It was not an easy matter, however, for Dorothy to actually get to sleep that night.  So many thoughts crowded her brain:  Tavia was acting queerly about something, and it was perfectly plain to everybody she wanted to talk to Nat alone, directly after the evening meal.  Tavia was not a silly girl—­she would never risk such criticism if something quite serious did not make it necessary.  Then how that woman in black looked at Tavia when they entered the train for home!  She had to take the same train to get back from town; that was easily understood, as few trains passed in and out to the city, even in holiday time.  But why did she sit opposite them again?

And Tavia was sure she just wanted to confess—­about the ring.

So Dorothy’s thoughts ran riot, and her head ached proportionately.  Finally she heard Tavia steal into the room; felt she was looking down to see if slumber had come; then, being satisfied that Dorothy was actually asleep, she went out and turned the hall light very low.

Dorothy was asleep.  She dreamed of everything—­the superintendent’s office, of Miss Allen’s sweet face, of how confused the other clerk became—­it was all perfectly clear yet so closely interwoven as to be inextricable, after the manner of most feverish dreams.

It seemed she had been sleeping a long time when she heard whispering at her door—­or, rather, just outside the second door that led into Tavia’s room.

“But it was so foolish,” she heard some one protest.  “I wouldn’t think it so wrong as so foolish.”

It was Nat’s voice.  Then she heard Tavia whisper: 

“Hush! she might be awake!”

“I’d advise you to make a clean breast of it,” insisted the other.  “It is bound to leak out some way.”

“Not unless you tell,” said Tavia.

“As if I would,” spoke Nat again.

By this time Dorothy was wide awake, and realized that she had overheard a conversation not intended for her ears.  She coughed and cleared her throat.  Tavia was beside her almost instantly.

“Do you want anything?” she asked, with ill-concealed anxiety.  “Is your headache better?”

“Yes, I guess so,” faltered Dorothy.  “I slept well, and just awoke.”

She had no idea of deceiving Tavia, but she did intend to set her mind at ease concerning how much of the whispered conversation she might have heard.

“Then turn right over before you get too wide awake,” advised Tavia.  “Here is some lemonade Aunt Winnie said you were to drink.”  Tavia always called Mrs. White Aunt Winnie.  “And you are to remain in bed for breakfast.  Oh, for an aristocratic head that would ache!  And oh, for one dear, long, luscious, lumpy day in bed!  With meals a la tray, and beef tea in the intervals.  But I must not talk you awake.  There,” and she kissed her friend lightly, “I’ll tumble in, for I really am dead tired.”

“It must be late?” asked Dorothy.