“And don’t talk Italian,” said Belle, shrugging her shoulders.  “Listen!  I promised to ask you the minute you arrived, Ruthie, and now you’ve been here ten at least.”

“It is something splendid,” laughed Lluella, clapping her hands, evidently being already a sharer in Belle’s secret.

“I’ll tell you—­if they’ll let me,” panted Belle, shaking Ruth a little.  “Father’s bought Cliff Island.  It’s a splendid place.  We were there for part of the summer.  And there will be a great lodge built by Christmas time and he has told me I might invite you all to come to the house-warming.  Now, Ruth! it remains with you.  If you’ll go, the others will, I know.  And it’s a splendid place.”

“Cliff Island?” gasped Ruth.

“Yes.  In Lake Tallahaska.”

“And your father has just bought it?”

“Yes.  He had some trouble getting a clear title; but it’s all right now.  They had to evict an old squatter.  I want you all to come with me for the mid-winter holiday.  What do you say, Ruthie?” asked Belle, eagerly.

“I say it’s a long look ahead,” responded Ruth, slowly.  “It’s very kind of you, Belle.  But I’ll have to write home first, of course.  I’d like to go, though—­to Cliff Island—­yes, indeed!”

CHAPTER VI

PICKING UP THE THREADS

Ann Hicks must see the preceptress at once.  That came first, and Ruth would not go into the old dormitory until the introduction of the western girl was accomplished.

There was a whole bevy of girls on the steps of the main building, in which Mrs. Grace Tellingham and Dr. Tellingham lived.  Nobody ever thought of putting the queer old doctor first, although all the Briarwoods respected the historian immensely.  He was considered very, very scholarly, although it would have been hard to find any of his histories in any library save that of Briarwood itself.

It was understood that just now he was engaged upon a treatise relating to the possible existence of a race before the Mound Builders in the Middle West, and he was not to be disturbed, of course, at his work.

But when Ruth and Ann Hicks entered the big office room, there he was, bent over huge tomes upon the work table, his spectacles awry, and his wig pushed so far back upon his head that two hands’ breadth of glistening crown was exposed.

The fiction that Dr. Tellingham was not bald might have been kept up very well indeed, did not the gentleman get so excited while he worked.  As soon as he became interested in his books, he proceeded to bare his high brow to all beholders, and the wig slid toward the back of his neck.

The truth was, as Heavy Stone said, Dr. Tellingham had to remove his collar to brush his hair—­there really was so little of it.

“Dear, dear!” sputtered the historian, peering at the two girls over his reading glasses.  “You don’t want me, of course?”