The queer holidays were surely nearing a climax.

CHAPTER XVIII

DOROTHY’S DISTRESS

Complication upon complication!

Dorothy could scarcely think—­she was stunned, bewildered.

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

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

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

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

How ever could she make him understand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?” asked the doctor as Ned fell back amid the cushions of a couch.

“All—­right,” replied the latter with evident effort.

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

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

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

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