“Why, you poor dear!” sighed Mrs. White to Tavia, “you must be quite ill from the shock.  Get into bed immediately, and I will see how we can doctor you up,” and before Tavia had a chance to protest against the “treatment” she found herself in bed, shoes and dress off, and wrapped in a comfortable robe Dorothy had brought in her bag.

“Now,” teased Dorothy, “you wanted to know how it feels to be sick.  How do you like it?”

“Best ever,” replied the girl in the pillows.  “Make it incurable please.”

“Here,” announced their hostess, appearing at the door with a steaming bowl that smelled good.  “Just drink this bouillon.  I believe that more lives might be saved by the hot bouillon process than by the reported efficacy of hot whisky.  One stays hot, the other turns into chills.  Just drink this dear, and I will banish Dorothy.  I know how she can talk when one should sleep—­she roomed with me one summer,” and at this Dorothy was whisked out of the room by her aunt, and Tavia left to commune with the pleasant aroma of hot bouillon with chopped parsley flavoring.

“Riches are not to be despised,” she commented, when the paneled door closed her away from friends for the moment.  “I wonder Major Dale does not let Dorothy stay with her aunt; she would know exactly how to train her in society ways, and Dorothy is plainly cut out to be a leader where ever she goes.  I suppose,” reflected the girl, “some day Mrs. White will introduce her into her social world and then—­”

A step in the hall aroused her from her rather tangled reverie, and presently Dorothy stood before her with an immense bunch of “Jack” roses.

“Oh!” exclaimed Tavia, in unfeigned admiration, “have you been to heaven stealing flowers?”

“No, an angel tossed them down,” replied Dorothy, “and her card said they were for you.”  Whereat she held out to Tavia the “angelic” bouquet.

“Oh Dorothy Darling Dale!  I never saw such flowers!  I have always thought the wild kinds prettier than those that grew so proud-like but there is just as much difference between a Jack-in-the-pulpit and a real Jack rose as there is between you and me!”

“Well Jack, I like you just as well as if you grew in a hot house—­ better, because you have taught me the value of life’s storms—­you have grown outside and know the music of the winds,” and with the flowers she gave her friend all the hug she dared risk in the presence of the “railroad line” on Tavia’s neck.

“But you have the sweetness of the greenhouse,” insisted Tavia, “and that blows off with the music of the winds.”

“Well, we will not quarrel over our virtues,” said Dorothy, “the thing to discuss at present is what are you going to do with the railroad money?”

“What money?” inquired Tavia, showing surprise.

“Your damages, of course.  How much do you calculate your other braid was worth?”

“Not worth talking about.”