs. Markin agreed that it might be best to let her have the freedom of the air. Of course, Dorothy had not yet told all of her story—all the folks knew definitely was that the lost had been found.

It took scarcely no time for the searching party to be made up again. The boys from the next camp had their craft already on the water, while Ned and Nat had but to push off their rowboat.

"Why do you think Tavia is somewhere about the river edge?" asked Ned in his practical way.

"Because, when I came down I heard some one call, and two young men from their canoes answered promptly that they would follow the clew. Now, if I can only find the spot——"

"Where in the world did this canoe come from?" exclaimed Jack Markin, as he espied the boat in which Dorothy had escaped from the sanatarium. "It is marked 'Blenden!'"

"Blenden!" repeated Ned. "Why that's the asylum over the hill!"

Everybody looked at Dorothy, awaiting a word from her. She was almost like herself now, after the manner in which blessed youth alone can recuperate.

"I was not particular about whose boat it was," she said simply. "So long as I found something to get back to camp in."

"I don't think it right that Dorothy should leave mother," began Cologne. But Dorothy interrupted her.

"Did you ever notice, Cologne dear, how a storm clears? It takes a light wind, doesn't it? Well, this little excitement will clear things up for me."

Wise Dorothy was, of course, not opposed. She belonged to the class of persons who seem to be capable, and who really are, except where their own personal safety or comfort is concerned. They always have a reason and an answer, simply because others do not take the trouble to fathom the motive for this sacrifice. Dorothy had determined to find Tavia, and whatever her excuses, they were all subservient to that motive.

"I would rather get in with Nat and Ned," she said, as the party prepared to get off in the boats. "I am really too tired to scull."

"What's this?" asked Jack, picking up the nurse's garb from the bottom of the sanitarium canoe. "I declare! Dorothy has been masquerading!"

He held up the linen skirt, and the white cap. Of course the very next thing he did was to put the cap on his head.

Every one but Cologne laughed—she seemed too stunned to so soon forget the horror of the loss of Dorothy.

The young ladies from the neighboring camp had decided not to go on the water—in fact their chaperon had refused to allow them to go; "there had been so many horrible accidents around there of late," she declared.

Major Dale stood upon the bank, and watched his daughter. To the others it might seem like a dream, but to him it was very real. Dorothy had been such a daughter, and even now she was proving herself the Major's "little corporal." Nor did Dorothy miss the look that had buried the smile on her father's face.

"Now, when we get that naughty Tavia back," she called, "we will have a celebration, Daddy."

"You bet we will," replied the major warmly. And then the party started down the river.

"I cannot see how Tavia could be along the river bank and not hear us," argued Ned. "Dorothy, you have not told us your story at all. Were you both kidnapped?"

"I have never seen Tavia since that morning we went for berries," she declared. "But my! What an age it has been since then!"

"I guess it has," blustered Nat, in his whole-hearted way, and he bent over his oars. "I don't want another batch of time as long as the last."

"And, of course, you could not get us any word," ventured Ned. "We fell down on that—it was my one mile-stone."

"But it is strange how secret some places can be kept," said Dorothy, cautiously. "It seems that they are so afraid of—publicity. There! That looks like the place where the canoeists went ashore. No, it is farther up, near the willow. We must pull in there and search. I do wish I could have—but what is the use of wishing."

"Mere waste of tissue," said Ned with a smile. He was only a boy—a big boy, but the fright of having lost Dorothy had not left him unscathed.

The others in the boats took the signal from Nat, and were making for shore. It was a rough place indeed; first rocky, then a matter of holes, and after that it was trees—dense, stubborn trees.

A sense of horror stole over Dorothy as she again stepped into the woods, but in her brave way she instantly decided that it was merely a matter of reflection, and the question in hand was not one of memory, but one of facts. Tavia was still somewhere in those woods, or she was—No, she must be in the woods!

First calling, then running from point to point, the party searched, but Cologne would not lose her hold on Dorothy.

"You are not going to get away from me this time," declared the girl. "I shall always blame myself for losing sight of you."

"Cologne! As if I am not big enough to take care of myself!" cried Dorothy, thinking how she had cared for herself through more difficulties than any of them could possibly imagine.

All through the woods could be heard shouts and signals from the parties that were out searching for Dorothy, for Tavia and for the girl from the sanitarium.

"Lots of people get lost in these woods," commented Ned. "I have been reading of them all my life, but now I guess I can write tales myself."

The voices of our friends had attracted a party from the sanitarium. Dorothy was the first to recognize a guard, and as he came toward her, she screamed and ran into Ned's arms.

"Oh, don't let them take me again!" she begged. "They think I am that other girl! Stay near! Hold me! Don't let them take me!"

Instantly the excitement was intense. From the hospital party two men had come up, while of the campers, Jack, Nat and Ralph hurried close.

"Why should they take you?" demanded Ned.

"Oh, they made the mistake before, and I suppose they have seen their boat."

Quick to act as to think, Ned picked Dorothy up in his arms and turned into a natural hiding place.

"There, they have not seen you! Let them look—further on!" he whispered.

Of course the others could not even guess what had caused the sudden change in Dorothy's manner, but Ned knew it was not mere excitement.

"Here," he said, "is a pillow of moss. You and Cologne stay here, while I go out and see the hospital men. I will assure them no patient of theirs is with us."

Dorothy lay back exhausted. If only they would go along! But suppose they should find Tavia, and take her to that dreadful asylum!

Voices, very near, gave her a chance to listen. She heard some one say that a young girl had that morning escaped from the institution in the house canoe, and that the boat was now lying close by.

But in turning into the deep brush the strange men had not actually caught sight of the frightened girls, as the heavy woodland offered all sorts of excuses for visions.

"Well, we must get her," said one of the men. "She walked right past me, and said 'good morning.' But how was I to know who the new nurse, or the new patient was? The trouble is now with the mother. She is beyond consolation."



CHAPTER XXVI

DOROTHY'S SUCCESS

The boys from Camp Capital, together with their neighbors, held a consultation there in the woods. They had heard from the sanitarium attendants that, not only had a young girl escaped, and not yet found, but that some weeks previously, a man, "stage-struck," as they put it, had gotten away, and it was to his help that the departure of the girl was attributed. Dorothy, from her hiding place, heard all this, and knew only too well that the man referred to was none other than Morrison.

"And this fellow has been caught?" asked Ned, anxiously.

"Yes," replied one of the men. "We took him in again yesterday afternoon."

"Is he too demented to tell anything? That is, to know who was with him while he was free?" went on Ned.

"Oh, he just talks in a rambling way about a girl who, he declares, should have a fortune that his uncle has hidden away. He has really never been entirely off, but one of the kind who rides a hobby, you know," said the man. "His hobby is theatricals."

"But has he an uncle? Might he have taken a girl to that man?" persisted Ned. "You see, we have reason to believe that the girl we are in search of, met this man. Now, if he has been captured, what has become of her?"

"That's one of the questions we may have to answer before our Board of Inquiry," replied the man with no small concern. "It is easy enough for those lunatics to get away, but to get them back is harder. And the girl's mother is a widow, with all kinds of money."

Dorothy could scarcely keep still. Only the pressure of Cologne's hands kept her from telling what she knew of the story. Then the fear of again being mistaken for Mary Harriwell—that was too great a risk.

"Is there absolutely no clew?" asked Nat, almost in despair, for he was always fond of Tavia.

"Yes. The station agent at Lexington tells a story about a girl coming to him and staying in the station alone all night. But he declares she had dark hair and brown eyes, while Mary Harriwell is a blonde. Others about the station agree with him. That girl left for the Junction night before last, and was not picked up dead or alive since. The officials of the road have had searched every inch of the track. Seems that old Sam Dixon is very worried about this because he let the girl go. He did not know just who she was, but to hear him talk you would think it was his daughter. Well, we must go beating farther along. This searching, and with night coming, is no fun. We wish you luck, and if you find your girl let us know."

So the parties separated and then Dorothy was free to leave her hiding place. She longed to tell her friends the strange story, but she knew that the finding of Tavia was the one and only thing to be thought of just then.

"Are you sure that this is the direction in which the boys went?" asked Nat, with something like a sigh.

Dorothy looked over the rough woodland. "No," she said, "there was a swamp, for I distinctly remember that they picked their way through tall grass, and about here the grass is actually dried up."

"Then to find a swamp," said Nat. "Seems to me there are more kinds of trees in Maine, and more kinds of things to catch at a fellow's——"

A cry from Ned stopped the speech.

"Oh!" he yelled. "Something has my foot! Come quick!"

"Oh, maybe it is a rattlesnake!" gasped Cologne.

"Or maybe a big rat," added Jack, as they all ran back to where Ned lay in the grass, trying to free himself from whatever it was that held him.

"It hurts!" he said. "Get it off!"

Jack was the first to get down and look at the struggling boy.

"A trap!" he announced. "Easy! Don't pull it, Ned."

"More things than trees and lost girls in the Maine woods," exclaimed Nat. "Gee whiz! I wonder what we'll strike next."

"Just take a strike at this trap," begged Ned. "Seems to me it takes—oh! be careful, Jack, that hurts!"

"Let me!" suggested Dorothy. "I can open it, without hurting him," and she stooped over her cousin. "Oh, you poor boy! It has cut right through your shoe. Now, Jack, just hold the end of the chain so that it cannot slip back," she ordered. "Cologne, dear, can you unlace this shoe?"

"Oh, of course," growled Nat, "it takes a girl!"

"Any objections?" asked Ned, getting back to his good humor. "Now if this were Nat it would take a whole boarding school of girls."

Dorothy and Cologne very gently helped the boys get the steel trap free from the shoe. It took some time to do it without pressing the jaws still farther in through the leather, but they succeeded.

"Now, you must go back in the boat," decided Dorothy. "We cannot run the risk of having your foot poisoned."

"Never!" declared Ned. "I have often had worse than this, and have gone on after the game."

He got to his feet, but limped as he walked The foot had been lacerated.

"What foolish hunters ever put that trap there?" he asked.

"I would not be surprised if it were the man who shot the deer," replied Dorothy, as if the others knew of that happening.

"Shot a deer! At this season!" exclaimed Jack.

"Oh, I think he was an Indian. I saw him as I came along in the canoe," replied Dorothy. "I thought at the time it was against the law. Can you walk, Ned? I do wish you would go back."

"Seems to me we ought to separate," interposed Ralph. "We can never make any headway by searching all together."

"Well, I will not leave Dorothy," declared Cologne, stoutly. "I left her once——"

"No, I left you once," corrected Dorothy, in her own way of always taking the blame. "I think, however, Ralph is right. Suppose the boys keep along the water, and Cologne and I go farther in."

"Then I go with you," said Ralph gallantly. "It is not altogether safe in the deep woods. There might be lunatics——"

"Or muskrat traps," groaned Ned, who walked with difficulty.

At this they separated.

For some time they heard nothing more than their own voices calling back and forth.

"Isn't it awful?" sighed Cologne. "Dorothy, I think it is utterly useless. I am afraid she is—dead."

"I know she is not," declared Dorothy, "and I am not going to give up until I have searched every inch of this wood. Now I am going to shout!"

"Tavia! Tavia!" she yelled, and her clear voice struck an echo against the hills. "Tavia! Tavia!" she called again.

"Hark!" said Cologne. "Didn't I hear——"

"I heard something!" declared Dorothy, and the sound came from back of the hill. "Boys! Boys!" she shouted, but they were now too far away to answer promptly. "Don't try to follow, Cologne. I feel that I can run like the wind. I heard Tavia's voice, and I heard it—right—over—there!"

As she flew through the woods Cologne, in distress, tried to summon the boys. She feared Dorothy would fall again, over some rock or cliff. But there was no use trying to stop her. She had heard Tavia's voice, and that was enough.



CHAPTER XXVII

ONE KIND OF CAMP

"Oh, Tavia! Where are you?"

It was Dorothy who jumped from rock to stone, and over bush and bramble, through that deep dark wood, which now, in the shadow of sunset, threatened again to bring anguish to our young friends. "I heard you," she called. "Answer again!"

But this time there was no response.

"Oh, what can have happened?" wailed Dorothy. "Surely she is—not too ill—when she called and whistled just now."

She was talking, but no one was at hand to hear her.

Cologne was doing her best to reach Dorothy, but she had made a turn to notify the boys, and was really too surprised, and frightened, to make anything like the progress that her friend was able to make through the rough forest.

Dorothy stopped and listened. She had reached a cleared spot, where the branches of a beautiful fir stood out over a greensward, like a natural tower. Without hesitating a moment, Dorothy easily scaled the strong branches, and presently could see from the height of the fir tree a spot—ideal! Yes, and there was something white on it!

"Cologne!" she called. "I see a tent!"

By this time Cologne had reached Dorothy.

"Oh, do come down," she begged. "If you should slip——"

"But I shall not slip. There was no use in running wild through the woods, when I could get a distinct view from here. It may be a gypsy camp. Where are the boys?"

"They seem to have gotten away, somehow," sighed Cologne. "Oh, what shall we do? We cannot go alone to that camp."

"Indeed I am going," declared Dorothy. "I heard Tavia's voice, and now I see a tent. If she is held there, we must go to her at once."

Cologne was terrified, but the experience through which Dorothy had passed in the last few days seemed to make all other fears look insignificant.

She had slid down the tree, and was now making her way in the direction of the tent. It was near the edge of a natural bank, that stood like a wind-shield against the rocks.

This shelf made a covering for the spot, so that only from some elevation such as from the tree could it be seen for any distance.

"Come on, Cologne," said Dorothy. "I see a path to the place. It must be somebody's camp."

"Why not wait for the boys? Give me your whistle. I must call them. Where can they have gone to?"

"I am not going to wait one moment," declared Dorothy. "She may be suffering!"

The bent grass and weeds showed the way, Dorothy hurried along, only stopping to listen for the hoped-for voice. But there was no word from Tavia.

Cologne was almost behind Dorothy, but she could not conquer her fear. She hesitated to make the first attempt to reach the tent.

Jumping over a small stream, Dorothy was beside the camp furnace. The next moment she stood looking at Tavia!

"Tavia!" she exclaimed.

"Hush!" whispered Tavia. "We must not wake her. Oh, Dorothy!"

Like a poor, crushed bird Tavia fell at Dorothy's feet. She sobbed convulsively, but choked back every possible sound.

"Darling!" whispered Dorothy. "What is it?"

"The sick girl! She has almost died!" sighed Tavia. "Oh, I dared not answer again. She was so frightened at my voice!"

"Run back, Cologne, and meet the boys," said Dorothy. "Tell them to go for a doctor!"

Glad to get away, Cologne turned, just as the boys came racing over the hill. They stopped, at her raised hand of warning, but Nat would not go back when he heard that Tavia had been found. Softly he made his way along, Ralph following at some distance, while Ned and Jack hurried to the shore near where they had left their boats. They knew that just across the river they would find a camp, in which might be found Dr. Ashton, from New York.

It was almost pitiable to see how Tavia clung to Dorothy, never suspecting, of course, that Dorothy had herself gone through an experience more trying than her own.

"Let me see her," suggested Dorothy. "I will be very careful."

She stepped within the tent. Instantly she was struck with the resemblance between herself and the girl who lay on the cot.

The sick girl opened her eyes.

"Tavia!" she murmured.

"What, dear?" asked Dorothy, for Tavia had not yet recovered herself.

"I—am so—much better. I would—like to—sit up."

"Not just yet, dear," soothed Dorothy, putting her hand to the hot forehead. "It will be better to rest to-night."

"But you—must not stay—longer—from your friends," she said. "Leave me, and look for them. Then come back."

"We are here," ventured Dorothy, aware that the girl was worrying about Tavia. "We have come to take you both home."

"Not back there!" and the girl sat bolt upright, and looked into Dorothy's pale face.

"No, to camp, with us, with Dorothy and with Tavia. Then we will send for your mother."

"Oh, I am so glad," she sighed, lying back on the pillow.

Nat had Tavia in his arms. She was now almost hysterical, and like the Nat he had always been, he turned the tables by accusing Tavia of having all the camping to herself.

"While we were digging up frog ponds looking for you," he scolded, "here you had set yourself up in one of the best establishments in the State."

"Oh, Nat," she sobbed. "If you only knew!"

"Every girl says that," he replied. "I suppose it would be a first rate thing if a fellow did only know—about a girl like you." He was doing his best to quiet her, and he knew that to scold is a good sort of treatment for too much nerves.

Meanwhile Cologne and Ralph had ventured nearer. They seemed afraid that a voice would harm some one, and Cologne only whispered.

"Tavia dear," she said, "whatever has happened?"

"She has promised to tell me first," said Nat, again showing his good sense in saving Tavia just then. "And we are not to hear one word until we get back to camp."

"Here come Ned, and Jack, and Doctor Ashton," interrupted Ralph. "Who is sick?"

"A friend of Tavia's, with whom she was stopping," said the wily Nat. "That was why she could not get word to us. Her friend was very sick, and her folks were all away."

Tavia looked her gratitude into Nat's manly face. The boys and the doctor had reached the tent.

"Wait here," ordered the doctor as he stepped within.

And it was Dorothy Dale who took up her place by the physician's side, as he did all that he could to unfold the case of Mary Harriwell.

"And how ever did you find this camp, one of the best for miles around?" asked Nat of Tavia, as they awaited the doctor's verdict.

"We fell into it. Whose is it?"

"Why the Babbitts left in a hurry last week—some one ill. They have not sent down for their things yet."

"Lucky for us," remarked Tavia. Then they heard the doctor moving about in the tent, and lowered their voices.



CHAPTER XXVIII

GOOD NEWS

"Oh, such good news!" exclaimed Dorothy, emerging from the tent. "It is worth all our trouble."

"What!" asked a chorus.

"She will be better! She has recovered her reason. The doctor says some shock——"

"Oh, but it was an awful shock," interrupted Tavia. "I believe if I had any reason it would have destroyed mine."

"Always knew there was a method in your madness, Tavia," said Nat. "Now, that's something like!"

"We are going to take her to camp to-night," went on Dorothy, too serious to take a joke. "Doctor Ashton says nothing could be better for her."

"There are camps, and camps," persisted Nat.

Ned was talking to the doctor. "We can carry her on the cot, just as well as not," insisted Nat. "There are four of us."

"And put her in the boat—well, I think that will be all right," answered the doctor. "The present trouble is more of a morbid fear than anything else," and he put his stethoscope in its case. "As soon as she feels the fresh air, and realizes that she is out of all harm's way, I think she will——"

"Sit up and take notice," interrupted Nat, for he could not help making light of the troubles with which he felt the girls were too heavily burdened.

"Exactly that," agreed the doctor. "Miss Harriwell could not have fallen into better hands. I will, however, see her safely into the boat."

It was a delightful task to assist the sick girl, realizing what it would mean ultimately. Dorothy insisted that Tavia go on ahead with Cologne, as she had had, Dorothy said, enough of nursing. But Tavia wanted to leave some word at the tent—a written word about its use. To this no one would agree, so she was obliged to go on without doing as she wished.

Down the cliffs started the party. Tavia, with Cologne, was soon joined by three of the Hays girls, from the next camp, who, although they had not been allowed to go with the searching party, managed to follow them at a distance, and who had heard of the discovery when the boys went for the doctor.

Then came the boys, Ned, Nat, Ralph, and Jack, carrying Molly on a cot. Dorothy held Molly's hand, and talked cheerfully to her as they all moved carefully along.

Doctor Ashton had reason to be particularly interested. It was he who had taken his vacation from the sanitarium when Molly made her escape.

He, too, had been impressed by the similarity between Dorothy and Molly, but, of course, he did not speak of it; neither did he know of the trouble which that resemblance had made for Dorothy.

The trip on the water was made without a mishap, and, as the doctor said, Molly gained strength and courage with almost every new breath.

Then to the camp! Dorothy ran on ahead, for Molly was walking.

"Oh, what has happened now?" asked Mrs. Markin, seeing the boys supporting Molly.

"Nothing but good news this time," replied Dorothy. "We have found Tavia, we have found a sick girl, and we have brought them all back to have a good time at Camp Capital."

This was good news indeed—Dorothy always knew how to cheer.

"Welcome!" announced the lady, planting a kiss on Dorothy's now flushed cheek. "There is a visitor waiting for you," he added.

"For me?"

Mary Bell, the nurse, stepped out on the camp porch. She was smiling, and all the anxiety had left her face.

"You little robber!" she said to Dorothy. "Where are my clothes?"

But before she could get a reply she saw Mary Harriwell. She was too well trained to need an explanation of the case as it stood now.

There were, to her, two Mary Harriwells!

"Twins!" was all that Mrs. Markin could say, as she helped the sick girl up the steps.

Miss Bell instantly took charge of Molly. She was removed to a quiet room in the camp barn, away from all noise and all confusion.

"Daddy," whispered Dorothy, as the major stood looking lovingly at her, "come on."

She led him to the stable, where the old horse Jeff stood waiting to take his part in the important work.

"Let's hitch up and drive over to Blenden. We can make it before dark, and I want to be the first to tell Mrs. Harriwell. I could never trust to a message."

With a word to Mrs. Markin, the major agreed. It was not so long a journey when the straight road was taken—it was the turns and twists that led every one astray. But Major Dale knew the road, and he and Dorothy went merrily on, with words of love and tenderness that only such a father and daughter know how to exchange.

Dorothy learned that the boys, Roger and Joe, had not heard a word of her trouble, and she at once determined not to tell even her father all that she had suffered. She had to explain, of course, about being in the sanitarium, but about the Hobbs imprisonment, she decided to say nothing.

Reaching the sanitarium, Dorothy shuddered as she asked the guards at the gate if she might see the superintendent, but when the man doffed his cap to the distinguished looking major, Dorothy again gained her composure.

Mrs. Harriwell sat in the hall, and was evidently much distressed.

Dorothy stepped up to her, and the woman started.

"Molly!" she gasped. Then she saw her mistake.

"But we have come to take you to Molly," said Dorothy, "and I want to be the first to tell you the good news! Molly is better!"

"Better!" repeated the woman vaguely, the deep lines of trouble shadowing her pale face.

"Yes, she wants to see you—she knows all about everything——"

"Your daughter, madam," said Major Dale, "has recovered her reason."

"Impossible!" gasped the poor mother.

"Not at all," declared the major. "But come along, and you will see for yourself."

An attendant had stepped up, and was looking curiously at Dorothy. She took her father's hand.

"Any word?" asked the nurse.

"Not for you," replied Mrs. Harriwell with dignity, "I find there are better places than sanitariums for—nervous girls. Come along, sir. Thank you," as she took the major's arm, and left the place.

How that mother listened to Dorothy's words! That her daughter had talked as Dorothy said, that she was at a nearby camp—— Oh, it was good news indeed!

"And she is going to stay with us," Dorothy warned her. "We will not let her go to any more hospitals."

"Never!" exclaimed the mother firmly. "Molly may stay any place she chooses. She is all I have, and I so nearly lost her!"

It was a beautiful evening. The sun had just set. Over the hills could be seen tents, their flags flying and their happy young and old owners could be heard singing, calling, and shouting; could be seen building fires, and doing all the thousand and one absurd things that humanity insists upon doing every time it gets the chance.

"It is lovely to camp," ventured Dorothy. "We have had rather an interrupted season, but I hope now we shall make up for it."

"If money will help you, it shall be yours," declared the anxious woman, "for my daughter has more than she can ever use."

Dorothy looked at her in silence. Then it was well indeed to have been lost and found, for the sake of this dear girl!

"This is our camp," said Dorothy, as they reached it.

Mrs. Harriwell fairly ran up those barn steps.

But who would try to tell what happened when she found her daughter?



CHAPTER XXIX

THE ROUND-UP—CONCLUSION

"It's up to Tavia!"

"I have told you every word I am going to tell," she declared.

"Oh, no you haven't," objected Nat. "I want to know about that stagey fellow. I don't quite fancy his interference."

"He didn't interfere," declared Tavia, "and I am not going over that thing again."

"Oh, no, he didn't interfere," repeated Ned. "He merely had it all his own way. Now, if I had long hair——"

"Ned," interrupted Dorothy, "please don't. You must remember that the poor fellow was not responsible."

"Lucky dog," murmured Ned, giving Cologne one of his favorite looks (Ned had a fancy for Cologne).

"Then I think that Dorothy ought to tell her part," insisted Jack. "We have heard rumors of terrible things!"

"Mere rumors," said Dorothy with a laugh, "Why shouldn't I be entitled to my own experience? Haven't I paid it all back to you?"

"Nope. Not for the shoe that caught in the trap," said Ned facetiously.

"Nor for visiting absolute strangers like those Hobbses," added Cologne, "and they are completely out of our set."

"Well, I don't mind," agreed Jack. "We have found Molly."

"Jackie, you do know a good thing when you see it," complimented Ned.

Molly sat out on the low camp stool very close to Jack, and it was plain there was no objection on the part of either as to this particular closeness.

"Ralph says nothing——" began Tavia.

"But saws wood," added Ned, with a wink, for Ralph seemed to have appropriated Dorothy.

Altogether they were a happy set of campers. It was only ten days since the close of that distressing search, that had taken up so many of their camping days, but there was still left plenty of time for the best of outings, which their keenness after their troubles made the more merry.

Camp Dorothy was the name of the new tent that Mrs. Harriwell had sent up immediately after her daughter's installation with the campers. With the express came two maids, one for work, and the other to look after Molly. Mrs. Harriwell had to be content with stopping at a nearby hotel, but every day she came over to the camp, and really was almost like a young girl herself, so great was her joy in the sudden restoration of her daughter's health. It developed that the sick girl's case had been one of pure melancholia, following a shock of grief, and that her association with Dorothy and her friends was the one thing she most needed. The second shock, in falling, had restored her reason.

But Tavia could not forget that her fault had caused great trouble to Dorothy, and try as the latter did, she could not get Tavia to resume her usual good spirits.

"But it takes Nat," whispered Cologne, as he and Tavia sauntered off to catch imaginary trout. "Needn't worry about Tavia's nerves."

"I move," said Ralph, "that the—heroine—ahem, be excused from duty for the period of two weeks. Every time I ask Dorothy to go for a sail, she has to wash dishes."

Dorothy blushed prettily. "I must do my share of the housekeeping," she insisted. "Besides—it's fun."

Ralph was not to be put off this time, however, and he declared that if Dorothy did not go for a sail with him that very afternoon—he—would—drown—himself.

"Oh, such luck!" shouted Ned. "Too many fellows around here——"

Major Dale stood watching, but hardly listening.

"What's the answer, Uncle?" asked Ned, seeing that the major had something to say.

"I have just been wondering," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "what would have happened if Dorothy had not gone up that tree. And you boys——"

"That's all," interrupted Nat, who had returned to the group. "You are excused."

"I have been wondering," put in Mrs. Harriwell, who, with Mrs. Markin, was enjoying the afternoon on the porch within hearing distance, "what would have happened if Dorothy had not been mistaken for Molly. It was a lucky mistake."

But Dorothy insisted she had done nothing extraordinary. Yet she could not help but wonder what would happen next. And what did happen will be told in another book, to be called, "Dorothy Dale's School Rivals," in which we shall learn the particulars of some stirring doings at Glenwood Academy.

"All the same," declared Tavia, a little sheepishly, "I don't believe it pays to try to keep Dorothy out when there's a question of——"

"Common sense," finished Cologne. "There's the cowbell. And it's Tavia's turn to cook supper!"

Tavia sprang up and darted down the path. Nat followed.

"She hasn't learned to work yet," commented Cologne. She never knew a thing about how Tavia darned the station master's socks.

Camp Dorothy had been closed tight all day. As tea-time struck, the maid threw up the big flap. "Surprise! Surprise!" she called, and such a feast as was spread! The very best that could be obtained for miles about Everglade.

THE END