“I picked it up with the ‘goods’ at Aunt Mary’s,” replied Tavia laughing, for she really only made use of the expressions to “horrify” Dorothy.  “Now,” she continued, “be all ready for the picnic.  We are only to have a half session, and then go to the Falls.”

That evening, after tea, Dorothy found a much-longed-for chance to “visit” her father—­talk with him in his own little study, upstairs and away from all disturbances.  Since her indisposition the major had not bothered his daughter with any cares of the house or with the children, neither had he talked with her about the Burlock affair; but now, she had something to tell him—­Tavia had heard of a woman living in Rochester, of that name—­Burlock.  What if it were the right party?  The one so long sought for by Miles Burlock!  And would the major let Dorothy go with Tavia to Rochester, and look for them—­the poor mother and little Nellie!

Dorothy found her father in his study waiting for her.  How well he looked now, she thought, for the old hale and hearty look, that which so often characterizes the veteran soldier, had returned to his face, making it handsomer than ever because of a lighter shade having settled on his head—­he was getting gray the daughter was quick to notice.

“You look better, Little Captain,” he said in greeting her.

“I was just thinking the same thing of you,” replied Dorothy, laughing.

“That was a case of great minds running in similar trenches,” said the father.

“Now, we are going to have a good, long chat,” began Dorothy, leaning against the arm of the major’s chair so that her head touched his shoulder.  “First, I want to tell you some news Tavia has heard of a woman in Rochester named Burlock!”

“Burlock!” repeated the major, and he looked pained somehow; distressed at the mere mention of the name.

“I thought perhaps—­it might be the party you—­that is, the woman wanted in the Burlock matter,” faltered Dorothy.

“I am afraid, daughter,” said the major very solemnly, “you have been bothering your young head about affairs much too grave for you to handle.  I have always regretted sending you to the Bugle office that morning, so many complications seemed to follow that experiment.  Not but what you got out a splendid paper—­better than this week’s issue for that matter,” the major hurried to say, for he noticed a look of disappointment come over Dorothy’s face, “but because I seemed to thrust you out into the world, unprotected, and even in danger.”

Major Dale pressed his lips to his daughter’s brow.  Indeed she had always been his little helper, his one dear, only daughter.  Her willingness and ambition to help might have misled him, sometimes he might have forgotten she was only fourteen years old, but now, seated there beside him, fussing with his “curls,” as she insisted his rather long locks were, she was little Doro again, the baby that had so often climbed on his knee, in that very room, begging for one more story when mother announced “bed time.”