“Wasn’t that dreadfully stupid!” sighed Tavia, as she lay stretched out on the soft, white bed.

“Not at all, my dear,” replied Mrs. White, who at that moment appeared at the door.  “You could not have done better had you been coached, for it shows how the shock has unnerved you.  And you may as well know that the company has offered to settle for five hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred dollars!” echoed Tavia.

“Yes, my dear.  For my part I should count a braid of hair such as you lost worth twice that sum, but even at that price I could not obtain it.  No one ever values a fine head of hair until it is gone—­like the dry well, you know.  But you are young enough to grow another braid, and that is the beauty of it.  Mr. French said your father gave him full power to act, and so he will accept the company’s offer.  And the fine thing about it is he does not want a commission—­only his expenses, which are nominal.”

“Isn’t that perfectly splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy, throwing her arms about Tavia.

“Some people are born lucky, and others have luck thrust upon them,” said Tavia pleasantly.  “In this case it was as usual.  I did the mischief and Dorothy did the rest.  That lawyer would never have noticed me if Dorothy hadn’t shown her pluck—­why, she had my flaming hair wrapped up in a brakeman’s coat before he had decided whether to throw it out of the window or over the ice cooler.  He seemed to be worried about the ice, for it was directly in the path of the fire.”

“Nonsense,” said Dorothy, blushing.  “He very politely pulled off his coat when I asked him to, and of course, he did not know just what to do with it.”

“Lucky thing it was a railroad coat,” went on Tavia, “or we might have had to pay damages.”

“Lucky thing Dorothy had such presence of mind, at any rate,” remarked Mrs. White, “for another touch of that flame and your face, Tavia, might have had a different bill against the railroad company.  However, as it ends like a love story, we will live happily ever after,” and she gave Tavia such an affectionate kiss, that the girl felt a strange nearness to her new-found friend as if she had been suddenly adopted, socially at least, into Dorothy’s family.

“And now, my dears,” went on their hostess, “I expect the boys out from camp this afternoon, so you must rest up, and look your prettiest.”

Tavia sat up and looked about her.

“Did you ever hear that story about why a widower was like a baby?” she asked Dorothy.  “Well, I feel just like him.  They say he cried for the first six months, then sat up and looked around and it was hard to pull him through the second summer.  Now I am looking around, but when I get my five hundred I am afraid I will hardly last through the second summer.”

“I know you will like the boys,” remarked Dorothy.

“But who will cut my poor old hair?” sang Tavia to the meerschaum pipe tune.