The train rumbled on.  Dorothy thought of home, of the good father and two dear brothers she had left there.  Then she wondered what would happen at North Birchland.  It was such a lovely summer place, and her relatives there were sure to do all they could to make the stay pleasant.

In the White family there were besides Mrs. Winthrop White, her two sons, Edward and Nathaniel, aged sixteen and fourteen years.  Professor White, their father, had died suddenly some years before, while on an expedition out in quest of scientific data, but the White family possessed almost unlimited means, so that Major Dale’s sister, while lonely enough in life without her husband, had the pleasant duty of bringing up two talented and good looking boys in a way that befitted the positions they would occupy as their father’s sons—­the White family being among the most aristocratic in New York state.

Dorothy had not seen her cousins in three years, the boys’ time, between vacations, being spent at school, and the intervals of late being occupied with trips abroad.  As she traveled on now, and became more and more sleepy Dorothy wondered if Nat were as full of mischief as he used to be when he visited Dalton, and if Ned still spent his spare time chasing butterflies to add new specimen to his collection.

But even these interesting reflections are not to be compared with such sedative influence as the rumbling of a train with a summer breeze coming In the window, and the girl, weary enough from her fright at the falls and its consequent shock to her nervous system soon forgot to think—­she was asleep.

Meanwhile Tavia was occupied with the pretty baby in the end compartment.  The child was about three years old, and remarkably communicative for her age.  The little alcohol lamp, she told Tavia, was used to heat her milk, also to curl her hair, for mamma never took her to the hotel without curls, she said.

To bear out this statement, Lily, that was the little stranger’s name, produced from a satchel under the wash basin a tiny pair of curling irons.

It seemed like fate to Tavia,—­there was the very thing she had been wishing for—­curling tongs.

“Let’s try it,” she suggested, as Lily prattled on about the wonderful “real” curls that the iron could make.

A careful investigation revealed to Tavia the secrets of the alcohol lamp.  Everything was there—­even to matches.

Being sure the lamp was placed firmly upon the marble slab, Tavia struck a match and lighted the wick.

“There,” she said with evident satisfaction, “that part was easy enough.”

“You put the iron right in there,” directed Lily, and Tavia promptly followed the advice.

“Sit on my lap while it heats,” Tavia told the child, not thinking it safe to allow her to move about in the small place with a strange kind of stove burning.

The child jumped up eager to hear a story.  The wood-kind, full of bears with remarkable appetites, pleased her most, Tavia discovered, and it was in such a mental delight that the child passed a very happy little “minute.”