Dorothy Dale and Her Chums
Date: 2017-02-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Schools -- Juvenile fiction; Friendship -- Juvenile fiction; Mystery and detective stories; Thieves -- Juvenile fiction; Romanies -- Juvenile fiction; Boarding school students -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- Social life and customs -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Dorothy Dale and Her Chums

Author: Margaret Penrose

Illustrator: Charles Nuttall

Release date: February 10, 2017 [eBook #54147]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dorothy Dale and Her Chums, by Margaret Penrose

DOROTHY DALE AND
HER CHUMS

“Stretched out his arms to bar their way”
Page 142

DOROTHY DALE AND
HER CHUMS

BY
MARGARET PENROSE

AUTHOR OF “DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY,” “DOROTHY
DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL,” “DOROTHY DALE’S
GREAT SECRET,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES

By Margaret Penrose

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cts., postpaid

- DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY
- DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL
- DOROTHY DALE’S GREAT SECRET
- DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS

(Other volumes in preparation)

CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK

Copyright, 1909, by
Cupples & Leon Company

Dorothy Dale and Her Chums

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | Stolen Birds | 1
II. | The Gypsy Girl | 8
III. | Dorothy at the Camp | 21
IV. | The Midnight Alarm | 29
V. | An Awful Experience | 43
VI. | “The Goods” | 59
VII. | A Strange Girl | 72
VIII. | The Runaway | 77
IX. | Miette | 87
X. | A Rumpus | 98
XI. | “Girls and Girls” | 104
XII. | A Girl’s Mean Act | 112
XIII. | The Troubles of Miette | 120
XIV. | Dorothy to the Rescue | 128
XV. | A Queer Tramp | 143
XVI. | Surprises | 152
XVII. | Dorothy’s Courage | 161
XVIII. | Tavia’s Double | 171
XIX. | The Capture | 177
XX. | Urania in the Toils | 187
XXI. | Complications | 197
XXII. | Sincere Affection’s Power | 206
XXIII. | The Real Miette | 218
XXIV. | The Search | 231
XXV. | Dorothy and Her Chums | 243

DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS

CHAPTER I
STOLEN BIRDS

“Of all things, to have that happen just now! Isn’t it too mean!” sighed Dorothy, perching herself on the high shelf at the side of the pump, and gazing dejectedly beyond the wire fence into the pigeon loft, where a few birds posed in real “Oh fair dove, Oh, fond dove!” fashion.

“Mean?” repeated Tavia, who was inside the wire fence, calling live birds, and looking for dead ones, both of which efforts were proving failures. “It is awful, Dorothy, such a doings as this. They are gone, sure enough,” and she crawled through the low gate that was intended as an emergency exit for chickens or pigeons. “I’d just like to know who took them,” she finished.

“So would I,” and Dorothy shook her blonde head with a meaning clearer than mere words might impart. “Yes, I would like to know, and I’ve just a notion of finding out.”

Tavia reached for the clean little drinking pan that rested on the shelf at Dorothy’s elbow. She held it under the pump spout while Dorothy worked the pump handle up and down. Then, with the fresh water in her hand, Tavia crawled inside the wire enclosure again. A few tame bantams flew across the yard to the treat. Then the doves left their perch and joined the party around the pan.

“How lonely they look without the others,” remarked Dorothy, as she, too, crept through the wire gate. “And I did love the Archangels. I never saw prettier doves. They always reminded me of real Paradise birds. No wonder they were called by a heavenly name.”

“And to have taken both pairs!” denounced Tavia. “My favorites were the fantails—they always made me think of—What do you think?”

“Think? I know.”

“What, then?”

“Why, accordion-pleated automobile coats,” teased Dorothy.

“Of course! With such dainty white lingerie! Wouldn’t Nat and Ned look swell in such coats!”

“Well, if you insist, Tavia, I shall give you my real opinion—memoirs of the fantails, as it were. They looked exactly like star chorus girls. But I was loathe to bring up such thoughts in your presence. Yet, those birds were the purest white—”

“Oh, how I shall miss them! I just enjoyed coming down here every morning to see them,” and Tavia very gently picked up two of the doves, placed one on each of her shoulders, and then proceeded to walk “around the ring,” doing a trick she called “The Winged Venus.”

But there was very little of the Venus type about Tavia. It was rather early in the morning, and her hair had as yet only received the “fire alarm brush,” which meant that Tavia, upon hearing the breakfast bell, had smuggled her brown hair into a most daring knot, promising to do it up properly later. But it was at breakfast that Dorothy’s two cousins, Ned and Nat, told of their loss—that the pigeons had been stolen during the night. The boys made no attempt to hide either their anger at the unknown thieves’ act, or their genuine grief at the loss of their fine birds. Dorothy and Tavia were almost as wrought up over the affair as were the boys, and, as a matter of fact, very little breakfast was partaken of by any of the quartette that morning. So Tavia did not get back to her room to give the “back tap” to the “fire alarm” hair dressing, and as she now marched around the chicken yard, with the doves on her shoulders, proclaiming herself to be the Winged Venus, Dorothy suggested it might be well to do away with the Psyche knot at the back of her head first, and not get her mythology so hopelessly mixed.

Over in a grassy corner Dorothy was feeding from her hands the bantams. She looked like a “living picture,” for a pretty girl feeding chicks always looks like something else, a page from fairy tales, or a colored plate from Mother Goose.

Tavia had always complained that Dorothy “didn’t have to do” her hair, she only had to “undo it,” for the blonde waves had a way of nestling in very close at night, only to be shaken out the next morning. So Dorothy’s hair looked pretty, and her simple white gown was smooth, not wrinkled like Tavia’s, for Dorothy’s dress couldn’t wrinkle, the stuff was too soft to hold creases. Tavia wore a pink muslin slip—it was intended to be worn as an underslip, with a thin lace or net covering, but like other things Tavia had cut her dressing down that morning, so she wore the slip without the cover. And to add to the “misery,” the pink slip was a mass of wrinkles—it had been making itself comfortable in a little lump on Tavia’s bedroom chair all the night, and so was not quite ready (copying its mistress) to be on parade in the morning sunlight.

“Here come the boys,” suddenly announced Dorothy, as two youths strode down the path toward the little enclosure.

“Hello there!” called Ned. “What’s the entrance?”

“Reserved seats fifty cents,” answered Dorothy promptly.

“This way for the side show,” called out Tavia, who still had the birds on her shoulders.

“I’ve seen worse,” declared Nat, the youth who always saw something to compliment about Tavia. “Say, Coz”—this to Dorothy—“I think I know who took the pigeons, and I want your help to bring them to—justice.”

“Oh, she’s just aching to go on the force,” declared Tavia, “shooing” the doves away, as the news of the thievery was promised. “She thinks those Archangels will ‘telepath’ to her. They were her pets, you know, and what on earth (or in heaven) would be the use of being Archangelic if—well, if in a case of the kind the ‘Archs’ couldn’t make good?”

“She’s only jealous,” declared Dorothy. “Her fantails are sure to fly away to some other country, and so there is no hope for them. They were such high-flyers.”

“Nat thinks he’s got the game dead to rights,” remarked Ned, with a sly wink at Dorothy. “But wait until he tries to land it.”

“Exactly!” announced Nat. “Just wait until I do. There’ll be some doin’s in Birchland, now, I tell you. And if I can’t get the birds alive, I’ll get their feathers—for the girls’ hats.”

“Oh, I am going to join the Bird Protection Society this very day,” and Dorothy shivered. “To think that any one can wear real bird feathers—”

“Now that you know real birds—your Archangels, you can see how it feels,” commented Nat. “We fellows have the same regard for woodcock or snipe. But just suppose some one should shoot those pretty pigeons, and give the feathers to a girl for her hat. She’ll wear them, of course. They were beautiful birds,” and he walked off toward the cage where only the day previous he had so admired the birds that were now strangely missing.

“But who took them?” demanded Tavia.

“Of course, if I knew—”

“Said you did,” pouted Tavia, before Nat had a chance to finish the sentence.

“Now, did I?”

“Well, you said you thought—”

“And I still think. It’s a habit I have. And, by the way, little girl,” (Nat always called Tavia “little g-ir-l” when he wanted to tease) “it’s a great thing to think. Try it some time.”

“Well, if I ever get at it, I’ll begin on you,” and Tavia’s Psyche knot almost fell over on her left ear in sheer indignation.

“Do. I shall be de-lighted. But to be exact,” and he drew from the pocket of his sweater two feathers, one white and the other copper color. “Do you recognize these?” and he held the little quills out to the girls.

“That white one is from a fantail,” declared Tavia promptly.

“And the other—that is certainly from an Archangel,” exclaimed Dorothy, taking the pretty bit of fluff in her hand, and examining it closely.

“Well, I found those—”

“Hush!” whispered Ned. “There’s Urania!”

CHAPTER II
THE GYPSY GIRL

With a gait that betokened indolence, and her entire appearance bearing out that suggestion, a girl with a bright-colored handkerchief on her head, sauntered along the path in the direction of the little party, who had been conferring in the “enclosure.” Her feet seemed weighed down with shoes many sizes beyond her real need, and her dress was so long that she looked as if she might have been playing grandmother up in some attic, and had forgotten to leave the things behind after the game.

“Well, Urania,” began Dorothy, smiling, “you are out early, aren’t you?”

“Haven’t been in yet,” drawled the girl. “So much fussin’ around the camp last night I just left the wagon to little Tommie, and made a bed out under the pines.”

“Fussing?” inquired Nat, showing keen interest in the girl’s remarks.

“Yes, comin’ and goin’ and—” She shot a quick glance at the boy who was listening so intently to her words. Then she peered through the wire cage over to the dove cote. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Your birds sick?”

“Worse,” spoke up Tavia. “They’re gone, stolen!”

“Flew the coop?” said the gypsy girl, with a grim smile. “Them pretty ones, with the pleated tails?”

“Yes, and those beautiful dark ones,” sighed Dorothy. “Those with all the colors—like sunset, you know.”

“Too bad,” murmured the strange girl. “Lots of chicken thieves around here lately. Dad says people will be blaming us. But we’ve been in this township every summer for ten years, and Dad is just as thick with the ‘cops’ as—the old woman is with the peddlars,” she finished, grinning at her own wit.

“You didn’t happen to hear any strangers around the camp last night, did you?” asked Ned, kindly.

“Heard more than that,” answered the girl. “But, say, I came over here to borrow something. Business is bad, and the old woman wants to know if you could just lend her a quarter. I didn’t want to ask, as I don’t forget good turns, and you’ve treated me all right,” with a nod to Dorothy. “But when the old woman says ‘go’ I’ve got to turn out. She’s gettin’ awful sassy lately.”

The girl dug the broken toe of her shoe deep into the soft sod. Evidently she did not relish asking the favor, and as Nat handed her the coin she looked up with a sad smile.

“Much obliged,” she stammered, “I’ll bring it back the first chance I get, if I—have to—steal it.”

“Oh, no! I’m making you a present of that,” the youth answered, pleasantly. “You mustn’t think of bringing it back. But about the noises at the camp last night? Did you say there were strangers about?”

“Might have been,” answered the girl slowly. “But you know gypsies never squeal.”

“I don’t expect you to,” followed Nat. “But you see my best birds are gone, and you, being a friend of ours, might help in the search for them.”

“So I might,” said Urania. “And if I found them?”

“Why, you would get the reward, of course. I’ve offered a dollar a piece for them—alive.”

“A dollar apiece?” she repeated. “And how many were swiped?”

“Six—the very best three pairs,” answered the young man. “I’ll have the reward published in to-night’s paper—”

“No, don’t,” interrupted the girl. “That’s what they’re after. Keep them guessing for a day or two, and well, maybe the doves will coo loud enough for you to hear them in the mean time.” At this the gypsy girl turned away, leaving the party to draw their own conclusions from her remarks.

And while the others stand gazing after Urania, we may take time to get acquainted with the various characters who will come and go in this story, and who have appeared in the other books of this series. As told in my first volume, called “Dorothy Dale: a Girl of To-Day,” Dorothy was a daughter of Major Dale, formerly of a little town called Dalton, but now living with his sister, Mrs. Winthrop White, at North Birchland. Dorothy’s chum, Octavia Travers, familiarly called Tavia, was the sort of girl who gets all the fun possible out of life, besides injecting a goodly portion of her own original nonsense into every available spot. Dorothy and Tavia had been chums since their early days in Dalton—chums of the sort that have absolute faith in each other: a faith sufficient to overcome all troubles and doubts, yes, even reports that might be sent out by the unthinking or the unkind, for Tavia naturally got into trouble and kept Dorothy busy getting her out.

Several instances of this kind were told of in the first book of the series; in the second called, “Dorothy Dale at Glenwood School,” Tavia developed still greater facilities for finding trouble, while Dorothy kept up with her in the matter of “development” in smoothing out the tangles. In the third volume, “Dorothy Dale’s Great Secret,” Tavia came very near “social shipwreck,” and no one but such a friend as Dorothy Dale proved herself to be, could have, and actually did, rescue her.

Mrs. Winthrop White, called by Dorothy, Aunt Winnie, was also an interesting character in the books. She was described by Tavia as a “society thoroughbred,” and was mother to Ned and Nat, the two jolly boys whose acquaintance we have just made. These boys were Dorothy’s cousins, of course, and Tavia’s friends. Tavia was spending part of her vacation with Dorothy at the Cedars, Mrs. White’s country place. The boys played an important part in the rescue of Tavia when she tried to “earn money by going on the stage” with a “barnstorming” company, when Dorothy herself got into complications at Glenwood School, (trying to assist a girl who proved entirely unworthy of the interest Dorothy manifested in her affairs,) it was Tavia who “helped out.” At Glenwood School we met some of the jolliest sort of boarding school girls, and were permitted to get a glimpse into the sacred life of those who consider every boarding school a college junior, and in imitating the college girl antics actually outdo their elders in the matter of fun making.

The gypsy girl, Urania, also appeared in a previous volume, and it was Dorothy’s characteristic wit that then helped the brown-eyed Urania out of a very unpleasant predicament.

And now this gypsy girl was offered a chance to return a kindness to Dorothy, for in getting trace of the stolen birds all who lived at the Cedars, would be relieved of worry, and spared much anxiety, for the birds had been great pets with the folks there.

But would Urania make her clues clear? Dare she risk gypsy vengeance to show her gratitude to Dorothy?

“She knows, all right,” remarked Nat, as the girl swung out into the roadway on her way to the camp.

“But she’ll never tell,” added Ned. “She wouldn’t dare. That Melea, her stepmother, whom she calls the old woman, is a regular ‘tartar.’”

“I think,” ventured Dorothy, “she might give just a hint. We wouldn’t want her to do anything that would endanger herself. But if we guessed—”

“You’re the star guesser, Doro,” put in Tavia. “For my part I never was any good at that trick. You remember how near I came to the mark at the Glens’ Donkey party?”

“Then keep away from this tale,” said Nat laughing. “It wouldn’t do for the clue to be pinned on the wrong party.”

“I must have a talk with Urania alone,” Dorothy said, seriously. “I am sure she will tell me what she knows about the birds. I’ll go see her this afternoon—I want to go over to the camp with some things, and then I will get Urania to walk out with me. It wouldn’t do for Melea to see our two heads together.”

“Great idea,” commented Ned. “I quite agree with Tavia. You would make a star detective, Doro. And the best of it is no one would ever suspect you of being ‘on the rubber.’ Now Tavia—well, she just up and asks, the most impertinent questions—”

“For instance. Who that nice looking boy is who has been dodging around here lately?” interrupted Tavia, taking up the young man’s sally, and adding to the joke on herself. “I must say he is the smartest looking chap—”

“Oh, the fellow with the red cheeks?” asked Nat.

“Exactly,” answered Tavia, in a serious voice.

“And those deep blue eyes?” questioned Ned.

“I have not seen his eyes—close by,” admitted Tavia, “but with his hair, they must be deep blue,” and she looked entranced at the very thought of the “deep blue orbs.”

“Why, I haven’t seen this—Adonis,” said Dorothy, interested. “When might a body lay eyes on his perfection?”

“He goes along the river road every morning,” Tavia informed her companion, with great importance.

“And he carries a small leather case, like a doctor’s satchel—only different?” went on Nat.

“You have certainly observed him closely,” declared Tavia, still cherishing the importance of her “great find.”

“Yes, I know him,” said Nat.

“So do I,” added Ned.

“Oh, who is he?” implored Tavia, “Do introduce us!”

“Just as you like,” assented Ned, “But he is only a boy—goes to school in Ferndale every day.”

“I thought so,” and Tavia was more interested than ever. “Where does he go? He is studying some profession, of course.”

“Hum,” grunted Nat, with a sly wink at Dorothy.

“But just what a hero might be studying, would, of course, not influence the opinion of such a broad-minded young woman as Tavia Travers,” challenged Ned.

“I should say—no!” declared Tavia, with mock dramatic effect.

“Well, then, that boy is studying a most remunerative and heroic profession,” went on Ned.

“I knew it,” cried Tavia, bounding over in front of Ned to get the important information.

“Yes, he is studying—the plumbing business,” said Ned, and the way he looked at Tavia—well, she just dropped in a lump at his feet, and when Nat fetched the wheelbarrow, she still played limp, so they put her in the barrow, wheeled her up the path, and she “stayed put,” until they actually carried her indoors.

When she “recovered,” she declared she would waylay the plumber the very next morning, and have him look over some little jobs that might be found in need of looking over, by just such an intelligent youth. The boys seconded this motion, and agreed that a good plumber was a much more desirable acquaintance than might be a fellow who studied so many other languages that he necessarily forgot entirely his interest in English.

“Besides,” said Nat, “A nice little plumber like that, with deep blue hair and red eyes—”

“And a lunch box that looks like a doctor’s kit,” interrupted Ned.

“Just jealous,” snapped Tavia. “I once knew the loveliest plumber, never charged me a cent for fixing my bike.”

“And you would forget him for this stranger!” said Dorothy, in tragic tones.

“No, indeed. I would think of this one in memory of the o-th-er!” answered Tavia, clapping her hand over her heart, and otherwise giving “volume” to her assertion.

“Well,” sighed Nat, “If it’s all the same to the ladies, we will continue our search for the missing birds. Can’t afford to let them get too far away, and the morning is wasting.”

“Hanged if I’ll tramp another step,” objected Ned, “not for all the birds in Paradise. My feet are so lame now they feel like the day after a ball match, and besides, Nat, unless we get an airship and explore further up, it’s no use. We’ve covered all the lowland territory.”

“All but the swamp,” admitted Nat, “and I have some hopes of the swamp. That would be just the place to hide a barrel full of stolen pigeons.”

“Or we might look in somebody’s pot-pie,” drawled the brother, indifferently.

“No, sir,” declared Dorothy, “Those birds would begin to sing when the pie was opened. Now you boys had better let me take this case. I have a feeling I will be able to land the game. But I can’t have any interference.”

“Go ahead, and good luck,” said Ned. “Take the case, the feeling, the game, the whole outfit. You’re welcome,” and he stretched himself in the hammock with such evident relish that Tavia could not resist slipping around the other side, and giving the hammock a push that “emptied,” the weary boy on the red rug beneath the “corded canopy.” He lay there—turned up a corner of the carpet for a pillow, and remarked that in his earlier days, it was said of him that he could roll out of bed and “finish up on the floor,” and he “guessed he hadn’t quite forgotten the trick.”

“Now this afternoon I’ll go down to the camp,” announced Dorothy. “So don’t expect me back—until you see me.”

“Is that a threat?” joked Nat. “Sounds so like the kind of note one gets pinned to the pillow when there’s been a row. ‘Don’t expect me back. I am gone out of your life for ever—’” and he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, while Ned just rolled around in “agony” at the thought.

“And she was such a sweet girl!” wailed Tavia, adding her “howl” to the noise.

Such a racket!

Mrs. White appeared at the French window. “What in the world is the matter?” she demanded, beholding Ned with his face buried in the carpet, Nat with his eyes covered in his handkerchief, and Tavia with both arms “wrapped around her forehead.”

“Oh, mother!” sobbed Nat. “We mustn’t expect her back—”

“And she won’t stand for any interference!” groaned Ned.

“And she’s going with the gypsies,” blubbered Tavia.

“Well,” and Mrs. White joined in the laugh that now evolved from the reign of terror. “You children do find more ways of amusing yourselves! But it might not be a bad idea to get ready for luncheon,” with a sly look at Tavia’s uncovered slip. “Those pigeons seem to have rather upset the regime.”

“I’m off!” shouted Tavia, with a bound over the low rail of the porch.

“I’m on!” added Nat making himself comfortable on the “tete” beneath the honey-suckle vines.

“I’m in!” remarked Ned, as he slipped into the hammock.

“And I’m out!” declared Dorothy, with a light laugh, as she jumped off the steps “out” into the path, then was gone to follow the suggestion of her Aunt Winnie, for Dorothy had learned that to follow the house rules was the most important line in the social code of Mrs. Winthrop White.

CHAPTER III
DOROTHY AT THE CAMP

Under a clump of trees, near a brook and an open meadow, and beside a broad country road, was pitched the gypsy camp.

This spot was chosen deliberately and with much care. The trees furnished shade for the tents: the brook furnished water for the horses and for housekeeping purposes, the meadow furnished pasture for the cattle, and the roadway furnished trade for the fortune tellers.

Outside the tents were the wagons, with the queer racks, like fire escapes, running from roof to hub. These racks are used at moving time, to carry such stuff as might interfere with the inside “berths” during a long journey, and at other times the racks do service as “store rooms” for articles not needed in the tents.

In one of the wagons Urania had her sleeping quarters which were shared by a baby half brother on such occasions as he chose to climb into the high berth. But little Tommie was a typical gypsy, and often preferred to cuddle up at the root of a pine tree rather than to “hump” up in hot pillows in the wagon on summer nights.

So Urania never looked for him—if he were not in bed he must be asleep somewhere, she knew, so in real Nomad philosophy, Tommie never looked for Urania, and Urania never looked for Tommie,—the wisdom of living independently comes very early to members of their class.

Neither do gypsies bother about meal times. They eat when they are hungry—so it was that Dorothy found Urania eating her dinner at two o’clock in the afternoon, when she made the promised call at the camp.

There appeared to be no one about the tent but Urania, and when Dorothy pulled the little camp stool up to the “door” (the opened tent flap) and seated herself there for a chat with the gypsy girl, she felt she had chosen an opportune time for the confidential talk with Urania.

“Get the birds?” asked Urania, while eating.

“No,” replied Dorothy, “and I came over to see if you had heard anything about them.”

“Heard?” sneered the girl, “I thought they were home by this time.”

“Home?” repeated Dorothy, under her breath, for she heard the bushes rustle close by.

Urania helped herself to more sweet potatoes. She was stretched on a piece of carpet in the center of the tent, and there spread on the floor or ground before her was the noon day meal. A huge white cat sat like an old fashioned chimney corner statue, straight up, at her elbow, looking over her shoulder in the queerest way.

From a corner of the tent a very small black dog was tugging at its rope, that just allowed the tiny animal the privilege of drawing in atmospheric gravy—but the rope was too short to reach the dish. And the gypsy girl ate her meal with evident relish in such surroundings!

Flashes of the “Simple Life” idea rose before Dorothy’s mind. Was this what it meant?

Finally the gypsy girl gathered herself up, and without attempting to remove anything from the ground, not even the remaining eatables—although there were numbers of chickens about waiting their turn at the “spread” she came out to where Dorothy sat.

“The old woman’s over there,” she whispered, indicating the back of the tent. “Suppose we walk along, and talk?”

Dorothy left her parcels down in plain view of the gypsy woman, Melea, who, upon seeing them, stepped out from her hiding place and approached the girls.

“I brought you some little things for Tommie,” said Dorothy, “I hope you can make use of them.”

“Thank you very much, miss,” the woman replied, as she gathered up in her apron the bundles Dorothy had left in the camp chair. “Tommie does need things, poor little fellow. And business is awful slow.”

Urania had slipped out to the road side now, and while the woman was “feasting” on the new things the two girls made their way toward a quiet path through the woods.

“And the birds are not home yet?” asked Urania, as the barking of the little dog in the tent became almost beyond hearing.

“No,” answered Dorothy with a question in her voice.

“Well, I saw them leave the swamp, and I thought they would fly straight home,” declared the gypsy girl.

“Leave the swamp?”

“Hush! Not so loud. Sometimes bushes have ears,” cautioned Urania. “The birds were tied in the swamp, and—some one cut the cords,” she hissed.

“I brought you some little things for Tommie,” said Dorothy. Page 24

No need to tell Dorothy who the “some one” was. She glanced gratefully at the girl walking beside her.

“I must hurry back,” she declared, “and tell the boys. Some one may trap them.”

Dorothy noticed that Urania stopped often to rub one foot against the other. She also noticed a frown of pain cover the girl’s brown face, and now Urania sat down, pulled a torn stocking below her knee, and attempted to adjust a very dirty rag over her thin limb.

“What is it?” asked Dorothy, seeing in spite of the girl’s evident attempt to conceal it, that the rag was stained with blood.

“Oh, nothin’” replied Urania, carelessly. “I just scratched my knee, that’s all,” and she bound the rag about the member as best she could.

“You have torn your limb in the swamp,” declared Dorothy, as the truth came suddenly to her. “I know that place is full of poison briars—”

“But I don’t poison,” interrupted the girl, getting up to continue her walk. “Besides it ain’t nothin’,” and she trudged along bravely enough.

“You must have the reward if the birds get back home,” Dorothy said, as she reached the turn in the path that led to the open roadway.

“Well, money’s all right,” admitted the girl, “but it wouldn’t do for me to show any just now. You see, there’s a lot of bad gypsies prowlin’ around here. Dad don’t mix in with them, but they’re wise, slick, you know. And if they should get next, see me limp, and find out I had fresh scratches, they’d get on to the swamp game quick. So I’ll have to lay low, and I’ll be much obliged if you will help me out, and tell the same to the young gents.”

Dorothy could not repress a smile at the girl’s queer way of telling things, for the slang seemed as natural to Urania as chirping does to a wood sparrow. Neither did the common expressions sound vulgar, as they slipped from the full red lips, and became the utterances of the wild girl of the camps.

“You can depend on me,” whispered Dorothy, pressing Urania’s hand. “And do be careful to wash those scratches—keep the poison out, you know.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” the other replied. “There comes Tommie, and he’s got on the new togs. My, but he does look swell!”

Plunging through the bushes came the little gypsy boy, in the “new togs,” the pretty dark blue sailor suit that Dorothy had bought for him while in the city a few days before.

“He does look nice,” agreed Dorothy, when the boy stood before her, waiting for compliments. “And they fit you so nicely,” she continued, taking a critical look at the blue sailor suit. “But I must hurry off now. Be a good boy, Tommie, and don’t tear your new clothes in the bushes,” she cautioned.

“I won’t,” declared the little fellow. “I’m goin’ to town next time dad goes, and I want to save ’em.”

“That’s right. Good-bye, Urania, look after the scratches,” said Dorothy, aside, “and if you want any of the reward money, just come over and tell me. I’ll see that you get it without the others knowing.”

“Much obliged,” stammered Urania. “Come along, Tommie, if you want a ‘piggy-back,’” and she stooped to the ground to allow the boy to climb on her back. “Now, don’t kick—there. Hold fast!” and at this the gypsies started down one path, while Dorothy hurried along another, for it was growing dusk, and the prospect of meeting the “bad gypsies,” the chicken thieves, that Urania said might be prowling about, was not a pleasant thought to Dorothy. Fortunately the road was not far away, and when finally she did reach it, without encountering any “dark figures,” she breathed a sigh of relief, and then made her way quickly to the Cedars.

CHAPTER IV
THE MIDNIGHT ALARM

But one week remained now of all the long summer vacation—then school must be taken up again, and the labor of learning must become both work and play for our young friends.

Dorothy and Tavia were to go back to Glenwood. Mrs. White had decided that the girls should not be separated, and consequently she provided the funds that were lacking on the part of the Travers family; for Tavia’s father had not been as prosperous in business during the past summer as he had formerly been, and in spite of many heroic efforts on his part, it was found impossible to get the necessary money together to send Tavia back to Glenwood.

It was on the very evening that Dorothy came in from her walk with Urania, that the school affairs were definitely decided upon. Mrs. White had received from Mr. Travers an answer to her letter regarding the school question, and so, when dinner was over, and stolen pigeons fully and finally discussed (they had not come home, however), Dorothy, Tavia and Mrs. White—the boys being rigorously excluded—adjourned to the sitting room to make notes and give notes, necessary in the formality of getting ready for boarding school.

Mrs. White was a beautiful woman, and her very presence seemed an inspiration to young girls, she was so gentle, so kind, so charming and so correct, without being prudish. Even the careless, frivolous Tavia “went down” beneath Aunt Winnie’s power, and was bound to admit it was “nice” to be well dressed, and “attractive” to have good manners.

On this particular evening Mrs. White was gowned in the palest lavender—a delicate orchid shade, and in her hair was a wild flower that Dorothy had brought in from the woods, the tints of this little spray toning exactly with the shade of the soft, silky gown.

Dorothy, too, was becomingly dressed. She wore her favorite light green—the one that Tavia always declared made Dorothy look like a lily, for her fair head above the “green stalk” easily suggested the comparison. Tavia, as usual, picked out the first dress that brushed her face as she entered the wardrobe, but it happened to be a pretty one, a bright plaid in fine Scotch gingham, that suited Tavia’s high color and light brown hair admirably.

“Now, my dears,” began Mrs. White, “I think we had best all go to town together, and then there will be no mistakes made about the sizes of your school things. The boys will leave for Cadet Hall in a few days, and after that we will be at liberty to take a whole day in town without neglecting any one. Major and the little boys” (Dorothy’s brothers) “will not be home for a week yet, schools do vary so in the time of opening, so that the thing for us to do now is, first: get Nat and Ned off, then attend to the shopping. After that we will just have time for a little reunion with the major and the boys, then it will be time to pack my girls off. Dear me,” said she, laughing, “I have quite a large family nowadays, but their care seems to agree with me.”

“You never looked better, Aunt Winnie,” declared Dorothy, with evident sincerity. “I hope I will grow tall and—straight like you.”

“You are doing your best now, girlie,” her aunt assured her, as she glanced at Dorothy’s slender form, that made such a pretty picture against the dark portieres she happened to cling to.

“But I’m getting fat,” groaned Tavia. “My clothes won’t button, and, oh, I do hate fat!”

“Take more exercise,” said Mrs. White, with a meaning laugh, for Tavia’s “tom-boy” habits were a confirmed joke among her friends, and for her “to take more exercise” seemed to mean to climb more fences and tear more dresses.

The sitting room was on the first floor, just off the side porch, and the long, low, French windows in the room were draped with a transparent stuff, but on this evening the shades had not yet been drawn.

There was a fixed rule at the Cedars that all shades should be drawn down as soon as the lights were turned on, but the interest in school talk so occupied our little party that the uncovered windows were entirely overlooked on this particular evening.

Tavia was seated on a low stool, very close to an open window, and just as Mrs. White made the remark about the major being away from home, Tavia fancied she heard a step on the side porch. She was positive the boys had gone out in their automobile, the Fire Bird, and so was puzzled as to the sound—it certainly was a step and a very light one, as well.

But Tavia did not interrupt the talk, in fact, she had no idea of alarming any one while the boys were away, and perhaps the servants might be off somewhere, for the evening was a pleasant one, and everybody seemed to be making the most of these last few fine nights of summer.

“And about your trunks,” went on Mrs. White, “I think we had better get larger ones, for you say you did have such a time getting all your clothes in when leaving school last term. Don’t you think, Tavia—but what are you listening to?” asked Mrs. White, noting the look on Tavia’s face. “Do you hear the boys coming? My! we have forgotten to draw the shades. Dorothy, just draw that one, and, Tavia, close the one at your elbow. It is never safe to sit by uncovered windows after dark.”

The light from the room fell across the broad piazza and as Tavia put her arm up to the shade she distinctly saw the line of light outside crossed by a shadow. She stepped back involuntarily, and at the same instant Dorothy gave a scream.

“A man!” she called. “He just passed the window. And, oh, he looked at me so!”

This was all Dorothy could say. Then she sank into a chair trembling visibly.

“I saw him,” said Tavia, “but I’ve seen him before. I suppose he’s prowling around for something to eat.”

“There is no need to be so frightened, Dorothy,” said Mrs. White. “We will just go about and see that things are locked up. I do wish the boys were in, though, and perhaps you had better call up the stable, Tavia, and ask John to come down to the house.”

The ’phone to the stable was just at the door of the sitting room, so Tavia did not have to venture far to call the man. But no answer came to the summons. John was not in the stable.

“Well, the boys will be back shortly,” Mrs. White said confidently, “and there is no need for alarm. We will see that the doors are fastened. You did get a start, Dorothy, but you know, my dear, in the country people cross lawns and take short cuts without really meaning to trespass.”

“Oh, I’m all right now,” replied Dorothy, “but it was—sudden. I’ll see that the shades are drawn at dark after this,” and she laughed lightly as she followed her aunt and Tavia through the hall to fasten the front door.

It was strange they should be so alarmed, but they were, and the measured tread that marked the small procession on its way to the front door showed plainly that each member of the trio wanted the door locked, but was not personally anxious to turn the key.

“There,” sighed Mrs. White, when finally her jeweled finger was withdrawn from the heavy panel. “I have often dreamed of doing that—and having some one grab me as I turned the key, but I escaped, luckily, this time. Now we may go back to our school plans. Suppose we sit in the library, just to get away from the side porch.”

To this welcome suggestion the girls promptly agreed, and if the intruder who had so disturbed them a few minutes before, chose to follow them up, and peer through the library windows, he would have had to cross directly under the electric light that illumined the entrance to the villa at the Cedars.

But, somehow, Dorothy could not forget the face that she had caught sight of, and she felt instinctively that the prowler was not a neighbor “taking a short cut,” for he need not have stepped on the porch in that case.

So when school matters were settled, and the boys had returned from their ride in the Fire Bird to hear the account of the little adventure, and to take extra precautions in locking up the big house, Dorothy whispered to Ned and Nat her suspicion—that the man who peeked in at the windows might be one of the bad gypsies, and that he might know something about the stolen pigeons.

“We ought to set a trap for the rascal,” Ned whispered in answer to his cousin’s suspicions, “he may be coming back for the rest of the birds. I wish I had told John to keep his ears open while his eyes were shut, but it’s too late to do that now,” and then, with every assurance of safety, and the promise to be up at the slightest alarm, Ned and Nat said good-night to their cousin, and Dorothy’s fears were soon forgotten in the sleep that comes to healthy girls after the pleasant exercise of a lingering summer’s day.

Ned and Nat, too, soon fell into sound sleep, for their evening ride left in its tracks the pleasant flavor of most persuasive drowsiness, in spite of the promises made to Dorothy that they would be “on the lookout” all night, and no intruder should come around the Cedars without the two youths of the estate being aware of the intrusion.

But alas for such promises! Did boys ever sleep so soundly? And even Dorothy, though usually one apt to awake at small sounds, “hugged her pillow” with a mighty “grip,” because, of course, when a girl insists upon keeping awake just as long as she can keep her eyes propped open, when the “props” do slip away, sleep comes with a “thud.”

So it was that Tavia, she who made a practice of covering up her head and getting to sleep in order to avoid trouble (when she heard it coming)—Tavia it was who heard something very like a step on the side porch, just after midnight.

Some one has said that it is easier to keep burglars out than to chase them out: this infers, of course, that it may be wiser to give a false alarm than to take the opposite course. But true to her principles Tavia covered up her head, and told herself that it would be very foolish to arouse the household just because she heard a strange sound.

Yet there was something uncanny about the noise! There it was again!

Tavia raised her head and looked around. Dorothy slept in the alcove and a light burned dimly from a shaded lamp between the two sleeping apartments. Tavia could see that her chum was sleeping soundly.

“Dorothy! Dorothy!” she whispered, afraid now to hear her own voice. “Dorothy! get up! I think I hear some one—”

Crash!

Every one in the house heard that! It came from the dining room and was surely a heavy crash of glass breaking!

Instantly Dorothy dashed to the door, and putting her finger on an electric button, flooded the hallways upstairs and down with glaring light. The next moment she touched another button! The burglar alarm.

And all this time Tavia trembled there, in her bed—she who was wide awake, and she who usually could boast of some courage!

“Oh!” she kept gasping, “I heard them long ago! They are inside, I’m sure!”

“Heard them long ago!” Dorothy took time to exclaim, “Then do, for goodness sake, do something! Get up and make a noise anyway! John will be in from the stable in a moment. Get up and slip on your robe,” for Tavia seemed “glued” to the spot.

By this time the boys were out in the hall, Ned with a glittering revolver clutched firmly in his hand, and his younger brother leading the way with a night light thrust out like a danger signal.

“Boys! boys!” begged Mrs. White. “Do be careful! Don’t shoot even if you—Oh, I wish you would wait until John comes. I know I shall faint if I hear a shot!”

Indeed, the mother was almost in a state of collapse at that very moment, and Dorothy, meeting her aunt in the hall, quietly put her arm around her and led her away from the stairway into the secluded alcove.

“Auntie, dear! Don’t be so alarmed,” soothed Dorothy. “They are surely gone by this time. They never hang around after the lights are turned on. And when that bell went off, I know they were glad to get off at that signal.”

“Oh, I’m so—glad—Dorothy, that you turned in the alarm,” gasped Mrs. White, “for the boys—were determined to go right down upon them—Oh! I feel some one would surely have been shot—if you had not acted so quickly!” and the trembling woman sank down on Dorothy’s couch, thoroughly exhausted.

“There they go! There they go!” called Tavia, throwing up the curtains, and thrusting her head out of the window.

“See! There’s two men! Running down the path!”

That instant a shot rang out, and then another!

“Oh!” screamed Mrs. White, dashing up and rushing down the stairs with Dorothy close behind her. “The boys! My boys!” Then she stumbled and fell into the arms of Ned, who knew how keen would be her anxiety, and was hurrying to assure her that the shots were only sent out to alarm the neighborhood, and that John and men from other nearby stables were now trying to run down the midnight intruders.

“Mother! Mother!” whispered the youth. “Everything is all right. No one is hurt. Mother, see! Here is Nat now. He didn’t go out. Come, let us put you to bed.”

“Boys!” breathed Mrs. White, opening her eyes. “I am all right now. But I was so frightened! Ned—Nat, are you both here? Then I will go upstairs,” and she rallied bravely. “I do hate so to hear a pistol shot. It was that—but no one is hurt, and they are gone? No matter what they took, I am so glad they did get away.”

In spite of the boys’ regard for their mother, it was quite evident they were not so well pleased at the safe departure of the robbers, but now they must “put their mother to bed,” and then—

“You girls stay upstairs with her,” whispered Nat to Dorothy, as the party made its way to Mrs. White’s room. “We may be out for a while. If she calls us, just say—”

“Oh, leave that to me,” said Dorothy authoritatively. “We can keep the burglars out now, I guess,” and she laughed lightly at the “guess,” when there was positive assurance that the burglar scare had entirely subsided, and that John and the others were on active “picket duty” about the place.

“What was broken?” Mrs. White asked, more for the sake of saying something than to express interest in the loss.

“The lamp,” answered Dorothy, “and what a pity. That lamp was such a beauty. It came as near making moonlight as anything artificial possibly could.”

“Then we will get a sunshine in place of it,” said Mrs. White, brightening up.

“Yes, daylight for mine,” added Tavia, with a “scary” face. “Mr. Moon goes behind a cloud too—”

“Noisily,” finished Dorothy. “At the same time he acted promptly in this case. It is not a bad idea to have some such safeguard.”

“I always thought the lamp was in the way,” agreed the aunt, “but as you say, Dorothy, it was in the right way this time. Well, let us be thankful no one is hurt—it is easy to replace mere merchandise.”

Dawn was peeping through blinds, and with the first ray of light quietness again fell upon the Cedars. The servants had gone back to their rooms, Dorothy and Tavia were again in their “corners,” as Tavia termed the pretty twin alcoves, allotted the young girls while visiting at the Cedars, and the young men—well, they did not return to their rooms. To lose five homing pigeons, and good family silver all within one week, was rather too exciting for boys like Nat and Ned. There was something to be done other than sleeping just then.

Even real, daring burglars are only mortal, and sometimes the most daring are the greatest cowards—when daylight comes and people are wide awake!

CHAPTER V
AN AWFUL EXPERIENCE

It was two days later, very early in the morning, when Nat went down to the “enclosure” to feed the lonely birds remaining in the cage, that he found one of those—a carrier which had been stolen, perched contentedly on its own particular box!

“Hello!” called out the young man, in delight. “Where did you come from? So an Archangel did ‘make good,’ as Tavia said. Well, I’m right glad to see you, Gabriel,” he told the prodigal. “Come down here and eat. You must be hungry.”

As if the bird understood, it promptly fluttered down to Nat, and came obediently up to the hand that held some inviting food.

“What’s that on your—A message!” Nat interrupted himself. “Looks like it. Here, Gabriel, let me get that note off your leg,” and he proceeded to untie from the bird’s foot a scrap of paper.

“Thought so,” went on the boy, as if the bird had been taking a more active part in the conversation than that of fluttering its wings and cooing happily. “A message—from—Let me see,” and Nat sat down on the edge of the scratch box.

“This is a scrawl, too scrawly for me, I’m afraid. That’s ‘c-o-me’ come,” and he peered through the thin paper at the indistinct letters. “And next is s-w-a-mp, swamp. ‘Come swamp.’ That’s it, all right. It’s a message telling us to go to the swamp,” and Nat jumped up, delighted to have deciphered the queer note.

“Maybe it’s signed,” he reflected, looking over the paper again carefully. “Yes, there’s a letter, and it’s a ‘U,’ u for—for—why, Urania, of course,” he decided instantly. “Well, we’ll go to the swamp, Urania, and see what’s doin’ there. I had an idea right along that we might find the pigeons around the swamp.”

The pigeon was now strutting around in its own confident way, as if the hardships through which it had so lately passed were all forgotten, and only the freedom of the Cedars, with all the good “pickings” and the brook berries to nibble at, were now questions to be considered.

“Go ahead, Gabriel, help yourself. Take more and plenty of it,” said Nat, as he started off.

Nat was not long in reaching the house and making his find known to the folks there. Dorothy read and re-read the message that the bird had brought, and declared she had been positive all along that a clue to the two burglaries would come through Urania.

“Now, that’s what I call good, sensible telepathy,” said Tavia, when her turn came ’round to read the wonder note. “Pencil and paper and a few words—even though they be rather—well, I should call them ‘spooky,’” and she smoothed the bit of precious paper out carefully on the palm of her hand.

“But what’s the answer?” demanded Ned. “Why should the girl order us to the swamp? Couldn’t she as well come here and put us next the game?”

“No,” answered Dorothy decisively. “I have been trying to get a word with Urania for the last two days—since the night the silver was stolen, and every time I see her, she darts away like a wild deer. She seems afraid to speak to me, as if some one were watching her.”

“More like it,” agreed Nat. “She knows about the birds and the goods and they (the other gypsies) know that she will give them away if she gets the chance, so they are keeping the chance at a distance. Then, she was inspired, yes, I would call it inspired” (for both Tavia and Ned had attempted to faint when Nat grew eloquent). “I say she was inspired,” he repeated, “to send the message a la pigeon. Now it’s ‘up to us’ to go to the swamp and do the rest.”

“No, I insist,” said Dorothy, with marked emphasis, “that I must go first. I must, if possible, see Urania, and by some sign find out from her how the ground lays. Then, if all is ready, we may proceed to the swamp.”

“ Aladdin and the seven Robbers were not in it with this stunt,” exclaimed Tavia, with a hearty laugh. “I hope I don’t get locked in the cave. This is certainly mysterious. I suppose we will have to get out our boots to go a-swamping. I tried that gully once, and came out wiser than I went in. Also heavier. I brought back with me a ton of splendid yellow mud.”

“Now, the thing for you all to do,” advised Dorothy, with much seriousness, “is to keep this matter very quiet. Don’t say a word about it to any one, remember, not even to John. Then, I’ll go out and try to see Urania, and find out what it all means. When I come back, which I will do in an hour at the most, we can go to the swamp and—”

“And swamp the swampers,” interrupted Nat. “I had made up my mind to swat the fellow I would find guilty of swiping those birds, but now I’m content to swamp and swat the swipers.”

“Great,” admitted Ned. “But first catch your bird, that’s the old way, I believe. After you have the bird, you may turn on the swipsy swampy swipping.”

“Couldn’t I go with you, Doro?” asked Tavia, “you might need some protection. There’s no telling what our friends may want to steal next.”

“Oh, I’m not a bit afraid,” replied Dorothy. “I know the folks at the camp.”

“But just the same,” cautioned Ned, “it might be more prudent to take Tavia along. I have heard there are other gypsies about than those in the camp. And two girls are better than one, if it is only a case of yell.”

“But if Urania sees any one with me she is sure to hide,” protested Dorothy. “She has been running away from me for days.”

“All the more reason why she might run towards me,” insisted Tavia. “Now, Doro, we usually let you have your own way, but in this particular case you may have noticed that a reward is at stake, and I just love rewards. So I’m going.”

At this Tavia picked up a light parasol that stood in a recess of the porch, and dashing it up jauntily, started off down the path with the protesting Dorothy.

The young men waved a “good luck” to the messengers, then they made their way to the “enclosure,” to fully investigate the “carrier” that had brought the clue to the captivity of its mates.

The girls had but a short distance to walk to the camp, and before they reached the grassy sward that surrounded the home of the gypsies, they had caught sight of Urania.

“There she is,” declared Tavia, as a flash of bright skirts darted through the bushes.

“Yes,” agreed Dorothy, “that is Urania, but she has seen us and is getting away.”

“Then I’ll head her off,” said Tavia, making a sudden turn and running in the direction the gypsy girl was taking.

“But you won’t meet her that way,” called Dorothy. “You can’t cross the spring. I’ll go this way. She must either stay in the deep brush, or come out at the end of the path.”

“Oh, I see you know the trail,” answered Tavia. “Well, ‘it’s up to you then.’ I’ll stand guard. And, besides, your shoes are stronger than mine, so a dash through the spring will not give you the same brand of pneumonia that might be ‘handed out’ to me. So long!”

At this the two girls parted, Dorothy taking a roundabout path into the deep wood, while Tavia serenely sat herself down to enjoy a late picking of huckleberries, that were hiding on a bush just at her elbow.

For a few minutes Tavia was so engrossed in eating the fresh fruit she entirely forgot her “picket duty,” and when she finally did straighten up to see where Dorothy might be going, that young lady was not only out of sight, but likewise out of hearing!

Alarmed, Tavia shouted lustily, but no answer came to her call.

“She may not be able to call back without fear of arousing the bad gypsies,” thought Tavia, “All the same, I wish I had seen which way she went.”

With increasing anxiety Tavia waited at the turn of the path. Every rustle through the leaves, every chirp of a bird, startled the girl. Surely this was a deep woods for a young girl like Dorothy to be entering alone. And after Tavia assuring Dorothy’s cousins she would go with her, and look out for her!

Finally, as the minutes grew longer, and no trace of Dorothy appeared, Tavia could no longer stand the nervous strain, and she determined to go straight to the gypsy camp, and there make inquiries.

“What if it does get Urania into trouble,” she argued. “We can’t afford to lose trace of Dorothy for that.”

Quickly Tavia made her way through the brush over to the canvas houses, and there in front of one of the tents she encountered the woman Melea.

“Have you seen Miss Dale?” asked Tavia, without any preliminaries. “She started through the woods and I can’t find her.”

“Hasn’t been around here lately,” replied the woman with evident truthfulness. “Last I saw her she came down with some clothes for Tommie. That was days ago.”

“Where’s Urania?” demanded Tavia next.

“Oh, she ain’t around here any more,” answered Melea. “She got too sassy—didn’t know which side her bread was buttered on, and her father just ‘shooed’ her off.”

“Off where?” insisted Tavia, now fearful that Dorothy would fall into the hands of those who were intent upon punishing Urania, and who, therefore, might take revenge upon Urania’s friends also.

“I don’t know where she’s gone,” snapped the woman, turning impatiently to go inside the tent.

“But being a good fortune teller,” said Tavia, “can’t you guess? Didn’t I see her running through the woods a short time ago?”

“I guess not,” sneered the woman. “If you did, it must have been her ghost. She ain’t around these parts,” and at this the woman entered the tent, drawing the flap down as she did so.

“Well!” exclaimed Tavia aloud, “this is interesting. But not altogether comfortable. I see we will have to get a searching committee out, and I had better make arrangements promptly.”

A half-hour later Ned, Nat and Tavia reached the spot in the wood where the two girls had parted.

“Are you sure she took that path?” Ned demanded of Tavia.

“Positive,” replied the frightened girl. “I just sat down here to wait for her, and she went completely out of sight.”

“It might have been better to watch which way they went—might have seen the bushes move,” ventured Nat. Then, noting that Tavia was inclined to become more excited, he added: “Of course, she must be around here somewhere. There is really no cause for alarm. She may be hiding, just to give us a scare.”

“Oh, Dorothy would never do that,” sighed Tavia. “I can’t imagine what could become of her. And Urania is gone, too. They must be together.”

“You take that path and I will work through the bushes,” said Nat to Ned. “This swamp must open out somewhere, and I’ll bet we find the girls in that ‘open.’”

Tavia called and whistled, while the boys hunted and yelled. The “yodle” (a familiar call used always by the boys, Dorothy and Tavia), was given so often the very woods seemed to repeat the call.

It was becoming more and more discouraging, however, for, in spite of all efforts, not an answer came back, and no trace of the missing ones could be obtained.

Finally Nat shouted to his brother to follow him, as he “had struck a new trail.”

“Come along, Tavia,” Ned called in turn. “This woods may be the swallowing kind, and you might get gobbled up too. Keep close to us now.”

There was no need to urge the girl in that direction, for the woods had indeed a terror for her now, and she felt more inclined to run straight home than to help further in the search. But this, she knew, would look cowardly, so she determined to follow the boys into the marshy wilderness.

It was a rough way—that winding path, for the thick brush grew so closely over it that only the bend of the bushes showed there had been a path there, and that it was now seldom, if ever, used, save as a run for frightened rabbits, or a track for the hounds that followed them.

“There!” exclaimed Nat. “See that open? Didn’t I tell you we would find one? And there—what’s that over there at the hill? A cave, as I live. Now we are ‘going some.’”

“But, oh, Nat!” whispered Tavia, who had come up very close to him. “Look! There are men—over there! See, by that tree! Oh, I shall die, I am so frightened! They may have guns!”

“Well, so have we for that matter. You just keep your nerve. No danger that those fellows will attack us,” and the young man clapped his hand on his hip pocket to indicate the surety of his weapon there.

Ned, at that same time, had caught sight of the men hiding. He came over to where Tavia and his brother stood.

“Don’t let them see us,” he cautioned. “Just get back of that clump of bushes, and we will both fire together. They’ll skip then, I guess.”

Without moving a bush, or rustling a leaf, the trio crept behind the thick blackberry vines, and the next moment two shots rang out through the gully! The report echoed against the very hill where the men were crouching.

Instantly they sprang out into the open space. There were two in number and Tavia recognized them. They were the “bad gypsies,” those turned out of the camp and away from the camping grounds where the other families of gypsies had their quarters.

“Gypsies!” she whispered to Ned.

“Hush!” he cautioned, with a finger on his lips.

Only for a moment did the men stay in sight. Evidently they were trying to locate the direction whence the shots came, but not being able to do so, they, realizing the “enemy” had the entire advantage of them, turned and fled!

Up the hill, across the path, out of the woods and even along the roadside they ran—ran as if a band of constables were at their heels.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Ned. “Look at them go,” as from the higher position on the hill side the men could still be seen making their escape.

“A pity to let them go,” murmured Nat, “but we’ve got to find the girls.”

“Oh, I would like to go up a tree and stay there,” sighed Tavia, who was still badly frightened.

“Guess we’re all ‘up a tree’ this time,” answered Nat, lightly. “But I’m for the cave. Come along, Ned, and keep your gun handy.”

Tavia followed the boys across the open sward although she trembled so, she could scarcely make one foot step in front of the other. What if men should be in the cave, and pounce out on them!

“You needn’t worry,” Ned assured her, seeing her white face. “There are no more gypsies in this hole. They would have answered the shots same as the others did, if they had been about.”

“Neat little cave,” remarked Nat, as they came nearer the hut. “Didn’t know we had anything like that around here.”

They were now directly in front of the “hole in the hill.”

The top of this cave was covered with grass and ground, so that from the upper part of the hill, where the walk was common, the cave would never be suspected. But that the place was lined with brick and stone was plain to our friends, for they stood now in front of the opening, and this was a perfectly shaped door, surrounded by even rows of bricks.

“An old ice house,” declared Ned. “There must have been a big house around here and this was the ice storage.”

“Yes, there are ruins just over there,” said Tavia, indicating a spot at some distance down a gully.

“Call,” said Ned. “Tavia you call, they might be frightened at the sound of a man’s voice if they are in there.”

“Dorothy! Dorothy!” called Tavia, standing as near the door of the cave-hut as she dared trust herself to go.

Then they waited.

“Someone is moving inside,” said Ned, “I’m going in. She may not be able to come out.”

“Oh, don’t go in,” pleaded Tavia, “they may only be trying to trap you.”

“Well, I’ll take chances,” insisted the boy.

“And I’m with you,” declared his brother. “We’ve got to see who is there. Keep your gun handy, Ned.”

So saying, and each with a revolver ready in his hand, the brothers entered the cave.

Tavia dropped on her knees! It was one of those awful moments when only Providence seems strong enough to help.

But scarcely had she buried her face in her hands than she heard her name called.

“Come on, Tavia,” said Nat, appearing at the door of the cave, “We’ve found her all right, come inside and see!”

Fear fled with the words.

Found Dorothy! Oh, and in that awful place!

The girl sprang from her knees and she, too, entered the dark place.

“Dorothy!” she cried as the lost one fell into her arms. “Oh, Dorothy dear! What you must have suffered!”

“Yes, but let us get her outside,” insisted Ned. “This is no place to revive her. Come on Coz. You needn’t be the least bit frightened. We saw the fellows run over the hill. They’re in another town by this time. Just hang on to me. There, now I’ve put the gun away, so you won’t be afraid of that!”

“Oh,” gasped Dorothy, as she breathed the fresh air again. “What an awful experience! But, oh, I am so glad now—now I’m safe again,” and she sank exhausted on the grassy field.

“You poor darling,” whispered Tavia, fondling her lovingly. “And to think that I let you get entirely out of my sight. And I had promised to take care of you. Oh, Dorothy, how can you forgive me!” and at this Tavia burst out crying—the nervous strain of the past few hours summing up now into the girls’ ever ready cure-all—a good cry!

“Now, do you girls think you could stay here without—committing suicide or being kidnapped, while Ned and I just go in and explore?” asked Nat. “We saw the ‘goods’ in there, and there’s no time like the present.”

Dorothy and Tavia promised to “keep out of mischief,” so the two brothers again entered the cave.

CHAPTER VI
“THE GOODS”

“Nothing develops like developments,” declared Nat when a few minutes later he emerged from the cave, with a small crate in his arms.

“The pigeons!” cried the girls, and Tavia jumped up to help Nat set the box down carefully.

“The very goods—note that I delivered them,” said Nat in joyous tones. “Now, there’s more stuff inside, and we may as well deliver them all on one trip. Watch that crate, Tavia. Don’t let some fairy fly out of the tree and carry it off.”

But Tavia was too interested examining the contents of the crate (through the bars, of course) to notice Nat’s remark.

“Isn’t it splendid to find them!” she asked of Dorothy.

“Yes,” replied the girl, who still lay limp on the grass, “I think I should have died in there but for their cooing. They seemed to be telling me to keep up. And as I listened I felt some one was coming—I guess I heard you long before you found me.”

“But how in the world did you get in there?” asked Tavia.

“Urania showed me the place, and they were after us—but I can’t talk about it now, Tavia, I feel that even now they may be near.”

“All right dear. Forgive me for asking you,” answered Tavia, now so eager to make up for the mistake she had made in “losing” Dorothy.

“The same thing only different,” exclaimed Ned, as he came out of the cave with a big black bag in his arms. “This is our silver, ladies—Silver, this is our ladies,” he joked, as he brought the bag over and dropped it at Dorothy’s feet.

“Oh!” exclaimed both girls.

“Isn’t that splendid!” continued Dorothy. “I did not know that was in there. But do let us go home now, boys. If there is any thing else we can—you can come back for it, and you will be safer with John.”

“I guess that’ll be about all,” answered her cousin. “Now, how will we load up! Ned you take the crate, and I’ll put the bag on my back. There must be coal in the bottom, for our silver didn’t weigh a ton.”

“This is our silver, ladies” Page 60

It took but a few moments to “load up,” and presently the party was making their way to the open road, having decided to take the longest way ’round, for the shortest way home.

“Poor little Urania!” sighed Dorothy, as she reached the broad bright roadway. “I wonder which way she went?”

“A pity we couldn’t find her,” said Nat, “but we’re not through looking yet. She must be found before night fall.”

“And those awful men,” gasped Dorothy. “I do believe if they found her they would kill her!”

“Not if we find her first,” grunted Ned, for his load was so heavy he had to talk in “chunks.”

“Does Aunt Winnie know?” asked Dorothy, anxiously.

“Not a word,” replied Nat as he shifted the crate to a change of hands. “And she must not know. We can say we were in the woods and found the stuff all right, but she must not get a word of Dorothy in the cave. She would never trust us again if she did. And to Doro would be assigned a special officer as a body guardian the rest of her days. Now of course, a special officer is all right when a girl picks him herself, but the mammas always make a point of selecting the least attractive, I believe.”

The girls tried to laugh at the youth’s attempt to cheer them up, but it was only a feeble effort that responded.

“All the same, I call it great luck to get the goods,” insisted Ned, “and only for Doro’s scare the game would be all to the goal.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to go through it again,” answered Dorothy, “but having it over I, too, think it is a good thing to get the birds and the silver. I would be almost happy if I only knew about Urania.”

“Now, just as soon as we deposit this stuff safely—the birds in their nests and the silver in the pantry, we will sneak off somewhere, and you must give us the whole story. Then, we will know which way to go to look for the gypsy girl.”

Just as they turned into the path that led up to the Cedars the party met John. He had been sent out by Mrs. White to look for the “children.”

“Oh, here, John, take this bag!” called Ned as he approached, “my back is just paralyzed.”

“No take this crate,” demanded Nat. “He’s only got one back paralyzed, I’ve got two arms broken!”

“Set them down, set them down,” answered the man. “What in the world—the birds! Well, so you found them?”

“So—we—did!” panted Ned, as he dropped the bag.

“And what’s this?” asked John, taking a look into the black muslin bundle. “The silver! Well now! Did you raid a pawn shop?”

“No, sir, we raided a hole in the hill,” replied Nat.

“And we pulled the hole in after us,” added Ned.

The man thought the boys only joking, but he promptly took up the crate with many kind “coos” to the birds, and proceeded with them to their quarters, telling the boys, as he went, that the “creatures” were both starved and choked, and that their wants should be attended to at once.

“Then it’s up to me to bag it again,” said Ned, “although I do think, Nat, you might shuffle for a new deal.”

When the recovered silver had been examined it was found that one article was missing—a piece of untold value to the White family. This was an old Indian drinking cup, that Professor White in his travels through India had acquired. It happened to be the last present Mrs. White’s husband and the boys’ father had sent home before his sudden death, and on account of this intimate association with her husband’s last days Mrs. White prized the old dark cup beyond estimate.

Nat and Ned hesitated to make the loss known to their mother and as a matter of fact she did not know of it until some time later. In the meantime they hurried to make all possible search and inquiries but without any satisfactory result. The old cup could not be found.

John went with the boys back to the cave and all three searched every crack and crevice in hopes of locating the missing piece of silver, but it was nowhere to be found. Following this they even visited the gypsy camp and asked there if an old silver cup might have been seen about the woods (being careful of course not to mention recovery of the other things) but Melea with scant ceremony dismissed the boys declaring, “she didn’t know nothin’ ’bout their old tin cups.”

So they were obliged to let the matter rest, although it was understood the finding of the cup would mean a very great delight to Mrs. Winthrop White.

It was still that eventful morning, although the hour was crowding noon-day, when the boys, with Tavia, insisted on Dorothy at once telling the story of her “Wild West” adventure as Ned termed it.

“Come out on the side lawn under the trees,” directed Nat. “There no one will hear us, or suspect us of holding a secret session.”

The plan was agreed upon, and presently Dorothy was made the center of the interested group, all sitting on the grass under the Cedars.

“I don’t know all the story myself,” insisted the girl, “for you see Urania ran off and left me without most of the particulars.”

“Speak of angels—there’s Urania now,” Ned interrupted, “she is looking for you, Dorothy.”

“Urania!” called Dorothy, stepping out on the path. “Come over here. Oh, I am so glad she’s all right,” she finished, as the gypsy girl sauntered up to the party.

“Well!” drawled Urania, looking keenly at Dorothy, “so you got back? Ha! ha! wasn’t they easy—them fellers?” and she laughed heartily at the thought. “Think of me givin’ them a steer! ha! ha!” and the girl rolled over on the grass as if the entire affair had been a good joke.

“But I didn’t feel much like laughing when you left me in that cave alone,” protested Dorothy. “I felt as if my last moment had about arrived.”

“Well, I couldn’t do any better,” asserted Urania, now realizing that it might not be polite for her to laugh when Dorothy had had such an awful experience.

“I’ll tell you,” put in Ned, “Dorothy you tell your part of the story, and now Urania is here she can tell hers. We are anxious to hear it all. Talk about Wild West shows! If this isn’t about the limit. Go ahead Doro.”

At this all made themselves comfortable, Urania sitting in real gypsy fashion, her elbows resting lazily on her knees and her feet crossed under her.

“Well,” began Dorothy, “I found Urania some time after I left Tavia. She was picking berries near the spring. I asked her about the message the pigeon brought, and she told me that the men who stole the birds and silver had been arrested this morning, but that she knew where the things were.”

“And didn’t I?” interrupted Urania, more to confirm Dorothy’s statement than to ask the question.

“Indeed you did,” went on Dorothy. “Then we went to the swamp.”

“Weren’t you afraid?” asked Tavia.

“Not when Urania declared the men were safe in jail,” explained Dorothy.

“But they were not safe in jail,” insisted Tavia, “didn’t we see them in the gully?”

“Those wasn’t the guys,” answered Urania, “them was the other fellers’ pals. They didn’t know much about the game, they were just sneaking around trying to get next.”

“Oh,” replied Tavia, vaguely, in a tone of voice that might have suited the entire list of interjections with equal indifference.

“To proceed,” prompted Nat.

“Yes,” went on Dorothy, “we went to the hill and Urania showed me the ice house where she told me the things were put by the men who had taken them. She said her father knew they were there, but that he would not touch them.”

“Dad’s no thief,” spoke up the gypsy girl, “but he’s no sneak either, and he wants me to mind my own business. But I thought I could find the stuff and wanted to get the things back to you—you had treated me white, and I—I don’t go back on my friends.”

“Three cheers for Urania!” Nat exclaimed in a hoarse subdued yell, “and three more cheers for her friends!”

When the “cheering” was over Dorothy again tried to tell her story.

“Where was I at?” she asked.

“At the cave,” replied Tavia, eager to hear the “real hold up,” part of the play.

“Yes, Urania went in first and assured me it was all right. Then I went in—and then—”

“Next!” called off Nat. “Now Urania it’s up to you! You’ve got her in the cave now.”

“That’s right,” answered the gypsy girl, showing her enjoyment at the little farce. “Yes, she went in and I stayed out. Next moment I sees them guys over back of the big tree—!”

“Oh, do let me yell?” begged Tavia, “this is all going on without the least bit of enthusiasm from the audience.”

“I’ll make you yell if you don’t keep still,” threatened Nat. “The next person who interrupts this performance will be bounced from the show—and I’m the official bouncer.”

“When I sees them over there,” went on Urania, “first I got scared—thought it was Clem and Brown, the fellows who were put in the ‘jug’ (jail) this morning. But next thing I sees them better and I knew it was the strangers. I just told Dorothy to lay low, and not to move or come out for her life. Then I runs over to the big tree, waving my hands like a ‘lune,’ making on I was giving the guys the tip. Wasn’t that easy?”

“What?” asked Nat, “waving your hand like a lune?”

“Yep, and them fellers believing me. Skip! I told them. The cops is in the cave! Run! ‘They’ve got the goods’ and if they didn’t take the steer and start out just as you fired the guns.”

“And we were the ‘cops’ on the spot!” interrupted Nat. “What did I tell you? If this doesn’t beat all the Wild West shows ever wild wested! The Pretty Girl in the cave—The Kidnapper behind a tree! Then the handsome young fellow (me) to the rescue. The tip of the gypsy maid! Tavia wants to sneak. She is calmed by the handsome young fellow. Guns—Bang! Bang! Bang! The Kidnapper—”

“Oh, ring off!” called Ned. “How many acts in that drama?”

“But isn’t it great? I’ll stage it for the boys next winter. They have been looking for just such a winner—”

“Better get it copyrighted first,” suggested Ned. “Or some of the boys might steal the pretty girl.”

“Now who is interrupting?” asked Tavia. “Where is the ‘bouncer’ this time?”

“Bouncing!” replied Nat, suiting his words to queer antics that greatly amused Urania.

“You have lots of fun—don’t you?” she ventured aside to Dorothy, while a wistful look came into her dark face.

“Sometimes,” replied Dorothy kindly. “Don’t you ever have any fun?”

“Nope, fun ain’t for poor folks.”

“But where were you, Urania, when we were getting the things out of the cave?” asked Tavia, determined to hear all of the story.

“Eatin’ water cress over by the big tree. I saw you was gettin’ along all right, so I didn’t see any need to mix in.”

“Which reminds me,” said Dorothy, “that it must be lunch time. I’m famished. Urania, you must stay to lunch. You have worked hard this morning, and you are up since—”

“Since last night,” finished the girl, “I didn’t bother turnin’ in! I’m goin’ to quit the camp—this time for good.”

“Well, let us eat first and quit after,” said Nat, as a maid appeared on the porch to call them to luncheon. “Come along, Urania. You are entitled to the best there is. Take plenty of it—you’re welcome.”

This was Nat’s kind way of putting the girl at her ease, and when the others went into the dining room, Dorothy took Urania out into the kitchen and told the cook to give her a good dinner for “she needed it.”

“I’ll see you after lunch, Urania,” said Dorothy, as she left the girl smelling the savory dishes that were being served to her.

“All right, miss,” answered Urania, “I’m in a hurry to get away. Some one might want me at the camp,” with a significant look, that meant she might be called to explain her queer conduct of the early morning in the swamp.

CHAPTER VII
A STRANGE GIRL

“Now that it’s all over, and we can think without a guide,” said Dorothy, coming out from the luncheon table, “we really ought to consider Urania—we ought to consult Aunt Winnie about her, and see what would be best to do. She must not run away and be left out in the world alone.”

“My sentiments exactly,” spoke up Ned, who had taken from the table a few crackers just to show the pigeons he was glad to have them home again. “Come along down to the ‘enclosure’ and when we have interviewed the prodigals on their adventures in the wild west show that ‘busted’ up in a shooting match, then we may be able to ‘get cases’ on Urania. I notice she had not yet found her way out of the kitchen.”

“The poor child was famished,” said Dorothy. “I never saw any one eat with such relish.”

“The only real way to eat,” declared Ned. “I believe it would be a good thing for us all to get starved once in a while—when cook is in good humor.”

“Well, I feel better at any rate,” declared Nat. “It’s all very well to travel with a show, but I do like to stop off long enough to get acquainted with my digestive organs.”

“The proper caper,” agreed Tavia. “I now feel able to discuss anything from girls to gullies.”

“Girls have it,” declared Nat. “Girls to the bat!”

“Now please don’t waste time,” cautioned Dorothy. “You know what a sudden sort of affair Urania is. She is just as apt to disappear before we have a chance to talk to her, as she is to come over to thank us for her luncheon. I am making a study of her sort of sentiment—I believe it is more solid and more sincere than any we can work up.”

“Hurrah!” called Nat. “Studying sentiment! That’s better than studying French. Because sentiment we have always with us, and French only comes around on the Exams. Dorothy, you are growing older every minute.”

“And you—”

“Handsomer,” he interrupted Tavia. “Tavia I know exactly how you regard me, but don’t let’s give it away all at once.”

Thus thrown entirely off her guard Tavia had nothing better left to do than to chase Nat down to the enclosure, where together they fed the returned birds the crackers that Nat had pilfered from the lunch table.

“Dorothy,” began Tavia, handing out the last crumbs, “certainly is a—”

“Brick!” finished the young man, who had a most satisfactory way of finishing things generally. “Yes, I agree with you. She certainly went some in that cave. Jimminnie! But that was creepy!”

“I should say so! I nearly collapsed on the outside. And now she is going to try to straighten Urania out.”

“And likely she’ll do it too. If I do say so Dorothy has made good use of the fact that she is a first cousin to Nat White.”

“Of all the conceits!” cried Tavia, and then Dorothy and Ned appeared.

“I’ve been talking to Aunt Winnie,” began Dorothy, in her usual prompt way, “and she thinks we really ought to do something for Urania. The girl declares she will never go back to camp, and I really do believe she has a notion of following us to Glenwood. You know her folks camped in the mountains there last year.”

“Take her along, take her along,” spoke up Nat, foolishly, “the more the merrier.”

“Not exactly,” objected Dorothy. “Urania would scarcely enjoy the regime at Glenwood. But, all the same, there ought to be some place where she would fit in.”

“And if there is no such place then we will make one,” went on Nat, still half joking,—but he was the other half in downright earnest.

All this time John and the village constables were searching for the runaway men, who were suspected of being the actual robbers, although Urania declared they were not. It was true, as the gypsy girl said, the men taken into custody were the men she had seen enter the cave, and those who were seen later in the swamp were members of the same gang, but were strangers to the cave and the hidden property. Just how Urania came into possession of the facts was not altogether plain, but likely her habit of sleeping under trees, at some distance from the tents, made it possible for her to hear queer conversations, when all in the dense wood was supposed to be wrapt in the mantle of night.

Her father took no part in the doings of the other gypsies, neither did he know anything of the robbery, beyond that which was already public gossip. When therefore he heard his daughter’s name mentioned so conspicuously in the robbery talk, his wrath was intense, and his anger almost dangerous.

The whole place was in a commotion, and it was well that Urania kept away from the swamp and surrounding camp sites for the time being.

CHAPTER VIII
THE RUNAWAY

The excitement of the day had the effect of shortening the hours, and night came before the young folks at the Cedars realized that the day was done.

The matter of “doing something for Urania,” had been the all absorbing topic during the evening meal, when the various plans talked of during the day were brought up for final consideration.

Mrs. White agreed with Dorothy that the gypsy girl should be sent to some school, and the boys, Nat and Ned, had formed the committee that went to the camp to consult with the girl’s father about the matter.

As Urania had warned them, the trip was entirely unnecessary, for the man seemed to care very little where Urania went.

Such was the report brought back by the “committee.”

But to find a school where Urania would be received was not an easy task. Mrs. White, as well as Dorothy, had been telephoning to the city offices during the afternoon, and as Nat said, they had landed one school where girls would be taken in without reference, but they didn’t find a place where they would undertake to train circus riders, and Urania wanted a pony, she said, more than an education.

In fact the girl did not agree to go to school at all, in spite of all the efforts the others were making “to fix her up.”

Dorothy and Tavia had told her all about the good times she would have, and had even recalled some of the most exciting incidents that had marked their own school days at Glenwood, but Urania was not easily persuaded. Still, all the clothes that could be spared from the wardrobes of Dorothy and Tavia were taken out, and as only a few more days remained before the girls would start for Glenwood, it was necessary to arrange Urania’s affairs as quickly as possible, so that she would not be left behind when the others were not at the Cedars to keep track of her.

That night Urania was to stay with John’s wife in her rooms over the coach house. Dorothy brought her down to the house after supper, and even gave her one of her own sleeping gowns, besides a comb and brush, the first the poor girl had ever owned.

“And now good night,” said Dorothy, when she had settled the girl comfortably, “in the morning you will be all ready to start for Deerfield. Just think how lovely it will be to go to a real boarding school.”

“Can I go out when I like?” asked Urania, anxiously.

“Why, of course,” replied Dorothy, “that is, you can when it is recreation hour—time for play you know.”

“And I will have to sleep on a bed and eat off a table? You know I never did eat off a table until I came to your house.”

“Oh, but you’ll soon get used to that,” Dorothy assured her, “and you will like it much better than eating off the—ground. And surely it is very nice to sleep on a good, soft bed.”

“It’s nice all right,” admitted the other, “but you see it’s different. I don’t know as gypsies are like other folks about things. My own mother lived in a house one time, but I never lived in a house.”

“But now you won’t be a gypsy any longer,” said Dorothy. “You are going to be a nice girl, learn to read and write and then when you get older, you can go to work and be just like other people.”

“Won’t be a gypsy any more?” asked Urania, evidently not pleased at the thought.

“Well, I mean you will give up gypsy ways. But now I must go back to the house. I’ll be up early to go with you. Mrs. White is going to take us in the Fire Bird. I’ll have all your clothes ready. Be sure to use plenty of soap and water in the morning,” finished Dorothy, as she hurried off, well pleased that all arrangements were finally complete, and that she had had the courage to give the gypsy girl her first lessons in personal cleanliness.

And it was now time for every one to pack up and make ready to start off for the new school term. The boys were to leave the following afternoon, (Urania was to go her way directly after breakfast). Dorothy and Tavia would leave the next day. Major Dale, and the boys, had not returned to the Cedars, their trip being lengthened by a visit paid to the old home in Dalton.

“And now,” said Nat, as late that night the little party gathered in the dining room for a final “feed,” together, “when we get to Cadet Hall and I start in to write business letters (with a sly wink at Tavia) I hope they will be answered promptly by every one who is honored by receiving one. I remember last year, momsey, you kept me waiting two whole days for a little check—and you know a thing like that puts a fellow out dreadfully.”

“But, my dear,” replied the mother, “you should manage your allowance better. This year I will positively not advance a single dollar to either of you.”

“Send checks ma, do,” put in Ned. “We ain’t fussy about the currency.”

“Now, we must not stay up too late,” added Mrs. White. “I wish we had been able to let the Urania matter wait for a few days—it seems I have quite an institution to clear out all at once, but since the Deerfield school opens to-morrow, I think it will be best for her to be there on time. I hope she will get along.”

“So do I,” spoke up Dorothy, with a promptness that signified anxiety as to the question. “Urania is a queer girl, and has had her own way always. It will be very different now, especially as Deerfield School makes a specialty of taking in—odd girls.”

“She’s odd all right,” chimed in Ned, “and not so bad looking either. I quite took to her in those new togs.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. White smiling, “she did look well in that little blue dress of Dorothy’s. Let us hope she will become the clothes as they become her.”

With more small talk interrupted finally with a decided “Go to bed,” from Mrs. White, the dining room was empty at last, and the prospective scholars soon sleeping the sleep that blesses a well-filled day.

A rainy day dawned on the morrow—rainy and dreary as any day in early fall could be.

Tavia and Dorothy saw the outlook from their window and added to the misery such groans and moans as girls preparing for a long journey might be pardoned for making under the circumstances.

“You needn’t care,” said Tavia to Dorothy. “There’s a good tight shut-in box to the ‘Fire Bird,’ but I wanted to gather some wild flower roots to take to Glenwood. Those ferns we brought back with us last year just kept me alive in my ‘glumps,’ and I’m sure to have them bad as ever when I get there this time.”

“I suppose you miss the boys,” said Dorothy, innocently. Then, seeing the effect of her words, she tried in vain to make amends.

“I’m sure I miss them,” she hurried to add, “I am always homesick for a week, but I have to get to work, and that’s the best cure I know of.”

“And it has exactly the opposite effect on me,” declared Tavia. “If I didn’t have to get to work, I fancy school life would not be such a bore.”

“But you manage to keep going. I suppose you and Ned Ebony will be as thick as ever. And you and Nita Brandt will be as—”

“Thin as ever,” finished Tavia, “which means that we will run like melted butter at ninety degrees. I never could get along with that splinter.”

“Well, I hope Cologne will be there when we arrive. She always seems to be the first bell—starts everything up,” continued Dorothy. “I’m going to work hard this year. There are prizes, you remember.”

“Mine for the ‘booby,’” sighed Tavia. “I hate prizes. Always make me think of putting your name on the church envelope. Kind of cheap advertising.”

“Oh, I don’t feel that way about it,” objected Dorothy. “When one wins a prize it is something to have a remembrance of the contest. That’s the way I look at it.”

“Well, I always like to forget the contests,” insisted the obdurate Tavia, “so I don’t mind not having the medal. But say! Isn’t it time you went down? Urania was to start early. Don’t wait for me. I’m going to take my time this morning. Last morning I’ll get time to take until holidays.”

At this Dorothy ran lightly down the stairs, and with a word to Mrs. White she hurried over to the coach house to make sure that Urania was ready before she should stop for breakfast.

“I haven’t called the poor thing yet,” apologized John’s wife, Mary, as Dorothy entered. “She looked that worried and played out I thought to let her sleep until the last minute. I’ll help her to dress.”

Dorothy entered the little bedroom with the woman.

“She’s gone!” both exclaimed together.

“Ran away!” added Dorothy, as the unruffled bed told the tale.

“And we never heard her move!” declared the woman, in alarm. “How ever did she get out?”

“After all our trouble!” moaned Dorothy. “Well, perhaps it is better to happen now than when she got off there alone. I guess there’s no use trying to make a lady of a gypsy girl,” she finished sadly. “But I did hope Urania would amount to something.”

“As you say, miss, it’s better now,” put in the woman, “and like as not she’s gone back to the camp.”

“Oh, no, I’m positive she did not intend to go back there. She really meant to leave the gypsies, and I suppose she has carried out her plan. You see, she had some money, and she’s not afraid to travel. Well, I must go and tell Aunt Winnie. They will all be so disappointed!”

“I hope they won’t blame me,” said the woman, anxiously. “I didn’t suppose she had to be watched, Miss Dorothy.”

“You are not in the least to blame, Mary. No matter how we watched her, she could get away if she wanted to. Well, I hope she takes care of herself.”

“She spoke right smart to me last night,” went on Mary. “She talked of how good you had been to her, and she said she would make it right some day. It’s a pity she has no one to guide her.”

As Dorothy said, the folks were disappointed when they heard of the runaway, but Mrs. White made the best of the affair by declaring that it was better for the girl to go away as she had done, than to have made some trouble at the school—perhaps induced other girls to run off with her.

That afternoon Ned and Nat left for Cadet Hall, and early the next morning Dorothy and Tavia started off for Glenwood. Little did the girls dream of under what peculiar circumstances they were to meet Urania again.

CHAPTER IX
MIETTE

“Oh, have you seen her!” exclaimed Rose-Mary Markin.

“Sweet Ever-lean-er!” chimed in Edna Black.

“What’s so interesting about her?” asked little Nita Brandt, in her most sarcastic tone.

“Why, don’t you know?” went on Edna, familiarly called Ned Ebony.

“I suppose because she’s French—”

“Not at all, my dear,” interrupted Ned. “It’s because she’s a real little beauty. Here come Dorothy and Tavia, leave it to them.”

The girls were at Glenwood School—all over the place, as Tavia expressed it. But the particular group in question happened to be situated in the broad hall near the “coming in” door—these girls always formed the reception committee on opening day.

“Oh,” moaned Dorothy, as she sank into a cushioned seat, “I’m dead and buried—”

“And no insurance,” interrupted Tavia, following Dorothy’s move and getting into some cushions for her own comfort.

“Mean trip?” asked Rose-Mary.

“Mean!” echoed Tavia, “we stopped at every telegraph pole and backed up between each pair. Doro made out all right—she had a book. But poor me! I just doubled up in a heap and now the heap is all doubled up in me,” and she went through a series of “squirms,” calculated to get “out of the heap.”

“We were just speaking of the new girl—Miette de—de—what is it?” asked Cologne.

“Miette de Pain, likely,” said Adele Thomas.

“Miette de Luxe,” put in Lena Berg. “That’s my limit in French.”

“Well, she is de luxe, all right,” went on Cologne, “but I believe she signs her name Miette de Pleau, a queer name, but Miette suits her exactly, she is so tiny, like a crumb, surely.”

“Does Miette mean crumb?” lisped Nita Brandt.

“It does,” Cologne told her, “but it is also a pet name for Marie, used in certain parts of France—see page 167—”

“Or see the angel herself,” interrupted Edna, as the new girl, at that moment, entered the hall.

All eyes were instantly riveted on the stranger. Certainly she was a “beauty,” with that rare type of face one might expect to meet only between the pages of some art work.

And she was tiny—small in figure and small in height. Yet she held her head so well, and her shoulders were thrown back in such an enviable poise—no wonder the girls thought this little French girl well worth discussing.

For a moment she stood there, her brown eyes glistening and her cheeks aflame.

Dorothy stepped up to her.

“You are Miette, aren’t you?” she began kindly. “Come, let me introduce you. This is Rose-Mary Markin, we call her Cologne; this is Nita Brandt, this is Amy Brooks, this is Tavia Travers, and this is Edna Black, we call her Ned Ebony. You see,” went on Dorothy, as the new girl finished her graceful bow, “we nick-name everybody. I am afraid you will not escape.”

“I will not mind,” said Miette, smiling. “I have been called many names at home.”

“You live in New York?” asked Cologne, attempting to get in the conversation.

“At present, yes,” answered Miette, “but I have not been long in this country.”

“Yet you speak English well,” remarked Ned.

“I had a very good English teacher at home,” went on the stranger, “and my mother was an American.”

“Oh, then you are only some French,” spoke up Nita Brandt, with a look that meant the other “some” was not of so high a social order.

Miette dropped her eyes. Dorothy glared at Nita. The others saw that the remark had pained the new pupil.

“Come on,” spoke up Dorothy, “we must show you around. We are rather lazy to-day—those of us who have been travelling, but as you came yesterday I suppose you are quite rested, and would like to get acquainted with everything. Come on, girls. Let’s see if we remember how to make Glenwood tea.”

“Tea and turn out,” responded Tavia. “I’ll take the tea, but I never cared for ‘turning out.’”

This sally seemed very funny to Miette, who laughed outright, and in turn her laugh seemed very funny to the other girls. It was so surprising to hear the peal of real live laughter ring out through the place. Of course, all the pupils knew how to laugh, but somehow this was different—and from the little stranger in her plain black dress the outburst was entirely unexpected.

“She’s all right,” whispered Ned to Cologne, “any girl with a roar like that is sound. Just see Nita titter, and listen to Lena giggle. Now, they’re hopeless.”

The happy party were making their way to the room Dorothy and Tavia used, numbered nineteen, when, passing the office, Mrs. Pangborn, the president of Glenwood, called to Dorothy.

“Dorothy, will you step into the office, dear, for just a moment? Then you may go with the others—I see they are looking for fun, somewhere.”

“Come along, Miette,” and Cologne hooked her arm into the black sleeve. “No use waiting for the parson. You see, we call Dorothy Dale ‘Parson,’ because she’s a D. D.” she explained.

“O-h-h!” answered the French girl, in the inimitable “chromatic” voice peculiar to her country.

Then they ran along—to room nineteen.

Meanwhile Mrs. Pangborn was talking to Dorothy.

“This little strange girl has had some sadness in her life lately,” she said, “and I would like you to be especially kind to her, Dorothy. I know you are always kind to new pupils,” the president hurried to add, “but in this case I am most anxious that Miette shall not be pained, and sometimes girls do not realize the small things that hurt sensitive strangers. For instance, I would not like the girls to ask Miette about her relations,” finished Mrs. Pangborn.

“I’ll do all I can,” promptly replied Dorothy, “but, as you say, Mrs. Pangborn, girls do not realize how easily strangers may be offended,” she finished, thinking of the pained look that had overspread Miette’s face when Nita spoke of her parentage.

“Well, my dear, I know I can depend upon you. And should you discover that any girl might take a seeming dislike—that is, disregard actual courtesy—I should be obliged if you would report it to me. I must see that this child is as happy as we can make her,” and at this Mrs. Pangborn smiled pleasantly and Dorothy went out to join her companions.

“There is some mystery,” Dorothy told herself, “about the pretty little Miette. I don’t relish playing spy, but, of course, as Mrs. Pangborn says, she must be allowed to be happy.”

At room nineteen the girls were having the first fun of the season, which meant that the fun should be of the very jolliest character. Tavia had brewed the tea, and the others insisted upon drinking it without ceremony, each declaring she was choked, and apologizing for the lack of courtesy in not having waited for Dorothy, on the plea that Nineteen’s teapot didn’t hold enough, anyhow, in spite of a “keg” of hot water that was being drawn from for each cup, so that, according to Ned, Tavia should make fresh tea for Dorothy, and incidentally pass it around.

“My brand of tea is not for loafers,” declared Tavia, jokingly, “and I refuse to open the bag until you girls have earned a treat. I expected to have a regular affair Wednesday night.”

“Well, just give us a sample copy,” begged Ned. “You always did have the very best tea—”

“Positively the most delicious,” put in Cologne.

“Without question the most aromatic—” added Molly Richards, while, at a sly wink from Ned, Tavia was seized, placed on the divan, bound with the big Bagdad cover, while the girls not engaged in keeping her there, proceeded to get at Tavia’s cupboard, and not only did they get the tea, but a box of bonbons, a box of crackers, and the choicest of school girl dainties—a half dozen of real sour pickles!

Tavia only moaned. She could not move, and she knew it was useless to argue.

Miette sat there in evident delight. She was still too timid to take any other part in the proceedings.

“But, girls,” begged Dorothy, “you really ought to leave her the pickles. We almost missed our train in getting them—”

“Oh, yes,” followed Tavia. “Take anything else. ‘Take, if you must, this poor gray head, but spare my pickles, do,’ she said,” she quoted.

“But this is our last chance,” persisted Ned, burying her lips in the largest green “cucumber” she could select from the bag. “Whew!” and she made a very sour face, “these certainly would keep—they’re briny enough. Perhaps you girls had better not take any,” and she continued to devour the sample. “These would be lovely for a picnic. I can’t see—why pickles,” and she paused for breath that seemed to go with each swallow, “are eliminated from the bill of fare of this establishment.”

“They are very bad for the teeth,” ventured Miette, “we do not eat them in—France.”

“French people not eat pickles?” spoke up Nita, “why, I always understood—”

“Not French people, but French girls,” corrected Dorothy, immediately on the defensive. “Ned, when you have finished with your ‘dessert,’ perhaps you will hand around some of these crackers.”

“De-lighted!” responded Edna, swallowing the stem of her pickle. “But, honest, Tavia, I never did taste or experience anything so deliciously sour. I believe I’m embalmed,” and she doubled up in apprehension.

“Sour things I have known,” remarked Adele Thomas. “The new teacher, Miss Bylow, for instance.”

“Oh, she certainly is the real thing in sours,” chimed in Amy Brooks.

“And what a name—Bylow. It ought to have been ByGeorge or Bygosh,” declared Cologne. “Never ‘Bylow’ in hers. But we had best be cautious,” with a finger on her lips, “I understand the new lady is scientific. There’s a tube in the hall, you will remember, and she may have attached some little old phonographic wax plate and be taking us ‘all in.’”

“And she squints,” Nita informed them.

“That’s a mercy,” declared Edna, “for she won’t be able to tell whether we’re winking or blinking. And sometimes it’s very convenient to wink and call it a blink, eh, Tavia?”

As the refreshments had been served, Tavia was allowed to sit up and have her own share, and now insisted upon Miette finishing the last of the tea with her.

“The others were too—too, you would call it naughty, I suppose, Miette,” she said, “but here when we are all alone we sometimes call a thing like that ‘fresh,’” and she gave her very worst glare to Edna.

“Now, girls,” began Rose-Mary quite solemnly, “I’m going to invite you to my Lair night after to-morrow. I’m going to have a little surprise. All hands will be welcome, please bring—”

“Frappe smiles,” broke in Edna. “We ought to have something ‘frappe,’ and smiles are real nice at a party.”

“But the committee on initiation?” asked Tavia, “we may as well appoint them this minute, while we are not ‘Bylowed.’ I move we expel Ned Ebony from the committee. She was the ring leader in this daring hold-up.”

“Oh, you and your old pickle!” laughed Ned. “I’ll make that all right when my box comes,” with a sly wink at Tavia, for Edna and Tavia were great chums.

“If retribution does not overtake you before that time,” prophesied Tavia.

“Or Bylow,” reminded Cologne. “I rather have a premonition concerning the new teacher.”

“Mine’s worse than that,” declared Tavia. “It’s like a Banshee’s howl.”

“Well, we’ll have our ‘jinks,’ anyhow,” promised Edna, “and if she—”

“Butts in—pardon me, ladies,” and Tavia bowed profusely, “but when I say ‘butts in’ I mean, of course, any other word in the English language that may suit the case. Help yourselves.”

So the first afternoon at Glenwood had slipped by, and now the new girls, as well as the old, realized they were away from home, and must miss all the little fireside loves as well as the after-dinner nonsense that youth is accustomed to indulge in among the dear ones at home. At school it was very different. And the heroic efforts that so often resulted in surprising ventures were really nothing more than brave attempts to cover up these losses.

But would the new teacher regard the girls’ tricks from this viewpoint?

CHAPTER X
A RUMPUS

“Now, I must tell you girls,” began Dorothy, an afternoon later, when the “committee” on initiation was in session, “you will have to be gentle with Miette. She has only lately lost her mother, and she is really in deep grief. Mrs. Pangborn asked me to tell you all this, so when it comes Miette’s turn we will just ask her to do a few simple things, and then let her enjoy watching the others.”

“Hum!” sniffed Nita, “I suppose she’s going to be the pet now.”

“No danger of her cutting you out any—with a few, at least,” retorted Edna, who never had patience with Nita Brandt.

“It’s a great thing to be pretty,” fired back Nita.

“But very small to be jealous,” flung in Rose-Mary.

“Girls!” exclaimed Dorothy, “I am quite sure I never intended to make this row. There is no need to quarrel. Mrs. Pangborn just asked me to—”

“Snoop,” growled Nita, who was plainly looking for trouble.

“Not exactly,” replied Dorothy, the color mounting to her cheeks.

“Now, see here, Nita Brandt,” said Tavia sharply, “I won’t stand for another word along that line. We all know perfectly well that Dorothy Dale is no ‘snoop.’ She’s been here long enough to have her reputation for squareness firmly established.”

“Three cheers for Dorothy!” called Cologne, and this was taken up by most of the other girls.

But with Nita Brandt, Lena Berg took sides, as well as Amy Brooks. This trio always “went together,” and could be depended upon to “stick to each other” in all school “rows.”

The present agitation, however, really mattered little to Dorothy, but the antagonism it was creating against Miette was what worried her. Several times later in the session she attempted to appease Nita, but the effort was met with prompt defiance. Certainly it was early in the term for quarrels, but when a girl has her pride hurt, as Nita did, she is apt to seek revenge.

“Poor little Miette,” thought Dorothy. “It will be hard to make her happy if those girls try to make her unhappy. I wish Mrs. Pangborn had given her to some one else.”

“Suppose we give up the initiation,” proposed Tavia to Dorothy, when they sat talking the affair over alone that evening.

“I don’t think that would mend matters,” replied Dorothy, “for they would keep up the trouble anyway, and perhaps do worse if they thought we were afraid of them.”

“Then why don’t you just tell Mrs. Pangborn? She told you to,” went on Tavia.

“But I do hate to tattle. Besides, they haven’t really done anything wrong.”

“But just wait. That Nita is getting more lispy, and more sneaky every day. I hate her.”

“Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Surely you don’t really hate anybody!”

“Then I perfectly hate her, Doro. If you knew how she even tried to make trouble for you last year, you wouldn’t take her part so quickly.”

“I’m not taking her part at all,” replied Dorothy. “I’m only trying to take yours. You should not say you hate any one.”

“All right. I’ll just think it after this. But, all the same, I’d like to initiate Nita Brandt over again. I think I would manage to get the old pump in working order for the occasion.”

“Lucky for Nita she came early,” said Dorothy pleasantly. “But, now don’t you think we had better turn out the light? We seem to have the record for getting caught after dark, and you know about Miss Bylow.”

“Why not keep up our record?” teased Tavia. “Not such a bad thing to come out unscratched as we have done through all past battles.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I would rather withdraw. I’ve got about all the rows on hand I feel capable of manipulating,” and at this she touched the light button and left the room in darkness.

“S’long!” called Tavia out of the depths of her pillows. “I’m rather surprised that your nerve should go back on you. If you need me in the faction row, I am at your service,” and she, too, prepared to take the sleep of the young and healthful.

But just across the hall in a very small room, eighteen by number, little Miette lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. She was beginning to feel that the wonderful joys of school girl life might have their accompanying sorrows. Never, since her own dear mother had last kissed her good-night, had Miette felt that life held any further blessings for her, until she came to Glenwood. Then it seemed that the happy young girls and their unlimited resources for fun-making, would be something after all.

But now those other girls did not like her. She could see that plainly, and feel it keenly, in spite of what might be said and done by those who were kind and thoughtful.

“And what must I have done to so anger them?” she kept asking herself. “Certainly I said not a word, nor did I do anything—They must be strange, perhaps they know I—”

A shudder ran through the form that hid itself in the coverlets. “No, how could they know that? No one knew it, not even the kind, gentle Mrs. Pangborn!”

“And I might be so happy to forget it, too,” went on the girl’s thoughts. “If only it would never come back, and I might stay at this lovely place, even the rude girls would not worry me.”

Then she turned her eyes straight up in the darkness.

“Oh, Mother!” she breathed. “Hear Miette! Watch your Miette, and save her!”

But the dreaded specter of her past experiences would come up and haunt the child. She prayed and prayed, but somehow those girls in their nonsense brought back to her a taunt—the wound was not new, it was only deepened.

“But I must never tell,” she sighed, “not even dear, sweet Dorothy Dale!”

CHAPTER XI
“GIRLS AND GIRLS”

A letter from the Cedars, that arrived the next morning, brought strange news to Dorothy and Tavia. It was about Urania.

Mrs. White wrote that the police were looking for the gypsy girl, as well as for the men who had robbed Birchland, and wanted the girl on a charge of robbery!

“I cannot believe it true,” wrote Dorothy’s aunt, “but I imagine it may be a part of the men’s revenge against Urania for giving us back our silver and the birds. By the way, I have to tell you that four of the pigeons died last week, and John declares they were poisoned!”

“There!” exclaimed Dorothy, who had been reading the letter aloud to Tavia, “I know it is all those bad men. They have poisoned our beautiful birds just for spite,” and she stopped to hide her indignation, and to otherwise suppress her feelings.

“Let me read it?” asked Tavia, who was impatient to hear all of the story. She took the missive and continued where Dorothy had stopped.

“They accuse Urania,” she read, “of breaking and entering a house on the outskirts of Fernwood.”

“The idea!” interrupted Dorothy, “How could that little thing ‘break and enter’?”

“Well, she might,” considered Tavia, “but I don’t believe she ever did. But let’s hear it all.” Then she attempted to finish the letter again.

“The people of Ferndale are so wrought up over the affair they have had all the gypsies expelled from this township,” read Tavia, “and if the gypsies find Urania now I am afraid it will go hard with her, for they blame her for all the trouble.

“There is no telling where she may turn up,” continued the missive, “so keep your eyes and ears open, and let me know if there should be any clue to her whereabouts around Glenwood.”

There were other news items of more or less importance—all about Dorothy’s brothers, Joe and Roger, how well they got along at school, and how grieved they were to find that Dorothy had left for Glenwood before they had had a chance to see her again. Mrs. White went on to say in the letter that Major Dale was much improved in health, and that his trip during the summer had made “a new man of him.”

So the missive concluded, and after going over it again, Dorothy was unable to find another word “between the lines.”

“Where can poor Urania be hiding?” she added, when at last she folded up the precious letter from home and put it in her leather case. “I do hope she will escape those cruel men. Oh, when I think of that cave—but—”

“You are reminded that you should forget it,” interrupted Tavia. “Do you know, Dorothy Dale, it is time for class?”

This announcement ended the discussion of affairs at the Cedars, although Dorothy could not so easily disengage her thoughts from the home scenes mentioned and suggested by the letter from Aunt Winnie.

Rose-Mary slipped up to her as they passed in to take their places.

“The ‘rowdies’ are up to some scheme,” she whispered, meaning by “rowdies” the girls who usually succeeded in making trouble, the present attack being aimed at Miette. “I heard them plotting last night.”

There was neither time nor opportunity for reply, but what Dorothy did not say with the glance she bestowed on Cologne was not at all difficult to guess at. She had shot a challenging look out of her deep blue eyes, such as she very seldom indulged in.

“She’ll stand pat for Miette, all right,” Cologne concluded within her own mind, “and the others had best not be too sure of themselves.”

At class Miette looked very pale, and hardly raised her eyes from her books. In fact, her chiseled features looked like marble in the deep, black setting of her heavy hair.

“Poor child!” sighed Dorothy to herself, “I wonder what can be her trouble? It is surely not all grief for her mother, for even that would hardly deepen as the days go on, and she seemed actually jolly at first.”

Miss Bylow had the English class. There was plainly an air of expectancy in the school room. Miss Bylow was that angular sort of a person one is accustomed to associate with real spectacles and dark scowls. She wore her hair in a fashion that emphasized her peculiarities of features, and a schoolgirl, turnover collar finished the rather humorous effect.

“Valentine,” whispered Tavia to Edna.

“Bird,” muttered Edna in reply.

“Now, young ladies,” began the new teacher, as the class was opened, “I have one absolute rule, the violation of which I never condone. That is, in my class there shall be no notes passed. If a pupil must send a message to a girl during study hour she may ask the privilege of doing so. But under no circumstances will she write or pass a note surreptitiously. One assisting another with such deception is equally blamable. Now, you may go on with your work.”

This order fell upon the English class like a threat—how in the world were the girls to get along without ever writing a note? There are times when a girl feels something will happen if she cannot tell some one about the joke she sees, the chance for some fun later, or ask some one for the particular word that has deserted her and has to be found.

Never write a note in the English class? As well say, never whisper in the ranks!

And at that very moment every girl in the room wanted to do that very thing—write a note to another girl about the new rule, and incidentally, about the new teacher!

But no one dared venture—not even Edna or Tavia, who hitherto had little regard for “absolute rules.”

Miette sat two seats behind Nita Brandt, but Nita managed to sit so that she could occasionally take a look at the little French girl. Miette was very busy with her pad and pencil. She was plainly nervous, and Nita could see from her half-turned-round position that the new pupil was writing something without taking notes from her English book. The class were all busy—all but Nita, and she kept her eyes over her book and on the new pupil.

A slip of paper fluttered to the floor under Miette’s desk. Nita saw it instantly, but Miette did not miss it, for she made no attempt to rescue the fluttering slip of paper that actually caught up with a slight breeze from an open window, and then stole along in the direction of Nita Brandt’s desk!

The class gave their recitation and shortly that study period was over.

Then the girls filed out into the hall, for ten minutes’ recreation.

Nita lost her place in the ranks. She stopped a moment to pick up the scrap of paper that had dropped from Miette’s desk. It took but a moment to slip it into her book: then she joined the girls in the hall.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” asked Dorothy of Miette, as quickly as she could get an opportunity.

“Not so very,” admitted the other, with a faint smile.

“Perhaps you are not used to being indoors—we have to do considerable studying here.”

“Oh, but I like that very much,” replied the other, “but sometimes I have headache.”

“Then you must go out all you can,” cautioned Dorothy, having noticed that Miette was not with the class on the previous afternoon, when they went for a delightful walk over the hills.

“Yes,” responded the stranger. “I love to walk, but yesterday I had—some letters to write.”

Over in the corner Nita Brandt, Lena Berg and Amy Brooks were talking with their heads very close together.

Then Nita was noticed to leave them and re-enter the classroom, where Miss Bylow still remained.

“That means something,” said Cologne aside to Dorothy, “and this is the time I forgot my handkerchief, and I must go back for it,” and with this Rose-Mary hurried into the room where Nita had just entered.

Nita stopped half way to Miss Bylow’s desk.

“I’ve forgotten my handkerchief,” explained Rose-Mary, as the other paused, and the teacher looked up for an explanation.

It took Cologne quite some time to search for the “missing” article.

Miss Bylow looked to Nita for her explanation. Nita was now forced to go to the desk.

“I found this on the floor,” Rose-Mary heard her say in a low voice, as she handed to the teacher a slip of paper.

Miss Bylow glanced at some written words.

“To whom does it belong?” she asked. Cologne felt obliged to make her way out of the room, so she heard no more of the conversation. But she noticed that all the recreation period had elapsed before Nita came out of the classroom.

“That’s queer,” Rose-Mary told herself, “but I’d like to wager the note has to do either with Dorothy or Miette. Strange that the very nicest girls always are picked out for trouble. I must see Dorothy before the initiation to-night.”

CHAPTER XII
A GIRL’S MEAN ACT

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Rose-Mary, when early that same evening she managed to get a word alone with Dorothy, “we must call off the ‘jinks.’ If we don’t they will simply fall upon poor little Miette, and land knows, she looks as if a straw would knock her over now.”

“But that would be acknowledging our fear,” protested Dorothy. “I think we had better go on with it and defy them.”

“But suppose Nita should be chosen by the ‘Pills’ as moderator? No telling how she would treat our candidate.” By “Pills” she meant the Pilgrims, their secret society.

“But you are to be Chief for the Nicks, and you can offset anything they may attempt,” answered Dorothy, meaning by “Nicks” the Knickerbockers, another society.

“Well, if you think so, of course,” agreed Cologne, “I’m willing to go on with it, but it looks risky.”

“I’ll run over and speak to Miette,” went on Dorothy, “we have barely time to get ready. You are awfully good, Cologne, to be so anxious. I am sure it will come out all right. We can only try, at any rate.”

Later, when the two Glenwood clubs, the Knickerbockers, or “Nicks,” representing the faction from New York way, and the Pilgrims, or “Pills” standing for the New England girls, met in the Assembly room to have the annual initiation of new pupils into the clubs, the candidates included Miette de Pleau.

She, like the others to be initiated, were hidden in a corner all under one sheet, and the first “number of the programme” was The Sheet Test. This was not funny, but, according to the committee that had designed the feature, it was “tragic.”

There were four girls under the sheet. Each “head” was marked with a red cross, and the idea was that the sheet should remain absolutely still during the period of five minutes. Now, as the girls under the cover were on their knees, and in a bent posture, that “act” was not so easily carried out. Should a head move, of course, the committee could tell to whom the offending member belonged by the particular cross that stirred.

Miette happened to be the shortest of all four candidates, and so she had some advantage. The other girls were Wanda Volk, a jolly German “machen,” Lily Sayre, a “real aristocrat,” according to Glenwood opinion, and Minna Brown, “the blackest Brown that ever happened,” Tavia declared, for she had coal-black hair and eyes like “hot tar.”

The sheet test had also to be carried on while all sorts of things were said against the candidates, in fun, of course.

To keep from laughing while Cologne discussed an imaginary visit to Wanda Volk, telling of the most luxurious surroundings that schoolgirl tongue could make words for, was not easy.

This was thought to be very simple, for Wanda was known to laugh every time she met the letter “J” just because it stood for joke. But now Wanda did not titter, neither did she giggle; in fact, she seemed to be “praying” under the sheet. Finally Tavia, as Ranger, called out:

“The Chief has raised her finger!”

At this Wanda moved, then trembled, and finally broke into a lively laugh, and had to be led in “disgrace” from her corner.

“The idea,” she exclaimed, as she laughed louder and louder, “of thinking I must laugh every time one raises her finger.”

“Well, didn’t you?” asked the Ranger, as she led Wanda off captive.

All sorts of tricks were resorted to with the intention of making the other girls follow Wanda, but they remained firm, and the sheet test as a “curtain raiser” was considered a failure.

The leaders of both clubs who had the candidates in hand, wore masks and long black gowns. These gowns had served many purposes at Glenwood, and were an important part of the girls’ private paraphernalia.

When the candidates were given a first view of the leaders (after being allowed to come from under the sheet), it seemed to Miette she had never beheld anything so strangely funny, and she laughed heartily enough when the penalty for laughing was “raised.” But she was not allowed to speak to the others, and she soon became serious, wondering what was to happen next.

“Number four,” called the Ranger, “make love to the sofa cushion!”

Miette was number four. She looked up inquiringly.

“How?” she asked timidly.

“As they do it in France,” replied the leader.

“But I do not know,” she faltered.

“You must guess,” commanded the one behind the mask.

“In France,” began Miette, “they do not make love at all, I believe.”

This brought forth all kinds of calls and suggestions. Finally, Nita, for it was she who was leading this number, said in a strained voice:

“Tell us what they do—how do they get acquainted?”

There was a hum of excitement as Miette stood up and faced the audience.

“In France,” she began, “when it is time for a young lady to marry, her parents make it known to her friends. Then, if some young man also wishes to marry, he has told his friends. After that the young lady is taken out by her chaperon, or maid, or perhaps her mother, and the young man is told that at a certain hour he may see her pass some place mutually agreed upon. She ‘knows he is looking, but she does not look at him.’”

“Oh, her opinion doesn’t count,” interrupted some one.

“Silence!” called the Ranger. “Proceed.”

“Of course,” continued Miette, who was plainly much embarrassed, “I do not exactly know.”

“Just make a guess,” commanded the leader.

“After that, should the young man approve of the young lady, they meet at a dinner or some function.”

“Is that all?” queried Nita, for the audience seemed quite interested in the recital which had turned from a matter of nonsense into French customs.

“Well, I suppose after a month or two—they marry!” finished Miette, much relieved to have gotten off so easily.

“And that is French love-making?” exclaimed one of the committee. “See a man, go to a dinner, then become engaged and marry in a few months! I call that—something better than our boasted rush. America is not the only place in the world where the big wheel moves past the speed limit, then.”

“We are getting along without trouble,” whispered Dorothy to Tavia, “I am glad we did not stop the fun.”

“Not out of the woods yet,” Tavia replied in an undertone. “Just like Nita to put some one else up to do the mean part.”

“But that ought to be enough for Miette. She told quite a story.”

“It ought to be, but that rests with the committee. However, no need to look for trouble,” and then the two directed their attention to the programme.

Minna Brown and Lily Sayre were next called upon. They were ordered to play tennis with tooth picks and putty balls. This caused no end of merriment, but as the candidates were not allowed to join in the laugh, every time either girl did so, she was obliged to get down on the floor and “wipe off her smile.” Minna had many smiles to wipe off, for she was a jolly girl and laughing was as natural to her as was breathing.

It certainly was funny to see the girls stand there on the chalk-lined floor and try to hit the putty balls with tooth picks. Of course, it was all “Love,” although Lily Sayre did manage to strike a ball, whether with her finger or the tooth pick, no one could tell.

After five minutes of this nonsense the “Ladies’ Single” was called off, and then it came time for Miette and Wanda to do their last “turn.”

“Number four!” called the leader, who was Adele Thomas.

Miette stepped up to the “throne.”

“Now,” began the mask, “you understand you are to answer truthfully every question?”

Miette assented.

“Did number four write a note in the English class the other day when the rule had been made against notes?”

“No!” replied Miette unhesitatingly.

The leader turned to Nita for prompting. Then she asked:

“Did number four drop a note in the classroom?”

“N-o-!” came the answer again, this time in a startled voice.

More prompting from Nita.

“Does number four know any one in New York named—Marie Bloise?”

“Marie Bloise!” Miette almost shouted. She put her white hand to her head, as if trying to think. Then suddenly she exclaimed:

“Lost a note? Yes, to Marie? Oh, where—where—Why did you not give it to me? Where is it? I must have it at once! My note to Marie! Oh, you could not be so cruel!” and with her hands to her face, she turned and rushed from the room as if ready to collapse from stifled emotion!

CHAPTER XIII
THE TROUBLES OF MIETTE

Dorothy and Rose-Mary followed Miette, leaving the others in consternation.

“How dare you do such a thing, Nita Brandt?” exclaimed Tavia, as masks and gowns were immediately discarded.

“Do what?” asked Nita, her face blazing, and her voice trembling.

“Pry into that girl’s affairs. You were told as well as the rest of us that we were to be most careful of her feelings. She does not understand American boarding schools,” said Tavia, with a sarcastic emphasis on the “boarding schools.”

“Is she any better than the rest of us?” fired back Nita.

“Better than some of us, surely,” fought Tavia.

“If you mean that for me, Miss Octavia Travers,” flamed up Nita, “I shall demand an apology. My family record cannot be questioned.”

“I said nothing about your family, I was talking about you. And if you demand an apology, I guess you’ll have to take it out in demanding.”

“We shall see about that. Miss Bylow will be able to settle this.”

“Miss Bylow, indeed! Since when did she become head of Glenwood? Oh, I see. You have taken her into your confidence. Perhaps you have—exactly! I see it as clearly as if I had been there. Miette lost a note and you gave it to Miss Bylow!”

At this direct accusation Nita turned scarlet.

A chorus of “Ohs!” went up from the others.

“You didn’t really do that?” asked Edna Black.

“This is not an investigating committee,” Nita found words to say. “And I can’t see that what I may do is any of your business,” and at this she, too, fled from the room.

Meanwhile Dorothy and Rose-Mary were doing their best to console Miette, who lay on her bed weeping bitterly.

“But I was not to tell any one,” she wailed, “and I should not have written to Marie. But Marie was so good, and I thought she ought to know. But now—oh, you cannot understand!” and she wept again, bewailing the lost note.

“I am sure,” insisted Dorothy, “It cannot do so much harm as you think, Miette. I will see Mrs. Pangborn myself—”

“Oh, please do not do that. Mrs. Pangborn was not to know,” sobbed the girl on the bed.

Neither Dorothy nor her chum knew what to say now. It was all very mysterious, and Dorothy wished ardently she had taken her friend’s advice and not gone in for the initiation.

But it was too late for regrets—it was time for action.

“Could you tell me in what way I could help you?” asked Dorothy, very gently.

“I can see no way. And, oh, I was so happy until that awful girl—Yes, it was she who did it all! She hates me! But why? What have I done?” and the little French girl continued to cry.

“Now, I’m going to get you a cup of chocolate,” said practical Rose-Mary, “and when you feel stronger you will see things in a different light.”

Then Dorothy was left alone with Miette. The girl pulled herself together and sat up.

“I would so like to tell you,” she began, “but I have been forbidden. Oh, if my own dear mother had not left me—” she sobbed, but tried bravely to restrain her tears. “You see, it is nothing so very wrong, only they—oh, I cannot tell you. I must do the best I can, and if I have to go away—then I must go!”

“But you have done nothing wrong?” ventured Dorothy. “Why should you have to go away?”

“That is what I cannot tell you,” sighed Miette, and then Cologne entered with the tray and chocolate.

“Now, doesn’t this smell good?” she asked, putting the tray on Miette’s stand. “I’m just choked myself. I always hate initiation night. I just think we ought to stop them. Seems to me girls have queer ideas of fun lately,” declared Cologne.

It was only ten minutes until bed time, so the chocolate had to be partaken of hurriedly.

“It does taste splendid,” approved Dorothy, as she sipped the steaming beverage.

“I like it very much. You are so kind,” said Miette, as tears still welled into her dark eyes.

“Glad you think I can make chocolate,” answered Rose-Mary. “Ned and Tavia declare I’m too stingy with the stuff, and that I only let the pot look at the sugar. That’s why I took the trouble to bring along some squares. I usually keep that kind of sweetness for company.”

It was safe to guess that few of the Glenwood girls got to sleep on time that night. There had been too much excitement at the initiation to calm down immediately, besides, there was a prospect of more trouble—and even trouble is not always unwelcome to boarding school girls—those who are not actually concerned, of course.

The commotion continued during the day following. Miette did not appear in the classroom, and there was much speculation as to just what had happened after she left the Assembly Room.

Some of the girls refused to speak to Nita, while others were equally disagreeable with Tavia. Dorothy and Rose-Mary kept their own counsel, but a few of the girls did see Dorothy coming out of Mrs. Pangborn’s office.

Certainly something had happened, or would happen, shortly, was the prevailing opinion.

But while the pupils were all eagerness for developments the teachers were weighing matters carefully. Mrs. Pangborn was a prudent woman, and was never known to have to rescind an official action.

“But we must manage it,” she had told Dorothy in the morning interview. “Of course it might have been better if you had acquainted me with the fact that this antagonism had been shown, but I cannot blame you for refraining from seeming unnecessary ‘tattling.’ However, I am very glad you have come to me now. You must assure Miette that no harm has been done, and I am sure I can adjust the matter for her. I think it best I should not talk to her myself at present, as she might feel called upon to give me the information she is so desirous of keeping secret.”

Dorothy was greatly relieved that Mrs. Pangborn did not blame her, and after the talk she felt that perhaps, as Mrs. Pangborn said, it would be all satisfactorily settled for Miette.

But Miette continued to worry, and it was two days before she could be induced to leave her room and go back to school work.

Dorothy was accustomed to helping those in difficulties. Her father, the major, used to call her his little Captain, and even as a child she went naturally to those who were in distress, and in a child’s confident way, often brought comfort where those of experience failed to give solace. This habit was the result of her early training, as well as the consequence of a loving heart. Now Dorothy, as a young girl, found the talent she had so successfully developed most useful, and with the power she was well equipped, not only to carry her own difficulties to some satisfactory termination, but to see deep down into the heart of those unable to cope with their own trials, weaker in character than Dorothy, and consequently more easily discouraged.

In little Miette, however, she found a strange problem. The child seemed willing enough to confide her story to Dorothy, but was withheld from doing so by some unknown reason. And not knowing the real circumstances, Dorothy could do as little “in the dark” as a lawyer might be expected to do when a client refuses confidence.

But in spite of this Dorothy felt that it was Miette who needed her now, and Miette whom she must assist in some way, although the mystery surrounding the little stranger seemed as deep to-day as it was the day she entered Glenwood.

The note that Nita Brandt picked up from the floor in the class room and gave to Miss Bylow was in the hands of Mrs. Pangborn, but that lady had not thought of such a thing as reading the child’s scrawl. She knew it was intended for some friend of Miette and no matter what the contents might be she could see no necessity of reading it, as the note was not to be sent away.

The transgression of which Miette was accused was that of having written this note after, and directly after, Miss Bylow had announced that no notes were to be written in the class room.

Mrs. Pangborn had intended calling Miette to her office and charging her with this complaint, made by Miss Bylow, when the unhappy ending to the pranks on initiation night almost threw the child into nervous prostration. This postponed the investigation.

So, as the matter rested only Nita Brandt, and perhaps Miss Bylow, knew the contents of the disastrous note. If Dorothy only could know it she felt she would be able to do something to “mend matters.” But how was she to find out? She could not ask Nita Brandt, neither could she think of asking Miss Bylow.

So Dorothy turned the matter over and over in her busy brain. Finally she made a resolve: she would ask Miette.

CHAPTER XIV
DOROTHY TO THE RESCUE

The cloud that had so persistently floated over the head of Miette since the girls of Nita’s clique showed their disapproval of the new pupil, now seemed to have settled down upon her with a strange, sullen gloom.

She attended her classes, recited her lessons, but beyond the mere mechanical duties of school life she took no part in the world of girls about her. Even Dorothy did not feel welcome in Miette’s room. The little French girl wanted to be alone, that was painfully evident.

Neither had she received any letters. This fact struck Mrs. Pangborn as strange, as usually the first week of the new term is marked by an abundance of mail, concerning things forgotten, things too late to go in with the packing, things that thoughtful mothers wished to remind their daughters of lest some important health rule should be laid aside in the school and so on; but to Miette no such message came. The girl had come to Glenwood under rather strange arrangements, as only an aunt who brought with her a line of introduction from a business acquaintance of Mrs. Pangborn came with the new pupil.

But the girl was so eager to enter the school, and appeared so gentle and refined that Mrs. Pangborn accepted the pupil upon the word of this business friend in whom, however, she had unquestionable confidence.

So it happened that the president of Glenwood knew practically nothing of Miette’s home life. This aunt, a Mrs. Huber, had told Mrs. Pangborn of the recent death of Miette’s mother, and also that she had charge of the girl and she wished her to try one term at Glenwood. Her tuition was paid in advance, and so Miette stayed. But Mrs. Pangborn could not help observing that no show of affection passed between the niece and aunt at parting, but this she attributed to a possible foreign conservatism or even to personal peculiarities.

But now Mrs. Pangborn began to wonder—wonder why the child should make such a fuss over dropping a note in the class room. Wonder why no letter came; wonder why Miette refused her confidence, and wonder still why some of the girls had taken an unmistakable dislike to the French girl.

Slow to act, but keen in her system of managing girls, Mrs. Pangborn decided to wait,—at least for a few days longer.

In the meantime school work and school play continued. The tennis court at Glenwood was one of the proud possessions of that institution, and barely had the pupils of the fashionable boarding school assembled each term, before a game would be arranged to test the effect of the very latest possible advantages, in the way of fresh markings, and expert rolling, as the proprietress of the Glenwood School believed in the right sort of outdoor athletics for her pupils, and was always eager to make such exercise as enjoyable as possible.

Tennis in early fall is surely delightful sport, and when Dorothy, Rose-Mary, Edna and Tavia claimed the privilege of the first game the event took on the importance usually characteristic of an “initial performance.”

It was a perfect afternoon and “every seat was taken” which meant, of course, that the rustic benches about the court were fully occupied by the Glenwood girls, and the prospect of an interesting game had keyed every young lady up to the very height of enthusiasm.

Rose-Mary was chosen server, and as she stood with her racket gripped firmly ready to serve the ball, and incidentally put it out of the reach of Tavia, who was her opponent, Dorothy and Rose-Mary being partners and Tavia playing with Edna, she looked every inch an athlete.

To begin well was ever interpreted to mean “good luck” with the Glenwoods, and when Rose-Mary delivered the ball and Tavia in her anxiety to make a good return, vollied it back a shout for Rose-Mary’s side went up from the lookers-on. But Edna was not to be disheartened. In fact she was “in fine form,” according to popular opinion, and it kept Dorothy and Rose-Mary “sprinting” about to keep up with her “hits.”

This determination and good playing on the part of Edna scored for her side the first two points, but when Dorothy and Rose-Mary realized that it was Edna’s skill and not the strong arm of Tavia they would have to play against, the game immediately became so exciting that all four girls went at it like experts. Dorothy had something of a reputation as a “jumper,” and could “smash” a ball, just when the “smash” would be needed to save the opponent victory.

Tavia’s pride was in her underhand stroke and with this ability she would drive back the balls hard and fast when ever she got the chance.

The game had reached the most exciting point—tied at 40 (deuce) when Dorothy jumped to make her famous “smash” and although she hit the ball in the air she came down on a turned ankle—and dropped in a heap as if her foot were either badly sprained or actually broken.

The play stopped immediately, and Dorothy was carried to a bench.

“Is it sprained, do you think?” inquired Tavia anxiously.

“Oh, I think—it’s broken,” replied the suffering girl, whose face showed the agony she was enduring.

“We must carry her in,” cried Rose-Mary, and then as many girls as could join hands in emergency cot fashion, supported Dorothy in a practical first-aid-to-the-injured demonstration even carrying her up the broad stone steps of the school building without allowing the slightest jar to affect the painful ankle.

But the ankle was not sprained, neither was it broken, but a very severe strain kept Dorothy off her feet for several days. She could not even go to class, but had a visiting “tutor” in the person of Miss Bylow, who came every morning and afternoon to hear Dorothy’s work, so that Tavia declared when she would meet with an accident it would not be of that nature—“no fun in being laid up with a sore ankle and hard work complications,” was that girl’s verdict.

But the week wore by finally, and the ankle mended, so that only some very sudden or severe test of the muscle brought back pain.

Miette’s troubles assumed a more serious aspect in Dorothy’s opinion, as during the week when she was unable to be about among the girls, hints had reached her of trifling but at the same annoying occurrences to which the little French girl had been subjected.

So the very first day that Dorothy could leave her room, and attend class, she determined to go straight to Miette, and use all her persuasive powers to make the girl understand how much better it might be for her to have a real confidant at Glenwood.

The day’s lessons were over, and the time was free for recreation. Dorothy went at once to Miette’s room. She found the girl dark-browed and almost forbidding, her foreign nature showing its power to control, but not to hide, worry.

Miette was mending a dress but dropped her work as Dorothy entered.

“I came to take you for a walk,” began Dorothy pleasantly. “This is too lovely an afternoon to remain in doors.”

“You are very kind,” answered Miette with unmistakable gratitude in her voice, “but I am afraid I cannot go out. I must do my mending.”

“But it will likely rain to-morrow, and then you will be glad to have mending to do. Besides, we have a little club we call the Wag-Tale Club, and we meet once a month. When we do meet we all bring our mending and allow our tongues to ‘wag,’ to our hearts’ content. It’s quite jolly, and we often have races in mending articles when some one else can match the holes. I would advise you to save up your mending and come in with the Wags,” ventured Dorothy.

“I am afraid of clubs,” said Miette with a faint smile, “and besides, I am sure my clothes are different now. I had pretty things when—mother was—with me.”

“But now do come for a walk,” insisted Dorothy, anxious to change the train of Miette’s thoughts. “We will go all alone, and the woods are perfectly delightful in autumn. I can show you something you never see in France, for I believe, the European countries have no such brilliant autumn as we have here in America.”

“No, that is true,” assented Miette. “I have already noticed how beautiful it is. Our leaves just seem to get tired and drop down helpless and discouraged, but yours—yours put all their glory in their last days, like some of our wonderful kings and queens of history.”

“Then do let me show you how wonderful the woods are just now,” pleaded Dorothy, “for the next rain will bring down showers of our most brilliant colors.”

The temptation was strong—Miette wanted to go out, she needed the fresh fall air, and she needed Dorothy’s companionship. Why should she not go? Surely she could trust Dorothy?

For a moment she hesitated, then rose from the low sewing chair.

“I believe I must go,” she said with a smile. “You tempt me so, and it is so lovely outside. I will leave my work and be—lazy.”

“I knew you would come,” responded Dorothy with evident delight. “Just slip on your sweater, and your Tam O’Shanter, for we won’t come back until it is actually tea time.”

Passing through the corridor they encountered Edna and Tavia. Both begged to be taken along, but Dorothy stoutly refused, and she carried Miette off bodily, hiding behind trees along the forks in the path to deceive the girls as to the route she was taking. Once outside of the gates Dorothy and Miette were safe, the girls would not follow them now although Edna and Tavia had threatened to do so—in fun of course.

Dorothy wanted to begin at once with her dreaded task—that of unravelling the mystery. Miette was continually exclaiming over new found wood beauties, and was perfectly delighted with the antics of the red and gray squirrels. The pleasures had certainly restored her long-lost good humor.

“And you never have any such beauties in France?” began Dorothy, lightly.

“Nothing like this,” answered Miette, seizing a huge bunch of sumac berries.

“And would you like to go back?” asked Dorothy.

“It is very nice here,” replied her companion, “but I do not at all like New York.”

“Then you are not homesick at Glenwood?”

“Homesick?” she repeated in a shocked voice. “How could I be?”

“But you are unhappy—the girls have been so mean.”

“Because I was foolish—I should have been more careful.”

“About the note you mean?”

“Yes,” replied Miette.

“You won’t mind if I ask you something,” said Dorothy bravely, “because you know I only do so to help you. I am continually having to do things that may be misunderstood—but I hope you understand me.”

“Your motive is too plainly kind,” replied Miette, “I could not possibly misunderstand a girl like you.”

“I am so glad you feel that way,” followed Dorothy. “I really felt queer about speaking to you of the affair. But you see I have been at Glenwood School several terms and I know most of the girls and have some influence with them. If you could only tell me about it—I mean the note—”

“Have you not heard? Did not that girl tell every one?” asked Miette, in a scornful voice.

“Why no, of course not. Our girls are not babies,” replied Dorothy with some feeling.

“I supposed it was all over the school—”

“I am positive that no one, not even Mrs. Pangborn to whom the note was turned over—even she would not think of reading it.”

Miette gazed at Dorothy in utter astonishment. She seemed pleased as well as bewildered.

“Then it is not so bad,” she faltered, “and perhaps I could get it back?”

“You might, certainly,” responded Dorothy, “if you went directly to Mrs. Pangborn and explained it all.”

“Oh, but I cannot explain it all,” demurred Miette. “That is just what annoys me.”

Dorothy was disappointed but not discouraged. She determined to urge the French girl further.

“Now, Miette,” she said in gentle but decided tones, “we will just suppose this was my affair and not yours. I will place myself in your place, and perhaps we may find some plan to overcome the difficulty in that way. They do it in lawsuits, I believe,” she parenthesized, “and I just love to try law tactics.”

The idea seemed to amuse Miette, and both girls soon found a comfortable spot under a big chestnut tree, where Dorothy promptly undertook to propound the “hypothetical question.”

“You see,” she began, “I wrote a note to a girl friend during class, and after Miss Bylow had forbidden us to write notes in class—”

“But I did not do that!” interrupted Miette. “I wrote my note long before study hour!”

“Did you really?” asked Dorothy in surprise. “Why then what have you done wrong at all? It was only of writing during class time that you have been accused.”

“Who has accused me of that?” demanded Miette, indignantly.

“Why,” stammered Dorothy. “I thought you knew—that is, I thought you understood that Nita brought the note to—”

“I understood it not at all,” declared the French girl, much excited. “Nobody told me and I cannot guess what such girls do.”

She had risen from her seat beside Dorothy, and stood before her now, her cheeks aflame and her eyes sparkling. Dorothy thought she looked wonderfully pretty, but she did not like her excited manner—the girl seemed ready to go into hysterics.

She rubbed her hands together and shrugged her shoulders, just as she did the night of the “crash” during the initiation.

“Now you must be calm,” suggested Dorothy. “You know we can never do anything important when we are excited. Just sit down again and we will talk it all over quietly.”

“There is not much to talk over,” declared Miette, dropping down beside Dorothy. “I simply wrote a note to Marie—she worked in the store—”

She stopped as if she had bitten her tongue! Her cheeks burned more scarlet than before. She glared at Dorothy as if the latter had actually stolen her secret.

“There!” she exclaimed finally. “Now I have told it—now you know—”

“What harm can there be in my knowing that you wrote a note to a girl who worked in a store?” asked Dorothy, whose turn it was to be surprised. “Surely you are not too proud to have friends who work for a living?”

“And would you not be?” replied Miette, a strange confidence stealing into her manner.

“Indeed I would not!” declared Dorothy, in unmistakable tones. “Some of my very best friends work.”

“And would you—like—me just as well if—I worked?”

“Why, certainly I should. It takes a clever girl to earn money.”

“Then—perhaps—I should tell you. But you see I have been forbidden—”

“You must not tell me anything now, Miette, that you might regret after. I only want to help you, not to bring you into more trouble.”

“But if you knew it you could help me,” she said with sudden determination. “You see in France if a girl works she is—bourgeois.”

“We have no such distinction of classes here,” replied Dorothy proudly. “Of course, there are always rich and poor, proud and humble, but among the cultured classes there is absolute respect for honest labor.”

“That sounds like a meeting,” remarked Miette with a smile. “I went to a meeting with mother once, and a lady talked exactly like that.”

“Was she an American?” asked Dorothy, good humoredly.

“Yes. She belonged to a Woman’s Rights League.”

“I have read of them,” Dorothy said simply. “But we are drifting from our subject, which is also the way they talk at meetings,” she added with a smile. “You were saying I could help you if I knew all the circumstances. And you have told me you did not write the note during class. I am so glad to know that at least, for I can tell Mrs. Pangborn—”

“If you think I should not go directly to her myself?”

“I do think that would be very much better,” quickly answered Dorothy. “I am positive if you trust her you will never be sorry—but who is that hiding over there? See! Behind the oak! We had better get to the road, there might be tramps about.”

At this Miette and Dorothy hurried toward the road, but just as they were about to reach the open path a boy deliberately jumped out from the bushes, and stretched out his arms to bar their way!

CHAPTER XV
A QUEER TRAMP

For an instant the girls halted, then Dorothy attempted to go on.

“Let us pass,” she demanded. “What do you mean by this?”

“I mean to get some money,” said the boy, scowling. “I need it.”

“But we have none to give you. You can see we have only stepped—”

Dorothy stopped. Something about the boy startled her. Where had she seen that face? How queerly the boy’s hair was cut!

At the same moment the boy started—he looked at Dorothy for an instant, then turned and started to run through the brush.

“Oh, don’t run away,” called Dorothy after him. “I know you! Surely you can trust me!”

The rustling in the leaves ceased—the runner stopped. Dorothy saw this and hurried to add to her entreaties. “Do come over and let me talk to you. I am glad I found you. You surely do need help.”

At this the boy again appeared on the path. What a forlorn creature! Tattered clothes that never were intended for so small a form, a cap that bent down the child’s ears, old rubbers tied on the feet for shoes, and a face so dirty!

“Don’t say my name,” begged the boy, “you know they are after me.”

“But you need not fear us,” replied Dorothy, “we will help you all we can. Come right along with me. I will see that you are not caught, and that you get something to eat. Certainly you must be hungry.”

“Starved,” replied the other. “I have been living on stuff I picked up all over—even in ash cans. I was afraid to ask for things lately.”

“You poor child,” exclaimed Dorothy. “Have you been in the woods long?”

“Since I heard they were after me.”

“Well, come. This is Miette, a great friend of mine,” Miette had been watching in wondering silence, “she will keep our secret safe.”

They started off, the boy shuffling along after them. Dorothy could not hide her pleasure—she was plainly glad to have come across this queer boy, and he seemed glad, too, to have met Dorothy. Occasionally he would ask a question as they walked along, but in answering those put by Dorothy he seemed very cautious.

“This is Glenwood School,” she said, as the big brown building on the hill rose up before them.

“I—I can’t go there,” objected the child.

“Only to the basement,” Dorothy replied, “I will have you cared for without bringing you where the pupils are. The president, Mrs. Pangborn, is a very kind woman, and when I tell her your story I am sure she will help take care of you, until we can arrange something else.”

Miette seemed speechless. What in the world could Dorothy be doing? Dragging this dirty boy along, and talking as if he were an old friend? Surely Dorothy Dale was a strange girl. Someone had told her that when she came to Glenwood. Now she understood why.

At the gate they met Tavia and Edna. The two had been after hazel nuts and were returning with hats full of the knotted green burs.

“’Lo there!” called Tavia, “want some hazels? Good mind not to give you one, you were so stingy about your old walk.”

The boy lowered his head, and pulled the ragged cap down on his eyes.

“You need not be afraid of Tavia,” spoke up Dorothy, as Tavia came up and stood staring at the strange boy.

“Well, of all things—” she began.

“No, not of all things,” interrupted Dorothy with a wink at Tavia. “You see we found a hungry boy and are bringing him along to get something to eat. He came near scaring us at first, but turned out more harmed than harmful.”

Tavia looked from one to the other. Then she seemed to understand.

“Well, if he can get anything worth eating here,” she said, “I hope he’ll be good enough to pass on the tip. I’m about famished myself, and these nuts are too green for regular diet.”

“I’ve been eating them for days,” said the stranger, “but a change would go good.”

Edna looked mystified. She saw that Dorothy acted queerly—to talk so familiarly to a strange boy! But then Dorothy always tried to make people feel comfortable, she reflected; perhaps this was the case at present.

Further along they encountered other girls coming in from their exercise. All cast wondering eyes at the group with Dorothy, but the questions asked were answered vaguely—without really imparting any information, concerning the strange boy. Some of the girls were inclined to sneer, of course, but when Tavia fell back and whispered that the poor boy was almost starved, and the girls should not make fun of him, even Nita Brandt looked on with pity.

“We’ll go around the kitchen way,” said Dorothy to the stranger, as they reached the building. “We’ll see you later girls,” she told Tavia and Miette, “but this is a good time to talk to the cook.”

Miette had almost forgotten her own troubles, so absorbed was she in the plight of the poor boy.

“He ran out and tried to frighten us,” she told Tavia. “At first we were very much afraid. But Dorothy called to him—she seemed to know him—”

“Oh, Dorothy knows most every poor person around here,” interrupted Tavia. “I shouldn’t like to have to keep up her charity list.”

“Indeed she is a very kind girl,” Miette hastened to add. “I should call her a wonderful girl.”

“Sometimes she is,” admitted Tavia, “but once she gets on your track you might as well give up, she is a born detective. I don’t mean that against her,” Tavia said quickly, noting the look that came into Miette’s face, and realizing that the French girl was not accustomed to her sort of jokes. “But one time I had a secret—or I thought I had one. But when Dorothy Dale scented it I was a goner—she had me ‘dead to rights’ before I knew whether it was my secret or hers.”

This brought a smile to Miette’s eyes and lips, and she tossed her head back defiantly.

“Well she is welcome to all my secrets,” she said suddenly. “I think it is very nice to have some one willing to share them.”

This remark surprised Tavia, but she did not look at Miette to question the sincerity of her words.

“I hope we have something hot for tea,” said Tavia, as they entered the hall. “I am starved for a good hot feed of indigestible buns or biscuits,—or even muffins would answer.”

“I am thankful if I have hot chocolate,” replied Miette, lightly.

“Hot chocolate,” repeated Tavia, “what an incorrigible you are on that drink! I suppose that is why you have such lovely red cheeks.”

Miette blushed. Certainly she did have “lovely red cheeks.”

“And your walk has done you so much good,” added Tavia. “Nothing like Dorothy Dale and fresh air to cure the blues. You should repeat the dose—every day. It’s a great thing for the nerves.”

“I agree with you,” said Miette, smiling with more reality than she had been noticed to assume since her very first day at Glenwood. “I think your autumn air would cure almost anything,” she finished.

“Except poverty,” joked Tavia. “It never puts a single cent in my purse, much as I coax and beg. I have even left my pocketbook wide open on the low bough of a tree all night, and in the morning went to find I was slighted by the woodland Santa Claus. And lots of girls had passed and looked deep down into that poor pocketbook’s sad, empty heart.”

“And so you got nothing?” asked Miette, laughing.

“Oh, yes, I got a poor scared treetoad, and I’ve got him yet. If you come over to room nineteen after tea I will show him to you. He is a star treetoad, and I’m teaching him tricks.”

Miette thought Tavia the funniest girl—always joking and never seeming to take anything—not even her lessons—seriously.

“I must wash up,” said Tavia, as they reached the turn in the corridor. “And I’m so torn—I don’t believe it will pay to try to patch up. They all match this way,” indicating the rents, one in her sleeve, one in her blouse, and a series of network streaks in her stockings.

“You should wear boots when you go in the woods, your briars are so affectionate.”

“But I have no boots,” answered Tavia, “except the big rubber kind I use at home when I go a-water-cressing.”

At this moment a group of girls espied the nuts Tavia was carrying in her Tam O’Shanter. With a most unlady-like whoop they descended upon her, and almost instantly succeeded in scattering the nuts about the hall.

“You thieves!” Tavia almost shouted. “I call that a mean hold-up—not to give any warning. But here comes Miss Bylow. Now you may have the old nuts, and you may also tell her how they came upon the floor,” and at this Tavia, more pleased than offended, at the turn the incident had taken, hurried off, leaving the surprised girls to explain to Miss Bylow.

“Why, young ladies!” the teacher exclaimed, shocked at their attitudes, as well as perplexed at the sight of the scattered nuts. “You surely were not bringing such things to your rooms? You would not think of eating that green stuff!”

“Oh, no,” replied Rose-Mary, “We were only gathering them for Hallow E’en. They make a lovely blaze in the Assembly hearth when they’re dry.”

“Oh,” replied the teacher. “But how came they to be all scattered—”

“We ran into Tavia,” answered Cologne, truthfully enough, “and she had them in her Tam.”

“Well, see that they are all picked up,” ordered the much-disliked teacher, “and say to Miss Travers that she is to put them in the storeroom—not in her own room.”

“Huh!” sneered Rose-Mary with a comical face, as Miss Bylow turned away.

“Also ha!” added Adele Thomas, who was on her knees picking up the nuts.

“I’d like to throw this at her,” said Ned, holding up a particularly large bunch of the green, fringy nuts.

“Dare you,” came a chorus.

“She’s just under the stair,” whispered Lena Berg. “Drop it down, heavy.”

The temptation was too great. Edna slipped over to the rail, took aim, and let the bunch of green burs go!

CHAPTER XVI
SURPRISES

“We’ll be caught!”

“Run! Run!”

“It will do no good,” said Rose-Mary. “Miss Bylow knows we had the burrs.”

This statement was true, and the girls in the upper hallway looked at each other in consternation. Then one of them, quick of wit, leaned over the railing.

“Oh, Miss Bylow,” she said. “Did that hit you? How provoking!”

“Very!” cried the teacher tartly. She was about to say more, when somebody called her from a rear door. She hesitated, then walked away to answer the summons.

“What an escape!” breathed Edna.

“The next time, think before you throw,” said Rose-Mary.

“Indeed, I will,” was the quick reply. And then, as the crowd passed on, Edna continued: “But where in the world is Dorothy? I haven’t seen her since she came along dragging that dirty youth into the sacred precincts of Glen.”

“Hush!” ordered Wanda Volk, “that was the first boy I have seen since I came here. Don’t scare him off the premises.”

“Don’t!” followed in the usual girlish chorus.

“But I was talking of Dorothy,” continued Edna.

“She was at the tea table,” Cologne remarked.

“But left before jelly,” added Adele Thomas.

“And Tavia ate her share,” Lena Berg declared.

“I suppose,” went on Rose-Mary, “Dorothy is about this moment trimming the hair of her hero. Did you notice the cut?”

“Notice it!” shrieked Ned. “Why, it called to us—wouldn’t let us pass. That cut is termed ‘Christy,’ after the man who discovered maps.”

The girls had congregated in the alcove of the upper hall. It was a pleasant fall evening and some proposed a game of “hide and seek” out of doors.

This old-fashioned game was always a favorite pastime with the Glenwood girls, and as the grounds afforded ample opportunity for discoveries and hiding places, “hide and seek” ever had the preference over other games as an after-tea amusement.

Promptly as the word had been passed along, the girls raced to the campus, and were soon engrossed in the sport.

But Dorothy and Tavia were not with their companions. Instead, they were walking with the strange boy along the quiet path, that was separated from the school grounds by a row of close cedars. Dorothy was urging, and so was Tavia.

“But if you go away from here, and out into the woods again,” said Dorothy, “you will run a greater risk. Why not stay around, and help with the outside work, as Mrs. Pangborn had proposed, until we can hear from Aunt Winnie. Then, if everything is all right, you could go back to the—”

“I’ll never go back!” interrupted the boy. “I would starve first.”

“No need to starve,” said Tavia. “Surely, with Dorothy anxious to help you, you ought to listen and be reasonable.”

“Yes, I know that,” assented the boy, “but if you had to run and sneak the way I have been doing, for the past two weeks, you wouldn’t—feel so gay, either.”

“I know how you must feel,” answered Tavia, “but you see, we are right. The only thing for you to do is to go back and have it all cleared up.”

“Perhaps,” said Dorothy, “I could go with you.”

“Then I wouldn’t be afraid,” promptly answered the stranger. “I know you would see that I had fair play.”

“Good idea,” exclaimed Tavia. “Dorothy could do a lot with the people out there. And everyone knows Mrs. White.”

“In the meantime I will have to wait to see what Aunt Winnie says,” remarked Dorothy.

“Then I’m to stay at the garden house to-night?” asked the boy.

“Yes, and in the morning put on the things I have brought down there for you. You can help the gardener’s wife around the house, and come up to the grounds to see us about ten o’clock. We will come out here where we can talk quietly.”

It was quite dusk now, and the game of “hide and seek” was over. Tavia and Dorothy walked down towards the garden house, then said good-night to the stranger, and hurried back, to be in with the others.

“What a queer thing?” remarked Tavia, all excitement from the meeting.

“I thought so, too, when I was ‘held up’ in the woods,” replied Dorothy. “But, after all, it was a very lucky meeting.”

“And I think Miette looks so much better—she was quite cheerful when she came in,” went on Tavia.

“Yes, I found out that she never wrote the note in the classroom, and I mean to tell Mrs. Pangborn so, first thing in the morning. Miette was willing to go to her, herself, but I think it may be best for me to speak to Mrs. Pangborn first.”

“What on earth would Glenwood girls do without you?” asked Tavia, laughing. “You are a regular adjustment bureau.”

“Some one has to do it,” replied Dorothy simply.

“Why don’t you let them, then?” asked Tavia, just to tease her friend.

“A natural inclination to meddle,” remarked Dorothy, “keeps me going. I suppose I really should not monopolize the interesting work.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. I don’t happen to know any one who objects.”

But the work with which Dorothy was at present engaged was not so simple as she would have her friend believe.

In the first place, Miette’s troubles were not at all easy to handle. The girl was naturally secretive, and with the obligation of keeping her affairs entirely to herself (as she had explained to Dorothy those were her orders from someone) it was a difficult matter to understand just why she should “go to pieces” over the small happening of having lost a note.

Now Dorothy had at least found out that the note was not written contrary to school orders, so that would be one fact to Miette’s credit, whatever else might remain to her discomfort in the actual loss of the note.

Dorothy tried to think it out. She had a way of putting her brain to work on important matters, and in this way she now went at the question seriously.

To be alone she left her room and slipped down to the chapel, which was deserted.

“I simply must think it out,” she told herself. “I must have some clear explanation to offer Mrs. Pangborn.”

Then she went over it all, from beginning to end.

Miette had suddenly become almost hysterical over the announcement made on initiation night. Then she tried to get back the note and found Nita had handed it over to Miss Bylow. This added to her anxiety. She declared she would have to leave Glenwood if the contents of the note became known. Then Dorothy learned that the charge against Miette was a mistake—that the note had been written before class time. But that was as far as Dorothy’s investigation went. Miette hinted that her friend was a working girl, but what could that matter? Dorothy had assured Miette that many of her own friends belonged to the working class.

So Dorothy pondered. The chapel was silent, and an atmosphere of devotion filled the pretty alcoved room.

“I will go directly to Mrs. Pangborn,” concluded Dorothy. “There is no use of my trying to think it out further.”

But Dorothy had not reached the office when Miette came upon her in the hall. She was excited and looking for Dorothy.

“Oh, do come to my room!” she begged. “I am in such trouble! I know of no one to go to but you,” and she took Dorothy’s hand in her own trembling palm, and drew her over to the room across the hall.

“I have had a letter,” began Miette, “from Marie—the girl the note was written to. And now I must tell you—for I do not know what to do myself.”

Miette looked into Dorothy’s eyes with a strange appealing expression.

“I will do all I can for you,” answered Dorothy, dropping into the cushioned tete beside Miette.

“You know I lived with my aunt—that is, she was my father’s brother’s wife, not my real aunt,” explained Miette, with careful discrimination. “When I came to New York my uncle was at home, but he soon went away. Then my aunt was not so kind, and I—had to go to work!”

Miette said this as if she had disclosed some awful secret.

“What harm was it to go to work?” Dorothy could not help inquiring abruptly.

“Harm!” repeated Miette, “When my mother was not poor, and she sent me to my uncle to be educated? They must have used my money, and—and—Don’t you see?” asked Miette, vaguely.

“But why, then, did they send you to Glenwood?” asked Dorothy, still puzzled.

“Perhaps to—get rid of me,” answered Miette. “That is what I wanted to talk to you about. I have written two letters and received no answer. Now, Marie, the girl who worked in the store with me, has written that my aunt is no longer living in the brick house.”

“She may have moved—that would not have to mean that she has—gone away.”

“Oh, but I am sure,” replied Miette, still agitated. “First my uncle goes, now she is gone, and they have left me alone!”

Dorothy was too surprised to answer at once. Miette seemed very much excited, but not altogether distressed.

“Suppose we go together to Mrs. Pangborn?” suggested Dorothy, “she will know exactly what to do.”

“If you think so,” replied Miette. “You see, I had to be so careful about keeping the working part secret, for my aunt—said she would put me in an institution if I ever told that. She said it was a disgrace, and that I had to go to the store because I was—stupid, and did not learn all the American ways at once. Now, I do not believe her, for I got along well here, and the girls here are surely—refined.”

Dorothy thought this a very strange story—too strange for her to draw reasonable conclusions from.

“Mrs. Pangborn is always in her office at this hour,” she told Miette. “Come at once. We will feel better to have her motherly advice.”

CHAPTER XVII
DOROTHY’S COURAGE

Mrs. Pangborn listened first to Dorothy, and then to Miette. That the little French girl had been abandoned by her relatives, as Miette claimed, was hard to believe, but it was also a fact that Mrs. Pangborn had received no reply to a letter she had written to the address of Miette’s guardian. In her story all the wrongs that Miette had been trying in the past so assiduously to hide were now poured out in a frenzy of indignation. She declared her aunt had brought her out to Glenwood “to get rid of her,” and that all her mother’s money had been stolen by this relative. She repeated the wrong she was made to endure while acting as “cash girl” in a New York department store, and declared that “only for Marie, she would have died.”

“And now it is Dorothy who helps me,” finished the girl, “and if she had not so insisted on being my friend I should have run right away—why should I stay here now? Where shall I go after the term is finished? I must at once let my own aunt in France know how these people in America have treated me!”

“But, my dear,” counseled Mrs. Pangborn, “we must wait. You are not at all sure that your aunt has gone away. And if she has, you need not worry—we can take care of you nicely until some of your other relatives come.”

“But my money!” wailed Miette, “they have it all!”

“Perhaps it is all safely put away for you,” replied Mrs. Pangborn. “You must not be too quick to judge.”

“But they made me work, and I knew it was my money that bought all the new things.”

“Well, my dear, you must try now to be calm, and we will attend to all your troubles at once. I am sorry you did not trust me before—”

“But I dared not tell,” insisted Miette. “My aunt particularly said I should go to some awful place if I told. And that is why I should not have written the note to Marie. But I do so love Marie.”

When Miette left the office Dorothy stayed to speak alone with Mrs. Pangborn.

“I would like,” said Dorothy, “to take a little trip down to North Birchland. I need to see my aunt about—”

“The funny little boy,” interrupted the president of Glenwood. “Well, I do think he is a queer chap, and only for your recommendation I should be quite afraid to have him around Glenwood,” said Mrs. Pangborn good-naturedly.

“Then you haven’t seen—”

“Oh, indeed, I have, but I must still call him a queer little chap,” went on the president. “I think the disguise rather clever, but of course it was dangerous.”

“And may I go to North Birchland?” asked Dorothy.

“If you think it necessary, of course,” replied Mrs. Pangborn, “but you cannot afford to leave your school work unless it is necessary,” she finished.

“I will make it up,” agreed Dorothy. “I feel I must talk to Aunt Winnie. She will know exactly what is best to do.”

“I am sure I can depend upon you to do your best,” replied the president.

“I suppose,” ventured Dorothy, “it would not be possible to take Miette along? She has been almost ill, you know, and if she could do better work after the change—”

“Oh, you dear little schemer!” said Mrs. Pangborn, smiling. “Here, you have arranged it all. You are to carry Miette off to North Birchland, and then you are to fix it up for the queer boy. Why, my dear, I do not see why you take other people’s troubles so seriously,” and Mrs. Pangborn gave her a reassuring glance. “But I must not forget,” she hurried to add, “that it was I who imposed Miette’s worries upon you.”

“I am sure it was no trouble at all,” declared Dorothy, “and I love to do what I can—”

“Exactly. It is a case of willing hands. Well, my dear, if you really must go to North Birchland, I can’t see but the trip would serve to—straighten out Miette. In fact, you will be near New York, and it might be just possible that Mrs. White would be kind enough to make some inquiries for me. It is really quite impossible for me to go to New York at present.”

“I am sure she would be glad to,” answered Dorothy. “We always go to New York when I am home.”

So the interview ended, and Dorothy found herself plunged deeper than ever into the mysteries of others’ affairs.

“But no one else can just do it,” she argued to herself, “and surely I can spare the time—I’ll work at night, if necessary, to make it up.”

The prospect of a trip to the Cedars was pleasant in itself to Dorothy, and then to have Miette with her, to show her to Aunt Winnie, besides being assured that no one could so wisely act in the case of lost relatives as could Aunt Winnie—Dorothy could scarcely sleep that night thinking of it all.

She simply told Tavia she was going to the Cedars “on business.”

“And why can’t I go?” demanded Tavia, always ready for a trip, especially with her chum.

“Why, you have already got work to make up,” explained Dorothy, “and how could you expect to leave now?”

“I’ve a mind to, anyway,” declared Tavia. “We are all going to strike if that ‘Bylow—baby-bunting’ does not come to terms. She’s perfectly hateful, and not a girl can get along with her.”

“I’ve managed to keep out of trouble,” remarked Dorothy abstractedly.

“Oh, you!” exclaimed Tavia, “you don’t go in for that kind of trouble lately. But I notice you have plenty of other domestic brands.”

“Yes,” sighed Dorothy, “I have some—just now.”

“Well, I may as well sleep it off,” answered Tavia. “But I surely would like a trip just now—to cut that ‘condition’ I have to make up. Seems to me school days get harder every twenty-four hours,” and she turned away, without any apparent worry, in spite of her declaration of “too much to do.”

But Dorothy did not turn over to rest. Instead, she lay wide awake, the “Hunter’s Moon” shining full in her window, and making queer pictures on the light-tinted walls.

To take Miette—and to take Urania (for my readers must have guessed that the “queer boy” was none other than the gypsy girl), now seemed to Dorothy something more than a mere matter of going from Glenwood to North Birchland. Miette would be no trouble, of course—but Urania?

A reward had been offered for the capture of the gypsy girl. And country officers are “keen” where a cash reward is in question. Certainly Urania would have to be disguised. She could not wear the old torn boy’s clothes in which she had come to Glenwood—Dorothy could not travel with her in that garb. She was too small to be dressed as a woman—anyone could see that disguise, thought Dorothy. But one thing seemed possible to do to work out the plan of getting into North Birchland without detection. Urania must impersonate Tavia, she must dress in Tavia’s clothes, and look as much as she could be made to look like Tavia Travers.

That much settled, Dorothy bade the “Hunter’s Moon” good-night, and passed from the realm of waking dreams into the depths of slumber visions.

It was a very early morning call that Dorothy made at the room across the hall with her news for Miette.

“You are to come to the Cedars with me,” Dorothy told the surprised little French girl, “and perhaps Aunt Winnie will take us over to New York.”

“Oh, how splendid!” exclaimed Miette, clapping her hands. “I may then see Marie?”

“Well, I cannot tell, of course,” replied Dorothy, “but I always go to New York when I am at the Cedars, and I am sure Aunt Winnie will want to go,” she added, thinking of Mrs. Pangborn’s message to Mrs. White. “Perhaps we will all go together.”

“It will be splendid,” declared Miette. “I can hardly do anything until I am sure—about my aunt.”

“That is the reason Mrs. Pangborn has been so good and lets you have the holiday,” said Dorothy. “I promised we would both work doubly hard when we came back.”

“Indeed I will!” assented Miette. “But what time must we start?” she asked, all eager for the journey.

“On the ten o’clock train. You see, I have to bring back with me the other girl—she whom we found in the woods.”

“And she is a girl? I thought so. I saw her yesterday in girl’s clothes—”

“We must not talk about that now,” interrupted Dorothy. “I have to do a great deal for her before we start. And I am trembling lest Mrs. Pangborn might change her mind—think it all too risky.”

At this Dorothy was gone, and Miette began to make ready for the trip.

And Dorothy was right—Mrs. Pangborn was apt to change her mind: in fact, a call for Dorothy to come to the office directly after breakfast confirmed her suspicion.

“I am almost afraid, Dorothy,” said the president of Glenwood, in the after-breakfast interview, “that I was rather too hasty in agreeing with you that you should take the trip to the Cedars. I would not mind you going alone, or even taking Miette. But this gypsy girl—I don’t quite like all that.”

“But, Mrs. Pangborn,” pleaded Dorothy, “I am perfectly safe. And if I do not take her back I am afraid some officer may find her—”

“But if she is such an unruly girl—”

“Indeed, she is not,” declared Dorothy. “Urania has never done anything really wrong. I have known her for a long time, and she has done many good turns for us. I really feel that I can do this, and not be detected, whereas anyone else might—spoil it all.”

“Well, my dear, I like your courage. And I also believe there are quite as important things as book lessons in life for young girls to learn, and helping their fellow creatures is certainly one of these. And, besides, I would not like to disappoint you. So if you will promise to follow my advice carefully, in regard to telegraphing either to your aunt or to me at once, should you get into any difficulty, I will give my permission.”

Dorothy willingly agreed to these conditions, and then Mrs. Pangborn gave her a note for Mrs. White.

“This will explain all I can tell her about Miette’s affair,” said Mrs. Pangborn, “and if she can possibly attend to it personally for me, I shall be greatly obligated. I will be so glad to know about the child’s relatives.”

Dorothy took the note, and thanking Mrs. Pangborn for the privileges she had given her, hurried off to “fix up Urania.”

CHAPTER XVIII
TAVIA’S DOUBLE

“Come, hurry,” said Dorothy to Urania, as the gypsy girl gazed in wonder at the new clothes she was to put on. They were in the gardener’s little room, an apartment allowed Urania by the gardener’s wife since her stay at Glenwood.

“You see,” explained Dorothy, “I must make you look as much like Tavia as I can. If they should recognize you they might—”

“Take me away?” asked Urania, alarmed.

“Well, I guess they will not know you when we are all through,” said Dorothy, brushing the tangled hair that had been chopped off in spots, and rolled up with hairpins. “It’s lucky you did not cut all your hair,” she added, “for by letting this down I can cover that which is short.”

But it took considerable pinning and brushing to coax the black hair over the bare spots.

“And now, let me show you—see, I can make your black hair brown—like Tavia’s.”

At this Dorothy produced a “make-up box” (the one that Tavia had saved after her experience before the footlights, as told in “Dorothy Dale’s Great Secret”), and with a queer “puff” she began the process of turning black hair into brown. Urania gazed into the little mirror like one enchanted.

“I like that hair best,” she said, with undisguised admiration, “I always hated black hair.”

“Well, you can try this shade to-day, at any rate,” answered Dorothy, “but I do not think it would wear very well—just in powder.”

With deft fingers Dorothy patted the bronze powder all over the black head.

“There,” she exclaimed finally, “who would ever know you now?”

“Not even Melea,” replied Urania, “I look—very nice.”

“But wait until you get Tavia’s red cheeks on,” Dorothy told her, laughing. “Tavia has such lovely red cheeks.”

“Yes,” sighed the girl. “I wonder why gypsies never have any red cheeks?”

“Probably because you all take after your own people,” Dorothy said. “Now, don’t let me get this too near your eyes.”

The gardener’s wife, attracted by the conversation, now joined them before the looking-glass.

“Well, I do de-clare!” she exclaimed. “If that is the same girl! Why, Miss Dorothy, you are quite an artist!”

“Yes, I always loved painting,” answered Dorothy, putting a good dab on Urania’s cheek. “There! I guess that will do.”

“Perfect!” declared the gardener’s wife. “I never saw anything better outside of a—show.”

“Now for the clothes,” said Dorothy, hurrying on with her work. “We must get the ten o’clock train, you know.”

Tavia’s pretty brown dress was then brought out. Over fresh underskirts (a perfect delight to Urania), the gown was arranged on the gypsy girl. It fit her “perfect” the gardener’s wife declared, and Dorothy was pleased, too, that the clothes went on so nicely.

How wonderfully Urania was changed! And how pretty she really looked.

“Guess you ain’t used to good things,” said the gardener’s wife, kindly. “It’s a pity you don’t give up the gypsy life and be like these girls. See how becoming it all is?”

“Oh, yes, but they have money,” demurred the girl. “I am so poor!”

“But you need not always be poor,” Dorothy told her. “There are plenty of chances for bright young girls to better themselves. But, of course, they must go to school first.”

It was “school” that always halted Urania. She “drew the line at school,” as Tavia expressed it.

Finally the shoes were on, and all was ready, even the big white summer hat was placed on the “golden curls,” and certainly Urania looked like Tavia!

“Let me get a good look at you out in the light,” said Dorothy, “for make-up is a treacherous thing in daylight. No, I can’t see the paint, and the powder sinks well into your hair. I think it is all right. Here, you are to carry this bag—but put your gloves on!”

It was not time for class yet, and Dorothy called Tavia out to the side porch.

Urania was smiling broadly. Tavia at first did not actually know her. Then she recognized her own clothes.

“Oh, for—good—ness sake!” she gasped. “That isn’t Urania! Well, I never—It’s too good. I’ve just got to go. I’m going to run away. I can’t stay here in this old pokey hole and miss all that fun,” and she pretended to cry, although it was plain she would not have to try very hard to produce the genuine emotion.

“I hope it will all be fun,” reflected Dorothy, “but it does seem risky—in spite. Can you tell her hair?” she asked Tavia.

“Never,” declared Tavia. “You make up so well—it’s a pity to waste yourself on Glenwood.”

“I’m glad you think it’s all right,” replied Dorothy. “You know, travelling in a train, with people right near you—”

“You might rub a touch of powder over the complexion,” suggested Tavia. “I always did after I was all made up. Dear me!” she sighed, “it makes me think of ‘better days.’”

“Better?” queried Dorothy, recalling all the trouble Tavia had experienced when “made up” for her brief stage career.

“Well, perhaps not,” answered Tavia, “but different, at least.”

“Now, stay right here,” said Dorothy to Urania, “while I go and fetch Miette. I hope she is all ready. It did take so long to get you done.”

“But she certainly is ‘done to a turn,’” remarked Tavia, walking around the new girl in evident admiration. “I’d just like to call Ned—wouldn’t she enjoy this?”

“But you must not,” objected Dorothy, as she started off for Miette. “If you make any uproar we will all have to stay at Glenwood.”

Dorothy found Miette all ready—waiting for the carriage that was to take them to the depot.

Dorothy hurried to the office to say good-bye to Mrs. Pangborn, and after receiving more warnings, directions, and advice, she soon “collected Miette and Urania,” and was seated with them in the depot wagon, that rumbled at the usual “pace” of all boarding-school wagons over the hills of Glenwood, down the steep turn that led to the little stone station, and at last reached the ticket office just as the ten o’clock train whistled at the Mountain Junction.

CHAPTER XIX
THE CAPTURE

Once on the train, and out among strangers, Dorothy felt as if all eyes were upon Urania. Was her disguise really good? Might some one know her from the published descriptions, that had appeared in the newspaper from North Birchland?

“Now, you must not talk aloud,” she whispered to Urania. “Someone might suspect, and listen to our conversation.”

Of course, Miette was all excited over her own affair. Would she really see Marie? she asked Dorothy, and when did Dorothy think her aunt would take them to New York?

Dorothy found it difficult to take care of the two girls. She was so anxious about Urania she could scarcely keep up with Miette’s questions. Urania in turn settled down rather awkwardly in her new outfit. She wanted to remove the big stiff hat, but Dorothy said she should not. Then she insisted on taking off the thin silk gloves, and Dorothy warned her to keep her hands well down in her lap, as they were very brown, and rather “suspicious” looking.

A woman opposite attempted to get into conversation with Urania, but Dorothy felt obliged to take the gypsy down the aisle for a drink of water, in order to have a chance to tell her she positively must not talk to strangers.

They had to change cars at another junction. Dorothy wanted to go out of the train both first and last, but with human limitations she was obliged to be content with leading the way for her two charges.

A wait of fifteen minutes in the little way station added to Dorothy’s discomfort. Urania must not talk to the station agent—why did every one speak to her? Was she too attractive?

The task Dorothy had undertaken now seemed more and more difficult. If she only could get on the train for North Birchland safely! But there would be one more change, at Beechville. There was a strange man waiting in the station. He got on the train at Glenville, and seemed interested in the three girls. Perhaps Dorothy only imagined it, but he certainly was watching them.

He took a seat in the North Birchland car directly opposite Dorothy and Urania (Miette occupied a separate seat), Dorothy was plainly nervous, and she handed Urania a book and whispered to her to pretend to be reading it.

The man finally spoke to Dorothy.

“Aren’t you Miss Dale?” he inquired, “Major Dale’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dorothy promptly, feeling a relief since her dear father’s name had been mentioned.

“And these other girls?” he asked pointedly.

“Friends of mine from the Glenwood Boarding School.”

“You were friends with that gypsy girl,” he said, fixing his eyes on Urania, “You know she got away—I know your folks out at the Cedars,” he went on, seeing the surprise on Dorothy’s face, “and I thought you might be able to tell me something about the girl—I’d first-rate like to find her.”

Urania turned around and almost gasped! Her eyes showed plainly her confusion, and in spite of Dorothy’s tugging at her skirt, she was in imminent danger of making her identity known. This frightened Dorothy, and, of course, the man saw at once that both girls were agitated.

Whether he had been suspicious, or whether Urania’s sudden change of attitude led to his conclusions, it was now apparent that he did suspect the identity of the girl with the big white hat turned down so closely over her brown hair.

Dorothy tried to speak, but she only succeeded in smiling faintly, and her effort to take the situation as a joke was an utter failure.

The man left his seat and stood directly in front of them.

“You don’t happen to know the runaway gypsy girl?” he asked Urania.

“N-o,” she stammered, while the blood in her cheeks burned through Dorothy’s clever make-up.

“H’m!” he asked again, pressing nearer the frightened girl.

Dorothy was stunned—bewildered! Surely he must know. She could not say that this was Tavia Travers, in fact, to tell the untruth did not occur to her—he would be able to see through that if he had penetrated the disguise.

The train was whistling for a stop at Beechville. Here they must change cars—oh, if only he would get off there and go away, then, perhaps, some one would help her!

Miette, quick to discern the change in Dorothy, looked on, trembling with fear. Perhaps the man had been sent out by her aunt—perhaps he would take her, too, as well as Urania! She had suffered so many strange experiences, that now she dreaded and feared everything!

“We all change cars here,” coolly said the man. “I guess I had better take you little girls in hand—you need not be afraid. I’m a regular officer, and I will take good care of you.”

“Oh!” screamed Urania, “I will not go! I won’t be arrested!”

“Hush!” exclaimed Dorothy, “You are not going to be arrested, but you must be quiet or they may think we—think something is wrong. Sir,” she said, looking up at the big man with the slouch hat, “I will not go with you unless I know who you are.”

“That’s easy settled,” he replied, pulling back his coat and displaying a badge, “I’m head constable of North Birchland.”

“And what do you want of us?” asked Dorothy, bravely.

“Don’t know as I want anything with you,” he replied, “But I am after that gypsy girl, and I have an idea this is the girl I am looking for,” touching Urania on the shoulder.

“But I cannot let her go with you unless I go along, too,” spoke up Dorothy, now prepared to stand by Urania in this new difficulty.

“Then you may come along, too,” he said, good-naturedly enough. “Here we are. This is the Beeches—and you know the Borough lock-up is out here.”

“Lock-up!” almost shrieked Miette.

An elderly gentleman a few seats back noticed the girls’ plight. He stepped forward and spoke to the constable:

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” replied the constable, resenting the interference.

“But these young girls—what do you want of them?”

“We change cars here,” spoke the constable, ignoring the man’s question, as the train came to a stop.

“So do I, then,” declared the man, looking kindly at Dorothy, and following the party out of the car.

Miette clung to Dorothy’s skirt—the constable had taken Urania by the arm. She struggled to get away, and no doubt would have given the officer a lively chase could she have freed herself from his hold.

“I must telegraph my aunt,” declared Dorothy, as they reached the platform.

“Office is closed,” said the constable, looking into the ticket office that was really deserted.

“Oh, what shall I do?” wailed Dorothy, now dreadfully alarmed at their plight.

“Don’t you worry, little girl. I’ll see that nothing happens to you,” said the gentleman who had left the train with them.

“I can’t see the necessity,” interfered the constable. “I’m a regular officer of the law, and I guess I’m about able to take care of a little thing like this.”

“No doubt,” replied the other, “but even an officer of the law may—overstep his authority. Have you a warrant for any one of these little girls?”

Dorothy looked her thanks, but the constable did not give her a chance to speak.

“Perhaps that will satisfy you,” said the officer, handing the man a paper.

The gentleman glanced at it—then looked at Urania.

“I can’t see how this description fits?” the man said, with a sharp look, first at Urania and then at the constable.

“But I can,” declared the officer. “See that scar?” pointing to a long, deep ridge on Urania’s cheek.

Certainly the mark agreed with the mark mentioned in the description.

“Let me go!” cried Urania, making a desperate effort to free herself.

“Now! Now!” spoke the officer. “Just you go easy, little girl. Nobody’s goin’ to hurt you. But you must not make too much trouble.”

“Can’t we go?” pleaded Miette, thoroughly frightened and plainly anxious to get away from the scene.

“I will not leave Urania,” declared Dorothy, firmly, “and you could not find your way to North Birchland alone. I am sure Aunt Winnie will come as soon as she receives my telegram—the office must surely open before train time.”

“I don’t fancy old Baldwin’s much good on sending messages over the ticker,” said the officer, with an uncomfortable smile, “and Miss Blackburn’s off somewhere—wasn’t here last night.”

“Do they not employ a regular operator?” asked the strange gentleman.

“Not at this junction,” replied the constable, “don’t have many messages here.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Dorothy, “Isn’t that awful? What shall we do?”

“I said before, young lady, you can do as you please, but I’m wasting good time standing here talking. I’ll just be movin’ along. Come along, Urania.”

But Urania would not move. She put her two feet down so firmly against the planks of the platform that even the strong constable saw he would have to drag her, if he insisted on her going along.

Miette began to cry. Dorothy stepped aside and spoke to the gentleman who had so kindly offered to help her. The thought that she had not sent word to the Cedars that she was coming—that she was not expected—just flashed across her mind.

What if Mrs. White should not be at home? But the major—and yet, in her last letter to Glenwood Mrs. White told that Major Dale was gone away on a business trip, about some property that had to be settled up.

What a predicament? But this was no time to speculate on possible troubles—there were plenty of certainties to worry about.

Urania still defied the officer. And Miette was over on a bench crying.

“Couldn’t you—let these girls go—on my bond?” asked the gentleman, crossing to the officer’s side. “I will be responsible—”

“I have said before those two can go—but there ain’t a bond strong enough in the county to stand for this one—she’s too slippery.”

“Then we must all go together,” declared Dorothy. “I will stay with—my friend.”

“Just’s you say,” replied the officer, “But I’m going to make a start. See here, young lady”—this to Urania—“if you want fair play, no new troubles, you had better step along here, and lively, too.”

“Yes,” said Dorothy to the gypsy girl, “we had better go. I’ll go with you.”

CHAPTER XX
URANIA IN THE TOILS

The Vale City express came whizzing along, and the kind gentleman who had left the train with the girls was obliged to board this to get to his destination.

“I am so sorry to leave you,” he told Dorothy, “but, as you say, you are not far from your aunt’s place, no doubt you will be able to communicate with her soon. I assure you, if there was another train to Vale City this afternoon, I would not leave you alone in this plight.”

Dorothy thanked him heartily—he was so kind, and his assurance gave her courage, if it did not altogether extricate them from the constable’s clutches.

“I am sure I will be able to telegraph soon,” she told him, “and then my Aunt Winnie will come out directly in the automobile.”

So he left them, and then they followed the constable sadly to the lock-up.

Dorothy now fully realized the responsibility she had undertaken. She must stand by Urania—she fully believed in her innocence, and she must see that this unfortunate girl was honestly dealt with. It was hard to go to a country jail—perhaps street boys would run after them, and perhaps it might even get in the newspapers.

“If Urania was not so stubborn,” Dorothy whispered to the tearful Miette, “I believe she would get off easier. But I’m afraid she will not even tell the story, and clear herself. She seems not to be afraid of going to jail.”

“Oh!” wailed Miette, “I do think we ought to go—I wish I had not come—”

“Now, Miette,” said Dorothy, “you must not feel that way. You must have more courage. I am willing to help you, and we should both be willing to help this poor girl.”

There was a reproof in Dorothy’s voice, but Miette was obdurate, and continued to bewail the situation.

Urania trudged along—her fine clothes making a queer mockery of her predicament.

“There’s our quarters,” announced the constable, pointing to a small, new brick building a few squares away.

Miette shuddered.

“It is only to make a record,” Dorothy assured her.

“Then you have been—arrested yourself?”

Dorothy could not restrain a smile. “No, I have never been arrested at all. But I know something about court work,” she answered.

As Dorothy feared, the small-boy element did discover them. No sooner had they caught sight of the officer than they seemed to swarm from nowhere to a solid group directly about the disgraced girls.

This added to Miette’s alarm, but it only annoyed Dorothy.

“Don’t notice them,” she told Miette, as the urchins asked insulting questions. “We will soon be indoors.”

Indoors!

In a station house!

A huge man in dismal uniform sat in the doorway. The constable greeted him familiarly.

“Here we are, Cap,” he said, “I’ve got some pretty girls here. Any room inside?”

Dorothy frowned and looked up at him sharply.

“I did not know that officers joked at the expense of—innocent girls!” she spoke up, with a manner that almost surprised herself.

“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed the officer, “but you have some spirit. Related to Major Dale, all right.”

“Yes, and I think you should have given me a chance to communicate with him,” she followed up, making good use of the opportunity to assert her rights.

“No objection whatever,” replied the officer. “Cap, have you got a ’phone to North Birchland?”

Dorothy’s heart jumped! A telephone to the Cedars!

“Yep,” answered the stout man, disturbing himself reluctantly, and stepping inside to allow the others to enter.

“There you are miss,” said the constable, pointing to the telephone. “I don’t mind who you talk to or what you say now—I’ve got this girl safe here,” indicating Urania. “Some times a little girl can make more trouble than some one twice her size.”

Dorothy flew to the telephone. She was so eager to “get the Cedars” she could scarcely give the number correctly.

She waited—and waited.

“Trying to get your party,” came the answer to her ear from the central office.

How strange that they did not answer at once.

“Can’t you get them?” she asked the operator, impatiently.

“I think their wire is down,” came the answer. “I’ll give you ‘information.’”

“Information,” or the young lady in the telephone office who held that title answered promptly. Dorothy made known her need—to reach the Cedars, North Birchland.

“Wire’s down from the wind,” replied the telephone girl.

Dorothy almost jerked the receiver off its cord—she dropped it so suddenly.

“Isn’t that awful?” she exclaimed, with a very white face.

“Can’t get your party?” asked the constable, coolly.

“No,” she answered, “Could I telephone the depot to send a telegram?”

“Nope,” replied the man designated as “Cap.” “They can’t collect charges over the telephone.”

“But I could send the message collect,” argued Dorothy, feeling her courage slip away now with each new difficulty.

“They only send them that way when they happen to know who you are,” replied the man in an insolent tone, “and it ain’t likely they know a parcel of boarding-school girls.”

Dorothy sank into the carpet-seated chair at her side. She was discouraged now.

Miette waited as close to the door as she could “squeeze” without actually being on the outside of the sill.

Urania did not appear frightened now—she seemed ready to fight!

All the gypsy blood within her resented this “outrage,” and when she “resented” anything it was revenge that filled her heart. She would get even!

But what was one poor unfortunate girl to do when big burly officers of the law opposed her?

“I suppose I will have to go back to the station,” stammered Dorothy. “Have you no matron here?” she asked, suddenly realizing that “girl prisoners,” must be entitled to some consideration.

“Matron?” laughed the captain.

“Oh, I don’t know,” and the constable winked at his brother officer, “there might be a woman—Cap, couldn’t you—get some one?”

At this the two men held a whispered conversation, and presently the constable remarked:

“I’ve got to go back to North Birchland now, and if you two young ladies want to go I’ll take you along.”

“No, thank you,” replied Dorothy promptly. “We are not ready to leave yet.”

“Don’t stay on my account,” spoke up Urania suddenly, breaking her sullen silence. “I’ll be all right here,” and she glanced at the open window.

“But I shall not leave you—that is, unless I have to,” insisted Dorothy, “I brought you away from Glenwood, and I am going to get you home if I can to-night. There must be some way.”

The constable was waiting.

“Now I’ll tell you miss, since you seem so set,” and he smiled broadly at Dorothy, “I’m going back to see about—well to fix things up—” (Dorothy felt sure he meant he was going back to claim the reward,) “then if everything is all right perhaps we can take bail for her—you could get bail?”

“Indeed I could,” Dorothy assured him. “All our folks know and like this girl.”

“Well, it’s a good thing to have friends. And now I’m off—I may see you later in the afternoon, Miss Dale, and in the meantime let me compliment you—you’re game all right.”

Dorothy felt too grieved to thank the man for his rough compliment, and she only glanced at him as he left the place.

The police captain settled down near the door again. Evidently he did not care just what his prisoner did so long as she did not attempt to run away. He paid not the slightest attention to any of the girls, but sat down in that lazy, heavy way, characteristic of officers who have nothing else to do. He refilled his pipe and started in to smoke again as if he were just as much alone as he had been before the noon train came in with the interesting trio of much-perplexed girls.

“I think I had better go back to the station now,” said Dorothy to Urania. Miette simply stared about her and seemed incapable of conversing. “Do you wish to come, Miette?” she asked of the girl over at the door.

“Oh, yes, certainly! I should be so glad to go!” replied Miette, showing too plainly her eagerness to get away from the place.

“Can you call the woman you spoke of?” Dorothy said to the officer. “I must go to the station, and do not think I should leave my friend here all alone.”

“All alone? Don’t I count,” and he grinned in a silly fashion. “Oh, I see—of course. Young ladies like you must have a—what do you call it? A ‘chapperton?’”

Dorothy was too annoyed to laugh at the man’s queer attempt to use a big word.

“I have always heard that there should be a matron in every public place where young girls or women are detained,” she said with a brave and satisfactory effort.

This quite awed the officer. “I’ll call Mary,” he said getting up from the seat by the door. “She’ll kick about leavin’ off her housework, but I suppose when we’ve got swells to deal with—why we must be swell, too.”

He dragged himself to the stone steps outside and called into a basement next door. But “Mary” evidently did not hear him. Urania had her eyes fixed on that door like an eagle watching a chance to spring. The man stepped off the stoop, but kept his hand on the rail.

“Mary!” he called again, and as he did so Urania shot out of the door, past the officer, and down the street before he, or any one else, had time to realize what she was doing.

Dorothy stood like one transfixed!

The officer first attempted to run—then he yelled and shouted—but of course Urania was putting plenty of ground between herself and the officer’s voice. Dorothy and Miette had hurried out to the side walk.

“Here!” he shouted, grabbing both girls roughly by the arm, “this is all your doing. You’ll pay for it too. Do you know what it means to help a prisoner to escape? Get in there,” and he shoved the two terrified girls back into the little room, “I’ll see to it that you don’t follow her,” and at this he took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door of a cell, and thrust Dorothy and Miette within.

CHAPTER XXI
COMPLICATIONS

Miette screamed—Dorothy felt she would faint.

The man had actually banged the heavy door shut after them.

“Oh! I shall die!” screamed Miette, “why did you ever bring me here?”

“I did not bring you here,” replied Dorothy, showing some indignation, in spite of her stronger emotions. “Just be as quiet as you can, and I am sure it will all come right. This place is new and clean at any rate, and we need not die here. There is air coming through that barred window.”

“But we must get out! I tell you I will choke!” and the French girl was certainly stifled, both with excessive nervousness and the close confines of the place.

Dorothy was hoping to hear a step outside—she was sure the officer had gone after Urania, and that they were alone in the building. It seemed hours—but it could not be more than a half hour at most until she did hear a step at the door. The next moment the outside door of the cell was opened leaving the bars between the fair prisoners and the outside room.

“M’m!” sneered the police officer, looking through the bars, “how do you like it in there? Think you’ll try that trick again?”

“I tried no trick,” declared Dorothy, “and if you do not at once let us out of this place it will be the worse for you. My father is Major Dale of North Birchland—”

“What!” interrupted the man, with his hand on the door.

“Yes, he is,” repeated Dorothy, seeing the effect her words had on the old officer, “and I know something about false imprisonment. What did we do that you should put us in a cell?”

“You helped that girl escape and there’s a big reward out for her. What do you suppose Constable Stevens will say when he comes back and finds the prize gone?”

“I don’t care what he says,” Dorothy almost shouted. “But I do care about being shut up here, and if you do not liberate us at once I’ll see what the Borough of North Birchland thinks of you as an officer.”

It was plain the man was scared—the very name of Major Dale had startled him.

He had his hand on the big black lock.

“And how am I to know that it was not a put-up job?” he asked foolishly.

“By the usual method—a trial,” ventured Dorothy, feeling no hesitation in saying anything to this ignorant man.

All this took time, and it was getting late in the afternoon.

Miette’s hands as she clutched Dorothy’s were as cold as ice!

“You must hurry,” demanded Dorothy. “This girl is going to faint!”

At this the man unlocked the door—just as Miette fell senseless on the floor.

Miette fell senseless on the floor Page 199

“There!” gasped Dorothy, “are you satisfied now? Get me some water, quick! Then call that woman—tell her she must come in here or—or I’ll have both of you tried for this!”

Dorothy scarcely knew what she said. Miette had fainted—and she must be revived!

What did it matter what she said to that cruel old man?

He shuffled off to the door and again called “Mary.” Presently a stout and rather pleasant-looking woman appeared at the door.

“My good gracious!” she exclaimed, dropping down beside the unconscious girl. “What in the world does this mean? Father what have you been doing?”

“He has made a mistake, that is all,” replied Dorothy, with her usual alertness. “This girl has fainted—we must get her outside.”

The young woman picked up the limp form as if it was that of a baby. She laid Miette gently on the old sofa near the door.

“Telephone for a doctor, dad, quick,” she directed.

“If it’s only a faint,” the officer objected, “why can’t—”

“I said a doctor, and quick,” called the woman again. “Do you want to have a dead girl on your hands?”

This roused the man to a sense of duty. It was hard to call in Doctor Van Moren, under these circumstances, (the doctor happened to be mayor of the borough) but it would be better than having “a dead girl” in the station house.

Miette was stirring and Dorothy felt she would soon rally—but it would be well to have a doctor, he might help get them out of the place. Certainly Dorothy needed some help, and needed it badly.

Both Dorothy and the woman worked over Miette—one chafing her hands and the other dropping cold water between the pale lips.

Finally, while the officer was talking over the telephone, Miette opened her eyes.

Instantly she threw her arms around Dorothy.

“Oh, take me away!” she begged, “don’t let that awful man come near me—let us go!” and she tried to raise herself on the arm of the bench.

“Now be quiet,” commanded the woman, in a gentle voice, “you are all right—no one is going to hurt you.”

But Miette’s eyes stared wildly at Dorothy. The latter was smoothing the black hair that fell in confusion over the temples of the sick girl.

“We will go soon, dear,” said Dorothy, “but you must get strong first. Do you feel better?”

“Yes, I am all right. Do let us go!” and the French girl sat upright in spite of all efforts to keep her head down, which is the important position to be maintained when the face is pale.

“Now dearie,” said the woman, “you must try to be quiet. The doctor will be here directly, and if he says you may go home we will help you all we can.”

Dorothy thanked the woman—she even felt inclined to forgive the old father, so timely was the attention that the daughter gave—perhaps the old man knew no better: perhaps he was afraid of losing the position that he had held many years. As if divining Dorothy’s thoughts the woman said:

“I hope you will hold no ill will to father, he is old and not able to do things as he should. If he was rough I hope you will excuse him.”

“He was rough,” answered Dorothy, “and I did feel that he had done us a grave injustice. But since you are so kind—”

“Here comes the doctor. For goodness sake don’t tell him anything against father,” interrupted the woman, just as a gentleman in an automobile outfit entered the place.

“Well, I declare!” he exclaimed, “what’s all this?”

“My friend fainted,” said Dorothy, before anyone else had time to speak, “and we are trying to revive her. We are anxious to start off for North Birchland in time for the five-twenty train, we thought we had better have your assistance.”

“I’ll tell you how it was, Doc,” started the police officer, in an unsteady voice. “These girls—”

“Dad, do be quiet,” interrupted the daughter. “The doctor has no time to listen to stories. He wants to see what the young girl needs.”

The doctor felt of Miette’s pulse, listened to her heart, and asked some questions.

Dorothy saw how delicate the child looked—it was that ethereal beauty that so attracted the Glenwood girls, but they had not attributed the unusual daintiness to ill health.

“You are not her sister?” the doctor asked of Dorothy.

“No, but she is a very dear friend of mine.”

“And you belong at the Cedars—Mrs. White’s niece?”

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, “I live there. I am Major Dale’s daughter.”

“Then I’ll see the child over there later to-night,” he said. “Were you going back by train?”

“Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a glance at the woman who was shaking her head back of the doctor—motioning to Dorothy to say “Yes.”

“Then I think you might ride back in my auto. I have a call that way, and it will be much easier for the sick girl than taking a train ride.”

“Oh, that would be so very kind of you,” said Dorothy, her gratitude showing as clearly in her eyes as in her voice. “I am sure Aunt Winnie will be so thankful—”

“No trouble at all,” replied the doctor. “Plenty of room in my machine. Come, little girl,”—to Miette,—“Let us see what some fresh air will do for you.”

And they were going away at last! Dorothy felt almost like collapsing herself—the day had been strenuous indeed.

The old officer touched Dorothy’s arm as she was passing out.

“See here, girl,” he whispered, “don’t hold this again me. I was wrong—foolish. But if the doctor got hold of it—I’d be turned out, and then—it would soon be the poorhouse for me.”

Tears glistened in the deep set eyes. His hands were trembling.

“I will do the best I can,” Dorothy promised, “but father will have to know the circumstances—”

“Oh, Major Dale!” and the old man fell into his chair. “Girl, I never knew who you was, and that constable from the Birches, he gave me such a story. Well if you’ll only try to make the major see the way it was—”

“I’ll do all I can,” said Dorothy, hurrying to get away, for Miette was in the car at the door and the chauffeur was ready to start. The police officer stood at the door, and his daughter was on the walk, making sure that the girls were in the auto safely.

“Good-bye,” called Dorothy as the machine began to puff. Miette smiled to the woman, then she looked timidly at the old man. Suddenly another tall figure stepped up to the police station—that of a tall man, with slouch hat—

“The constable!” exclaimed Miette to Dorothy.

But the automobile was off, and the two men on the steps of the country jail were gazing after the cloud of smoke and dust left in the automobile’s track—while Dorothy and Miette were safely flying away to the Cedars.

CHAPTER XXII
SINCERE AFFECTION’S POWER

It was two days later, and Miette had almost forgotten to “be careful”—she felt so strong and well in her pleasant surroundings at the Cedars.

As Dorothy expected, Mrs. White took the lonely girl to her heart at once, and it was only a matter of time—that of waiting for Miette’s convalescence,—that now withheld them from taking the trip to New York in search of the girl’s friends or relatives.

Nothing had been seen or heard of Urania. The other girls’ experience in the country jail had been discussed and settled amicably through the charitable interference of Dorothy, who insisted that the old officer was not responsible, that he did not mean to treat them so harshly, but was frightened into taking the extreme measure of holding them through the “story” given by the constable who was working so assiduously for the reward.

Major Dale was at first inclined to deal summarily with the man, but Dorothy pleaded his case so ardently that she finally “won out,” as the major expressed it and so the old officer was let off with an unmistakable “curtain lecture.”

He declared he had taken enough from the Birchland constable to pay for all his other mistakes, for indeed the wrath of that officer when he found his “prize” had escaped was not of the sort that is easily allayed.

All this, “added to what he got,” made enough, Dorothy declared.

Miette’s frail health, her tendency to faint in any unusual excitement, caused Mrs. White apprehension as time for the proposed journey to New York arrived. If only Miette would be satisfied to wait at the Cedars while Dorothy and Mrs. White could go, then, Mrs. White told her, she could take another trip, when some key to the situation had been obtained.

But Miette was so anxious—she wanted above everything else to see Marie, and then she felt assured she would be able to learn all the particulars about her aunt leaving New York.

As days passed Mrs. White got into communication with Mrs. Pangborn. Letters passed to and from Glenwood daily, and Dorothy’s aunt told her they would have some business with Miette’s attorneys when they reached New York.

Finally one particularly bright day, Miette came down to the dining room with the regular request “to go to-day,” pleading from the depths of her wonderful dark eyes.

“I feel so well,” she declared, “and if we could only go and have it all settled—”

“Well,” agreed Mrs. White, “I guess we can go to-day.”

How the color came and went in Miette’s cheeks! How excited she was to get started, every moment seeming to add to her impatience.

“Now, my dear,” cautioned Mrs. White, “you have promised me to keep calm, and not get any more spells. If you are so excited now, before we leave at all, how do you expect to keep calm when you get into the bustle of busy New York?”

So the girl tried to appear less agitated, but Dorothy could see that every nerve in the child’s frame was a-quiver with anticipation.

At last they were on the train. They would be in New York in one hour. Miette talked incessantly. What she would tell Marie—she would like to buy her a little present before she went to her store; then perhaps they could take Marie out to lunch—it was Marie, Marie, until both Mrs. White and Dorothy marvelled at this girl’s extreme affection for a little cash girl, when she professes such strong dislike for being considered one of the working class.

“Now,” said Mrs. White, as the train rolled into the great Grand Central station, “we will go first to the lawyers’. A day in New York passes quickly, and we have considerable to attend to during business hours.”

It seemed to Dorothy that even New York had grown busier and noisier—she used to think it impossible to add to these conditions, but surely at eleven o’clock on a business morning nothing could be more active than the great metropolis.

They boarded a subway car. This underground travel always excited Dorothy’s interest, “to think that little human beings could build beneath the great solid surface of New York, could fortify these immense caves with walls of huge stones,” she exclaimed to Miette, “don’t you think it marvelous?”

“Yes,” replied Miette simply, without evincing the slightest admiration for that part of the wonders of the nineteenth century’s achievements.

Then the tall buildings—like slices of another world suspended between the earth and sky. Dorothy had seen New York before, but the great American city never failed to excite in her a truly patriotic pride.

“Have you such things in France?” she asked Miette, by way of emphasizing the wonders.

“Some of them,” replied the French girl, “but what seems to me a pity is that you have nothing old in New York, everything is new and shiny. There is no—no history, you tear everything down just when it gets interesting. Marie told me one day that this is because there are so many insurance companies here. When people die you get a lot of money, then you buy a lot of new things.”

Mrs. White laughed outright at this girlish speech. She had often heard the objection made to new “shiny things,”—that they looked as if some one had just died and left an insurance policy—but to apply the comparison to tall buildings was a new idea.

A crowded elevator brought them to the office of a law firm. Mrs. White wrote something on her card, and when the messenger returned from an inner room the lady was immediately ushered in—Dorothy and Miette remained outside, looking down on New York from a ten-story view point.

The legal business seemed of small consequence to Miette—she wanted to get out and look for Marie.

Finally the door to the inner room was opened and the two girls were asked to step inside.

“This is the young lady,” said Mrs. White to a man who sat at a desk that was littered with papers.

“Oh, yes,” he answered, looking first at Miette then at a document in his hand, as if making some comparison.

“And she left the boarding school with this young lady?” the lawyer asked, indicating Dorothy.

“Yes, my niece undertook to assist the child,” answered Mrs. White. “We are accustomed to Dorothy’s ventures, but she is young, and we have to be careful sometimes,” she added, with a look that Dorothy did not exactly understand.

“I see,” replied the gentleman, also smiling significantly, “Well, she is quite a—philanthropist. She ought to study law.”

Dorothy blushed at the compliment. Miette merely looked puzzled at the proceedings. What could this man mean? What did he know of her business? her eyes were asking.

“And just how old are you?” inquired the man turning to the French girl.

“Fifteen,” she answered simply.

“And you came to New York last year?” he continued.

“Yes,” answered Miette, wondering why she should be thus catechised.

Then he unrolled a great packet of papers. From an envelope in the packet he took a small picture.

“Whose picture is this?” he asked Miette.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “My own mother’s—the one we had at home. Where did you get it?” and she reverently pressed the small glass-covered miniature to her lips.

“There can be no question as to identity,” the lawyer said to Mrs. White, without appearing to notice Miette’s emotion. “Of course the legal technicalities will have to be complied with, but this is without question the child in the case.”

Miette allowed Dorothy to look at the miniature. What a beautiful face—yes, Miette was like this sweet sad-faced woman.

The lawyer was talking aside to Mrs. White.

“I will be very glad to make some arrangements,” Dorothy heard him say. “Of course, the child is in our charge, and we thought everything was going on satisfactorily. It is a strange thing what important developments some times may evolve from the simple matter of one child’s affection for another. The president of Glenwood school has written me that it was entirely due to the interest of Miss Dale that this child’s plight was actually discovered,” he said aloud, intending that both girls should hear the remark.

“Dorothy has been very good—” Miette felt obliged to say, although she feared to make her own voice heard in the serious matter that the lawyer was evidently discussing.

“For the present then,” said the lawyer, “this is all we can do. I will be glad to call at the Cedars as soon as I can thoroughly investigate the details, and then we will see what better plan may be arranged.”

Mrs. White was ready to leave.

“Just one minute,” said the lawyer. “I neglected to ascertain what was the name of the firm which you say you had been employed by?” he asked Miette.

“Gorden-Granfield’s,” she replied, a deep flush overspreading her face at the mention of the “store,” where she had spent such miserable hours.

“And who worked with you, near you?” he asked further, putting down on his paper a hurried note.

“Marie Bloise,” answered Miette promptly.

“Very well,” he said, putting the paper back on his desk. “I am entirely obliged, Mrs. White,” he continued, “and very glad indeed to have met this little heroine,” he smiled to Dorothy. “Our young girls of to-day very often display a more commendable type of heroism than characterized the Joans of former days,” he declared. “The results of their work are more practical, to say the least.”

Then they entered the elevator, and Miette, still carrying the envelope with the miniature (the lawyer gave the picture to her) stepped impatiently ahead of Dorothy and Mrs. White when they reached the sidewalk.

“I feel foolish with such compliments,” Dorothy whispered to her aunt. “I can’t see what I have done to deserve them?”

“You discovered Miette,” replied her aunt, simply, “and that seems to be more than even the smartest lawyers in New York had been able to do.”

Dorothy did not exactly understand this remark, but they were downtown now, and within sight of Gorden-Granfield’s establishment.

Through the great department store Miette led Mrs. White and Dorothy to the basement—where, the French girl said, Marie worked.

“She is sure to be on the floor now,” exclaimed Miette, displaying a strange familiarity with “store terms.”

Down in the basement people crowded and fought to get closer to the bargain counters. Dorothy was not accustomed to this sort of shopping—she was almost carried off her feet with the rush and crush. Mrs. White bit her lips—

“And did you actually work here?” she whispered to Miette.

“Yes,” replied the child, “Is it not terrible?”

“Awful! There is absolutely not a breath of air.”

“That was what made me sick,” said Miette. “I could not stand—the atmosphere.”

“No wonder. I cannot see how anyone could stand it.”

“There is a girl I know!” exclaimed Miette, as a child in a somber black dress, with a black lined basket in her hand, made her way through the crowds.

“Where is Marie?” asked Miette, when she could get close enough to the cash girl to ask her the question.

“Gone,” replied the other, glancing curiously at Miette. “Where’re you workin’?” she asked in turn.

“I am not working,” said Miette, not unkindly. “I am at boarding school.”

“Gee!” exclaimed the girl in the black dress.

Then the clerk called: “Here check!”

“But tell me about Marie,” insisted Miette, keeping as close to the cash girl as she could under the circumstances.

“I guess she’s in the hospital,” answered the girl. “She was awful sick—had to be carried out of the store.”

“Here check!” yelled the clerk again. “If you don’t mind your business and get these things wrapped I’ll report you.”

The little girl made no reply, but simply took the parcel in her basket. Then the clerk espied Miette.

“Oh, hello, Frenchy,” she exclaimed, while Miette’s cheeks flamed as the people around stared at her. “Sportin’ now?”

Miette did not reply, but turned and made her way to where Mrs. White and Dorothy waited in a secluded corner.

“Marie is not here,” she told them. “She is sick—gone away.”

“Come,” directed Mrs. White, anxious to get out of the ill-ventilated basement. “We can talk about it upstairs.”

Up in the marble lined arcade Miette told what she had learned. She was “broken hearted.” She did so want to find Marie.

“Well, it seems we must be disappointed in something,” Mrs. White told her, “all our other business has been so satisfactory, we cannot expect everything to go along as if some magic clock ticked out our time in New York.”

But Miette could not be cheered—she was so sorry to know that Marie was sick, then to think she had no time to go to her home—Mrs. White insisted she must do some shopping and then leave on the five o’clock train.

“Couldn’t we go while you shop,” suggested Miette.

“No, indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. White. “I could not think of trusting you two children in New York alone.”

So they were obliged to “shop” and then to leave New York without Miette fulfilling her promise to Dorothy—that of making her acquainted with the “sweetest girl in all New York, Marie Bloise.”

“But I shall write to her—and at once,” said Miette. “I must hear from her in some way.”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE REAL MIETTE

“And now, my dears,” said Mrs. White, a day or two after the trip to New York, “you must soon be thinking of returning to Glenwood. You have had quite a vacation, and it is too early in the season to lay aside school work.”

“Yes, and I will have plenty to do to pull up,” replied Dorothy. “I am working for a prize this year.”

“I shall feel more like doing my part now,” spoke Miette, in whose cheeks the tint of health was beginning to show itself. “And I do believe I shall be very glad to see the girls, also,” she said.

“Well, I am sure the little change has done you both good,” remarked Mrs. White, with an approving look. “After all, there are many important things in life to be learned—and they are not all to be found in books. This afternoon we may expect to see the lawyer from New York, and then I hope all the troublesome business will be settled.”

A letter from Tavia brought the news that Nita Brandt was miserable over the part she had taken in the “persecution” of Miette. She said, in her letter, that even Miss Bylow had spoken to the class in “a near apology,” and that when the two “runaways” did return there would be a welcome committee waiting to receive them.

“So, you see,” Dorothy told Miette, “American school girls are not as mean as they may appear. I was positive they would want you back as soon as you left—and it is a great thing to be missed, you know.”

“But I am sure it is you who are missed,” replied Miette, who did not attempt to conceal her pleasure at the tone of Tavia’s letter. “I do not see how they get on without you at all.”

“Oh, indeed,” replied Dorothy, “Glenwood girls are quite capable of taking care of themselves, and they have a particular faculty of being independent of persons and things.”

“I hope I shall be able to stay—allowed to stay, I mean,” said Miette, thoughtfully. “I am so nervous about the lawyer’s visit.”

“No need to be,” Dorothy told her. “I am sure everything will be all right—I can tell by Aunt Winnie’s manner that she expects some pleasant news.”

“And if I do stay at Glenwood, and have the pleasure of visiting with you again,” said Miette, “will you come again with me to New York to look for Marie?”

“I’ve got a better plan,” replied Dorothy, “but you mustn’t ask about it yet—the plans are not fully developed.”

“Oh, do tell me?” pleaded Miette, “If it’s about Marie I cannot wait for plans to develop.”

“Well, it includes Marie—I hope,” said Dorothy, with a mischievous shake of her pretty head. “The fact is, I am begging Aunt Winnie to let me turn the Cedars into a Social Settlement—ask some lonely and otherwise ‘abused’ girls to spend their vacation here.”

“Oh, how splendid!” exclaimed Miette, “I know two other very nice girls who worked in the store—they are poor, but—”

“Poverty is no objection,” declared Dorothy. “The fact is, Dad says I have made so many acquaintances in the past few years we ought to have a reunion. I have always loved the social settlement idea, and I’m going to try it on.”

“We would be so happy now,” said Dorothy, “if only we could get some tidings of Urania.”

“Do you think she will come back?” asked Miette.

“I am sure she will,” replied Dorothy. “If we only could get some word to her, wherever she is. Sometimes I wake in the night and fancy she is calling me.”

“You love her, I am sure,” said Miette, “and she is such a queer little creature!”

“Yes, I do love her,” declared Dorothy. “She almost risked her life for me, and I will never believe that she did anything wrong—she might be very foolish, but she is not wicked.”

“It is well to have such a friend as Dorothy Dale,” said Miette, with a meaning smile. “I am sure I should have fared very poorly without her aid myself.”

“Now, come,” interrupted Dorothy, “when a girl talks that way I am always certain she wants to borrow something—and all my needles, pins, thread, and even darning ball are at school.”

Miette laughed merrily—she had a way of laughing that might be properly termed infectious, for its ring never failed to bring forth an echo.

It was that laugh that had won for her the heart of Dorothy, when alone she attempted to become one of the “Glens,” and Tavia, with Ned, helped to make the fun on opening day.

The time slipped by like the fleeting autumn clouds that added their gentle reflection to the glorious tints of tree and bush. It might be pleasant to get back with the girls at Glenwood, but it could scarcely be more pleasant than this wonderful day at the Cedars, Dorothy thought. She had many delightful hours with her brothers, Roger and Joe, as well as with the others.

“I think, Miette, you ought really to put on one of my white gowns this afternoon—you look so somber in black, and all white is just as deep mourning as black, you know,” said Dorothy.

“If you would like me to, I shall do it,” replied Miette, “although I shall feel very strange to wear anything but black.”

“It will really be good for you,” urged Dorothy. “You know, they say that black is actually hard on the nerves.”

So it happened that when the lunch bell rang it was a new Miette that came down with Dorothy.

Even Major Dale remarked upon the improvement.

“Well, you see,” said Miette, “when Dorothy wants anything she is sure of getting it. I have often heard that some people have fairies helping them, and I am sure Dorothy’s fairy is very good to her.”

Mrs. White reminded the girls they were not to go off the grounds after lunch, “for the lawyer may want to see you,” she told them.

The early afternoon train brought the expected gentleman—Mr. Pierce by name, of the law firm of Pierce & Sloan, New York City.

He was the same gentleman whom Mrs. White had met in the city, and when he recognized Miette he remarked upon her improved appearance.

“You have gained in the few days,” he said kindly, “I am sure these new friends know how to take care of—lost girls,” he finished with a smile.

Major Dale was present and showed his usual kindly interest in Dorothy’s friends. In fact, he evinced a pardonable pride in the way his daughter won her friends, as he did, too, Mr. Pierce’s statement that Dorothy was a very smart little girl.

Dorothy naturally disliked such compliments, and always maintained she had done nothing more than any other girl would have done under the circumstances. This might have been almost true, or true in a sense, but when men like Lawyer Pierce are initiated into the girl realm, and discover that the members of that realm are not all “silly, giggling school girls,” surprise is natural as well as excusable.

In how many homes to-day are not young girls doing things quietly and almost unconsciously to help the entire family, not alone to obtain bread and butter, but to secure real peace and happiness?

Think of the numberless girls who are assisting good mothers with the trying details of the household, taking from tired heads and shoulders a generous share of the burden that would otherwise make life miserable for these same long-taxed mothers!

There are Dorothy Dales in almost every home—but we have not written their story yet. The “Home Girl” is one of the great unwritten volumes that writers hold so sacred in their hearts, scarcely is pen or paper deemed worthy to make the picture.

But we are telling one Dorothy’s story, that those who read may see the others by reflection.

In the library at the Cedars sat the group—Major Dale and his sister, Mrs. White, Lawyer Pierce, and Dorothy with Miette. They were now to learn the story of the real Miette—from the lips of her attorney.

“This young lady,” began the lawyer, indicating Miette, “was the daughter of Marquis de Pleau, a Frenchman of title, and of an American lady, before her marriage, Miss Davis, of Albany.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. White, in surprise, her tone indicating that she knew the mother of Miette, and that the memory was one of pleasant associations. Miette herself evinced some surprise, but Dorothy was too interested to take her eyes off Mr. Pierce.

“The marquis died suddenly,” continued the lawyer, “and the young mother was left with this precious inheritance,” laying his hand on Miette’s shoulder.

“Some years later the mother herself was called away,” he resumed, “and then it was that the child was sent to relatives in this country. Her allowance had been received through our house, we having been appointed by the marquis’ estate, and we in turn had been paying the allowance to an aunt by marriage—Mrs. Charles Huber.”

Miette shrugged her small shoulders in true French fashion. Evidently she had no pleasant thoughts about Mrs. Charles Huber!

“We had no reason to suspect any misuse of this orphan’s money,” continued Mr. Pierce, “until a letter sent from Glenwood school to a girl named Marie Bloise, employed by the firm of Gorden-Granfield, came into the possession of the superintendent of the firm, Mr. Frederic Freeman, who happened to be a personal friend of my own.”

“But I sent no letter!” interrupted Miette in surprise.

“No,” answered the lawyer, “the letter was signed Dorothy Dale!”

All eyes were turned on Dorothy.

“I sent it—” she stammered, “to Gorden-Granfield’s because Miette was so anxious to write to Marie, and had lost the letter.”

“And how did you get it?” asked Miette, more surprised than ever.

“Mrs. Pangborn gave it to me, and said I might add a line, and send it to the girl if I wished, but I was not to tell Miette until all the trouble was straightened out. It has not been all settled yet,” finished Dorothy.

“But we are about to finish it,” said the lawyer, smiling. “This letter was turned over to Mr. Freeman because it is against the rules of the house for employes to receive mail through the office.”

“But how did you come to know this letter had to do with your client?” asked Major Dale, much puzzled at the complications.

“Because Dorothy Dale has a very business-like habit of putting the sender’s name on the corner of her letters. This being written by Miette de Pleau, had that name neatly penned in the upper left-hand corner. This caught the eye of Mr. Freeman, and as he had heard me make some remarks about my little client, had even suspected that a girl employed as cash girl in his own store under the name of Marie Varley, might be the very girl I was so anxious to interview personally, he immediately forwarded the letter to me.”

“Yes, they called me that name—to hide who I was. Auntie said I should not let anyone know I was in a store,” said Miette.

“A remarkable case,” said Major Dale.

“Very,” assented the lawyer. “Of course, we have cases with queer phases, but this has been, as you say, Major, remarkable. To think that we should have a client in our own city whom we were never able to see personally. The aunt insisted the child was at boarding school, and it was very likely a fear of detection that prompted her to send the girl to Glenwood finally.”

“And was the woman actually—wicked?” asked Mrs. White.

“No,” replied Mr. Pierce, “and I should have explained that earlier. Her mind was unbalanced, and she is now in a sanitarium.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Miette, “I often thought that! She was so different at times, but after my uncle went away she was very strange.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Pierce, “we have learned that her peculiar mania for money was not considered—well, dangerous by her husband, and when he went to the East Indies on a business trip he had no reason to fear that anything would go amiss with his niece. It was then that Mrs. Huber sent Miette to work—she explained that the girl would get an American education in that way.”

“The daughter of a marquis?” exclaimed Mrs. White.

“Exactly,” answered Mr. Pierce. “But we all know the cunning of those afflicted with mania. She was so adroit that she managed well to keep this little girl entirely out of our reach.”

“And now?” prompted Mrs. White.

“Now we must, of course, appoint a new guardian for Miette,” went on the lawyer, “and I have a request from Mr. Huber that some one be appointed who has had children to deal with. His wife was a person brought up singularly alone.”

“Could I choose?” asked Miette, innocently.

“You might suggest,” answered the lawyer.

“Then I would so like—Dorothy’s Aunt Winnie—”

“My dear child!” expostulated Mrs. White. “I have a veritable institution on my hands now—”

“Oh, do, Aunt Winnie!” begged Dorothy, throwing her arms about the lovely woman without regard for the presence of the stranger. “I am sure Miette will help take care of me, and I will help take care of Miette.”

“I have always had a sacred love for the orphan,” spoke up Major Dale. “In fact, I do honestly believe that when a helpless child comes to our home, in need of a strong arm to guide and lead the way through life, that such a one is heaven sent. And if there is no technical or legal objection, I would urge you, sister, to listen to the cry of the children here,” pointing to Dorothy and Miette.

“I have been requested to make just this appeal,” said Mr. Pierce. “I had written to Mr. Huber of the circumstances surrounding the rescue of his niece, and he begged me to ask Mrs. White to continue her interest. If ever Mrs. Huber grows strong enough, of course, she may want to take back the charge, but her husband is determined to take her on a long voyage as soon as she shall be strong enough to endure it. This, the doctors think, will be the best kind of treatment for her case.”

“You will, auntie?” pleaded Dorothy.

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Mrs. White happily. “My daughters are multiplying wonderfully of late.”

At the word “daughter,” Miette arose and very solemnly touched her lips to Mrs. White’s forehead.

“You will be a mother to me, I am sure,” she said, “and I will try to be a dutiful daughter to you!”

CHAPTER XXIV
THE SEARCH

“But I cannot just exactly understand about that letter,” said Miette, the next day, as she and Dorothy began their packing for Glenwood.

“What more do you want to know?” asked Dorothy archly.

“Whatever did you say to Marie?”

“Why, I just added a line, as Mrs. Pangborn said I might. I said that you were in distress, and if she knew where your aunt lived, should she go there and see if she still was at the same place. Then I asked if she would send me your aunt’s address.”

“What for?” asked Miette.

“Well, I cannot just exactly tell you,” stammered Dorothy, “but I knew if Aunt Winnie went to New York she would not mind calling on your aunt.”

“So,” said Miette, giving Dorothy a gentle hug (everything Miette did was gentle), “you had really decided to have me investigated?”

“I knew you needed some attention.”

“And I was so ashamed to have worked in a store,” reflected Miette aloud.

“That was because you were really a ‘somebody,’” answered Dorothy. “I do believe in inheritance. You see, you inherited a perfectly honorable pride. And do you realize you are very rich?”

“I know it, but I do not realize it,” said Miette. “Like the pride, I suppose I consider that my lawful right.”

Dorothy saw how different can be a foreign girl to one accustomed to our delightful American independence.

“Now, if Tavia ever fell into such luck,” said Dorothy, “I can scarcely imagine what would happen.”

“I hope Tavia will not think I have taken her place in your heart,” remarked Miette, at that moment snapping the spring on her suitcase. “I dearly love Tavia myself.”

“Oh, she is one of Aunt Winnie’s ‘found daughters,’ too,” said Dorothy. “We are all very fond of Tavia.”

“I am going to give a real party when we get back to Glenwood,” announced Miette. “I will have it done in style—pay for the very best we can get there, with Mrs. Pangborn as—patroness.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” commented Dorothy. “We have very few real affairs out there. But I know we could have them if the girls’ allowances would permit.”

“I have plenty,” responded Miette, “and I would like to show the girls that I do not hold any malice. It is only natural to have little—squabbles, as you call them?”

“Well,” sighed Dorothy, “I do believe I would sleep soundly to-night if I only knew about Urania.”

“Yes,” answered Miette, “It is a pity we cannot let her share our happiness. She surely needs some happiness.”

It may seem to the reader that such things only happen in books, but is not truth actually stranger than fiction?

At that very moment Major was down in the library, reading a letter from one of the town officials, in which was stated the fact that the gypsy girl, Urania, had been entirely cleared of all suspicion—that the wicked men who had stolen the goods from Mrs. White’s home had planned to circulate the story against the girl who had foiled them, and that now the Borough would transfer the reward placed for the capture of the girl to the finding of her—to make right, if possible, the harm done a helpless, innocent creature.

“And furthermore,” continued the official communication, “inasmuch as your daughter has helped this girl at very great personal risks (as we have learned through careful investigation), you may tell your daughter that if she knows anything of the whereabout of this gypsy girl, she need not hesitate in communicating to her this proclamation.”

Major Dale called Dorothy, and told her the good news.

“But how can we find poor Urania,” sighed Dorothy.

“I’ve never known you to have to look for anything in vain, daughter,” said the Major, with his arm about Dorothy, and his wrinkled face pressed close to her flushed cheek.

This was Thursday evening. The girls were to leave for Glenwood the next day.

“I would like to stay over one day more,” pleaded Dorothy to Mrs. White, “I feel in that time we may hear some news from Urania.”

“Well, just one day, remember. I will not extend the time,” answered Mrs. White, smiling.

Miette was impatient to hear from her beloved Marie. She had sent a letter to Marie in care of the department store, and, by Mrs. White’s direction, had marked it “important.” At last came a letter in return, which caused the French girl much delight.

“It is from Marie, my Marie!” she cried, running up to Dorothy. “She is out of the hospital, and she and her folks have moved to Boston. Her folks are doing better—earning more money—and Marie is to go to school!”

“I am glad to hear that,” replied Dorothy.

“I shall write again—and tell her about my good fortune,” went on the French girl. “Some day I want her to visit me.”

“Yes, for I’d like to know her,” was Dorothy’s answer.

In the Major’s own room, later that evening, he and Dorothy discussed a plan of search for the missing gypsy girl.

“It is more than likely,” said the Major, as Dorothy sat on the stool at his feet, and he re-lighted his Christmas pipe of briar (Dorothy had sent all the way to New York for that pipe), “that the poor girl is hiding somewhere in the woods. She knows every inch of the land about here, and there are still to be found nuts and berries she might try to exist on.”

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, “that was how she lived in the Glenwood woods. And now that there are no gypsies in this township, she would feel safe to hide around here.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, daughter, to-morrow morning you and I can start off on a little tramp. It is a long time since I’ve gone through the woods with you, and we may take our lunch just as we used to, insist upon having our own little holiday all to ourselves, and then—then we will find Urania.”

“My same old darling dad!” exclaimed Dorothy, throwing her arms about the Major. “I was afraid you would be too busy to give me all that time—you have so much more land to attend to now—”

“But there’s one estate that is always first, Little Captain,” he replied, and for some moments Dorothy rested like a babe in her father’s arms.

It was not a difficult matter to persuade Miette to remain at the Cedars the next day, instead of accompanying the Major and Dorothy on their tramp. In fact, Miette would have refused to go had she been invited, for she had a fear now of the woods, and the gypsies. She remained indoors to pen another letter for her beloved Marie.

So Dorothy and the Major started off, Dorothy with the dear old lunch basket that had served so many pleasant meals under Dalton trees in her earlier days, and the Major with his trusted stick, the blackthorn, that almost seemed to anticipate his steps, so well acquainted was it with the Major’s travels.

“We had better take the path along the mountain,” suggested the Major, “as I am sure there are many secluded spots and lots of good nuts along the way.”

“Very well,” replied Dorothy. “Surely we will find her. If she can only see us—you and I together, she will be certain that no harm could come to her through us.”

“Poor child!” said the old gentleman, “What if my little daughter—But, of course, she is very different to the girl of the woods.”

“Oh, I don’t think, father, that Urania is really untamed. I have known her to do such good, thoughtful acts—surely she must have a generous heart.”

“No doubt of it, daughter. But take care there,” as the path neared the edge of a precipice. “I know you are sure-footed, but that’s a dangerous pass.”

Dorothy clung to some low branches and gained the broader path without mishap. Then, from the height of the hill, they stopped to call and look over the surrounding slope of woodland.

Dorothy called and called, but only the echo of her own voice against the hills came in answer.

“How I do wish we could find her,” she exclaimed, some discouragement in her tone. “I am sometimes afraid—she might be dead!”

“No fear,” replied the Major, confidently. “Good, strong girls like Urania have business living, and they do not die without just cause. We had best sit down here, and take our lunch,” he went on. “Perhaps those chicken sandwiches may give you new courage. Isn’t there a spring over there near that rock?”

“I can see water trickling down,” answered Dorothy. “I’ll get the cups out and go over.”

In the little lunch basket Dorothy had placed the cups of the automobile lunch set, and with these in her hands she ran over to the rock by the hillside. Major Dale helped lay out the things. It was delightful to be out there in the woods, to hear the birds sing a welcome, and to feel the cool breezes of the autumn air brushing his cheeks.

“I hardly blame the gypsies,” he said to himself. “The outdoor life is the only life, after all.”

Dorothy returned now with the two cups full of fresh spring water, and the little luncheon was soon being made a most enjoyable meal.

“Just like dear old days in Dalton,” said Dorothy, helping the Major to another lettuce sandwich. “I am glad of the holiday. I will have a dear memory to take back to Glenwood now.”

How “glorious” the Major looked. Glorious because his snowy hair fell so gently on his fine, high forehead, because in his rugged cheeks could be plainly seen the glow of health satisfied, because his eyes were so bright—and, oh, how lovely he did look, thought Dorothy, as he sat there in the flickering autumn sunlight, with the great rugged hills behind him and the whole wide world before him!

“It’s a queer picnic,” remarked Dorothy, feeling obliged to keep ever before her the one thought of the miserable Urania.

“But a most delightful one,” replied the Major. “The kind that compensates in ending well. I am perfectly sure we will find your little protégé.”

“Then I think we had better hurry our dessert,” said the daughter, passing the tiny, frosted cakes. “How good everything does taste out of doors!”

“First-rate,” assented the Major between mouthfuls, “but don’t close that basket until I have the one lone sandwich I saw you smuggle in there.”

“And another cup of water?”

“Don’t care if I do,” replied the Major, imitating the boys in his careless manner. “I could eat as much again—Bring it next time.”

After the last crumbs had been disposed of they started off again—this time in the direction of a high rock.

Some boys looking for nuts happened along, and Dorothy asked if they had seen a girl anywhere in the woods.

“What girl?” asked a rather saucy fellow, without raising his cap.

“Any girl,” replied Dorothy, defiantly.

“Plenty of them out here after nuts,” answered the urchin. “I saw one a while ago—looked as if she had never seen a real nut in her life. Guess she hadn’t much to eat lately.”

Dorothy was interested instantly. The Major had gone on ahead, and she called to him to wait while she made further inquiries.

The description seemed to Dorothy to answer to that of Urania, Dorothy thought, and when the boy directed her to a “big chestnut tree, over on the mountain road,” she and the Major promptly took up their travels in that direction.

Dorothy felt she would now find Urania—she must find her—and soon the afternoon would be lapping over into twilight!

“Can you hurry a little, father?” she asked, as the Major trudged bravely along. “It is quite a distance to the hillside.”

“And maybe a ‘wild goose’ chase at that,” replied her father. “I didn’t just exactly like the look on that boy’s face. He may have fooled you.”

“Do you think so!” exclaimed Dorothy, instantly allowing her spirits to flag.

“Well, we may as well look,” answered her father, “but I wouldn’t take too much stock in the word of a youngster of his type.”

Then, in their haste, they forgot conversation, and for some time neither spoke. The road seemed very rough, and the path very uncertain. Dorothy glanced at her father, and was at once concerned for his comfort.

“Are you tired, Daddy?” she asked. “Perhaps I am asking too much of you.”

“Oh, I guess I can stand it,” he replied. “It won’t take much longer to make that hill.”

The great grove of chestnut trees now towered above them. Yes, there were voices—girls’ voices, too!

“I hear someone,” announced Dorothy, as she stepped over a small rivulet.

“Yes, so do I,” said the Major. “But it is hardly likely our little friend would be with a crowd of school girls—see, there is the teacher!”

Dorothy’s heart sank. There was the teacher, sure enough, and the girls—

Urania was not one of them!

CHAPTER XXV
DOROTHY AND HER CHUMS

The disappointment was keen—Dorothy had felt Urania must be near, but instead of finding a lonely girl, she and the Major encountered a group of school girls on a nutting party, all joyous and seemingly filled with the very enthusiasm of the autumn day itself.

No need to make inquiries of them—Urania would never allow herself to be seen by this party.

“I suppose we will have to go home,” said Dorothy sadly, as Major Dale showed plainly signs of fatigue.

“If you are satisfied we have looked thoroughly,” answered the Major. “But I am not willing to give up the search until you say so.”

“I don’t know where else we can look,” replied Dorothy, with a catch in her voice.

“But there may be spots nearer home,” suggested Major Dale. “You know we made sure of the faraway places, but how about those in our own neighborhood?”

“Oh, yes. We never looked in the swamp!”

“And there is a cave there?”

“Indeed there is. Oh, do let us hurry before it gets too dark. How queer I should never think of that cave!”

“Not so very queer, either,” replied the father, “considering the good reason you had to forget it. However, we will make just one more look.”

It seemed to Dorothy that the shadows of night came down immediately—she wanted the light so much!

Over small hills and along winding paths they went, Major Dale keeping up with small effort to the light step of his daughter beside him.

“I would be frightened to death if you were not along,” Dorothy took breath to say. “I think this is the most lonely part of all our woodlands.”

“Is that the swamp?” asked the Major, looking toward a deep ravine that indicated a drop in the grade of the forest land.

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, “and the cave is at the other end.”

“Why, there are the ruins of the old Hastings homestead. Queer I never explored these parts, as long as I have been around here. We used to tramp through the Hasting’s farm years ago, but of late I had entirely forgotten the place.”

“The cave is the old ice house, I believe,” said Dorothy. “See, there it is, against that hill.”

“And I just thought I saw something dart through those bushes. See that brush move?”

“Oh, do you suppose it might be tramps?” asked Dorothy, trembling.

“Not likely. Tramps, as a rule, do not move with that speed. It might be a young deer, or—a young girl!”

They were but a few feet away from the cave now, and Dorothy drew back while her father advanced.

“Anybody in there?” he asked gently, fearing that a male voice might alarm the gypsy girl, were she in the old ice house.

There was no answer.

“I could almost say that darting figure went in there,” said Major Dale. “Suppose you call, daughter.”

“Urania!” called Dorothy, “Urania, it is only Dorothy and Major Dale. You need not be afraid!”

The Major was close to the door of the cave. It made Dorothy think of the dreadful hour she had hidden there, and how she then feared to answer the call of her friends.

“I heard something. I’ll just take a look—”

Major Dale put his head under the brick arch at the door. “Well, girl—” he exclaimed. “Come out, we are friends.” And the next instant Dorothy, too, was in the cave, standing beside the speechless gypsy girl!

“Oh, come! Hurry, do!” pleaded Dorothy, but the girl neither spoke nor moved.

“Are you ill?” asked the Major, looking around the dark place, hoping to find some means of making a light.

“Urania!” Dorothy kept pleading, holding the hand of the girl who was now crouching on the damp ground. “Do try to come outside. No one will harm you. We came to tell you that it was all a mistake, and that you are free to come and go as you please. You will even be given some money. The men know they have wronged you—” She was talking hurriedly without regard to word or sentence. She was trying to make Urania understand—to rouse her to some consciousness.

“Have you any sort of light?” asked the Major, for he had searched in vain, and it was now really dark.

Urania crawled over to a huge stone, then she put her hand up to the brick wall that lined the place. For a few moments she fumbled about, but seemed too weak to make further effort.

“I can’t,” she said at last. “There is—a candle there—behind the lose brick!”

It took but a second for Major Dale to locate the spot, and but a moment longer to have the candle lighted.

Then they could see Urania! And they could see that place!

“Oh, you poor, dear child!” sobbed Dorothy. “Why did you not let me know?”

The dark eyes flashed and Urania showed she was not yet too weak to smile.

“And it is all safe?” she asked, wearily.

“All entirely safe,” answered Major Dale. “But you are not safe here. It is a wonder you have lived—hurry! We must get across the swamp quickly to reach the road before it is dangerously dark.”

“Can you walk?” asked Dorothy, anxiously.

“Oh, yes—I can now,” replied Urania, “but I was so scared at first, and I have been—out looking for some berries. I can’t believe I will not have to run—any more.”

“And I can’t believe that I have really found you,” said Dorothy. “We have been looking all day long.”

“Come, come,” urged the Major, “you young ladies may talk after we get home.”

They made their way to the door, and the Major extinguished the candle.

“Oh, wait!” exclaimed Urania, “I must go back. I forgot something.”

“Can you see?” asked the Major.

“I don’t believe I can,” replied Urania. “Would you mind holding the light?”

The Major re-lighted the candle and again entered the cave. Urania walked over to the far corner and took some bricks out of the wall. Major Dale held the candle close to her shoulder.

“It was here to-day,” she said. “Oh, yes, I have it. Just move that brick—”

Dorothy pressed closely to Urania, and she drew away the brick that now threatened to fall in on the hand of the gypsy girl.

“There!” said Urania, “Do you know what this is?”

“Oh!” screamed Dorothy, “Aunt Winnie’s East Indian cup!”

“Well—I give—up!” was all Major Dale seemed able to say, as he took from the hand of the gypsy girl the treasured relic.

“And you hid it there?” asked Dorothy, taking the cup from her father and holding it up to the candle light.

“No, indeed,” answered the girl. “I found it there. The men had the hole in the wall for their stuff, I suppose, and they saved the cup to drink out of.”

“Oh, how delighted Aunt Winnie will be,” exclaimed Dorothy. “Do let us hurry. She has been constantly worrying over the loss of this—it was to be given to Ned when he came of age.”

“That cup was the gift of an East Indian nobleman,” remarked Major Dale. “Urania, you have repaid us now for all our trouble.”

An hour later Urania had been bathed, dressed and fed by her friends at the Cedars. Mrs. White personally helped the maid to look after the girl’s wants, while Dorothy and Miette brought from their own belongings such articles as seemed fitting to make the poor, miserable, haunted gypsy girl comfortable at last.

Mrs. White had already telephoned to the boys at Cadet Hall, telling them the cup had been found. Major Dale took delight in imparting the same news to the local authorities.

“And now,” said Mrs. White, “since we have found Urania, and she has found the cup, I suppose I shall have to give her that brand new one-hundred-dollar bill I have been saving as the cup reward.”

Dorothy and Miette tried to make Urania understand—she seemed so queer, stunned, or shocked.

“Won’t that be wonderful?” said Miette, smiling.

“And won’t we have great times?” went on Dorothy, slightly lowering the head of the steamer chair in which Urania was pillowed.

Urania looked around her, in a strange, startled way. Then she took Dorothy’s hand. “I think I’ll like to go to school now,” she stammered.

“Of course you will,” spoke Mrs. White. “You want to be just like the other girls, smart, clean and—pretty. Then you, too, may be one of Dorothy’s chums!”

“Yes! yes! always!” murmured Urania. “She is so good!”

Here let me add a few more words, and then bring my tale to a close.

Some days later Dorothy and Miette returned to Glenwood and were royally received by both teachers and scholars. Miette gave her party, and never had the school seen a better time.

On the same day that the girls returned to their studies word came in that the last of the thieving gypsies had been captured and put in jail. When Urania heard this she breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

“I want never to see them again—never!” she told Mrs. White.

At the school, Dorothy was also glad the men had been captured. She ran to tell Tavia.

“Well, that ends all your troubles, Dorothy,” said Tavia. “Now you can study—and win that prize you are after!”

“I trust my troubles are over,” answered Dorothy. But she could not look into the future. Many things were still to happen, and what some of them were I shall relate in another book, to be called, “Dorothy Dale’s Queer Holidays.” Queer indeed were the doings of those days—and wonderful as well.

“It is such a grand thing to have you back at Glenwood!” cried Rose-Mary, one day, as she caught Dorothy in her arms and hugged her. “When you were away—it was just as if something was missing!”

“We moped and moped,” said Edna. “Just like hens in wet weather.”

“We can’t do without our Dorothy!” finished Tavia. “We want her with us—always!”

And then the girls joined hands in a circle and began to caper and dance; and thus let us leave them.

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Other changes made to the original publication are as follows:

- Page 23
hugh white cat sat changed to
huge white cat sat

- Page 28
the the road was not far away changed to
the road was not far away

- Page 41
easy to replace mere mercandise changed to
easy to replace mere merchandise

- Page 44
is a srawl, too scrawly for me changed to
is a scrawl, too scrawly for me

- Page 46
Alladin and the seven Robbers changed to
Aladdin and the seven Robbers

- Page 46
wtih much seriousness changed to
with much seriousness

- Page 81
two whole days or a little check changed to
two whole days for a little check

- Page 127
Mrs. Panghorn had intended calling changed to
Mrs. Pangborn had intended calling

- Page 135
sweater, and your Tam O’shanter changed to
sweater, and your Tam O’Shanter

- Page 136
a hugh bunch of sumac berries changed to
a huge bunch of sumac berries

- Page 145
were so stingy about you old walk changed to
were so stingy about your old walk

- Page 151
bunch of green burrs go changed to
bunch of green burs go

- Page 183
about able to take of a little changed to
about able to take care of a little

- Page 189
exclaimed he officer changed to
exclaimed the officer

- Page 209
caves with walls of hugh stones changed to
caves with walls of huge stones

- Page 212
Fron an envelope in the packet changed to
From an envelope in the packet

- Page 214
met this little heroine,” she smiled changed to
met this little heroine,” he smiled

- Page 220
with a michievous shake changed to
with a mischievous shake

- Page 234
of the wherabout of this gypsy changed to
of the whereabout of this gypsy

- Page 234
look for anything inn vain changed to
look for anything in vain

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Table of Contents

- DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I STOLEN BIRDS
- CHAPTER II THE GYPSY GIRL
- CHAPTER III DOROTHY AT THE CAMP
- CHAPTER IV THE MIDNIGHT ALARM
- CHAPTER V AN AWFUL EXPERIENCE
- CHAPTER VI “THE GOODS”
- CHAPTER VII A STRANGE GIRL
- CHAPTER VIII THE RUNAWAY
- CHAPTER IX MIETTE
- CHAPTER X A RUMPUS
- CHAPTER XI “GIRLS AND GIRLS”
- CHAPTER XII A GIRL’S MEAN ACT
- CHAPTER XIII THE TROUBLES OF MIETTE
- CHAPTER XIV DOROTHY TO THE RESCUE
- CHAPTER XV A QUEER TRAMP
- CHAPTER XVI SURPRISES
- CHAPTER XVII DOROTHY’S COURAGE
- CHAPTER XVIII TAVIA’S DOUBLE
- CHAPTER XIX THE CAPTURE
- CHAPTER XX URANIA IN THE TOILS
- CHAPTER XXI COMPLICATIONS
- CHAPTER XXII SINCERE AFFECTION’S POWER
- CHAPTER XXIII THE REAL MIETTE
- CHAPTER XXIV THE SEARCH
- CHAPTER XXV DOROTHY AND HER CHUMS
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE