"I'll tell her," she said simply.

"She is just a friend?" ventured Miss Brooks questioningly.

"A very dear friend," replied Dorothy warmly, at the same moment making up her mind that the stranger would not learn from her any more concerning Tavia or her character.

"I thought so," went on her companion. "Well, she is evidently impetuous; that is why I feel I may help her. Ordinarily I would not interfere—it is really a trifle risky for me, but she seems so young; and—well, I'll take my chances this time."

Dorothy was completely mystified. She could not guess at any business or circumstances which might occasion such remarks. But somehow she felt that the woman spoke with knowledge of something about Tavia. What that something might be Dorothy was absolutely at a loss to conjecture.

"I know I surprise you," said Miss Brooks, divining her thoughts, "but some girls do strange things. Miss Travers is evidently one of them."

Dorothy's cheeks flamed at this remark. Why should she speak so of Tavia?

"I have known Miss Travers since she was a child," flashed Dorothy, "and I have never thought her—strange."

Scarcely had the words been uttered than all Tavia's pranks and follies seemed to come up before Dorothy's memory like some horrid, mocking specters.

Surely Tavia had always done "strange things," and very likely only Dorothy's powerful influence had kept her from risking greater dangers.

But Dorothy could not listen to anything against her nearest and dearest friend. No stranger had a right to condemn her.

The train was slacking up as it steamed into the big, arched station. Here Miss Brooks would go her way, while Dorothy would be left to think over the unexpected happenings of the brief railroad journey.

There seemed to Dorothy something almost patronizing in the stranger's manner as she bade her good-by. Perhaps she did pity her—but why? What was wrong, or what might happen on this day's shopping venture?

"I really do believe I'm getting queer myself," mused the girl, trying vainly to shake off her fears and suspicions. "Well, so many queer things do manage to happen in a single holiday vacation I don't wonder that I catch the germ; it must be infectious."

Dorothy's little fur toque fitted gracefully on her beautiful blonde head. Her cheeks matched the poinsettia, or Christmas flower, and her eyes were as blue as the sapphires in the jewel shops.

With some slight agitation she entered Boardman's. It was in this store that the ring incident had occurred, and the thought of her experience was not exactly pleasant to the sensitive girl.

"But I saw such pretty things in there," she insisted secretly. "I must go back and get some of them."

Timidly she approached the jewelry counter. Surely the clerks, or Miss Allen, at least, recognized her. The latter stepped directly up to the place where Dorothy stood.

"Good-morning," began the clerk, smiling pleasantly. "What can I do for you?"

Dorothy was hardly ready to make her purchases. She answered the greeting and said so. Then Miss Allen leaned over the counter.

"I wanted to tell you that Miss Dearing, the woman detective, has been discharged."

"Oh, has she?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sorry."

"Well, you needn't be," Miss Allen assured her. "She didn't much care how you fared."

"But she only made a mistake," pleaded Dorothy.

"Perhaps," and Miss Allen shrugged her shoulders; "but she took the trouble to come to me and ask your address."

"My address!"

"Yes; wanted it awfully bad, too. I wouldn't take any customer's address off a tag; not for all the detectives in the house. But I happen to know some one else did."

"But what did she want my address for?" asked Dorothy as quietly as her voice could speak in spite of her agitation.

"Don't know," replied the clerk, indicating she might be able to guess; "but it might be handy some day. When she gets time to think it over, you know."

Dorothy was now almost as greatly mystified as she had been when the woman on the train spoke of Tavia. But Miss Allen went to wait on another customer, and when Dorothy had finally succeeded in selecting some trinkets she left the counter with Miss Allen's words ringing in her ears.

"Whatever does it all mean?" she asked herself. It was some time before she had her answer.



CHAPTER X

THE THORNS OF A HOLLY WREATH

"Loafing is not resting; labor is the grindstone of life's dull edges," quoted Dorothy Dale on the evening of her return from the city.

"Copyrighted?" asked Tavia in a grave tone of voice.

"No; but all rights are reserved," answered her chum. "It took me all the way from the city to North Birchland station to work that out. What do you think of it?"

"Great for the grindstone, but hard on life," commented Tavia. "No sharpening for mine. I make it 'Labor is the sharp knife that cuts all the good things out of life.'"

"But your motto will not stand the test," declared Dorothy. "I happen to know—I found out to-day. Going in on the train I 'loafed' all the way, and the process tired me. Coming out I was tired from shopping, and that tire rested me."

"Well, if you're all right, I'm glad I'm crazy," declared Tavia facetiously. "There's just one thing I want to get to heaven for—one great, long, delicious loaf! If I cannot rest without labor, then please pass along the 'loaf.'"

"But, seriously, Tavia, I particularly want to speak to you," began Dorothy, putting away numerous small packages and then dropping into her favorite seat—the window-bench in her own room.

"Go ahead and speak, then," answered Tavia. "I hope what you have to say has nothing to do with work."

"Now, dearie, listen," commanded Dorothy. "Who do you think was on the train with me this morning?"

"The conductor?"

"Likely," replied Dorothy; "but he did not occupy the entire ten coaches, although he managed to circulate through them rather successfully. But I did not refer to him. I sat in the same seat with—our little woman in black!"

"Our little woman in black! Please do not include me in that class. Did she want your purse?"

"Now, really, Tavia, I am almost convinced that we have greatly wronged that woman—she was just as nice as she could be—"

"Oh, of course, she was—nice. That's what the laws are for, keeping people nice. They don't have much trouble to make that clear to you, Doro, dear."

"Well, of course, you are entitled to your own opinion, but I do wish you would listen. She sent you a message."

"Sent me a message! It was to you she owed the apology. She has her cases mixed."

"Tavia, she gave me this card to hand you with the request that you call upon her on Thursday morning."

Tavia glanced at the card. Then she read the inscription aloud.

"Of all the—nerve!" she exclaimed, seemingly at a total loss to grasp any other word. "To ask me to call on a handwriting expert! Does she think I want her services?"

"I was, and am still, just as puzzled as you are, Tavia; but she seemed so serious. Said you were young, and that perhaps she could help you—"

Tavia seemed to catch her breath. The next moment she had recovered herself. "I might call—just for fun. Then, again—I might not," she said indifferently.

"So many queer things contrived to happen," continued Dorothy, noting the slight agitation her chum betrayed. "The clerk at the jewelry counter—Miss Allen, the pleasant girl—told me the woman detective, Miss Dearing, had been discharged."

"Nothing queer about that," exclaimed Tavia. "The wonder is they ever employed such a person in that capacity. Why, I fancy she would arrest a baby to fix her case. Too ambitious, I guess."

"Perhaps," acquiesced Dorothy. "But Miss Allen said she asked for my address. Now, what could she want that for?"

"To apologize, likely. Surely she owes you some sort of apology."

"She was merely mistaken," corrected Dorothy, "and did what she considered her duty."

"The sweetness of forgiving," soliloquized Tavia.

"Simply a matter of justice," added Dorothy. "But it does seem strange to me. However, we will have to await developments. Meantime, we must get ready for Christmas."

"I sent my things off to-day," said Tavia in a relieved tone.

"So early?"

"It is a little early, but they say express packages are always sure to be delayed at this season, and I would simply not live through it if Johnnie did not have his steam engine for Christmas morning. It was awfully sweet of you, Doro, to lend me that money."

"Why shouldn't I when you had to spend yours for needed things? I only wish it had been twice as much. You would have been welcome to it, Tavia. I don't forget chewing-gum days in dear old Dalton."

Tavia's brow was clouded. What an opportunity for her confession! Why did she so dread to tell Dorothy what her own five dollars had gone for? Nat said it would positively leak out some day. Yet he promised not to tell.

"Do you want me to go with you to see Miss Brooks?" asked Dorothy suddenly.

"Why," stammered Tavia, "I don't know that I will go at all. Such a wild-goose chase! I am really not so curious as some might think me. I can overcome a desire for further knowledge of that peaked little thing. In fact, she makes me—creepy."

"Just as you like, of course," replied Dorothy, her manner somewhat strained. "I only thought you might not like to go alone."

But Tavia had made up her mind to precisely that thing.

"I must sew the ribbons on Aunt Winnie's bag," went on Dorothy pleasantly after a pause. "Don't you think it pretty?" and she displayed a small bag made of white oiled silk and fitted up with all the little pockets needed in traveling. One for the wet sponge, another for the toothbrush, then a place for soap; in fact, a place for everything necessary in the emergency of traveling.

"It is dear," agreed Tavia, looking the prospective gift over carefully. "I don't see how you have patience to do such fine work."

"Oh, that is not fine," replied Dorothy. "See my lace pieces. They are what I call fine."

"Oh, they are simply beyond my understanding altogether. Like geometry, you know. But I forgot to ask Nat something. I wonder if he has gone up to his room yet?" and Tavia rose to ascertain.

"It's nearly ten," Dorothy told her, "and he usually retires before ten o'clock."

"Well, I'll just run down to the library and find out. I may forget it by morning."

Dorothy could not help thinking that so urgent a matter as one which required that attention would scarcely be so easily forgotten, but when Tavia left the room she put her little gifts away and soon forgot all about Tavia's sudden determination to seek Nat. Dorothy had so many other more interesting things to dwell upon.

"But I do hope she will not sit up late," came the thought, when some time after Tavia's exit Dorothy remembered that no sound had since indicated that her chum had come toward the room. "Aunt Winnie does not like these little late conferences."

Then she turned off her light and continued to listen for Tavia's footstep.

Meanwhile, Tavia was talking very seriously to Nat. She had told him about Dorothy's message from the strange woman, and he had suggested that the handwriting expert might in some way be connected with the Chicago firm to which Tavia had written, and through which she had made her financial—mistake.

"But how would she know me?" asked Tavia, deeply perplexed.

"You said she saw your name on the envelope that dropped in the car," Nat reminded her, "and she might have had an envelope with your name on. Those—sharks send names all over the country."

"Then do you think I ought to go see her?" asked Tavia in a whisper.

"Certainly. She can't eat you," replied the young man, "and she might be able to help you."

"Then I'll go—next Thursday," decided Tavia. "But I'll have trouble to slip away from Dorothy."

"Course you will," Nat assured her promptly; "and you'll have trouble all along the line if you don't do as I say, and make a clean breast of it."

But Tavia, having so long delayed that telling, felt unequal to going through with it now. She would simply "await developments," as Dorothy herself had suggested doing in the other matter.



CHAPTER XI

GATHERING EVERGREENS

"I have it all planned," announced Mrs. White the next morning. "The boys are to go for evergreens, and the girls are to assist me here. It is rather early, but it is best to have the greens on time."

Ned and Nat groaned. It would be dull enough to go for evergreens, but with the possibility of "a scare in the woods" for Dorothy and Tavia it might be bearable, whereas, if the girls would be obliged to remain at home—

But Mrs. White's sons did not object. She had "planned the day," and that settled it.

Joe and Roger were delighted. They felt that girls often proved unequal to all "the bear hunts and wild beast chasing," so dear to the hearts of healthy, young boys.

"We might build a campfire," suggested Roger enthusiastically when Joe told him he was to go to the woods.

"Too cold for camping," Joe reminded his small brother. But the fact of it being very cold seemed to Roger all the more reason why a campfire should be built, and he said so.

"Well, I'll ask Ned," agreed Joe, "and if he says so we'll take bacon and things to roast."

Ned and Nat thought seriously over the prospect of hunting evergreens with two "kids." They liked their little cousins—in fact, were very fond of them—but it did seem to the larger boys that there would not be much fun in scouring the woods for greens, and answering small boys' questions, unlimited.

"Let's ask Roland Scott and Tom Jennings," suggested Nat. "They came home yesterday, and likely would enjoy a fly in the Fire Bird."

"Good idea," agreed Ned. "Just run over, and do the asking. I saw Tom cross the lawn a short time ago. He is sure to stick close to Roland."

One hour later the Fire Bird was "on the wing," and in the car were the boys from The Cedars and their guests, two young men just home from college for the holidays.

"Whew!" whistled the handsome Roland as soon as the party got away from The Cedars. "What a stunner your blonde cousin is, Ned! Seems to me you might have prepared a fellow. I almost had a spell when she came to greet me."

Now, Ned White never relished hearing other fellows admire Dorothy. It was a strange fact that while he knew Dorothy to be pretty he was never prepared to hear others say so. Nat picked up the end of Roland's remark. He knew Ned would not say anything very agreeable to it.

"But what do you think of the other?" asked Nat. "Now, I prefer the burnished type."

"A tomboy, isn't she?" ventured Tom, referring to Tavia.

"Oh, just a good fellow," answered Nat. "Always ready for a lark, if that's what you mean."

"Jolly! I thought so," responded Tom. "Well, I do like a girl with some go in her, if she doesn't happen to put all the go in my direction."

"In other words," assumed Nat, "you like the tomboy type—in the abstract."

"Guess that's it," answered Tom. "But certainly those two girls are equal to putting you through a lively holiday. Wish we had a pair like them down to The Elms for this spell. Gee—I just dread this Christmas stuff. Aunts and uncles have my bedroom lined with 'secret packages' already. I went on the 'collar button crawl' this morning, and nearly fainted when I saw the stuff under my bed. Aunt Molly runs some kind of a charity jinks, you know, and she has picked out my room as the safest place to hide her trash."

"Oh, yes," remarked Ned, "I heard Dorothy say something about it yesterday. Seems to me she said she was going to help."

"Oh, then the stuff may remain under my bed," quickly spoke Tom. "If Miss Dorothy is interested—so am I."

"I had her first," objected Roland, joking. "I may buy a couple of rag dolls myself. Does Miss Dorothy prefer the rag variety?"

Ned seemed all attention to the car. Occasionally he turned to speak to Joe and Roger, but otherwise he took little part in his friends' badinage.

"Where are you bound for?" asked Tom as Ned guided the Fire Bird into a narrow lane.

"We'll try old Hemlock Grove first. There should be plenty of green stuff there," replied Ned.

"Yes, and if I mistake not," added Nat, "there is in those woods a cabin—old Hume's place. We may be able to lay out there for dinner."

"Goody!" exclaimed Roger, whose eyes had been continually on the big basket of stuff which Norah, the good-natured cook at The Cedars, had put up for the boys.

"Right," concluded Ned; "there's a chimney and all. Just the place for a layout. Let me see, where did that shanty used to stand?"

"I see something like a cabin over there," said Joe, pointing to a corner in the woods where great oak trees towered above all others in the grove. Even in December some brown leaves clung to these giants of the forest, that now rustled a gentle welcome to the boys in the Fire Bird.

Ned swung up as close as the wagon road would allow, and presently the party had "disembarked," and were scampering through the woods toward the abandoned hut of an old woodchopper.

"Great catch!" exclaimed Tom. "If there is one thing I like it is an outdoor hut with an indoor place on a cold day."

"We've got a bag of charcoal, you know," Roger reminded them, for Norah had secretly given that part of the equipment to Roger personally.

"That's right," assented Ned, "Then run over to the car and fetch it. Norah is an all-right girl, isn't she?"

"I would call her a peach, whoever she may be," added Roland as he gathered up some dry bits of wood on his way to the cabin.

"Norah's our cook," declared Roger with an implied rebuke in his voice, for it did seem to him every one should have been aware of that important fact.

"Beg your pardon," said Roland. "I have a profound respect for such a cook as your refreshing Norah—I say refreshing advisedly," making a grab at the basket Joe and Nat were carrying.

"Here we are," called Tom, who was somewhat in advance. "And the door is not barred."

Roger was back with the bag of charcoal, and now they all entered the old hut. The place had evidently been long ago left to the squirrels and wood birds, but it was clean, save for the refuse of dry leaves and bits of bark, remnants of other winters, when the broken windows accepted what the winds chose to hurl in and scatter about the old woodchopper's cabin.

"Hurrah!" shouted Roger, inadvertently spilling his prized bag of charcoal.

"We don't light the fire there," said Nat "Better pick that up and dump it on the fireplace. Isn't this great, though? Glad I came! Fellows, help yourselves," and he stretched out on a rude board bench that lined one side of the place.

"Get up!" insisted Tom. "Do you suppose for one instant that you do not have to work? I assign you to the task of striking the matches."

It occurred to Roger that some boys, big ones at that, might be just as silly as girls—in fact, more silly than most girls, for when they said foolish things they invariably took the trouble to laugh at their own attempts. Now, thought Roger, girls never do that. Close upon the heels of that thought sprang into the little fellow's heart the wish that Dorothy might have been along. She would know just how to arrange the dinner so that the big fellows did not get the best pieces.

Nat had already begun at his task—he was striking matches furiously by the old stone fireplace, watching the dry leaves blaze up and then die out quickly.

"Here, quit!" called Roland. "Do you think we fellows are lined with matches? We really might want one for the fire, you know."

"Oh, certainly," assented Nat, discontinuing his pastime. "I was just trying the flue."

"But I say, fellows," remarked Tom seriously, "isn't this great? What do you suppose the place stands for?"

"A woodchopper's cabin," Ned replied. "There was fine wood in these parts some years ago, before the telephone company bought up all the tall trees. Uncle Frank—Major Dale, you know—was telling us only the other night about it. Some ten years ago a telephone inspector came out here and bargained for the whole grove—that is, all the good, sound trees. Then the woodchoppers went back to Canada."

"Glad they left their hut, at any rate," remarked Tom, tossing an armful of dry wood on to the stone hearth. "What do we cook?"

"Bacon, potatoes, cheese to toast, and—let me see. What else?" queried Nat, rummaging through the basket of supplies.

"Bread and butter, pepper and salt, and a whole cake," announced Roger with unconcealed glee.

"I guess that'll do," drawled Tom. "Sorry we didn't think to fetch something ourselves."

"Oh, this is my treat," replied Nat.

"It was I who thought about the lunch," Roger reminded him.

"That's right, kid, you did. But then, you are always hungry, which may, in a measure, account for your wonderful forethought."

The blazing fire had by this time warmed the place comfortably, and it was jolly, indeed, to prepare the meal over the strong embers of good solid oak.

An old grate had been found about the place, and upon this the sliced bacon was spread, while the potatoes were dropped directly into the embers. Norah had thought of everything, even paper napkins and picnic knives and forks. There was, too, a bottle of olives and some cold ham in the very bottom of the basket.

"What's to drink?" asked Ned, his tone implying that anything to drink had been forgotten.

"Oh, the jug of coffee!" exclaimed Joe. "That's in the car. I'll run and fetch it."

The jug of coffee had been placed in a deep, enameled pan, which was to serve as coffee-pot in the warming process.

"Well, I say!" exclaimed Roland. "Think I'll change quarters. I would like first rate to meet your Norah."

"I'm first there," put in Tom. "I met her at the kitchen door as I went around for the oil can. And I must say I rather like that shade of hair. Our shortstop had it, and he claimed it was classic—called it mahogany, too."

The bacon sizzled merrily, the potatoes smelled "brown," and soon all was ready.

It was a queer sort of picnic—a "smoker," Tom insisted, for something happened with the fire that caused the smoke to flare back into the cabin instead of going peaceably out of the little chimney. But the boys did not mind that—they were too interested in the meal. Even Norah's good nature could scarcely estimate on a dinner of this kind. Eating seemed to cause hunger, instead of allaying the sensation.

But when everything was really gone, and each boy knew it was not possible to get another crumb, each declared he had had plenty.

Certainly it was jolly, but when Ned glanced at his watch and discovered that the noon hour had long since passed, he hurried his companions along.

"Look here," he reminded them, "we are out for evergreens. This is not a food-grabbing affair. Let's get back to the car. I don't see a blade of green around here."

"Nary a sprig," declared Tom, looking over the woodland. "Well, I suppose we will have to leave this retreat. But I hope we find it next summer. Wouldn't it be a great place to camp?"

All agreed the spot would be ideal for a summer camp, and when they had entered the Fire Bird and swung again out upon the wagon road, some of the party rather blamed the kind of holiday that required greens, when such a fine day might have been spent in the woodchopper's cabin.



CHAPTER XII

THE SCREAM FROM THE CASTLE

Ned White thought he knew all the roads about Ferndale and the Birchlands, but on this afternoon he stumbled with his party into a perfectly strange byway. It did not seem to lead to any place in particular, but was one of those wagon roads cut through private property and public places alike, without regard to direction or terminus.

This meant that the Fire Bird was lost—couldn't tell which way to fly, and its driver did not know which way to direct the big red machine.

"Where in the world is this?" asked Tom, noting Ned looking from one side to the other in a puzzled sort of way.

"Well, if it is only in this world we are lucky," answered Ned. "I rather feared we had slipped off into another planet."

"It's cold, too," murmured Joe, for as the afternoon sun slowly set the bleak winter day hastened forward in all its penetrating bitterness.

"What time is it, anyway?" asked Roland of Ned.

"Four, and going to get dark in an hour. Jingo! I wish we had found some greens. The girls want to get the wreaths made up to-morrow."

"Why didn't we go to Tanglewood Park?" asked Roger. "There were plenty of nice evergreens there."

"Yes, why didn't we? That's the question. Let's try this road," and Ned turned into a branch of the highway he was driving on. "Perhaps we may get out there yet."

"Now, see here," interrupted Roland. "I've got a dinner date to-night. Sort of a 'return of the prodigal,' you know. I can't be late. So please don't go too far from Mother Earth. If necessary we can get the greens some other day."

"All right," agreed Ned. "If we can't make the park in half an hour we'll turn back. But I wonder some of you smart ones did not think of it before. There certainly were plenty of green bushes out there."

The turn brought our friends out on the road they had been looking for, and it took but a short time to reach the lane to Tanglewood Park.

Under the heavy trees it was almost like night, and it was not an easy task to distinguish one bush from another, especially as Roland kept hurrying everybody, in his anxiety to be on time at the dinner party.

Joe and Roger secured some fine branches of the spruces that Dorothy had wished for, Ned got quite a supply of pine branches, which he declared, "could go up just as they were," while the other boys devoted themselves to the laurel hunt. Finally a large hedge of this all-winter green shrub was discovered, and in a short time the Fire Bird was loaded up with a splendid supply of Christmas evergreens.

"I guess that will do," announced Nat, as the little boys piled in their armfuls. "We have to sit some place, you know."

"What's that?" asked Ned as something rustled along the path.

"A lady!" almost whispered Roland, as if fearful that they might be blamed for their pillaging.

At that instant a small woman hurried down the other branch of the path, and called lightly to some one on the roadway.

She evidently did not see the Fire Bird party, for she was on an opposite path, with a deep hedge between them and her.

"The ghost!" whispered Roger, all eager for some new excitement.



"Sure as you live!" answered Nat. "That's not human—it's too flimsy and—flighty."

It did seem that the person flitted about in a strange sort of way, first calling, then whistling.

But there was some one waiting.

"There's a carriage," said Joe, crawling under a bush to get a better view of the other path.

The boys held their breath. What if this might be the owner of the park, who would object to their taking the evergreens?

It was well the automobile had been left in a secluded spot. Perhaps the woman would go off without discovering them.

A light carriage entered the driveway. The woman stopped to give some directions. The driver seemed to hesitate. She was urging him to go toward the castle, and he evidently wanted to go out on the main road.

"That driver's old Abe," declared Roger, "the fellow from the station."

"It sure is," answered Ned; "but don't speak so loud."

"And he wants to go to the station, which I wish he would do promptly," observed Roland, in some suspense.

"But she wants him to drive up to the house. See, she points that way," said Nat.

The woman climbed into the carriage, and the driver turned toward the castle. The boys prepared to make their escape.

"They'll go out the back way," ventured Nat. "Now's our time!"

At that instant a shrill scream rent the air. It was the same, only much louder, that had startled the party before.

"The ghost!" gasped Roger, jumping into the car.

The others followed. The carriage had made a quick turn and was now almost upon them.

Ned put on full speed, and was soon out on the open road.

"What's the answer?" asked Tom, who could not make out what all the fuss was about.

"Did you see Abe's face?" asked Nat as they once more felt that it was safe to exchange remarks.

"Almost went white," replied Ned. "None is so frightened at ghosts as a darky."

"Ghost!" repeated Tom. "Do you mean to say there really is a ghost up there in that old rat-trap?"

"Something," replied Nat. "We have heard that same scream before, and it does not sound like anything human."

"Why in thunder didn't we go up and swat it?" asked Tom, quite disgusted that such an opportunity should have been missed.

"Because Roland has a dinner date, and because we were trespassing. You don't suppose we just want to walk into trouble like that, do you?" inquired Nat.

"Well, I'd take chances when it came to bagging a real live ghost. I hope we get another shot at it."

"There's the carriage," exclaimed Joe. "Just look at old Abe!"

"Scared stiff!" added Nat. "Well, I don't blame him. He was dangerously near that scream. Perhaps his passenger is a ventriloquist and threw her scream. The voice certainly came from the castle."

The carriage passed the Fire Bird at that moment. Ned had slackened speed after his first spurt.

"That woman doesn't look as if she could throw anything—not even her voice," remarked Roland, when the carriage had passed. "But I fancy the old colored fellow is about ready to 'throw a fit,' at any rate."

"Wait till Abe tells it," said Joe, laughing. Abe had a reputation for "telling things."

"It certainly is queer," mused Ned. "I'm not exactly a ghost fiend, but there must be something uncanny up there in that old castle."

"Tavia says there are real magazine ghosts," spoke up Roger decidedly.

"What particular variety is that?" asked Tom.

"Oh, Tavia declares that in magazines scientific fellows are materializing the immaterial," said Nat quite learnedly. "That is what we call magazine ghosts."

"But that howl was never immaterial," persisted Tom. "I should say it emanated from a well developed thorax."

The Fire Bird was spinning along at a lively rate now, for as night neared it grew colder, and the party were anxious to get within doors.

"I hope the girls like the greenstuffs," remarked Roland as the home road was reached.

"Let us out here," said Tom as Ned prepared to run into The Elms. "We can get our blood in circulation before we reach the fire. Whew! it is cold! Well, say, we've had an awfully jolly time, fellows. Hope we can make it up to you—"

"Don't mention it," interrupted Ned as the young men alighted.

"Never had a better time," added Roland. "My love to the girls—"

"Norah's got a beau!" called back Nat as the Fire Bird rolled into The Cedars and the carload of evergreens was stopped at the door. Dorothy, Tavia and Mrs. White stood in rapt surprise and admiration over the "greenstuff" that had been gathered, in spite of all the difficulties which had been encountered in the attempt.



CHAPTER XIII

COLLEGE BOYS AND GLENWOOD GIRLS

"Isn't he stunning!" gasped Tavia.

"Do you think so? I never call a pretty boy 'stunning,'" replied Dorothy. "I like Tom's looks best. He's so vigorous and athletic."

"But Roland's curly hair! And that complexion—so hyacinthy."

"Precisely my objection," argued Dorothy. "I always object to 'hyacinthy' boys."

"Well, I'm just a little glad of it, Doro, for the fact is I think I might inveigle him into taking care of me at the 'doings.' Now, I happen to know he fancies you, and my only chance is that you may turn him down."

Dorothy laughed merrily. She was no prude, and made no pretense of being one. She enjoyed most of the nonsense that girls between fifteen and eighteen years of age usually enjoy. The strange young men, Tom Jennings and Roland Scott, whom the White boys had taken to the woods on the "evergreen hunt," called that very morning—came to make their "party call," they said.

Dorothy and Tavia were busy with the Christmas wreaths when the strangers happened in. Ned and Nat had gone to town, and it devolved upon the girls to be "civil" to the new boys.

To be sure, Joe and Roger helped some, but Roger managed to say rather embarrassing things about beaus, and Roland's love, that youth having asked the little chap to take some "regards" to Norah.

Tom laughed, but Roland almost blushed. Dorothy and Tavia could scarcely appreciate the joke, but managed to guess that the boys had been talking about them.

Finally Tom came to the rescue by telling about the "ghost scream." Tavia was much interested, but Dorothy laughed at the idea. She had any amount of explanations to offer for the queer occurrence, but none of them was accepted as being plausible.

Tom and Roland both declared they would go out again some day and look the whole thing over carefully.

Then Dorothy told the visitors of the Christmas plans—at least, she attempted to tell them, but was interrupted by the coming of Ned and Nat. So the girls were excused and the boys left to their own resources.

It was after all this that Dorothy and Tavia gave their personal views of the two young men from college.

"They may help along our charity play," suggested Dorothy. "They look as if they might be able to act, especially Mr. Jennings."

"Yes, I fancy he could act some parts—a big part with a whole lot of sitting down in it," said Tavia.

"And Mr. Scott might be something on the Christmas tree," returned Dorothy. "In a pretty, striped dress he would make a dear little cornucopia, his blond head sticking out of the top like a sweet little doll."

"I'm just going to tell him that," threatened Tavia. "Then I will be more sure than ever of—his attention."

"Tavia! you wouldn't do anything like that!"

"Why not? You were only complimenting him."

"Now, really, if you do, Tavia, I shall be positively angry," and Dorothy frowned indignantly. "When we are exchanging confidences I don't think it fair to betray them."

"Oh, all right, if you feel that way about it. But I really do think these two boys quite an acquisition. They will help out wonderfully."

"But college boys are old enough to be engaged," said Dorothy, "and perhaps we will get no more of their attention than was bestowed upon us to-day," and she made a wry face to express her fears on that score.

"Engaged! All the more fun. I just simply love to make girls jealous. Now, what girl on earth would be able to hold her admirers against you?"

"Don't be silly!" snapped Dorothy. "It's all very well to joke, but when you get personal—"

"Oh, I beg your pardon! And there's Aunt Winnie. I promised to line the darning bag—"

Tavia's love for idleness was no hidden sin—she seemed to glory in it. But occasionally it betrayed her good intentions. She really did intend to put the pretty blue lining in the dainty darning bag which Mrs. White was making as a gift for old Mrs. Brown, the family mender. Now the chatter about the college boys had completely driven the task from her mind.

As Mrs. White appeared in the hall Tavia grasped the neglected little article. Dorothy had been sewing as she talked. She loved to do certain kinds of stitches, particularly those of floss silk on fine flannel, and this morning she had almost finished the shawl for John's wife's new baby.

Mrs. White had been out, and was just returning. She wore her handsome prune-colored gown, with her mink-tail furs, and both Dorothy and Tavia looked up in undisguised admiration as she entered the room.

Dorothy rose to assist her in removing her wraps.

"Well, it is finally settled," Mrs. White began. "I do think these charity affairs are growing more complicated every year. I have not told you all about it yet; in fact, I could not do so until this morning's meeting was over. Now it is all arranged, so I must tell you about it."

"Aren't you cold, auntie?" asked Dorothy. "Shall I get you a warm drink?"

"No, my dear. We had chocolate at Mrs. Davis's. There, now, I am quite comfortable," and as Dorothy laid the wraps aside her aunt settled among the blue cushions, which, as Nat said, "grew in Dorothy's room."

"Is it to be a play?" asked Tavia, always impatient where acting might be concerned.

"Well, not exactly," answered Mrs. White. "We think scenes from Mother Goose will be simpler, and just as entertaining. Mrs. Brownlie has offered her house, and I am to do most of the coaching."

This last was uttered with a note of dismay—to coach young people did not seem a very delightful task, so many difficulties being sure to come up unexpectedly.

"And we are to select the scenes," went on Mrs. White, "so you may start in to think of Mother Goose just as soon as you like. For my part, all I can remember is the old woman who lived in a shoe, and I am going to get the boys to make me a shoe big enough to hold all the small children in the Birchlands."

"And let me be the mother?" asked Tavia. "I want to whip those Mahon children, and this would be my chance. They ran a pole out in the road against my wheel last fall, and you may remember the consequences."

"Oh, yes," and Mrs. White laughed heartily, "that would be a great opportunity for you, Tavia. But I rather thought of Miss Baker for the 'old woman.' She has that compelling manner, don't you think?"

"She ought to be splendid," agreed Dorothy.

"Are there to be boys?" asked Tavia.

"Why, of course, my dear, there are to be boys. Who ever heard of a hospital benefit without them. We have to raise one hundred dollars this year. And I feel the whole responsibility, as I am the local member of the board of directors. I hope some day we will be able to have a hospital of our own. Supporting a ward in a city institution is not very satisfactory."

"But are there enough boys?" asked Tavia. "It seems to me the Birchlands are populated mostly with girls."

"Oh, that is quite natural for you to think that way," teased Mrs. White. "But haven't you taken into consideration Mr. Scott and Mr. Jennings? Why, they are capable of impersonating a number of characters. Think it all up, girls, and you will help me greatly. I have asked Ned to fetch a Mother Goose book from the village, and this evening we will devote our time to selecting the characters."

Somebody whistled outside, and going to the window the girls saw Ned with Tom Jennings in the Fire Bird.

"Come on," called Ned, "We're going for a ride and want you to come along. Don't keep us waiting." And he turned the machine without waiting for the girls to answer.

"Run along," advised Mrs. White. "You have been in all morning, and the air is delightful."

It took but a few minutes for Dorothy and Tavia to make ready. Storm-coats and scarfs, besides their muffs, seemed sufficient for their touring costumes.

Dorothy climbed into the machine and Tavia followed.

"Wouldn't one of you young ladies prefer to sit here?" inquired Tom, with a view of making it more convenient for the boys to entertain the girls.

Tavia was out of the back seat and ready to take her place beside Ned before any one had a chance to answer. This, of course, left Tom to entertain Dorothy.

"As long as it is not Roland," whispered Tavia into Ned's ear, "you will put up with me this time, won't you?"

Tavia was too frivolous to suit Ned's serious ways. She always bored him, and she knew it, evidently.

Dorothy was glad to get acquainted with Tom. Somehow he made her think of soldiers, of fearless brave men like Major Dale, and perhaps her Uncle Winthrop White, who had died away off in a foreign country, fighting for science. Perhaps he was of this type when at college.

Nor did it take Tom long to discover what sort of conversation would interest Dorothy. He talked of his school, and asked about Glenwood. Then she introduced the Mother Goose subject, and he told of a college play his class had given wherein all the characters were taken by the students.

"And you should have seen Roland," declared Tom laughing. "If he didn't make the prettiest Yum-yum! The house went mad over him."

"I'm sure he could assume such a role," replied Dorothy. "And you were—"

"The Mikado, of course. I always come in for the 'Turrible Turk' proposition."

"We have to select the scenes this evening," remarked Dorothy prudently.

"Then I'm going to get Ned to let me come over," said her companion. "It will help fill in; our folks are just choked to death in Christmas stuff. Aunt Emily is interested in the hospital benefit, too, I believe."

"Yes, Aunt Winnie said so," replied Dorothy. "I guess most of the Birchland ladles help with this benefit. Mrs. Brownlie has offered her house."

"The lady with the fluffy-haired daughters?" asked Tom.

"Yes, the twins," said Dorothy. "Eva and Edith Brownlie are considered the very prettiest girls around."

"Oh, are they?" remarked Tom in seeming earnestness. "Well, to tell you the truth I have given up attempting to judge of girls' looks lately. It seems to me to be all a question of hair—how deep it can be piled up."

Dorothy laughed. To call hair deep, like so much grass!

But Tom did not notice the discrepancy. Tavia turned around and shouted so Ned covered his ear.

"Are you going to be the 'Piper's Son?'" she asked Tom.

"If there's anything to be stolen, you may put me down for the steal," replied Tom good-naturedly. "Even the proverbial porker might be pressed into service for a camp outfit, eh, Ned?"

Ned replied that there were some real attractive porkers about the Birchlands, and that they would probably not mind being stolen for a hospital benefit.

During all this time the Fire Bird had been gliding along at the even pace which Ned always selected for a real pleasure ride.

"A joy-ride, with no business end," he argued, "should be run off gently. No fun in trying to talk above an atmospheric buzz-saw."

"I suppose Nat and Roland have bowled till they're stiff," remarked Tom. "For my part, I prefer the open to those alleys on a day like this."

"Mother told me to ask you both over this evening to help fix up the play business," said Ned, "if you have nothing else on."

"Gladly," replied Tom. "I was just hinting for an invitation. You know how I love classics—Mother Goose will be just pie for me."

"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Tavia suddenly. "I have an engagement for this afternoon. I ought to go back, Ned. It must be lunch-time." And, as she spoke, Dorothy remembered that the day was Thursday, and that Tavia was to go on that day to see Miss Estelle Brooks, the little woman in black.



CHAPTER XIV

TAVIA'S TROUBLES

"You must contrive to help me, Nat," urged Tavia, when, an hour or so later, she managed to get a word alone with him. "I can never deliberately go off alone on an afternoon like this, when every one is so busy."

"You certainly cannot walk out to Ferndale on a day like this," answered Nat. "I'll have to take you if you must go. But why don't you wait until next week, when we might get a better chance?"

"Oh, I simply can't," sighed Tavia. "I feel so mean over the whole thing. And, honestly, I'm so nervous about it. Do you suppose that woman has anything to do with—the matter?"

"Seems to understand it, at any rate. It won't do any harm to talk with her. I'll manage to get the machine out, and then, all in a flash, you ask if I won't take you, pretending you did not plan it. I don't see any other way out of it."

"Oh, Nat, you are a dear!" exclaimed Tavia in real joy. "But I do hate so to get you into trouble."

"Oh, never mind me," replied the youth good-naturedly. "Guess I'm big enough to take care of myself. Clear off, now, and when you hear three toots you will know that is the signal. I'll get ready under pretense of going into town for something, and it won't take long to get out to Ferndale."

Tavia ran back to where Dorothy and Mrs. White were busy putting bows of bright ribbon on gifts, and sealing up parcels with the Merry Christmas stamps. Her cheeks were blazing and her eyes dancing from pent-up nervous strain. She grew more nervous each moment. Surely Dorothy would notice it, she thought. And then, too, Dorothy had told her Miss Brooks had asked to see her on Thursday. Would she remember that now?

Tavia picked up the unfinished darning bag, but her fingers trembled so she could scarcely thread her needle. Mrs. White glanced up from her work.

"You have had a lot of trouble with that bag, Tavia, dear," she said, "I guess you don't like lining things."

"Oh, I don't mind it at all," stammered Tavia, "but, you see, I have had no practice. I'll know how better next time."

She fancied she heard Nat coming along the drive. Yes, surely that was the machine. She waited for the toots. Her thimble rolled to the floor. Then her thread tangled.

Toot! toot! toot!

"Are the boys going out?" asked Dorothy suddenly.

"I didn't think so," replied Mrs. White.

"Oh, I have to go on an errand!" exclaimed Tavia, as if she had just thought of it. "Perhaps Nat will take me. I have a package I have to mail."

She was down the stairs before either Dorothy or Mrs. White had a chance to speak. They looked at each other questioningly.

"Nat! Nat!" called Tavia from the front door. "Take me! Wait a moment!"

She had her things on and was out instantly.

"Oh, I'm just scared to death!" she exclaimed as she climbed into the seat beside Nat. "Good-by!" she called up to the window. And then they were off.

"Neat little job," exclaimed Nat. "Didn't they ask you where?"

"I didn't give them a chance. I just stammered something about a package at the post-office. But, Nat, it is such mean work! I can't bear to deceive Dorothy!" and Tavia felt dangerously like crying.

"And do you fool yourself that you are deceiving her?" asked the cousin. "I'll bet she comes pretty near guessing it all, and for my part I cannot see why you do not up and tell her. It is no great crime to—"

"Oh, please, don't, Nat!" begged the girl. "It's bad enough, goodness knows, but don't let's go over it again."

"The Griswold is quite a swell place," remarked Nat. "She must either have money, or make money, to put up there."

"And I feel that she put that ring in Dorothy's bag. Oh, perhaps she is only trying to get me into some other trouble."

"Well, don't get," advised Nat. "I'll be outside within call, and if you get suspicious just raise your finger and I'll be Johnnie on the spot."

The Griswold was a large, stone building, originally intended to be used as a handsome private residence, but of late years converted into a rest-resort or sanitarium. Tavia mounted the broad steps timidly and touched the old-fashioned knocker. In a moment a butler appeared and took her card for Miss Brooks, while Tavia waited in the spacious reception-room. She noticed that this apartment was almost overcrowded with gilt-framed pictures, some paintings, others evidently family portraits.

Presently Miss Brooks entered. She wore a simple, close-fitting black gown, and Tavia felt instinctively that this little woman possessed a powerful personality. She was even inclined to fear her, although this sentiment might be a matter of nervous excitement rather than the result of well-founded antipathy.

Tavia noticed she was not poorly dressed—she looked very different now; the woman in black on the train had presented such a distressed, worn-out appearance.

"Come right up to my room," said Miss Brooks pleasantly. "I received your note, and have been expecting you."

Tavia smiled and murmured something as she followed Miss Brooks up the soft, carpeted stairs. At the first landing the woman opened a door, and motioned Tavia to step in. The room was large and well-furnished after the regulation boarding-house plan—dressing-table, desk, couch-bed, and curtained bookcase, but no article of furniture indicated any line of business that might be carried on in the room, Tavia observed.

Miss Brooks closed the door gently, but made sure it was well closed. Then she took a chair directly opposite Tavia.

"You are Miss Travers," she began in a most business-like way.

"Yes," replied Tavia simply.

"Well, I asked you to come, Miss Travers, because I felt I could help you. I make few friends—the world played me false long ago—but when I see a young girl like you in danger, I am not too bitter to warn her."

"Thank you," Tavia managed to utter.

"You no doubt think me a strange woman—every one does—but I have a motive in traveling about. I had a very dear sister whom I lost years ago. Lately I have learned that she died in this section of the country. She left a child—a baby girl—and I hope some day I may find that child." Miss Brooks paused to cover her eyes with her slim hand. Tavia noticed that her hands were white and shapely. After a moment's hesitation Miss Brooks continued in the same business-like voice she had at first assumed.

"As I have said, I think I can help you." She crossed to the dressing-table, opened a drawer and took from it a large envelope. From this envelope she unfolded a sheet of closely typewritten paper. This she showed to Tavia.

"Is that your signature?" she asked, pointing to the name signed to the letter.

"Why, yes," stammered Tavia, startled and surprised.

"You are astonished that I should have your letter," said the woman. "But so-called confidential correspondence travels many miles these days. I address letters and do penwork for business firms, and have received your letter among hundreds of others."

A flash of indignation crossed Tavia's face. She wanted to snatch that letter and tear it into a thousand pieces.

But Miss Brooks was quick to discern her indignation.

"Of course, I am responsible for every letter," she said. "In fact, I run a great risk in even showing this to you. But I felt I would have to make sure—that you were the party—involved."

Tavia felt like a culprit.

Involved!

She sighed heavily as Miss Brooks fumbled with the telltale letter.

"You lost five dollars?" asked Miss Brooks.

"Yes. Five of my own, and ten of a—friend's."

"Oh!" and the woman's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Yes, I see. Nathaniel White," and she ran her fingers through a package of coupons. "Of course, he belongs here. He is one of the gentlemen from The Cedars?"

"Yes," stammered Tavia, feeling as if her cheeks would ignite if something did not promptly relieve the tension.

"Strange, I had overlooked that. I thought you were the only party about here whose name I had received. Is he the young man outside?"

"Yes—but I would rather not bring him in," Tavia said. "He knows, of course, the money is lost, but—"

"I had not the slightest intention of speaking to him, child. In fact, it would not do for me to make known my business to the patrons of this house. You see, I came here, as I was told this was one of the oldest-established sanitariums in the State, and I hoped, in a vague way, to hear something of my poor sister Marie."

Tavia was silent. She felt instantly relieved at the idea that Nat would not hear all Miss Brooks might choose to say.

"The only way I might be of service to you," said Miss Brooks, as she folded up the letter, "would be by giving you some advice. You see, I cannot betray a firm I am employed by. But the method I would advise you to follow is being used every day by—victims. It is merely a matter of threatening to expose the scheme—they know the business is unlawful."

"Oh, I could never do that!" exclaimed Tavia. "My father is so well known; he is a squire, you know."

"All the more reason why they would pay attention to your letter," argued Miss Brooks. "But, of course, if you feel that way about it, all I can say is that you know how easily a young girl may be deceived, and, in the future, avoid such alluring promises. You could never expect any return from that sort of advertising."

Tavia was on her feet to go. She was disappointed. She felt the advice painfully unnecessary. In making mistakes she boasted of the faculty of always finding a new one—she never was known to repeat a downright error.

"I am very much obliged," she faltered, "and would do as you ask, but I am afraid to write any more letters."

Miss Brooks smiled. "I shall drop you a line," she offered, "if I find any other way of assisting you."

Tavia thanked her again, made her way down the stairs, and, with a sigh of relief, climbed up beside Nat in the car awaiting her.

"What did she say?" asked Nat impatiently.

"Oh, let me get my breath," begged Tavia. "I don't know what she did say, except she wanted me to write a letter and threaten to expose it—as if I could do that!"

"Why couldn't you?" asked Nat pointedly.

"Oh, I am just sick of it all," replied Tavia helplessly. "I want to drop it. I see no good in keeping it up now."

"Well, Tavia," said Nat not unkindly, but with more determination than it was usual for him to show, "I don't believe in letting money go as easily as all that, and if there is any possibility of us recovering it, it is 'up to us' to try. You know I am no 'knocker,' but I would rather have my 'tenner' than that slip of baby-blue paper."

Tavia did not answer. She was beginning to feel the consequences of her error. She never could stand being thus obligated to Nat—and she a guest at his house! Her humiliation was crushing. Nat had never spoken to her that way before.

The ride home was made with little conversation. Tavia was planning; Nat was evidently thinking very seriously about something—something he could not care to discuss.

All the Christmas preparations had lost interest for Tavia now, and when, that afternoon, Dorothy and Mrs. White went on with their work of love, she sat up in her own room writing and re-writing a letter. Finally it read:

"DEAR OLD MUMSEY: I hope you have received your pin, and that you have carefully hidden away Johnnie's steam engine. I know he will be delighted with it. Now, mumsey, dear, I have a great favor to ask. Could you possibly let me have five dollars more? I will send it back before my holiday is over, because I only want to lend it to some one, and I am sure to get it back. But, you see, no one has ever asked such a favor of me before, and I do wish I could accommodate them. Don't say anything to dad about it, but just send it along if you possibly can, and I will surely send it back very soon. I am having a lovely time, but feel I ought to be home with you all for my real Christmas.

"Lovingly, your daughter,

"OCTAVIA."

"There," she finished, "I guess that will do. I do hate to bother poor, darling, little hard-working mother, but what can I do? Perhaps I will be home for Christmas, too."

Then she wrote another letter—to her father. She made the same request, couched in different terms. Perhaps they would each send the money, and then she could pay Nat.



CHAPTER XV

DOROTHY AS A COMFORTER

Roland Scott and Tom Jennings were on hand that evening, when the young folks at The Cedars "put their heads together" for the selection of Mother Goose characters.

Mrs. White "presided," and in the matter of reading rhymes and impersonating the characters, it must be admitted the young gentlemen had the advantage.

It was decided that the tableaux, or charades, would be presented "without labels," and the audience would be permitted to guess what they stood for in nursery lore.

"They won't need another guess on Dorothy's 'Bo Peep,'" said Tom. "That crook is more famous in history than that of the original shepherds. 'Bo Peep' is always a winner."

"I am sure," retaliated Dorothy, "they will know yours instantly. But it is a pity we have to make them living pictures. You will hardly be able to refrain from actually putting in your thumb if we provide one of Norah's pies."

"And what a perfectly darling 'Little Jack Horner!'" added Tavia, for the characters were being selected with a view to making them as ridiculous as possible, and Tom would make a very funny "Jack Horner." Tom surveyed his thumb in anticipation.

Roland and Tavia were assigned "Jack Spratt and His Wife." Roland could be made up to look very lean, indeed, and Tavia was just stout enough to be "practical for building purposes." Her face was of the broad, good-natured type, and so her figure could readily be built up to correspond.

Nat insisted on being "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater," and wanted to have the privilege of selecting the pretty Eva Brownlie to put in the pumpkin shell, "for," argued Nat, "that is the only way any fellow will ever be able to keep the wily Eva."

The character of "Old King Cole" was assigned to Ned, with the instructions that he should get his "fiddlers three."

"Also the pipe and bowl," insisted Nat; "and see to it that you don't take my pipe or the 'bumper' I brought from the doings the other night. You wouldn't carry one home yourself."

"I'll tell you a tableau hard to guess," suggested Dorothy. "'The Beggars Coming to Town.' We could have half a dozen ragged people in that, and Nat could bark behind the scenes."

"And we could have 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary,'" proposed Tavia. "Make Lily Bently take that."

"Lily is a real sweet girl," spoke Mrs. White. "I hardly think she would like such a character."

"She would make a dear 'Miss Muffet,'" said Dorothy, "and I'm sure Nat can make up a wonderful spider—all strung by electrical wire, squirming and—"

"Wiggling," added Tom. "That ought to make a hit."

And so they went on, selecting from the familiar rhymes and their illustrations. There was some discussion as to just what this part of the entertainment should be called. Living pictures seemed to the young folks rather too ordinary, and it was finally decided to call it "Mother Goose illustrated." A large frame was to be built, and Mrs. White offered to go to town to procure what costumes could be found appropriate to assist the young people's auxiliary.

In order to give a dozen illustrations the same persons had to impersonate more than one character. When the last were being decided upon, Roland took "Jack Be Nimble," and to show how well he understood the part he jumped over the piano stool for the "candlestick." It was not a difficult matter at all, but Roland landed wrong and strained his ankle painfully.

At first he pretended it was nothing, and tried to laugh it off, saying if that was the only accident they encountered during the "show" they would indeed be fortunate.

But a strained ankle has the faculty of getting more painful as the victim begins to realize that something hurts. In about an hour it becomes almost like a very bad toothache.

This was how it was with Roland, and on account of the trifling accident the party was obliged to break up before all the arrangements had been completed, and Tom had to assist Roland back to The Elms.

"How unfortunate!" sighed Mrs. White. "Do you think it will be very bad, Ned?"

"Oh, nothing at all, mother," answered Ned. "We often do that at school, and it is all gone in twenty-four hours."

"I do hope his will be," she added in concern.

"Don't let it worry you the least bit," continued Ned. "Roland will be around for rehearsal as spry and as pretty as ever to-morrow evening."

From that time on "the play was the thing" at The Cedars, and, indeed, the whole little village of North Birchland seemed deeply interested in the affair to be held for the Hillside Hospital benefit. Naturally, there was considerable rivalry when the parts were assigned, but Mrs. White, with the other ladies on the board of managers, understood and expected this, so they were ready to meet the objections of some and the requests of others.

"We have decided upon these pictures," said Mrs. White at the first rehearsal, "and if any one is unwilling to take the part assigned we must simply look for substitutes."

Roland was there, as Ned had promised, "spry and as pretty as ever." He appeared to "hang around Dorothy," but she was too busy to notice the attention. Tavia, however, did not miss observing the young man's attempts to attract Dorothy, and she also noted that the same matter seemed distasteful to Ned.

Tom had a way of helping every one. He laughed with all the girls, and had plenty of jollity left for the boys—he was considered an "all-around good fellow." Naturally, Dorothy felt at ease with him, but Edith Brownlie made no pretense of hiding her intentions—she wanted to be in a picture with Tom.

Agnes Sinclair, considered the richest girl in Ferndale, proposed "doing a picture" with Ned—"The Maiden All Forlorn!"

To this Ned readily agreed, with the result that the rehearsal of the part caused no end of merriment. Agnes was a jolly girl, and showed a decided preference for the White boys—those from Ferndale never appeared to interest the wealthy Agnes.

When the rehearsal was finally over Dorothy was very tired, for she felt a personal interest in the affair, as it was almost entirely in Mrs. White's hands. The others had all congregated about Mrs. Brownlie's tea-table, where that lady was dispensing the refreshing beverage, but Dorothy sank down for a few moments in a secluded corner of the parlor where the practice had been held.

Presently she thought she heard something stir near her, then she distinctly heard a sob. Brushing aside the heavy portiere, Dorothy found little Mary Manning, her face hidden in her hands, and her whole slender form shaking convulsively.

"What is the matter, Mary dear?" asked Dorothy, her arms instantly about the little sufferer.

"Oh, I'm so unhappy!" sobbed Mary. "I wanted a part and nobody thought of me."

It then occurred to Dorothy that surely enough no one had thought of Mary, for from the time when the parts were given out until all the rehearsal was over Mary had never once either been seen or heard from. She was poor, not pretty, and not popular, but since she belonged to the auxiliary it was certainly too bad to have overlooked her.

"Why, I guess no one saw you," faltered Dorothy. "You surely would have been given a part had auntie seen you."

"Well, the girls looked—so queer at me," sobbed the miserable Mary. "I felt I had to keep back. But I do know how to play. My own mother was a real actress."

Dorothy looked down at the child in wonderment. Mary's mother an actress! No one seemed to know who the child's mother was, as she had always lived with the Mannings, an elderly couple.

"Well, we must give you a pretty part," promised Dorothy. "And I tell you, just come over to The Cedars to-morrow and Aunt Winnie—Mrs. White—will have it all made out for you. There, now, don't cry another tear. Come out to the tea-room with me and forget all your troubles. No, your eyes are not red. Come along," and she slipped her arm through that of little Mary, while she led the child out to the party of gay young folks, there to entertain her and bring to the queer little girl that sort of enjoyment which often follows acute grief—a reaction as uncontrollable as had been the bitterness which had caused the sorrow.



CHAPTER XVI

A DELICATE DISCOVERY

It was very near Christmas, and events were crowding about The Cedars. Dorothy, as usual, had assumed more than her share of responsibility, for Tavia somehow acted queerly. She spent much time running back and forth to the post-office, and it was evident to all that she and Nat were not the friends they had been previously. Besides this, Ned had spoken to Dorothy, and had actually asked her not to "flirt" with those college boys!

This was unlike Ned, and a positive shock to Dorothy. To be sure, he chose the word "flirt" indifferently, but to Dorothy it had an ugly sound, and that night, after all her worries at the rehearsal, she went to bed with a pair of very red eyes.

Perhaps it was the rush and excitement that caused every one to be so irritable and to so misunderstand things. Certainly Tavia had some worry, and Ned did not act like himself, while Nat looked miserable. It would be a queer holiday unless things mended promptly.

It was a pleasant morning, and Dorothy, feeling that a run in the open air would do her nerves good, seized upon some excuse to go to the village.

She wanted to be alone—to think about what Ned had said, to look over everything carefully, and see if he had any excuse for such a remark. Had she acted foolishly? Could her innocent freedom with Tom Jennings be misunderstood? Was it not possible for a girl to act naturally after she had passed the age of fifteen years?

Her head filled with such thoughts as these, in all the power that they may assume when first encountered by a young girl, Dorothy hurried along. She would simply tell Ned all about it, she decided. He surely would understand that she never dreamed of "flirting."

From the main highway she was obliged to turn into a branch of the road from Ferndale to reach the post-office, that little building being situated at the junction of both thoroughfares.

In her excitement she had scarcely glanced before her, but now, as she turned into the Ferndale road, she observed a woman coming along the same path. It was Miss Brooks.

Somehow Dorothy was glad to meet her. After all, it was not pleasant to think too seriously.

"Good-morning," said Dorothy with all the vivacity she could summon. "Looking for Christmas mail too?"

"Yes," replied Miss Brooks, with something of a sigh. "There are many kinds of Christmas mail, I suppose."

The reply confused Dorothy. She did not want to bring sad reflections to the "little woman in black."

"I guess we will have pleasant weather," Dorothy hurried to say vaguely. "I hope so, at any rate, for we must depend considerably upon the weather for the success of our hospital entertainment. You know, we are to have one."

"Yes, I've seen the tickets," said Miss Brooks, walking along with Dorothy. Then both paused. Both had evidently exhausted the commonplace.

Miss Brooks looked keenly at Dorothy. The latter could feel her searching gaze, and wondered secretly what it could mean. Presently Miss Brooks said:

"I believe you are a prudent girl, Miss Dale, and I wonder if I might trust you with a delicate—matter?"

"If I can help you—yes," answered Dorothy promptly.

"It is not to help me," said the other, "but to help your friend, Miss Travers."

Dorothy felt instantly that she referred to Tavia's troubles—those troubles which Tavia herself had refused to confide in her. Should she hear them from another?

In her direct way, without mincing words or risking any misunderstanding, Dorothy said decidedly:

"If you are sure I can help my friend I will be glad to do so, but I have no wish to interfere in any personal affair of hers."

Miss Brooks did not weaken. Dorothy's honesty in speaking as she did only seemed the more to convince her that Dorothy Dale could and ought to help Tavia Travers.

"I know," she went on, "that Miss Travers is greatly worried over a matter of money. I advised her how she could be relieved of that worry, but in spite of my advice I have reason to think that she has only made matters worse by writing to her folks at home and asking them for more money."

"Writing home for money!" gasped Dorothy.

"Yes; I am sorry to seem a meddler, but I feel that she will greatly complicate matters unless you are clever enough to step in and interfere. It is the old story of the tangled web; Miss Travers had no idea of doing anything—irregular. She simply did as thousands of others do, though I must say boys are usually the victims. A girl rarely takes such chances."

Dorothy was too surprised to speak. They were near the post-office, and both stood in the road to finish the conversation.

"How can I help her?" asked Dorothy simply.

"Well, I must confess it may be difficult, but I see no other way to get her out of her troubles, for she is surely multiplying them. The latest phase of her difficulty I may tell you of without any risk of betraying professional confidence," and Miss Brooks smiled faintly. "She has lately written to her father and to her mother for money—urging some trifling excuse. Letters intended for her have fallen into her father's hands. He is a lawyer, or in some way connected with legal affairs, is he not?"

"A squire."

"Oh, yes, that's it. Well, he has put two and two together, and has sent the last letter she wrote him out to a firm in Chicago, asking them to state clearly, and at once, what their business has been with his daughter, as he has reason to believe that it is because of this business that his daughter is worried about money and is trying to get it for some secret purpose. You see, he has inferred that she is trying to get the money on account of her dealings with this firm. The letters written to her show that."

Dorothy tried to understand, but it was all very strange. What sort of business dealings could be so dishonorable?

"And how can I help her?" she repeated.

"In one of two ways. Either get ten dollars for her in some way that she may return the money to her parents if they have already sent it, or induce her to write at once to her father, telling him frankly all about the matter and stating that she does not now require the ten dollars. She evidently wants that amount to pay some one who has lost on her account."

Dorothy was amazed. She could scarcely believe that Tavia would have gotten into any complex affair. And that some one should lose money on her account!

"Could it be Nat?" was the thought flashed through her brain. She had overheard some part of a conversation between Nat and Tavia, and now Tavia showed some ill-feeling toward Nat.

"Well, I must get along," said Miss Brooks finally. "I am glad I met you, and hope I have not given you too great a task. Good-morning."

Dorothy smiled and bowed, but her anxiety had promptly written the lines of care on her fair young face, and even the aged postmaster did not fail to ask her if anything was wrong at The Cedars when he handed her the mail.

Among the many letters was one for Tavia, and it bore the Dalton postmark.



CHAPTER XVII

SPRUCE BOUGHS AND LAUREL WREATHS

Mrs. Brownlie's immense parlors were stripped of all movable furniture in preparation for the charity entertainment.

Strong linen crash covered the handsome carpets, and the camp stools to be used on the evening of the performance had already arrived.

That afternoon the Fire Bird brought the evergreens from The Cedars—those which had been gathered some few days before and had since been stored carefully in the garage—and an additional supply came from Ferndale, the result of an enterprising expedition to the woods, under the management of Miss Agnes Sinclair.

Besides a necessary rehearsal, the evening was to be spent in decorating for the play. Mrs. White had requested every one to be on hand early, and now the young folks were arriving.

Little Mary Mahon was the first to come—in accordance with Dorothy's arrangements, for Mary was to rehearse her part before the others would get there, and just what her number would be was to be kept secret.

The Brownlie girls, Eva and Edith, understood the remark Dorothy made as she entered, and so left the parlors entirely at her disposal, even locking the door from the hall and throwing open the library to accommodate any one who might come before Mary's "practice" was over.

A recitation had been selected for Mary—one that afforded ample opportunity for the child's natural talent to act—for she had talent, and both Mrs. White and Dorothy were delighted with the prospect of what the queer child would add to the program.

There was something so weird about Mary—if that word might be fitly used to denote her peculiar characteristics.

She was not deformed, but she surely was deficient physically. She was thin to emaciation, she had fiery red hair, and Roger always declared "her eyes and eyebrows were just as red as her hair."

The recitation chosen for her was "Guilty or Not Guilty?" and it seemed to suit her strangely. Of course, when a child is almost constantly in the company of aged persons, and takes no pleasure in play, besides being over-studious, she is bound to be "queer."

And such was Mary Mahon.

When Dorothy threw open the parlor door after the rehearsal her face was radiant. She was pleased—delighted with Mary, and the girls waiting to be admitted to the "hall" exchanged knowing glances when Dorothy told them the room was ready.

Tom and Roland were there, Agnes Sinclair, Mabel Hastings, Ned, and Nat, of course; Tavia was with Eva Brownlie, chatting as if there was nothing else to be done that evening; Betty Bindley managed to get her dainty little self secure with Harold Osborne (Handsome Harold, they called him), and other members of the auxiliary and their friends were there ready to begin the work of rehearsing and decorating.

Besides the pictures there was to be music—the Brownlie girls played the violin beautifully, and Dorothy was an acknowledged pianist; then Agnes Sinclair was to entertain with monologues, and the boys were to have a vocal double quartette.

The arranging of this program involved considerable work, so to-night there was no time to be wasted.

"Let's get the wreaths first," proposed Dorothy. "We shall need such long strings to go all around the room. While some of us are at these, others can be going through their parts."

Tom grabbed a huge mass of broken laurel branches, made his way to a corner, placed two chairs before the pile of greens and deliberately sought out Dorothy.

"Come," he said very kindly, "I've got a quiet job for you. You usually get too much of the all-around business. Let us run a race making the wreath, or strings, I suppose you want. Here, Ned," he called across the room, "get your stuff and your girl, and I'll race you for a mile of green string."

Could anything be more inopportune? To select Dorothy to be his partner against Ned in a race!

But the idea of a contest was quickly taken up by the others, so that soon the party had paired off, and racing with the strings of laurel became a matter of enjoyment, and not a question of work.

Dorothy took her place with Tom; Agnes Sinclair was with Ned; Nat went to work with Eva Brownlie, and Tavia sat beside Roland.

How quickly the fingers flew! And how soon the small sprigs of green were twined into long, soft garlands!

"I'll keep tally," proffered Edith Brownlie, glad to escape the more certain duty of tying the cords about the boughs.

For an hour all worked and chatted gaily, the boys continually "betting against bets," while the girls would complain that too much conversation interfered with the progress of the race.

When the full hour had passed Edith called "Time!" Then the measuring began.

"No stretching!" warned Ned as he held his rope of green against that which Tom and Dorothy had woven.

"Ours!" called Tom, as the one string pulled out two yards longer than the other.

Then every other strand was measured against that. Not one came up to the garland made by Dorothy and Tom.

"Oh, of course," pouted Eva, "Dorothy and Tom could not possibly have been beaten. They're such a strong team!"

The others laughed, although Dorothy did not like the remark.

Ned lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully, but never once smiled at Dorothy's triumph.

"Tavia has the 'Booby,'" announced Tom, who had done all the measuring, "Now distribute the prizes, please."

Tavia protested, of course, and soon the room was in an uproar. Finally the ladies insisted the wreaths should be put up, and when the chairs and stepladders had been brought the boys began festooning the long strings of green about the room, over windows and doors, and about the finely-fluted posts that marked the arches.

Dorothy purposely took Ned's rope to hold for him.

"Won't it look pretty?" she asked, trying to show her interest in his work.

"Guess so," he answered indifferently, without looking at his cousin.

"Here, Dorothy," called Tom. "You are not to work. This sofa is especially provided for our comfort. Here, sit down," and taking her arm, he attempted to lead her away from the ladder upon which Ned stood.

"Let me have it," said Ned, jerking the rope from Dorothy's grasp. Instinctively she held to it, and looked up in some astonishment at her cousin.

A moment later Ned swayed toward her. She had released her hold of the rope, and the sudden easing of the strain which the youth put upon it caused him to lose his balance. He swayed still farther away from the ladder, and thrust out his hands to grasp the rungs. He dropped the rope, and as Dorothy gave a frightened scream he crashed to the floor, right at her feet, narrowly missing striking her.

She had barely time to jump aside when the ladder crashed down beside the prostrate form of Ned.

Instantly the room was in an uproar. Ned was hurt—he did not attempt to move, but lay there almost unconscious.

"Oh, my boy!" cried Mrs. White, bending over him.

"Ned! Ned!" implored the frightened Dorothy, with her white face very close to his. "It was all my fault!"

"No," spoke up Tom, "I should not have distracted him while he was up so high. Come, boy," to Ned, "let me lift you."

The strong arms of Tom Scott encircled the helpless one, and very tenderly Ned was lifted, then carried to a lounge in the library.

"Oh, I'm all right," he managed to say, when Tom had placed him on the couch. "I just hurt my—knee, I guess."

The expression of pain that crossed his face showed plainly some member was injured, and Mrs. Brownlie, in spite of his protests, insisted on calling a doctor.



Dorothy wanted to cry. She felt it was somehow her fault. If only Tom had not interfered! But of course he meant no harm. Yet she knew how Ned felt.

"Oh, dear," she sighed aloud, "I did feel that something would happen!"

"I'm sorry," said Ned feebly. "I was a—goose to snap it so, Doro."

Tom had gone out to the telephone in the hall. Mrs. White and Mrs. Brownlie advised the others to leave off the decorating until the next day, as it would be best to get the house quiet.

"Every shock has a nervous reaction," explained Mrs. Brownlie in dismissing her guests thus suddenly, "and it will be best to keep him quiet until the doctor comes."

Tavia wanted to stay, but not even Dorothy was accorded that privilege. Tom remained with Mrs. White, and Nat went for the Fire Bird, in which to take his brother and mother home, there being no room for the others in it now.

"How ever did it happen?" Tavia asked of Dorothy as they walked the short distance home in Roland's company.

"I had hold of his rope," replied Dorothy, still showing her distress, "and he attempted to take it—"

"He acted so queerly all evening," commented Tavia. "I never saw him so cross."

"I did not notice it," said Roland, touching the bell at the door of The Cedars. "I thought him in the best of spirits."

"Of course, it was simply an accident," added Dorothy. "How he felt could have had nothing to do with it."

"Well, everything seems queer," declared Tavia. "I just wonder how it will all turn out."

"That must depend entirely upon ourselves," insisted the practical Dorothy. "But we will have trouble in getting some one to take Ned's place— Oh, dear, if I had only—but there's no use lamenting." And when Roland said good-night at the door Dorothy went directly to her own room—she was too much depressed to join the family's expression of anxieties.

The queer holidays were surely nearing a climax.



CHAPTER XVIII

DOROTHY'S DISTRESS

Complication upon complication!

Dorothy could scarcely think—she was stunned, bewildered.

The thought of Ned's disapproval of Tom's attention to her seemed the most bitter thought of all.

She did love Ned, her own cousin. How could any girl not appreciate the joy of being a cousin to Ned White?

And that he should misunderstand her! Think her frivolous, and even accuse her of flirting!

Dorothy felt that even The Cedars now belonged to Ned, and she, with her father and brothers, were merely his guests.

How ever could she make him understand?

Why are girls neither women nor children in all the troublesome "between" years?

Then Tavia's troubles. Dorothy had thought to do all Miss Brooks advised, but how could she do so to-night? And the letter Dorothy had given Tavia was certainly from Mr. Travers.

Thoughts of the play, of little Mary's part, then the responsibility of insuring a success, crowded through Dorothy's confused brain.

If the play was a success she had hoped to get little Bennie Baglin into the hospital. He suffered so, and surely could be helped, if not cured, by proper treatment. But the hospital would only accept patients from the Birchlands according as money was contributed from the place, and it would cost considerable to have an incurable (as Bennie was) taken in.

But Dorothy had quietly planned his Christmas. She had saved a little tree from the decorating greens, and had already gathered and bought enough trinkets to trim it.

"If only Ned is not badly hurt," she prayed as the night grew very late. "I do wish they would come."

The sound of automobile wheels on the path answered her wish. The next moment she was at the door.

"Open both doors," Mrs. White said to Major Dale, who stood beside Dorothy. "He cannot walk, and must not be jarred."

Mrs. White's voice betrayed excitement and anxiety. Dorothy was too anxious to speak—she dreaded to know the actual trouble.

Tom and Dr. Whitethorn carried the injured boy into the library.

"How's that?" asked the doctor as Ned fell back amid the cushions of a couch.

"All—right," replied the latter with evident effort.

"Now just keep quiet, and don't attempt to move unaided," said the doctor, "and we'll see how it is in the morning. I think, Mrs. White, you might make him comfortable to-night on this floor. It will be safer."

Ned was very pale. Dorothy could not bear to see his white face with the deep dark rings under his eyes. Tom did what he could, and then was ready to leave.

He took Dorothy's arm and led her out into the hall.

"See here, little girl," he began, "you are not to blame yourself in any way for this. If any one was at fault it was I. I saw how he—felt, and should not have tantalized him."

"It was simply an accident," argued Dorothy feebly.

"Certainly," answered Tom; "but Ned was out of sorts. He seemed to have a personal grudge against me."

"Oh, you must have imagined that," answered Dorothy. "Ned is sensitive, but not—unreasonable."

Tom pressed her hand warmly in parting. The action brought warm color to her cheeks. He was trying to cheer her, of course, but Ned would not have liked it.

When the doctor had left, Mrs. White told the major that her son's hip was hurt.

"And that does take so long to mend," she lamented. "The hip is such a network of ligaments."

Acting on the doctor's advice, the injured young man was made comfortable in the library for the night. Nat wanted to stay with him—there were plenty of divans and couches that might be used in the emergency—but Mrs. White insisted upon caring for the boy herself. She noticed he was becoming feverish, and so hurried the others off to bed that the house might be quiet.

Dorothy took Ned's warm hand in hers and touched his forehead with her lips. But she knew better than to utter one word—he must be quiet, very quiet.

How strangely depressing was the house now with the gloom of sickness upon it! The awful uncertainty of an accident, what the result might be, how serious or trifling—every possibility seemed weighted with terrible consequences.

Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed. Her heart was very full, everything seemed dark and gloomy now. All the difficulties of yesterday were engulfed in that one sorrow—Ned's accident. Dorothy seemed unable to pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the little tragedy.

"If only I had told Tom—asked him not to! But how could I do that?" she argued against argument. "What would he think of Ned? Of me?"

A step in the hall roused her from her reverie. There was a slight tap on the door, then Tavia entered. Although it was late she was still entirely dressed, and her face showed she had been crying.

"Dorothy," she said, her voice trembling and the tears welling into her eyes, "I must—go home!"

"Why?" asked Dorothy, surprised and startled.

"Dad says so. I must go first thing in the morning."

"Your letter?"

"Yes, it was from father."

"Has anything happened?"

"Yes, and no. Father has—misunderstood some letters of mine. He found them since I came away—and he blames me— Oh, Doro!" and Tavia covered her face with her hands. "How I wish I had told you before!"

Tavia was sobbing bitterly. Instantly there came to Dorothy's mind the thought of Miss Brooks' warning, her advice to tell Tavia before it was too late, before all the harm was done. And had she delayed too long? Even that one day might have been sufficient time in which the threatened danger had become a certainty.

"Tavia, dear, don't go on so! It cannot be—so very dreadful."

"Oh, but it is! I never should have done such a thing. I knew better, and I tried to convince myself that I did not. Then I should never have taken your money. Oh, Doro, I deceived you, and I have deceived everybody!"

"You are excited and everything seems worse to you now, dear. Try to be calm and tell me how I can help you."

"You cannot—nobody can. Father is angry—he wrote such a terrible letter, and how I dread to face him!"

"Perhaps we can arrange it so you will not have to go," said Dorothy in her own way of promptly attempting to save Tavia from the consequences of her own folly. "It is all about money, I know."

"You know?"

"Yes; Miss Brooks told me that much."

"Miss Brooks told you!"

"She merely said you were in some difficulty and asked me to advise you—to tell your father all about it," Dorothy said cautiously.

"Miss Brooks has no right to interfere!" snapped Tavia, immediately taking offense. "Advice is always cheap!"

"But she surely did it out of kindness," continued Dorothy, "and she really seemed very much concerned."

"I don't want to hear or know anything more about that—person. She is evidently trying to cover up her little mistake in putting a ring in the wrong bag. She knows absolutely nothing about me—she is merely guessing."

Tavia felt she was making bad worse; it was not a time to attempt further deception. But somehow the idea of Miss Brooks speaking to Dorothy angered her—she was the one to do that. Then followed the accusing voice of conscience:

"But why did you not do so? Why do you not do so now?"

"I suppose she told you that I—"

"She told me nothing," interrupted Dorothy, "but that you had made some mistake in a money matter and then suggested that the way for you to rectify it would be to write to your father and tell him all about it."

"I wonder she did not essay to do that herself—she seems perfectly qualified to attend to it all for me."

"Now, Tavia," began Dorothy, assuming a voice at once commanding and kind, "it is utterly useless for you to take that view of the matter. If you dislike Miss Brooks' interference, pay no attention to it. Do what you think best. Look the whole question squarely in the face, and then decide."

All Tavia's contrition and her determination to do what was right, which sentiment had entirely possessed her when she entered the room, seemed to have gone with the mention of Miss Brooks' name.

"If she has told Dorothy," thought Tavia, "there is no need for me to repeat it."

So vanished the blessed power, truth, and so did the confusing and conflicting powers of deceit throng about her, and more than ever preclude the possibility of a happy solution for her difficulties.

"I must go home," she said dejectedly. "Dad said I should be home by noon to-morrow."



CHAPTER XIX

BETWEEN THE LINES

When Tavia had left her, Dorothy felt utterly helpless in facing the problems that now confronted her.

"One thing is certain," Dorothy told herself. "Tavia must not go home. In her state of mind, and with her temper, there is no telling what she might do—leave home, or something else dreadful. If I could only see Squire Travers first," she argued, "I am sure I could manage it some way."

"But I cannot possibly go to Dalton now," she decided, "with Ned sick, and the play to-morrow night.