Alice had been to see Dorothy, and had assured her that “every thing was all right,” even the misconduct of Alice in “talking back” had been forgiven, the girl herself declared.

But there was no explanation offered as to the accident to Sarah Ford.  That was still a mystery to the school girls.  Neither had Tavia returned to Dalton.  She was visiting her aunt in Rochester Mrs. Travers announced.

Major Dale was at his office again, and the boys were not yet home from school, although the dismissal hour had passed.

There was a rush through the vines at the side of the porch—­the next moment Tavia had Dorothy in her arms.

“You poor dear!” she exclaimed between her kisses.  “To think that you have been sick all alone—­without me!”

Dorothy leaned back in her chair—­happy.

Tavia was not so much larger or older than she, but just at that moment she came like one all powerful; Tavia had such a way of being and doing.

“And all on my account,” went on Tavia.  “I declare you have gotten thin,” and she spanned the bare wrist of Dorothy lovingly.  “You never wrote, of course, as I asked you to.”

The lost note!  Perhaps other important matters had been overlooked in its disappearance.

“Is Sarah able to play leap-frog yet?” went on Tavia facetiously.  “I hear Squire Sanders has been inquiring for me—­just me, Tavia Travers.  Ahem!  Also my goodness me!  Sakes alive!  If I had only known the worthy squire wished to hold converse with this—­me, you know, I certainly should have postponed my vacation.  Who knows what I have missed?”

Dorothy’s face showed how pleased she was; it was so good to hear Tavia rattle on that way.  As Ralph Willoby had said, her heart was right, and so she made few mistakes where love could be counted on as her guide.

Tavia was stroking Dorothy’s head affectionately.  The two girls sat on the rustic bench, Dorothy with her head resting upon the other’s shoulder.

“I made a discovery in Rochester,” said Tavia, when she had exhausted every possible point, covering the sickness of her friend, the fainting in school and all that preceded and followed that occurrence.  “Yes, I found out that a woman there, who did washing for my aunt, is named Burlock, and that she has been deserted by her husband—­”

“Has she a daughter?” interrupted Dorothy.

“I don’t know about that.  Aunt Mary said she was such a strange woman, all the time moving, and no one ever could find out just where her rooms were.  The way one had to do, to get her to do washing, was to apply to the Charity Bureau.”

“But the Bureau must have her address,” said Dorothy much interested in the story.

“Well, Aunt Mary said they could not keep track of her either.  They know she is a good honest woman, who seems always to be in some trouble—­ looking for her husband, of course.  I made up my mind that the man she is looking for is your friend Miles.  Have you seen him lately?”