“I had such a lovely time,” sobbed Tavia, “and every one had been so good to me.  But I could not help it Doro dear.  When that Rosabel came I saw the difference—­I saw I never could be your friend when we grew up.  And then I got to thinking about home—­Dorothy, I must go.  I must talk about that money with dear mother and father and even little Johnnie—­he did seem to need me so much!  And I have been so selfish—­to leave them all.”

“Now, Tavia, you make me feel badly.  It is I who am selfish to take you away, but I am sure your mother particularly wanted you to come, and your father was so pleased.  I tell you, dear it is all that money.  You just feel you cannot wait to talk all about it, and I don’t blame you at all.  You shall go home just as soon as you want to.”

“But you must stay,” said Tavia, brightening up at the thought of going home.  “I came to be company for you, but you do not need me.”

Was there just a sign of jealousy in her words?  Dorothy instantly detected a change—­Tavia drew herself up so like other girls, but so unlike Tavia.

“Not need you!  Why, Tavia, who in all this world could take your place,” and her arms were wound around the neck of the weeping girl, while the fondest sister-kiss was pressed to the tear-stained cheek.

“My, what a goose I am!” suddenly exclaimed Tavia, springing up.  “I never was homesick or had the real blues in all my life, and I do not propose to do the baby act now.  So there,” and she gave a hearty hug to Dorothy.  “I’m done with blubbering, and I’m more ashamed of myself than I was the day I ran away after the row with Sarah.  Now, I’ll beat you to bed, and to sleep, too, for that matter.  We will have to do some tall snoring to catch up with the rosy Rosabel—­her cheeks will make ours look like putty.”

It was late, and Dorothy was glad to feel that Tavia had conquered her homesickness, for that is what Dorothy insisted the attack was.  It was, however, the first—­but the pain it left in Tavia’s heart did not heal at once, nor did it leave the spot unscarred.

Mrs. White had prudently left the girls to themselves, but now, by some strange intuition she felt the “storm” was over, and sent a maid to ask Dorothy if some crackers or an ice would not taste good.  In replying the girls discovered they were not the only ones up late, and presently the entire party had assembled in the beautiful chintz dining room, and the ices were being served between good-natured “jollyings.”

“That hair cut went to your head,” Ned told Tavia, “but wait until I go down for the tresses, I’ll scare Mike stiff—­make him believe we thought he had ‘cribbed’ them.”

Tavia was entirely herself now, and had word for word with the jolly boys.

Mrs. White studied her closely, but of course, unobserved.  She was a fine girl, no doubt of it, and a pleasant companion for Dorothy.  Her humor was as pure as the bubbles in the brook, and just as unfailing.  And what a pretty girl she was!  Those hazel eyes and that bronze head.  No wonder even the foreign barber had noted that it was “scarce.”