"And how can I persuade Tavia not to go? I suppose she has her bag packed already."

Dorothy seemed incapable of reasoning further. She threw herself down on her bed and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, as if expecting some inspiration to come from the dainty blue and gold papering.

How long she lay there she had no idea of computing—it was not now a question of time, although the night must be far advanced, but to the perplexed girl everything about her seemed to surge in one great sea of difficulties.

She jumped up suddenly.

"I wonder how Ned is?" she thought. "If only he is not seriously hurt. The doctor said if he slept, and no fever arose, he would do well. I wonder how I can find out. I might slip downstairs and listen."

She drew her heavy blue robe around her, put on her slippers and softly opened the door. There was no light in the upper hall, and a turn from the first flight of stairs hid the dim light below. Directly at this turn a push-button connected with an electric drop lamp, and this button Dorothy touched as she passed.

At the broad window-seat she hesitated for a moment, looked out at the clear, wintry night, and then slipped down the stairs so lightly that even the cushioned velvet carpet took no impress of her footfall.

At the last step she stopped—a terrible fear clutched her heart. The library door was open, but no sound came from the room.

She clung to the broad post and listened. Could Ned be worse? Then the chime of the hall clock startled her. It was just midnight! Dorothy had no idea it was so very late.

She would just go to the library door—

Involuntarily she turned toward the vestibule. A strange sensation of some one watching her from without possessed her, terrified her, and at the same instant a light tap sounded upon the plate-glass door.

Some one was watching her!

For the moment Dorothy could not move or utter a sound. Then the thought of her sick cousin brought her back to a realization of the emergency. She must answer the knock and not arouse any one.

Summoning all her self-control Dorothy moved toward the front door. Only the glass and a thin lace drapery separated her from without, as the storm door had been left open. Some one stood within the small entrance hall—the shadow was clearly outlined.

She drew aside the lace curtain.

There stood Tom Scott!

"Open the door," he whispered "I—don't want to detain you."

More surprised now than frightened, Dorothy shoved back the heavy bolt and gently opened the huge door.

"I had no idea of startling you," began Tom, without waiting for her to speak, "but I have been so anxious! I've been watching the house, and when I saw the light flash upstairs I felt as if something must have happened. The doctor said by midnight—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, now realizing the cause of Tom's unexpected visit, "I was coming downstairs to see how he was. If you just wait I'll peek in at the door and see. Won't you step inside?"

"Oh, no, indeed," Tom replied in an undertone. "I had no idea of disturbing any one. I thought just to look around the house and see if all was well. I am on my way home from the telegraph office. Aunt Margaret thought of an important message which she insisted had to go out to-night."

Dorothy turned toward the library. Scarcely had she rounded the alcove when Tom noticed some one at the top of the stairs.

It was Tavia.

She stood for a moment looking at Tom, then she nodded her head in a friendly way and disappeared as quietly as she had come.

"Awkward," thought Tom, "but any one would know I am here to hear about Ned."

Dorothy was coming back now, and she was smiling.

"Sound asleep," she whispered.

"Good," breathed Tom. "Now I won't keep you another second. Awfully good of you to let me in."

"Not at all," stammered Dorothy. "I was just a little frightened first. I will know better than to light up at midnight again."

"The midnight alarm!" quoted Tom, making his way out. "Don't stand in the draft. It's cold enough. Good-night!"

Then he was gone.

Dorothy flew back to her room, agitated, but comforted that Ned was resting. This knowledge seemed to assure her that he was not seriously injured, and now she took up the Tavia question.

"She must not go home," Dorothy repeated. "I will see if she is still up."

A glimmer of light stole under Tavia's door. Dorothy tapped lightly, but opened the door unbidden. She found her chum bent over pen and paper, but as Dorothy came in Tavia dropped the pen and looked up in surprise.

"Tavia," began Dorothy, "I came to coax you to stay—you must not go home to-morrow. I will telegraph your father. He was always so—kind to me. And when he hears all about it—about Ned and all—I am sure he will not be angry."

"I cannot," answered Tavia. "I must go."

"Oh, please, Tavia, do listen! If you go, what will you say? What will you do?"

"I don't know."

"Tavia!" pleaded Dorothy, a note of distress in her voice.

The two girls looked into each other's eyes. Dorothy's were brimful, but Tavia's were too "frozen" for tears.

"Tavia, dear," whispered Dorothy.

Tavia's arm stole about Dorothy's neck. She touched the flushed cheek with her dry lips. Then she straightened up in an attitude of defiance.

"I'll stay!" she exclaimed. "I don't care what they think of me."



CHAPTER XX

THE ENTERTAINMENT

How the following day passed Dorothy did not want to remember. From the early morning, when she sent the telegram to Mr. Travers, stating that Tavia could not possibly leave, and that a letter to follow would explain, until the hour set for the charity performance, the girl was in one continuous whirl of excitement.

Ned's accident did not prove to be as serious as had been feared, although there was no possibility of him being about for several days, at least.

In the excitement and emergency Tavia had marshaled all her individual forces, and proved herself worthy to be a friend and chum of Dorothy Dale. With her change of heart—her resolution to "stick to Dorothy"—there seemed to come to her a new power, or, at least, it was a return of the power with which she had previously been accredited.

So the final work of preparation was accomplished, and now it seemed to be merely a matter of raising and lowering the curtain.

The characters which Ned was to have impersonated were divided among the other young men, it being necessary of course, to "double up" on three or four parts. Agnes Sinclair openly deplored her loss of a partner, but the others smiled incredulously when she said she preferred to play with Ned and "hated that big bear, Tom Scott."

Tom made this his excuse for being particularly "grizzly" with the pretty Agnes, and at the afternoon rehearsal he nearly went through the big gilt picture frame, in which the illustrations were posed, when he attempted to introduce a little impromptu "business" in "The Maiden all Forlorn."

Then when Roland attempted to do "There was a Man in Our Town," another of Ned's parts, his efforts were so absurd and so utterly unlike what the tableau was expected to be, that it was decided to make it "I Had a Little Husband, no Bigger than my Thumb." Roland certainly looked diminutive enough to fit into a pint pot, and also seemed qualified to do as he might be told with the drum.

Finally all was arranged, or rearranged, and the hour for the play was almost at hand.

No more delightful weather could have been wished for. It was clear and cold, while outside a big silvery moon threw a fairy-like illumination over the scene, and filtered in through the big windows of the drawing-room of the home of Mrs. Justin Brownlie.

Dorothy laughed her light, happy laugh. After all, perhaps everything would come out right—it was such a relief to feel that Ned would soon be better. The worry about him was the very worst part of her troubles. Then, suddenly, like the recurrence of an unpleasant dream, the thought of Tom's midnight visit flashed before her mind.

"Oh, I didn't tell you, Tavia," she said quickly. "I had the awfullest scare the other night. I just stole downstairs to see how Ned was, when all at once some one rapped at the vestibule door."

Tavia gazed upon Dorothy, pride and admiration beaming in her deep, hazel eyes.

"Oh, you needn't tell me, Doro," she interrupted. "I saw the midnight marauder, as the poets say. Lucky for him he stood directly under the light."

"Wasn't it—wasn't it kind of him to be—so—so anxious?" went on Dorothy, making fast her scarf picking up her pretty party-bag.

"Perhaps," assented Tavia, smiling broadly.

"Tom's the sort of fellow who dares to do right, no matter what happens. He would as soon call at midnight as midday, if the occasion warranted it. And that's saying a good deal for Tom—from me," she concluded.

Nat was waiting at the door. He took particular pains to be nice to Tavia. In fact, most of the difficulties that had for some weeks been accumulating about The Cedars seemed to take wings with the occurrence of Ned's accident. The oft-quoted saying about an "ill wind" was once more being verified, although it was hard for Ned to be left at home.

The house was already crowded when our friends arrived at Mrs. Brownlie's.

"We will have a good attendance," commented Dorothy with a smile of satisfaction. "If we can only make our hundred dollars, and then get little Bennie into the hospital, how lovely it will be!"

"There must be a hundred persons here now," Nat assured her, "and at a dollar per—"

"Oh, do hurry along," interrupted Eva Brownlie. "We are all waiting for you, Dorothy. We were worried to death for fear something else dreadful might have happened."

Eva surely looked like an angel. She was entirely in white, her hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, with a band of gold, in Roman style, confining it at her brow.

Roland was dancing attendance on Eva—any one could see that he was fascinated by the pretty twin. Tom came up to Dorothy as she entered the broad hall.

"How's the boy?" he inquired kindly. "Has he forgiven me yet?"

"Of course," replied Dorothy, smiling. "He's getting better. But it was hard to leave him alone with his hurt—and Norah. Not that Norah is to be classed with the injuries," she hurried to add, laughing merrily.

"They are waiting for the orchestra," Tom reminded her, taking her music and escorting her to the piano.

The girls, with their violins, were already in place. Dorothy felt some embarrassment in facing a room filled with those she considered critical spectators, for the best society of all the Birchlands, as well as cultured persons from Ferndale near by, had come to the entertainment.

The Brownlie girls played the violins. Dorothy gave them the "A" note, and they put their instruments in tune, with that weird, fascinating combination of chords which prelude the opening strains of enthralling music. Then they began.

The first number received a generous encore, and the girls played again. Then there was a suppressed murmur of expectancy—a picture was about to be presented.

Slowly the curtains were drawn aside. The lights had been "doused" as Nat, the acting stage manager, expressed it, and only a dim glow illuminated the tableau.

An immense gilt frame, containing a landscape as a background. In front of that the living pictures were posed. It was Jack Spratt and his Wife—presented by Tavia and Roland.

The audience instantly recognized the illustration, and vigorous applause greeted the tableau. Tavia was surely funny—so fat, and so comical, while Roland looked like a human toothpick. The clean platter was cleaner than even Mother Goose could have wished it, and, altogether, the first picture was an unqualified success.

Tavia was shaking with nervousness when the curtain was pulled together, and when, in response to an imperative demand from the audience, it was parted again, Tavia could scarcely keep from laughing outright. It was one of the difficult pictures, but the girl's talent for theatricals stood her in good stead, while, as for Roland, he seemed too lazy to make any blunders.

Tom, as "Jack Horner," came next. Fat! Numbers in the audience insisted that he was the original "Roly-poly," but the big paper-covered pie precluded all further argument. Tom held his thumb in that pie as faithfully as ever a real, picture Jack Horner did. He had to pose for a second view, and at that the throng was not satisfied, but Nat declared that one encore was enough.

Then Little Bo-Peep appeared—fast asleep, lying on some fresh hay from the Brownlie barn. And what a charming picture Dorothy did make!

She wore a light-blue skirt, with a dark bodice, and a big, soft straw hat, tossed back on her head, did not hide the beauty of her abundant locks. Her crook had fallen from her hand, and rested at the bottom of the little mound of hay. It was a delightful representation, and Dorothy seemed actually painted upon the canvas, so naturally did she sleep. Mrs. Brownlie nodded approvingly to Mrs. White. Dorothy's picture was not only pretty, but it artistically perfect.

The audience seemed loath to disturb the little scene by applause, and instead of answering to an encore Dorothy was obliged to keep her Bo-Peep attitude for the length of time that it would have required to present her tableau a second time.

Tom grasped Dorothy's hand as she left the frame.

"Great!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I wish Ned could have seen you!"

Dorothy was glad—pardonably glad. She had thought a "solo" difficult, and had doubted her ability to make it attractive, but now she was quite satisfied.

There was some delay in presenting the next number, but the wait was forgotten when the curtains were pulled apart.

It was a depiction of "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater," with Eva's fair head sticking out of an immense paper pumpkin shell. Nat's face, in the character of Peter, was in a most satisfactory smile, consequent, probably, upon his ability to "keep her very well," and it was surely a very funny picture. Eva assumed a distressed look, and was thankful that only her face had to act, for the quarters of the pumpkin shell were rather limited.

Other tableaux followed, each one more or less well impersonated, until Tom and Agnes went at "The Maiden all Forlorn."

As the "Man all Tattered and Tom," Tom was a veritable scarecrow, with a fringe of rags all over him, and the familiar battered hat well turned down to conceal any accidental smile that might detract from his serious pose. He was bending over Agnes in the regulation picture-lover attitude, and as the curtains were pulled together Tom did what any other young man on earth might have done—he kissed the Maiden all Forlorn.

Everybody behind the scenes saw it.

"I never want to act with him again!" declared Agnes loudly and scornfully, as she scrubbed her offended cheek with her handkerchief. "Ned White is always a gentleman."

Dorothy was sorry, but it seemed a natural joke. Every one but Agnes thought the same thing, but somehow the forlorn maiden could not be convinced that Tom was simply thoughtless in his joking.

The incident, trifling as it was, somewhat marred the good humor of the players. Roland came near falling for a second time in his "Jack be Nimble." As it was, the big candlestick did topple over just as the curtain bell sounded. Then Edith Brownlie looked decidedly miserable as "The Queen was in the Kitchen, Eating Bread and Honey." She liked Tom Scott—everybody knew that—and now Tom, in addition to having lately favored Dorothy, had kissed Agnes! Of course, the girls, and boys too, teased the sensitive Edith, and she lost interest in her picture.

Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief when Mary Mahon's number was announced. Mary was actually quivering with excitement. She wanted to act, and Dorothy was confident that she would do well.

Her recitation was entitled "Guilty or Not Guilty?" and as she stepped out and made her bow, the house was hushed in silence. In a plaintive voice she began that well-known poem:

"She stood at the bar of justice, A creature wan and wild, In form too young for a woman, In feature too old for a child."

How the lines seemed to suit her! Surely the features of Mary were too old for those of a child. Her face had a drawn, pinched look, and her eyes were so deeply set.

But the pathos of her voice! When she pleaded with the judge for mercy against the charge that she was a thief she mentioned the starving children.

"I took—oh, was it stealing?— The bread to give to them!"

The women pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes. There was something almost too real in the child's plea. Who was she? they asked. A professional?

Dorothy was delighted at Mary's success. The girl was her "find," and it was she who had taught her how to use her voice so well in the pathetic lines. True, she found an apt pupil in Mary, and Dorothy was but too glad to accord her the entire triumph, when the recitationist bowed again in response to the hearty applause and retired.

A gentleman in the audience left his chair, and, walking over, spoke to Mrs. White. He was Dr. Baker, one of the hospital staff.

"I think I know that child," he said. "Does she not live with an aged couple named Manning?"

"I believe she does," replied Mrs. White, making a place for Dr. Baker to sit down beside her. "My niece Dorothy is much interested in the child—she seems to have a faculty for discovering genius, has Dorothy."

"Well, I have not seen little Mary for some years, but there is no mistaking her. Her mother, an actress, died in one of the charity wards of the hospital, and I am afraid the child has inherited the fatal malady from her mother. She looks now like a consumptive."

Mrs. White was startled. Certainly Mary was delicate in appearance, but she had not thought of her as having a disease.

"There's no time to spare in her case," said the physician in a low voice. "Bring her to me as soon as you can."

"Dorothy did not expect to have a real case assisted so promptly," remarked Mrs. White. "It is rather out of the ordinary—a patient playing for her own benefit."

"I suspect that your pretty niece brought this child out with the sole purpose of making her happy," said Dr. Baker, "and she evidently has no idea how much real happiness she is destined to confer on her. Perhaps a month later it would have been too late to save her. Now I think we can, though there is a flush on her cheeks that I do not like."

The curtains were separated to disclose the last number. It was a tableau of all the girls and boys, posing as the "Haymakers." It made a beautiful picture, the girls in their gaily-colored dresses, with great, broad-brimmed hats, and the boys dressed in equally rural costumes.

Dorothy was so glad that it was all over—that this was the last picture. Agnes stood next to her. The curtains were drawn, and then separated again in response to insistent applause. There was a moment more of posing, and then it was all over.

As the curtain shut out the sight of the audience, Agnes slipped her arm around Dorothy's waist. Then she leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"I am sorry to have made all that fuss about—about him kissing me. But, Doro, dear, I do hate a flirt, and everybody knows Tom Scott is in love with you."



CHAPTER XXI

A STRANGE CONFESSION

Had Agnes actually struck her, Dorothy could not have been more surprised. In the excitement and confusion of the finish of the performance, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for Dorothy to resent such a remark. But after she had reached The Cedars and her quiet, little room, the words seemed to burn themselves into her mind. How dared any one to speak so to her—a mere schoolgirl, with no thoughts of love?

Pained and distressed, she put aside all the play finery and threw herself across the bed. Scarcely had she done so ere she heard her aunt's step approaching.

"I came to congratulate you, my dear," said Mrs. White warmly. "Most of the success of the entertainment was due to— Why—what—you are almost crying," and she stopped in some confusion.

"Oh, aunty!" wailed Dorothy. "I seem to be so misunderstood lately. And Agnes Sinclair made such a queer—such a strange remark to me—just as I was leaving the last tableau."

"Why, what could she say, child?"

"She said—she said," and Dorothy hesitated, while the warm blood coursed to her pale cheeks—"she said—everybody knew Tom Scott was in—in love with me!"

Mrs. White simply stared at her niece. Then she shook her head ruefully, but she hardly knew what to say, for fear of further embarrassing Dorothy.

"Why, you dear, precious baby!" she exclaimed at length, as she placed her hand caressingly on Dorothy's head. "Doesn't everybody know what Agnes thinks of Tom? She is old enough to have such thoughts, and her reason for inflicting them on you, my dear, is merely a consequence of you—of you doing the work that older girls usually do. I should not have allowed you to take so much responsibility, Dorothy. We know, however," continued Mrs. White very gently, "that the pretty Agnes admires Mr. Scott very much. So you must excuse her seeming indiscretion."

Dorothy's mind was instantly relieved. If Agnes did like Tom, of course she might have thought he was neglecting her for Dorothy. And he had only been trying to help Dorothy—there were so many things to do.

"But Agnes seemed so fond of Ned," spoke Dorothy after a pause.

"You are too tired to think about such things now," said Mrs. White firmly. "You are over-sensitive. Why should you care about so trifling a thing as that?"

Dorothy did not answer. She was tired—very tired. Perhaps she was over-sensitive. But when she reflected that Ned had said almost the same thing—

To change the subject Mrs. White told her niece about Dr. Baker, what he had said, and how interested he was in little Mary.

"Oh, I'm so glad of that," said Dorothy. "I hope—"

But at that moment Tavia poked her head in the door to see what was going on in Dorothy's room, that she had not come to her chum, or summoned her, to talk over the events of the evening.

"Ned is calling for you, Mrs. White," said Tavia.

"I'll go at once; but remember," she commanded playfully to the two girls, "no more chattering to-night. To-morrow is another day."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Tavia, when the door had closed on Mrs. White and the two girls were alone in Dorothy's room, "I'm so frightened, Doro, dear. I should have gone home. What am I going to say to my father?"

"I will do all the saying that is necessary," bravely offered Dorothy. "It was I who kept you."

"Yes, and I know why."

"Why, then?"

"Simply to fix it up for me. You never could intrust me with such an important commission."

"Well, I am sure when I have a chance to speak to your father—but, dear me, there are so many things!"

"Oh, Doro, I just want to ask you if you saw the 'Babbling Brook' in the audience? She was fairly eating up little Mary with those big optics of hers."

"Miss Brooks? I did not see her," answered Dorothy. "Did she like Mary's effort?"

"Like her? I should, say she fairly loved her, but then, you see, a sister of hers had a baby girl once," and Tavia laughed to cover up the mistake she had made in mentioning the affairs of Miss Brooks. "There, Doro, dear, I'm going now. To-morrow is another day, as your aunt says," finished Tavia, kissing Dorothy fondly and leaving her chum to think over all the matters that now confused her tired, weary brain.

It was Roger who first tapped at his sister's door the next morning.

"Doro," he called, "when are we going out to see that ghost?"

"Ghost?" repeated the girl, rubbing her eyes and trying to collect her scattered thoughts.

"Yes; you know you promised," and by this time Roger was in the room and had his arms around her neck.

"Oh," she laughed, "we'll take a ride out to the castle just as soon as—as Ned is able to go."

"He's going out riding to-day—I heard him say so," persisted the boy.

"Well, we'll see," replied Dorothy. "But you must run out now. My! it's almost nine o'clock. I didn't think it was so late."

The entertainment had been so engrossing that all the thoughts of Tanglewood Park and the mystery concerning it had entirely escaped Dorothy's memory for the time being. But Roger had determined to know all about that "scream," and only yesterday he had had a long talk with old Abe down at the station; a long, serious talk. Abe told the little fellow that there "sure was a ghost up at the castle," and when Joe, who was with Roger, asked about the lady the old liveryman had driven up there, Abe rolled up his eyes in an unpleasant fashion, and declared that the lady was a "near-ghost" herself.

Roger told all this, and more, to Dorothy, so she was obliged to make a tentative promise, at least, that she would go with him to the castle the very first moment she could spare.

The boy renewed his request after breakfast, and was quite insistent.

"I can't go to-day," said his sister. "You know I have many little things to attend to, Roger. It is almost Christmas, you remember, and—"

"Oh, here are your letters; I almost forgot!" cried the little fellow suddenly, drawing from his pocket several envelopes. "Nat went to the post-office while you were at breakfast."

The boy tossed the missives down and ran off. Dorothy glanced over her mail. There were several letters from her school friends, as she could tell by the writing, and some from acquaintances in Dalton. Then this one—who could it be from?—postmarked in a city from which she had never received any mail, and the address written in a strange hand.

She opened this one first, and this is what she read:

"MY DEAR MISS DALE—This letter will undoubtedly surprise you. It is a strange Christmas letter for me to have to write. You may have forgotten my name, but I am the woman detective whom you met in Boardman's. I hardly know how to pen the words, but—I put that ring into your bag!

"I am a very wretched woman, but to make this confession to you may, in a measure, at least, tend to soften the bitterness that rankles in my heart.

"It would be useless for me to try to explain why I did you such a wrong—perhaps if I could talk with you it would be different.

"Try to forgive me—try to know how wretched I am—sick, without work and without means.

"But even pity seems bitter to me now—life has all gone wrong, and only the thought of your innocent face, and the black guilt I tried to fasten on you, has given me the strength to write this letter.

"Ah, what a mockery Christmas is to the unfortunate!

"Yours, in sorrow,

"LOUISE DEARING."



CHAPTER XXII

STORMBOUND AT TANGLEWOOD

Dorothy dropped the letter in her lap. She was awed, surprised, distressed. Then, Miss Brooks did not take the ring? And why should the woman detective do such a thing?

For an instant only that thought occupied her. The next she pitied Miss Dearing.

"Poor woman!" she sighed to herself. "After all, perhaps she is really a victim of circumstances. And what a letter! If I only could help her—see her before Christmas."

A smile, unbidden, stole across Dorothy's face as she pictured all the tasks she had undertaken to accomplish "before Christmas."

"Luckily there are a few days left," she concluded "One can crowd a great many things into two real, living days."

She hurried upstairs to read the letter again in seclusion. The positive tone of sorrow in the missive touched her heart. There certainly did seem many things to do, but here was plainly an emergency case. If she could manage to go to the city, obtain Miss Dearing's address from the store, go to see her, and then stop at Dalton on her way back—"

"I ought to be able to do that," she told herself. "And it would be such a joy to take away all Tavia's worry before Christmas Day."

Then came the recollection that she really knew nothing to tell Squire Travers—she really did not know what Tavia's trouble was. All the girl's conversation on that point amounted to nothing more than inferences, vague and uncertain.

"I am positive Tavia thinks I know all about it," concluded Dorothy, "and I have just a mind to ask her outright. It would be so much easier than beating about the bush this way."

"Doro! Doro!" screamed Roger at her door. "Come on! Get ready! We're going out—for another—Christmas tree! Out to ghost park."

"I—can't!" called back his sister, but the next moment Nat was beside her.

"Come on," he ordered, "get on your togs. We've got to get a hospital tree. The ladies insist it shall be handpicked, and we've got to go to Tanglewood Park."

"But do I really have to go?" begged Dorothy. "It's cold to ride, and I wanted to—?"

"Put pink bows on red slippers! Oh, chuck it, Doro! I perfectly hate the smell of Christmas. Tom and Roland are going, and so is Tavia."

He made a queer face as he said this—one of those indescribable boy illustrations quite beyond interpretation.

"Is she?" asked Dorothy, not knowing anything better to say.

"And Tom and Roland, I repeat. We are going to duck the kiddies. Too cold for little boys."

"Oh, then I shan't go," declared Dorothy. "We've been promising Joe and Roger so long."

"But they don't want to go," insisted Nat. "Sammy Blake is launching his iceboat."

"Oh, I suppose that is a superior attraction even to ghosts," said Dorothy, laughing, "But why do we have to get a tree from the park? Couldn't we buy one?"

"Just like a girl. We couldn't possibly buy trees last week, because—they would not be hand-picked. This week why can't we buy them and—hang the handpicked," he finished. "Now, do you understand, little girl, that the tree is to be in the near-infant ward in the hospital?"

"Oh, I suppose there's no use arguing," decided Dorothy. "I may as well give in."

"May better. Hurry along, now. We're to have a buffet lunch, and get gone directly after. It's time to eat now," and he glanced at his watch.

Certainly the morning had passed—and the afternoon would no doubt be equally short. Dorothy hurried to get her warm wraps, called to Tavia, and was at the lunch-table before Nat had returned from the garage, whence he brought the Fire Bird.

"If you do not get caught in a snowstorm this time," commented Major Dale, "I will begin to lose faith in my prophetic bones. They ache for heavy snow."

"Put it off until to-morrow, Uncle Frank," advised Nat. "Then we may get the runners out."

"No, it's not that long off," insisted the major, cringing perceptibly under the aches and pains for the coming storm. "I shouldn't wonder but it reached us by sundown."

Ned was much better, able to sit near the window and wave to the departing ones.

Tavia looked almost happy. Somehow, since she determined to "stick to Dorothy," much of her apparent trouble seemed to have disappeared. She was brighter than she had been for days, and even Nat threw off the restraint he had shown toward her lately. At The Elms they picked up Tom, with Roland's regrets, and with a dangerous-looking hatchet in hand—to bag the game with.

"Roland had another dinner date," he explained. "I'm glad I'm not handsome."

"But the ax?" asked Nat

"For the little tree, you know," replied Tom. "I've tried to catch Christmas trees before."

"Well, we are pretty well loaded up," added Nat, producing from his pocket a revolver.

"Oh!" screamed Tavia; "for goodness' sake is this a murderous plot? I—want—my—mamma—"

"There, there, little girl, don't cry," simpered Tom. "A gun is a fine thing in a jungle—"

"Where ghosts scream," added Dorothy.

"And buggies ride bugs," put in Nat, shifting the lever for more speed. "Well, it's up to us to get there first, and then we may shoot up the whole woods if we like. The girls may—may sit under a shady tree."

The deep gloom of an approaching storm made this proposal sound quite ridiculous, and Dorothy declared she would prefer sitting in the Fire Bird at a safe distance from the shooting. Tavia threatened to crawl under the seat, and even vowed she would leave the car at once if the hatchet and revolver were not at once put away—"out of her sight!"

"Well, I have made up my brilliant mind," said Nat, "that if that screaming thing is in the woods I am going to get it dead or alive," and he put up the pistol for the time being.

Talk of the play, and of Ned's condition, occupied much of the remaining time consumed in the run to the woods, and when the tall chestnut trees of Tanglewood Park finally faced the strip of road the Fire Bird was covering, snowflakes were beginning to fall. And so fiercely did the winds blow, that presently Nat had all he could do to manage the machine.

"No jollying about this," he made out to say, "I guess it's to the castle for ours, whether we want to hunt ghosts or owls."

"Oh, will we really have to go in that dreadful place?" wailed Tavia. "I think I would as soon die of freezing as die—"

"Of scaring," interrupted Tom, laughing. "Well, there is no immediate cause for alarm in either direction," he went on, "but I think it will be a good idea to get out of this gale as quickly as possible."

It surely was a gale now, and the wind seemed so solidified with the biting specks of snow, that Dorothy and Tavia were quite satisfied to bury their frost-bitten faces deep in the fur of muffs and scarfs, while the young men turned up their overcoat collars and turned down the flaps of the heavy auto caps, none too heavy, however, to keep out the discomforts of the newly arrived blizzard.

Straight for the drive to the castle Nat directed the machine, and by the time the old broken-down steps of the once spacious porch were reached, even Tavia was glad to jump out of the Fire Bird and get her breath in a secluded part of the old balcony.

"Whew!" whistled Tom. "This is something worth while for Christmas! I never saw a storm develop any faster than this."

"Looks bad," commented Nat anxiously, for an automobile in a snowstorm is not to be depended upon, "Hope it quits long enough for us to dash back home."

"Well, we can't try it now, at any rate," replied Tom. "What do you say to exploring?" and he went to the great, old oak door. "Open! Well, that's luck," and as he spoke he pushed back the portal, although it seemed about to fall, rather than swing on the rusty hinges.

The door opened, but no one attempted to enter the house. Nat looked in gingerly, but the girls drew back to the shadow of a post, fearing evidently some response to the intrusion.

"Oh, come on," suggested Tom. "Nobody's in here, and it's better, a good sight, than being out in the storm."

Nat followed Tom's lead, and soon both young men had disappeared within the old mansion.

The girls waited almost breathless—there was something so uncanny about the place. But presently boyish shouts and merry calls from within assured them that no trouble had been encountered, and it was Dorothy who proposed that they follow and seek refuge from the winds, that found the girls' ears and noses, in spite of the shelter of the old porch and the protection of furs and wraps.

"Come on," suggested Dorothy. "Everything must be all right or the boys would not be so jolly. I'm just dying to get indoors—anywhere."

"But the screaming ghost," Tavia reminded her. "And the traveling lamp-post. I feel kind of scary—"

But Dorothy had poked her head in, and now stepped within the old hallway, so that there was nothing left for Tavia to do but to follow.

"Here we are!" called Tom in that queer tone of voice peculiar to empty houses.

"And look at the gorgeousness," announced Nat. "Ever see finer wood, or better mantels? Why, I'll bet this was a regular castle, all right. Not so bad now."

The young men were racing about from room to room, but the girls were not so keen on investigating. Dorothy did walk through the great long parlors and admire the handsome Italian marble mantels, and the library with inlaid floor was also explored, but Tavia kept as near as possible to the front door—ready to run, she explained.

"Why, there's nothing to be afraid of," said Dorothy, now quite at ease. "The boys are in the very top of the house, over in the tower, and I am sure if there was anything to fear, they would have discovered it by this time."

"But the cellar," objected Tavia, who was really never as much frightened as she pretended to be, for she had a way of "looking for trouble," as Nat expressed it.

"When they come down I'll ask them to do the cellar," offered Dorothy, with a laugh. "Then will you make yourself comfortable?"

Tavia sighed. "Oh, it's so spooky," she insisted. "I feel as if things are getting ready to spring at us from every corner. And did you ever see so many corners in one place in all your life?"

"Oh, come up and see the gallery room," called Nat from the top of the stair-well. "If we don't bring the boys out here and have some doings! This is the swellest kind of a place. Come on up, girls. Nary a ghost nor a ghostie in the diggings."

Tom was singing snatches of songs, and Nat would join in when he came to a "joining," so that the old house fairly rang with the echo of young voices and merry laughter.

Ghost! What ghost could stand that? Tom Scott and Nat White singing coon songs!

"Listen!" called Dorothy. "Tavia wants you to go down cellar to make sure," she called to the boys.

"Oh, all right," agreed Tom. "We'll do the coal-bin and the wine cellar. Now, if we only could chance upon an old bottle of home-made grape juice!"

He slid down the baluster rail in spite of Dorothy's protest, for the floor below was of mosaics, and the rail might not be safe. But Tom landed without accident, and presently was looking for a passageway to the cellar.

With some difficulty the way was finally discovered, and Tom almost tumbled down the dark passage as the door, first obstinate, suddenly gave way to his pressure.

It was dark in the cellar—too dark for even Tom's comfort, but after making a series of queer calls, and also supplying the answers, he returned to the first floor, "intact," as Dorothy announced.

But Tom whispered something to Nat—when the girls were not near enough to observe him.

"Things down there!" he said. "I could even smell them, and they did not seem musty, either. Besides, look at everything. Nothing cut up or damaged, like an old, deserted place. Some one may hang out here."

"The ghost," admitted Nat. "Let's see what it looks like outdoors."

Nat put his hand on the pocket, from which his diminutive revolver could be seen to be outlined, and when the front door was opened a gust of wind and snow forced him, as well as Tom, back into shelter.

"Rough," commented Tom, "and almost dark."

"Fierce!" exclaimed Nat in pardonable disgust. "How in the world are we to get back?"

"Oh, can't we go now?" came from Dorothy. "It seems to be getting worse, and if we don't get out of here before dark—"

"Oh, let us go!" pleaded Tavia. "I am just scared to death. This sort of thing is all right for a page or two, but when it gets into a serial—"

"Not very interesting after the first glance, I'll admit," replied Tom; "but the nearest house must be half a mile away."

"Suppose we run the machine into the shed and start off to walk?" suggested Nat, now rather uncomfortable because of Tom's hint about the cellar. "It will be better for the girls, at any rate. There's a farmhouse at the turn into Glendale."

It did not take long for the party to follow out this proposal, and in spite of the wind and snow the four young people started bravely off, Nat supporting Dorothy, while Tom put his strong arm about the uncertain Tavia—uncertain because she not only slipped continually, but threatened to do so in between the actual occurrences.

"Awful!" called back Nat, who was somewhat in advance.

"And can't see even the path," yelled Tom, "This snow must have fallen all in one piece."

"If it only would not get dark so quickly," Tavia sobbed, for, indeed, the girl was almost crying—the matter had become very serious—darkness, snowdrifts and wilderness.

"Wait!" called Tom, feeling that Tavia might not be so alarmed if all were closer together.

Nat and Dorothy stood until the others came up.

Then all four trudged on again. However, could they cover a half mile at that rate?

"We ought to have brought an auto lamp," said Nat.

No sooner had he uttered the words than he slipped, Dorothy fell with him, Tom and Tavia tumbled, full drive, after them, and all were plunged into a hole deep enough to terrify the girls and even to alarm the boys.

"Well," exclaimed Tom, as quickly as he could get speech, "that hole was covered up with a light blanket."

Tavia and Dorothy succeeded in getting to their feet almost as promptly as did the boys, but the shock and the heavy snow had now almost exhausted both.

"Oh," sighed Dorothy, "I don't see how we can ever walk a half mile in this?"

"Nor I," answered Nat "We've got to turn back. We can have shelter, at least, in the castle, and there's likely to be some food in the machine. Norah always pokes a bundle in for a trip like this."

Weary, depressed and bitterly cold, they made their way back to the old mansion. Many a slip marked the way, and many a stifled cry escaped from the girls in spite of their determination to be brave.

Nat hurried to the Fire Bird, and was not disappointed in his quest, for he brought back to the waiting ones a bundle of such food as the thoughtful Norah made a practice of slipping into the car when the young folks went for a long run.

"Well, that's lucky," commented Tom. "And let us get right at it. Nothing better to ward off cold than a good feed."

"Where?" asked Tavia, referring to the place to eat, not to the location of a possible cold.

Nat brought the machine lamps and placed one on either corner of the broad, low mantel in the dining-room. It was not difficult to know this room from the others, for frescoed mottoes, still clear enough to be made out, invited all strangers, as well as those who roofed therein, to "eat, drink and be merry," and otherwise.

"We must imagine ourselves a jolly hunting party," said Dorothy, "just brought in from a sudden storm. The young lord has invited us, of course."

"An awful stretch," remarked Nat. "I would not be particular about the lord's age if he would only make good just about now."

"And are we really here—for—the night?" gasped Tavia, swallowing a morsel of the sandwich Nat handed her.

"Oh, we may get out," answered Tom, none too hopefully. "But if we don't we must make the best of it. It's too bad for you girls, though."

"Yes," added Nat, his tone following Tom's in its unmistaken note of regret. "I was a fool not to listen to Uncle Frank's knee."

The joke brought forth a very feeble laugh, but even that was better than the groans Tavia had been indulging in. Perhaps an hour passed while our friends were trying to "make the best of it," and then, after putting by the remnants of the lunch for future use, the boys fairly exhausted themselves doing "stunts" calculated to amuse the girls and make them forget the terrors around them.

"Now, I'll just tell you," declared Nat. "There's a sort of couch under each of those posts in the parlor. Tavia take one and Dorothy the other, Tom and I will stand guard. You may as well rest, even if you cannot sleep, for even in the morning it's going to be heavy traveling."

At first the girls declared they, too, would stand guard, but when Tom added his reasoning to that of Nat's and the tired ones realised that if they had to walk through the snow in the morning they surely would have to rest their weary muscles, they finally consented to "stretch out" on the low seat that marked the archway from parlor to parlor.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE GHOST THAT REALLY WALKED

It did seem absurd, in spite of the fact that they were snowbound in a "haunted house." The big automobile lamps glared brilliantly from the mantel, and Tom, with Nat, found another place to rest—on the long, low bench that formed a really artistic seat at the foot of the broad stairway.

"Many a gay fellow has rested here, between the dances, don't you think?" asked Nat. "I fancy I hear the other fellow and his girl coming down the stairs at this moment." He threw himself back in a mocking attitude, while Tom bowed to the "girl coming down the stairs."

But the boys were tired; conversation broke into uneven sentences, then words fell into syllables and finally there remained only the punctuation—a full stop.

Dorothy was dreaming that the men in the boats on the Italian marble mantel were coming to rescue her. Tavia had a weakness for brilliant nightmares, and she dreamed that the crystal chandeliers were coming—coming down, to strike her directly in the face.

She screamed, and every one started up.

"What was it?" cried Dorothy, on her feet in an instant.

Tom and Nat jumped up as quickly, Nat with revolver in hand, and Tom grasping the hatchet.

"I certainly saw a light at the end of the hall," whispered Nat to Tom. "Don't alarm the girls—just watch."

"What was it?" asked Dorothy again.

"Oh, I was dreaming," replied Tavia drowsily, "and that heavy old chandelier came right down and hit me in the face."

"Keep your dreams quiet next time," said Nat, attempting to laugh. "You gave us all a start."

"What time is it?" Dorothy inquired.

Tom glanced at his watch.

"Midnight!" he exclaimed. "Would you believe it? We must have all been asleep."

"And you promised not to shut an eye?" accused Tavia. "How do we know but that we are all kidnapped?"

Just then Nat grasped Tom's arm.

"The light!" he whispered.

"Oh!"

Dorothy and Tavia had both seen it.

Too frightened to speak, they clung to each other and stood terrified. Tom and Nat stepped farther out into the hallway.

For an instant no one uttered a sound. The next a noise—distinct and welcome—fell upon their ears—the sound of Major Dale's voice.

"It's father!" called Dorothy, breaking away from Tavia. "Oh, they've found us! Let them in! Quick!"

No need to tell the boys that, for the front door was unbolted, and Major Dale rushed in before any of them could actually realize that he had come.

"Oh, father!" gasped Dorothy, falling into his arms. "If you had not come—I should have died!"

"You poor foolish—babies!" he said. "But let the man in. He's frozen, if I am not."

Tavia had her arms around the major's neck—he was patting both girls affectionately.

"There! there!" he soothed. "Now you are all right. Dad's here, and we will be all right presently. Norah sent out the relief stuff—you be starved and perished."

"He won't come in," called Nat, referring to the man outside, "Says he's afraid."

"Oh, the foolish fellow," replied the major. "I had the greatest time to get him here, once he found out I was coming to the castle. He vowed he saw lights, and heard screams. He's the fellow who drove the woman out here—Abe, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Nat. "That's it. Well, if he won't come in he'll freeze."

"Perhaps if he sees girls— I'll go and ask him," volunteered Dorothy, now somewhat composed.

Although they had passed from the rear hall to the front, Tom kept his eye on the end of the long passageway. He had seen a light flash back there—he could have sworn to it.

"Here he is!" called Dorothy. "I knew old Abe would come in when I asked him. Right over here, Abe. See, we have plenty of light—"

As if by magic, or some uncanny power, no sooner had she uttered the word "light" than a brilliant flash was plainly seen at the rear of the hall.

The next moment a piercing scream rang out—the same they had heard once before—only so much more terrible to them now—so hideous—so fiendish!

The old colored man tried to move, but he stood as if transfixed.

Major Dale was major again, there ready to order, to command—erect, brave, bold, defiant.

Nat never seemed to move.

Tom stood waiting for his orders.

Dorothy and Tavia fell back terrified.

"That scream came from a human being," spoke the major finally. "We must investigate at once. Here, Abe, you take this lamp." Trembling as if he had the ague, the old colored man took the lamp from the mantel. "Tom, you have an ax. Nat, your gun may be handy. Now, girls, don't be alarmed. We are too many for any one here. Just sit there in that corner while we look about."

To all, save Abe and the girls, there was a fascination about this weird hunt. Something or some one screamed. This was surely a vigorous type of ghost.

"Easy, now!" whispered the major as they turned the end of the hall "There!" he exclaimed. "I saw a light flash back of that double door!"

"So did I," agreed Tom, "Let's look in the room."

"Come on, Abe," urged the major, for Abe quickly fell behind.

The heavy folding-doors were pushed aside with some effort. This opened the way into a small room like a butler's pantry.

"What was that?" asked Nat as a noise sounded.

"The shutting of a heavy door—and the light went with it," declared Major Dale. "Now to find the door."

Nat took the light from Abe, and flashed it up and down the heavily paneled walls.

"It's some secret passage, likely," said the major. "Every old house has one, I believe."

"What's—this?"

Nat had come upon a joining in the woodwork.

"That's it!" declared the major, examining the crack carefully. "But where might it open?"

All, even old Abe, felt the wall, up and down, covering every inch within reach.

"There!" exclaimed the major finally. "I've covered a square. It opens from the other side. Tom, here with your ax!"

Dorothy and Tavia had heard every word. Now they stopped their ears. It was too dreadful.

Blow after blow fell on the heavy woodwork.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

But not a word was spoken.

Then the sound of splintered wood.

The panel was falling in.

"Careful!" cautioned Major Dale.

"There she goes!"

Another scream!

"Here, now!" cried the major, seizing the lamp and dashing through the opening with the agility of a schoolboy. "Just surrender, and stop that!"

But he almost fell back—Tom's arm saved him.

"I never!" he exclaimed. "It's old Captain Mayberry!"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE RESCUE

The sight that had so suddenly shocked Major Dale and his helpers was indeed appalling.

Within the secret room they had found a man, not a ghost nor a demon, but a sick, almost helpless old man—the once popular Captain Mayberry.

At a glance it was plain he was in hiding in the wretched place, and the surroundings showed he had food and some of life's necessities within reach, although the very rats, whose presence were painfully evident, must have enjoyed a keener advantage in the mansion, once proud of the name "Mayberry."

Frightened almost into convulsions, the decrepit old man fell back into a corner, his eyes glaring with the unmistakable gleam of insanity, and his teeth chattering terribly.

A stove, barely alive with heat, served to shelter him from the intruders, for he managed to get behind the old piece of iron, and there crouched and shuddered.

"Come, come!" said Major Dale as quickly as he could command his voice. "Don't you know me? Look! I'm Dale—of the Guards—come to save you, Cap. We have no wish to frighten you!"

"Save me!" hissed the old man. "Go away! I'm crazy—crazy!"

"Not a bit of it," answered the major, stepping nearer to the stove. "Come along. We are snowbound, and had to come in uninvited."

Assured that the specter was a man and nothing more nor less, Tom had hurried back to reassure the girls. Nat turned his attention to old Abe, and, between scolding and explaining, finally succeeded in quieting the colored man's fears. But the major kept close to the lunatic—for such he took Captain Mayberry to be.

"And don't you remember me?" he kept asking, satisfied that a gleam of recognition did pass over the wrinkled face that now peered out into the glare of the lamp from the Fire Bird. "Come! We are hungry, and you are too, I'll wager. Let's have mess. Rations are plenty to-night."

Crawling like some animal, the old man was finally persuaded to come out from behind the stove.

Major Dale laid his hand on the arm of Captain Mayberry.



"Just out here," directed the major, leading the trembling one. "You see, we have taken possession of your house. Tell me how you feel? How you are?"

Major Dale wanted him to talk, both to quiet the girls' fears and to determine his actual state of mind. But Captain Mayberry's speech was very slow, and decidedly confused.

"I—guess—I'm all right—now," he managed to utter. "Where's—Jane?"

"Jane? Oh, yes, Jane," repeated the major. "That's your sister, Miss Pumfret?"

"Was—not now. She locks me up—leaves me to die!"

"Oh, now, come. Isn't it Jane who brings you things to eat?" asked the major, venturing a guess. "Why, didn't she send—the coal—and the bread?"

"Yes, yes," answered the old man, "but she will not let me go. She drove me crazy. Yes, and I'm crazy now."

"Not a bit of it. Here, sit down on this seat," and Major Dale motioned to Tom. "This young man will stay by you to keep you company while we prepare the mess. Perhaps you will show us how to get water? And have you any way of lighting up?"

A look of intelligence crossed Captain Mayberry's face. He shuffled over to a corner, and actually pressed a button.

The chandeliers poured out a flood of electric light.

"Jane did that," he muttered. "She likes light."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed Tom.

"And I'll be jiggered!" added Nat.

"The poor old man!" whispered Dorothy, venturing to take a step toward him. "And to think we were afraid of him!"

"Were!" remarked Tavia significantly. "I'm just scared to death this very minute. Suppose he screams again?"

"What if he does?" Dorothy whispered back. "Surely he has more cause to fear us than we have to fear him. I'm going to—help—with things."

Abe stood with wide-open mouth surveying "the ghost."

Tom and Nat had brought the relief supplies from the wagon—old Abe's strongest carry-all—which had successfully weathered the snowdrifts between Tanglewood Park and The Cedars.

"It's stopped snowing," announced Nat cheerfully. "Guess we will be able to make it all right by daylight."

"Fall in! fall in!" called the major, making a place for Captain Mayberry on the end of the seat that served as table and chairs collectively.

It was a queer meal—but a delightful one.

The relief that Major Dale brought was not in food alone.

"And there's the coffee!" he announced. "Will one of you boys just let that stand on the stove in the captain's private room?"

Tom jumped to comply. He readily found the means of lighting the secret room, and soon found other conveniences, such as water and cooking utensils.

Captain Mayberry had not forgotten how to eat. He was "almost human," as Nat whispered to Dorothy.

"Here, guard!" called the major. "Fetch that coffee. Help yourself." This to the captain. "We eat according to rank this time."

Captain Mayberry seemed to smile. He took the cup of coffee—then the others raised their cups to drink a toast.

"To the Guards!" proposed the major. "Long life and happiness to the last of them!"

It was a strange sight—the cracked and broken cups that Tom had secured in the captain's quarters raised to drink the honored toast!

"And a merry Christmas to Captain Mayberry!" called out Dorothy.

Old Abe dropped his cup—spilled his coffee. He looked down ruefully at the puddle on the floor.

"Any mo'?" he asked. It was the first word he had spoken since he entered the house.

Tom refilled the cup.

"Take care of that," he cautioned Abe. "It's about all."

"What time?" asked the major, addressing Nat.

"Four! Would you believe it? It will be daylight soon."

"Glad of it," replied the major. "We can't leave here any too quickly. It has cleared, you say?"

"Beautifully," answered Nat; "and the sun to-morrow will be a 'ringer' for the moon to-night. I'll bet it will be one of those dazzling days—"

"Likely," agreed the major. "We must take Mayberry back with us," he said in a low voice. "Poor old chap! To think that I should find him—and in such a pitiable condition!"



CHAPTER XXV

YOUTH AND OLD AGE

When the first streak of dawn threw its shadow upon the fleecy blanket that surrounded the old Mayberry Castle, there stood before the door the Fire Bird and the wagon old Abe called his "carry-all."

Into the latter vehicle Captain Mayberry was almost lifted, wrapped in every conceivable sort of warm covering that could be found in his strange quarters. A heavy, and formerly handsome fur coat, besides thick, woolly scarfs and great old army boots had been dug out from queer hiding places, and these were heaped and piled upon the captain until scarcely the outline of his pinched face was left to the danger of the winter morning.

On either side of Captain Mayberry sat Major Dale and Tom Scott, while old Abe was directed to drive this party to the railroad station, as it had been decided that the sick or insane man should at once be taken to the hospital for treatment.

"To think," whispered Dorothy to Tavia as they started off, "that our hospital play should have enabled us to send the poor old man directly to the Institution. We never dreamed who would be our first patient."

"Lucky it's not me or you," commented Tavia, still taking a morbid view of the night's experience.

"And father says he will send for the captain's sister, and try to have them reconciled. That seems to be what worries the old man so much—Jane is angry with him, he declares.

"And I wouldn't do a thing to Jane," declared Tavia. "In my opinion jail would be too good for her. The idea of keeping that old scarecrow cooped up there!"

"But perhaps she did it to keep him out of the institutions. You know, some people have queer ideas about asylums."

"Did it to save cash, likely. Look out, there, Nat! Don't dump us in that snowdrift!"

"No danger," called back Nat from the front seat. "This is all right—road good and hard, and not so slippery."

"Suppose the old fellow should get hilarious," ventured Tavia. "Do you suppose Tom and the major could hold him in that trap?"

"Oh, indeed he is too weak to be violent," responded Dorothy. "And I rather think he will enjoy the ride. He said he made it a habit to go out every day, just about nightfall. He had sense enough to know he must have fresh air or die."

Tired from the night's vigil, the occupants of the Fire Bird soon wearied of conversation, and the drive behind the stage coach was made in silence, save for the creaking of the snow on the frosty roads, and the occasional sounds of an early morning team bound for the town along the old turnpike.

At the Four Corners the Fire Bird cut ahead of the coach, and with a merry call to the captain, the major, Tom and even to old Abe, the occupants of the car soon left behind them the carry-all, as well as the road to Tanglewood Park.

Arriving at The Cedars, in spite of all protests, Dorothy and Tavia were "put to bed," while Norah brought from the kitchen great bowls of beef tea, declaring each young lady should drink at least a quart, "to save them from nemonie," and that the hot foot baths they had would be repeated unless the girls were soon sound asleep.

So it was that now, two days before Christmas, The Cedars was suddenly plunged into a state of subdued excitement. What might happen next not even little Roger dared speculate about.

But that afternoon, when Major Dale was expected to return from his trip to the hospital, and Dorothy and Tavia were sufficiently rested to be down at the station waiting to meet them, the appearance of Miss Brooks brought Tavia suddenly back to the realization of her own predicament.

The little woman ran into the station just in time to obtain her ticket for a late city train, and had not a moment to spare, so that there was no opportunity of either Dorothy or Tavia exchanging a word with her.

"Whew!" exclaimed Tavia, glancing after the woman. "What do you suppose it all means? Did you observe the togs?"

"Didn't she look pretty?" commented Dorothy, "I never saw a person change so with—a new outfit."

"Wonder if she found it—in somebody's bag?"

"Tavia!" exclaimed Dorothy, her voice ringing with indignation. "You must never again speak that way of Miss Brooks. We did wrong to suspect her for a moment. She had absolutely nothing to do with the ring."

"Oh, you know all about it, do you? Of course, she says she had absolutely nothing to do with it."

"No, she has said nothing of the kind. The person who really took it—that is, the one who put it in my bag—has admitted doing it."

"Who?"

"Well, you really must not ask, because, Tavia, dear, I know the person was terribly pressed, somehow, and it does not seem right for me to spread the story of her misfortune. I haven't even told Aunt Winnie."

"Oh, of course, you can keep it to yourself if you have a mind to," replied Tavia in injured tones, "but it strikes me that is rather too interesting a story to be so selfish about."

Dorothy made no reply to this charge—she had not the slightest idea of betraying the confidence Miss Dearing had given in her miserable confession.

Further than this, to-morrow Dorothy was determined to go to the city and search for Miss Dearing, even though it would be the day before Christmas.

The arrival of the city express, from which Major Dale alighted, stopped further comment.

"I was so afraid you would miss this train," exclaimed Dorothy, embracing him, "and I was so worried about you—things seem to be happening so queerly these days."

"Yes, daughter," replied the major, "things are certainly happening. You should have seen Captain Mayberry in his new quarters."

"Did they give him the new bed? The one our play paid for?"

"Indeed, they did. And, what's better, they say he is not by any means incurable. In fact, I am very hopeful, with the proper treatment—"

"Well, I hope they won't forget the proper treatment for that sister," interrupted Tavia.

"Even that we hope to make right," replied the major. "I have sent for Miss Pumfret, and expect she may arrive at The Cedars to-night."

"Good!" exclaimed Tavia, with what might be termed "unholy glee." "Just let me introduce myself!" and she made a pretense of showing her muscle.

"There's the surrey," announced Dorothy, as Nat drove up. "We walked down, it was so delightful in the snow. But Aunt Winnie insisted we should not take out the big sleigh. She says the horses are always so skittish when first put to the cutter, and she was afraid of some other accident."

Major Dale exchanged some words with old Abe before stepping into the vehicle that served in place of the Fire Bird.

"The eight o'clock train," Dorothy overheard her father say. "And be sure to have the light buggy."

"She's coming on the eight," whispered Tavia to Nat. "What do you say if we waylay them and give her a snow bath to cool her off? I'd just like to sail into that lady."

Nat did not reply—the major was now in the surrey, and the little horse started off at a lively trot.

Numbers of cutters and sleighs passed them—every one seemed anxious to make sure of the first sleigh-ride.

One particularly handsome rig was just approaching.

"Whew!" exclaimed Nat. "Look at Agnes Sinclair—and that's Tom Scott with her."

It was indeed Agnes and Tom, in a new cutter with waving plumes at the dashboard, and as the rig passed along, Dorothy noticed that the plumes just matched Agnes' cheeks.

And it may as well be told now that when Agnes Sinclair and Tom Scott stopped at the post-office that very evening Tom posted a number of little notes for Agnes—an informal tea was to be given at Ferndale.

Every single person who got one of these notes knew exactly what it meant—the announcement of the engagement of Miss Agnes Sinclair to Thomas Dudley Scott.

Of course, Dorothy and Tavia were invited, and the card of Agnes' mother came with that of the daughter. Mrs. Sinclair and Mrs. White were close friends.

"I have been wondering why Mrs. Sinclair had not called to see Ned," commented Mrs. White when Dorothy handed her the cards. "This explains it, of course. Dorothy, what did I tell you? See how well trained my eyes are."

"But when Agnes showed plainly she wanted to pose with Ned," argued Dorothy, "that was—"

"Just to throw you off the scent, of course," finished Mrs. White. "Well, I am glad we are going to have an engagement for the holidays. It will make a little round of gaieties for the young folks. Dorothy, you may give Agnes her first shower."

"And make it something good to eat," suggested Nat. "No fun in giving a girl a lot of drygoods—make it ice-cream."

Ned was recovering rapidly, and he too joined in suggesting plans for the "handing around of Agnes." He insisted it was up to him and Nat to give Tom a sendoff, and finally did obtain Mrs. White's permission to give a bachelor dinner in the coach house. They wanted the affair given where there would be no objection to either noise or "muss," as Nat put it, so the coach house was decided upon.

"Plans, plans, nothing but plans," sang Tavia. "I wish some one would make plans for me. I would like to elope this very evening. I am not particular about having a partner in the going away; a railroad ticket would answer."

Dorothy glanced up quickly at Tavia. She knew the latter almost meant what she said—that is, she would really like to run away before Christmas morning.

"And shake me?" asked Nat in mock concern. "Now, Tavia, you and I have been friends for a long, long time—"

But this was too much for Tavia. Suddenly she jumped up, put her hand to her eyes and dashed from the room.

"She's crying!" whispered Ned.

Then Dorothy, too, left the room. She went to comfort Tavia.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

"Well, I never expected to forgive him—he was so mean and obstinate—"

The unpleasant, treble voice of Miss Jane Pumfret was interrupted by the lower tones of Major Dale.

"But, my dear woman," he said, "Captain Mayberry is not responsible—he is sick, mentally and physically."

"Well, I'll see," and she arose to go, "I am not much of a hand at making up, anyway."

"But if you could have seen how he begged me to send for you. He seemed to fear you would be angry with him for leaving the old place."

"Angry? More likely to be scared to death. I could not believe the old stage driver that you had really brought him to a hospital. Well, I must be going." She was almost at the door. "Don't mention my name to him, if you please."

Major Dale was at his wits' end. He feared the old captain would be beyond consolation if he did not do as he had promised—send Miss Pumfret to him at once.

Dorothy was just on the stairs. At a glance she understood that her father had failed to bring about a reconciliation between Captain Mayberry and his sister. She approached them.

"You are Miss Pumfret, I know," she began, without waiting for her father's introduction. "Isn't it perfectly splendid?—the news from Captain Mayberry, I mean. He seemed as pleased as a child when I promised him a merry Christmas, and to-morrow morning I am going into the hospital to make sure he gets it. Won't you come with me? He will be delighted to see you, I am sure."

Miss Pumfret looked at the impetuous girl who was going to make sure her brother had a merry Christmas.

"You see," hurried on Dorothy, taking advantage of the moment to further press her request, "we just had the place ready for him. We gave a play, and had a new bed at our disposal."

"My brother a charity patient!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, there's plenty of money in the property, but I won't touch pen to paper to sign—"

"Of course, we can take care of him," interrupted Dorothy; "but I thought maybe you would like to make him a little Christmas present—it is visiting day to-morrow and the day before Christmas."

Little Miss Pumfret glared at Dorothy. Then she stepped back and sank down on the hall seat. "Well," she exclaimed finally, "I'm an old-fashioned woman. Never was used to youngsters' interference, but I like your cheek (this was said with evident sincerity and no idea of being frivolous). I've just a good mind—"

"Oh, do, do, Miss Pumfret! Come with me to-morrow and tell him you will sell Tanglewood Park and—fix it all up—"

"How you do race on! But it's getting late. Perhaps—"

"I'll meet you at the ten o'clock train," went on Dorothy, while even Major Dale was forced to smile at her impetuosity. "I have so many places to go, but I am going to the hospital first."

Miss Pumfret put out her hand—it shook visibly.

"Little girl," she said, "you are right. You have said it all for me. Come to-morrow and say it all over again to—Nick."

Tears fell down the old pinched cheeks, but Dorothy kissed them away. She had found the path to Jane Pumfret's affection—it was cheek, just plain cheek, sometimes called courage.

Yes, it was late, but Dorothy still had Tavia to console—if only she could insist upon Tavia spending Christmas at The Cedars—Dorothy had unlimited faith in the magic of the day before Christmas. Nat called to her as she started up to Tavia's room.

"I say, Doro, maybe I—could help. I'd like to tell her it's all right. I was mean about it. You know, Tavia and I went—in it—together."

"Oh," replied Dorothy vaguely, "I really don't know what you mean."

Nat saw that he was about to betray a secret. He thought, naturally, that Tavia had confided fully in Dorothy.

"Oh, I just meant," he stammered, "that if I can say anything to make Tavia feel—more at home, you know—don't hesitate to ask me."

Tavia was at the head of the stairs looking straight at him.

"Thanks!" she spoke up, all the tears evidently gone. "But if it's all the same to both of you, I would prefer that you keep your pretty saying for Christmas. I'm just dead tired, and fully expect to be asleep in exactly ten minutes."

Dorothy saw that the sudden burst of gloom had been overcome, and knew that Tavia would actually be as good as her word and asleep in ten minutes.

"Good-night, then," called Nat, "and don't forget that to-morrow is the day before Christmas."

"Good-night," added Dorothy, "and don't forget you are to attend to everything to-morrow while I am in the city. See what it is to be on a charity committee! I'll have to have a substitute help with all the most important things—there's heaps to be done yet."

"Good—nig-h-t!" drawled Tavia with a forced yawn. "I am not sure that I will wake up until the day after Christmas."

"To bed! To bed, every one!" called Mrs. White, and then both troubles and pleasant anticipations for a happy ending to the queer holiday became hopelessly tangled in the dreams of the young folks at The Cedars.

Dorothy's last clear thought was: "To-morrow something must happen to make it all right, for to-morrow is the day before Christmas."

The sun was streaming in her window when she opened her eyes. She jumped up with a start, for she was to get an early train, go first to the hospital, then search out the wretched Miss Dearing.

"I could never be happy on Christmas, and think perhaps she might be starving. When I find her I will— But how can I tell what I may have to do?"

Hurriedly she partook of breakfast and jumped into the depot cart that Nat had driven up to the door.

"Take care that Tavia does not worry," Dorothy cautioned the young man. "I know she has a trouble, and I am sure somehow it will be all adjusted by to-night. I depend upon the witches of Christmas Eve."

Nat laughed and assured her he "would keep track of Tavia." Then the train steamed in, and Dorothy was gone.

"Suppose she fails to meet me," mused the girl, whose very red cheeks were the source of some remarks from a lady in the opposite seat.

Dorothy always looked pretty, but she looked charming when the clear red blood rose to her cheeks and made her deep blue eyes flash like stars, actually ignited with the torch of anticipation.

"But I am sure she will be there. Miss Pumfret is the sort of woman I should think would never break her word."

Nor was she disappointed in her estimate; Jane Pumfret waited—even had a cab ready to drive with Dorothy to the hospital, there to see the new patient, Captain Nick Mayberry.

"Perhaps I had better go first and prepare him," suggested Dorothy as they reached the door of the private room and saw the one spotless bed—the gift of the young ladies' auxiliary.

"No need, dear," objected Miss Pumfret. "Now that I've made up my mind to it I actually can't wait."

The next moment Dorothy drew back to allow brother and sister their own happy moment—Jane Pumfret had the old white-haired man in her arms, was embracing him like a child, and the nurse smiled in complete satisfaction as she, too, stepped aside with Dorothy.

"That is all he wants," she said, "He has worried constantly, and I was so afraid she would not come—I know Miss Pumfret."

Just then the telephone rang. The nurse picked up the receiver. She listened to the call from the office. Then she answered:

"I'm awfully sorry, but I cannot see how we can take her. We haven't a single public bed unoccupied."

She waited a moment, then resumed: "Poor thing. I hate to have you turn her away, but what can we do?"

"A bed," thought Dorothy. "Why, of course, Miss Pumfret will provide a private one for her brother, and perhaps—"

But she did not wait to think further.

"Nurse," she interrupted, her voice carrying through the 'phone, "perhaps that patient could have our bed. Captain Mayberry is to go to the private wing."

In a few words the nurse gathered Dorothy's meaning.

Then she told the matron, speaking through the transmitter, to hold the applicant.

"Would you like to come with me?" she asked Dorothy, as she prepared to interview the prospective patient. "Miss Pumfret will be here for some time yet."

Down the broad marble steps, that seemed to exude everything antiseptic and sterilized, Dorothy hurried along after the head nurse. Into a large hall, then across this into a small waiting-room they passed.

"The patient is only ill from neglect and nervous exhaustion," explained the nurse, "or I would not invite you down."

A second white-capped and white-robed attendant opened the door. Dorothy stepped in first. A woman sat on a leather chair in the far corner of the room.

"She is very weak," explained the second nurse to the first, "and I really was afraid to let her go."

The woman raised her head.

"Miss Dearing!" exclaimed Dorothy, too surprised to suppress her astonishment, "Why, I am so—glad I have found you!"

The woman tried to open her lips, but a sudden movement of her head showed that she had fainted.

"And you know her?" asked the nurses, quickly restoring the woman to consciousness with simple restoratives.

"Slightly," replied Dorothy. "I will wait to see how she gets along."

From the scene in the waiting-room Dorothy hurried back to the side of Captain Mayberry. She wanted to ask Miss Pumfret about the bed.

"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed the little woman pleasantly. "I was just telling Nick what a girl you are. Perhaps you can tell us how to go about getting him into the private ward. He liked it first-rate here," she hurried to explain, "but there's no sense in keeping this bed from some one who may need it."

Dorothy touched the button at the door to call an attendant. It was the head nurse who answered.

"We can have this bed," stammered Dorothy, scarcely able to speak through her excitement. "Miss Pumfret wishes Captain Mayberry removed to the private wing."

"That will do nicely," answered the nurse, smiling. "Your friend has been taken into the observation ward. She will remain there until her case is diagnosed. It was providential that you spoke when you did, or she might have fainted in the street if we had turned her away, and we are not allowed to take patients who apply as she did, unless they are vouched for. You see, it was well you happened to know her."

"Could I speak with her?" asked Dorothy timidly.

"That is precisely what I came up for. She wants very much to speak with you."



CHAPTER XXVII

ALL IS WELL

"No, I'm not a bit excited," pleaded Miss Dearing when the nurse cautioned her to keep quiet. "I'm only happy. I was dying long before I came here, and now I can rest in a bed, and perhaps I will have the courage to get well again."

"Of course you will," insisted Dorothy, delighted that she had been instrumental in actually saving a life. "And perhaps Christmas will bring you peace and courage."

"No, but you have brought it. When I look at your fair face— Don't you know, that was why I put the ring in your bag?" she asked suddenly. "I knew your face would clear you before any accuser in the world."

Dorothy put her finger to her lips. She did not want Miss Dearing to discuss the painful subject. But the sick woman was persistent.

"And from that moment some evil genius followed me. I did it because other detectives had been praised for making arrests, and I had made none. I could not afford to lose my place, for my mother—was dying. She died, thank God, before she knew her daughter had lied for her, had herself actually been accused of stealing—stealing to earn a dollar!"

"Now, please," begged Dorothy, "do not talk any more about it. When you get well I will come in and see you. My aunt will want a great deal of sewing done. Perhaps you may be able to come to her."

It was actually noon-time, and Dorothy had to hurry back to The Cedars. Miss Pumfret and the captain were still talking about old family affairs, and seemed supremely happy as she left them. The captain, explained the nurse, was suffering more from neglect than any specific ailment, and he had already responded remarkably to treatment.

"Isn't it a queer holiday?" Dorothy asked herself once more in the train, getting back to The Cedars. "And now for Tavia's troubles."

Nat met her at the station, all smiles, but otherwise provokingly uncommunicative.

He simply would not tell her a word of what might have occurred in her absence, and she finally gave up asking him to do so.

"All right," she assured him. "If Tavia's gone I'll blame you, that's all."

Roger met her at the door.

"Some one's waiting for you in the parlor, Doro," he said, without waiting to "digest" his sister's greeting.

Dorothy opened the parlor door. There sat Miss Brooks and little Mary Mahon.

"We came in to wish you a merry Christmas," said Miss Brooks, with her arm about Mary. "This is my niece, my sister's only child. And I found her through your hospital play."

In a few words Miss Brooks made it all clear to Dorothy, and repeated the story told Tavia some time before.

"She is not very strong, and I am going to take her south at once," went on Miss Brooks, while Mary fairly beamed with delight. She was so splendid in her new fur coat; and to think she really had a relative!

"Aunt Stella," she ventured, "you never would have found me if Dorothy had not given me that piece. It was because I acted—like mamma."

"And there is something else," said Miss Brooks, "The matter—about Miss Travers. I received a letter this morning from the firm, refunding her money. Of course, I had urged them to do so. I would not even address envelopes for a house that would deliberately rob young girls."

Miss Brooks offered the slip of paper to Dorothy.

"Wouldn't you rather give it to Miss Travers?" asked Dorothy.

"Oh, yes," replied the other, remembering that Dorothy had refused to listen to the explanation of Tavia's difficulties.

Tavia was in the hall, and Dorothy called her. Her eyes showed she had been weeping. At the sight of Miss Brooks she turned as if to leave the room. Dorothy put a detaining hand on her arm.

"She has good news for you. I am going to leave you alone to hear it."

"No," insisted Tavia, now conscious that there was good news in the air. "Stay and listen, Doro. I did not tell you—because I was a—"

"Now stop!" insisted Dorothy. "No calling of names."

"You take too serious a view of it," interrupted Miss Brooks. "She simply did what hundreds do every day—risked five dollars to make ten—"

"It is nothing in the world but gambling!" declared Tavia almost fiercely.

"I agree with you," answered Miss Brooks, "but you did not go into it with that understanding. Neither did I offer to address their envelopes with a thorough understanding of their methods. I simply was trying to find an address, and I made use of every means I considered legitimate. Here is your money—and your friend's. The address I was looking for came in person," and once more she folded her arms about Mary.

"The money!" exclaimed Tavia, looking at the check in a dazed sort of way, "This is your money, Dorothy," she said, reading the check—"yours and Nat's. I gambled mother's, and spent yours, then I bought Christmas presents."

The check called for fifteen dollars and was made out to bearer. Tavia offered it to Dorothy, who did not take it.

Miss Brooks insisted upon going. She felt she had finished her business at The Cedars.

Tavia drew Dorothy into the library as the door closed upon the visitors. Her eyes were blazing, although her hands seemed cold as they touched Dorothy's arm.

"You know I gambled," she stammered. "I deliberately bought a ticket in a lottery."

"I know you made a mistake," insisted Dorothy. "I could never call that gambling."

"Then take the check, if you are not afraid of it," went on Tavia. "Part of it belongs to Nat—the other five is what I borrowed from you."

"Borrowed from me? Why, I gave you that—outright. It was my Christmas in advance. Just jump into your things, and come down to send a telegram home. Send them five dollars by wire—they will get it in the morning. There is no present like the one that comes on Christmas morning, you know."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Tavia, "I can't oppose you this time. I know that five dollars will make my father and my mother know that I—but it would be deceiving them," she broke off. "I am not fit to even send the gift."

"Hurry! hurry!" begged Dorothy. "I want to send some Christmas greetings by wire, and they will be too busy to take our messages if you wait later."

Tavia threw her arms about Dorothy.

"You dear old nuisance!" she exclaimed. "I wonder you could not leave some little thing for the angels to do to-morrow."

"Oh, I expect them to give me their undivided attention," declared Dorothy. "I have had such a queer holiday up to this time that I have simply asked for a great big lump of 'peace' in my stocking."

"You deserve it, Doro, dear," and Tavia, to hide the tears that would come into her eyes, placed her arms about Dorothy and hid her face on her shoulder.

Dorothy did get peace, and great happiness, too. Yet there were many happenings still in store for her, and what some of them were will be told in another book, to be called "Dorothy Dale's Camping Days." It was a never-to-be-forgotten outing and one that produced some astonishing results.

"And to-morrow is Christmas," said Dorothy softly. "I feel just like the carol singers, when they used to chant: 'God rest you, merry gentlemen—'"

"Only you're not a—" began Tavia, looking up.

"No, I'm not a gentleman, but I'm merry—quite happy now, and I certainly need a rest. I guess you do, too."

"I certainly do," agreed Tavia. "Come on, let's hurry to the telegraph office."

And here we will say good-by to Dorothy Dale for a while, leaving her and her friends at The Cedars to enjoy their Christmas in their own delightful way. For, after all, and in spite of the many queer happenings connected with them, the holidays were most happy ones.

THE END



The Dorothy Dale Series

By Margaret Penrose

Cloth. 12 mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid

DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY

Dorothy is the daughter of an old Civil War veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small Eastern town. When her father falls sick, and the newspaper property is in danger of going to pieces, the girl shows what she can do to support the family.



DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL

More prosperous times have come to the Dale family, and Major Dale resolves to send Dorothy to a boarding school to complete her education. At Glenwood School the girl makes a host of friends and has many good times. But some girls are jealous of Dorothy's popularity, and they seek to get her into trouble in more ways than one.

DOROTHY DALE'S GREAT SECRET

A splendid story of one girl's devotion to another. Dorothy's chum ran away to join a theatrical company. What Dorothy did, and how she kept the secret, makes a tale no girl will care to miss.

DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS

A story of school life, and of strange adventures among the gypsies. Dorothy befriends a little French girl and also a gypsy waif, in a manner sure to touch the hearts of all readers.

DOROTHY DALE'S QUEER HOLIDAYS

Relates the details of a mystery that surrounded Tanglewood Park. There is a great snowstorm, and the young folks become snowbound, much to their dismay.

Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York



The Motor Girls Series

By Margaret Penrose

Author of the highly successful Dorothy Dale Series

Cloth. 12mo. Handsomely illustrated and beautifully bound in decorated cover, stamped in several colors. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid

* * * * *

THE MOTOR GIRLS

Or, A Mystery of the Road



When Cora Kinball got her touring car she did not imagine so many adventures were in store for her. During a trip from one city to another a rich young man lost a pocketbook containing valuable stocks and much cash. Later, to the surprise of everybody, the empty pocketbook was found in the tool box of Cora's automobile. A fine tale that all wide-awake girls will appreciate.

* * * * *

THE MOTOR GIRLS ON A TOUR

Or, Keeping a Strange Promise

A great many things happen in this volume, starting with the running over of a hamper of good things lying in the road. A precious heirloom is missing, and how it was traced up is told with absorbing interest. Mrs. Penrose's books are as safe as they are interesting and should be on the bookshelf of every girl in the land.

* * * * *

Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York

THE END