“It all seemed worse to you, thinking of it here, alone, with no one to say a word to you,” continued Dorothy, consolingly.  “And then of course, your father was angry.  That only showed how fond he is of you.”

“Yes.  It seems every thing helps one to do wrong.  I really never accused Tavia of doing it, only that time when we came in, and then I was so sick and frightened, I had no idea, then, that father would take it all in earnest.  But he rushed right off, and when I heard Squire Sanders had been at the school—­oh, Dorothy how can I tell you how I felt!”

“But it is all over now,” spoke Dorothy soothingly, “and I will take care that every girl in school knows the greatest part of the trouble came from a mistake.”

“But I can never go back to that school again—­”

“Why, of course you can.  I have to make an explanation myself when I go back.  You know how hasty Alice is; well she got herself in trouble on my account, and I feel I must say something about it.  I was too sick then to know just what to say.  So, now that Tavia is back, she will have to give an excuse.  Then I can say how the whole trouble was more of a mistake, than anything else, and how we were all really somewhat to blame; perhaps one as much as another.”

CHAPTER XI

A SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER

The setting right of Sarah’s wrong—­a task which Dorothy had so willingly volunteered to perform,—­was by no means so simple a matter as she had attempted to make it.  School girls are apt to be fond of excitement, and this bit of trouble brought with it so many interesting experiences—­the visit of a real squire, the “insurrection” of Alice; Dorothy falling ill in the cloak room, and that particularly novel occurrence:  the disappearance of Tavia Travers.  Surely all these features would seem to mark a red letter week on the calendar of “interesting events” at Dalton School.  But that was not to be the end of it.

Dorothy intended to make such an explanation to the class, that the entire affair would be cleared up without too much blame resting on Sarah.

A conference with Tavia, held directly after her pathetic interview with Sarah, resulted in the former declaring she would shoulder any blame that could be made to fit her.  “For a girl with a sprained ankle, and a bad case of delicate conscience, has troubles enough without inviting more,” Tavia told Dorothy.  “Besides,” she said further, “it really was my fault, for I had determined to get even with her that day, and when I sent her upon the swing I really did not care whether she ‘busted’ through the clouds or not; I simply sent her flying.

“So, Doro,” she concluded “you say whatever you please, and I will ‘stand’ for it.  Only be sure not to let Miss Ellis know you are going to make a speech, for she has ‘cut out’ all speeches—­except her own.”

“Tavia, Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy indignantly, “where ever did you hear such common slang!”