“It was simply an accident,” argued Dorothy feebly.

“Certainly,” answered Tom; “but Ned was out of sorts.  He seemed to have a personal grudge against me.”

“Oh, you must have imagined that,” answered Dorothy.  “Ned is sensitive, but not—­unreasonable.”

Tom pressed her hand warmly in parting.  The action brought warm color to her cheeks.  He was trying to cheer her, of course, but Ned would not have liked it.

When the doctor had left, Mrs. White told the major that her son’s hip was hurt.

“And that does take so long to mend,” she lamented.  “The hip is such a network of ligaments.”

Acting on the doctor’s advice, the injured young man was made comfortable in the library for the night.  Nat wanted to stay with him—­there were plenty of divans and couches that might be used in the emergency—­but Mrs. White insisted upon caring for the boy herself.  She noticed he was becoming feverish, and so hurried the others off to bed that the house might be quiet.

Dorothy took Ned’s warm hand in hers and touched his forehead with her lips.  But she knew better than to utter one word—­he must be quiet, very quiet.

How strangely depressing was the house now with the gloom of sickness upon it!  The awful uncertainty of an accident, what the result might be, how serious or trifling—­every possibility seemed weighted with terrible consequences.

Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed.  Her heart was very full, everything seemed dark and gloomy now.  All the difficulties of yesterday were engulfed in that one sorrow—­Ned’s accident.  Dorothy seemed unable to pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the little tragedy.

“If only I had told Tom—­asked him not to!  But how could I do that?” she argued against argument.  “What would he think of Ned?  Of me?”

A step in the hall roused her from her reverie.  There was a slight tap on the door, then Tavia entered.  Although it was late she was still entirely dressed, and her face showed she had been crying.

“Dorothy,” she said, her voice trembling and the tears welling into her eyes, “I must—­go home!”

“Why?” asked Dorothy, surprised and startled.

“Dad says so.  I must go first thing in the morning.”

“Your letter?”

“Yes, it was from father.”

“Has anything happened?”

“Yes, and no.  Father has—­misunderstood some letters of mine.  He found them since I came away—­and he blames me—­ Oh, Doro!” and Tavia covered her face with her hands.  “How I wish I had told you before!”

Tavia was sobbing bitterly.  Instantly there came to Dorothy’s mind the thought of Miss Brooks’ warning, her advice to tell Tavia before it was too late, before all the harm was done.  And had she delayed too long?  Even that one day might have been sufficient time in which the threatened danger had become a certainty.