“Did he?” replied Dorothy, absently.

“And you knew, of course, about poor Miles Burlock—­he died when you were sick, so I did not tell you anything about it.”

“Yes, father told me.”

“What are you thinking of, Doro?  You are not listening to me at all.”

“I have so much to think of,” answered Dorothy, smiling.  “I can hardly keep my thoughts in line.”

“But you should have seen Alice—­Oh, she just pulled the old squire by the collar.  She didn’t wait for a man to come.  And look at my dress!  Isn’t it a sight?  I might have known there would be an earthquake or a fight when I attempted to wear anything like this.”

“It is too bad, but that is a straight tear.  You can easily mend it.”

“But Ralph’s eye; that will not darn so neatly.  I hope that hateful old squire never shows his ugly ‘phiz-mahogony’ in Dalton again.”

“Do you think Ralph is much hurt?” Dorothy inquired anxiously.  “Wasn’t it disgraceful?”

“Perfectly rambunctious!” declared Tavia, “although it might have been jolly good fun if Ralph had another fellow in his place—­one not quite so careful of the squire’s feelings and features.  But you should have seen the squire with the handcuffs on!  Oh! it was better than the play I saw in Rochester,” and Tavia relieved her pent-up jollity by tossing into the air the borrowed lunch box and making “passes” at it, with queer pranks in imitation of the jugglers she had seen at Rochester.

“Tavia,” asked Dorothy, very seriously, “do you think you could keep a secret?”

“Keep a secret?  Dorothy darling, Dare-me!”

“Now, no joking, Tavia,” insisted Dorothy, “this is a matter of importance.”

“Oh, I just love importance.  That was what mostly happened to me and Alice to-day in the squire’s office—­importance!”

“Well, if you really can’t be serious—­

“Oh, but, Doro dear, just try me.  I shall weep if you say so, only—­ pardon, mamselle, but do not, if you please, make that weep too long, a few sniffs only, for I have not with me in this fleshling costume ze ’kerchief,” and she made a most ridiculous little French “squat,” further evidence of the Rochester play.

“I am afraid Tavia, that trip to your Aunt Mary’s has affected your head; they say nothing can do so more effectively than certain kinds of plays.”

“Well, the one I saw was the certain kind.  Why, last night mother nearly had nervous prostration because I was practicing up in my room.  I was trying to do a fall—­and I did it all right.”

“How foolish you are, Tavia,” said Dorothy slightly frowning, “I would not think of such nonsense if I were you.”

“Yes, it was awfully foolish, for it knocked the ceiling down in the kitchen, just dusting Johnnie’s pompadour.  The escape, however, made mother happy, so that the ceiling did not count.”

Dorothy “gave in.”  She had to laugh and did laugh so heartily she was obliged to sit down on the grass to enjoy the “tragedy” as Tavia described the stage fall and the “ceiling drop.”