“A veritable wildflower,” concluded the hostess, just as others had said; Major Dale for instance.

Dorothy was of an entirely different type.  Her beauty was the sort that grows more and more attractive, as character develops, not depending upon mere facial outline.

“Now, children, off to bed with you,” said Mrs. White, touching the bell to tell the maid the late lunch was over, “and to-morrow you know we go to camp.  You will not have a headache, Tavia?”

“I have never had one in my life,” answered Tavia, in that polite tone she always used in speaking to the hostess.  “Perhaps my head does not know enough to ache.”

“Blissful ignorance then,” replied Mrs. White, “see to it that you never become so worldly-wise as to learn how.  A head that does not ache is a joy forever.”

Hasty good nights were exchanged, and this time there was no “waking night-mare” for Tavia.  She wanted to sleep—­young hearts may ache once in a while, but they have a comfortable habit of deferring to tired nature at least once in twenty-four hours.

So the Cedars rustled to their hearts’ content, and the pines whispered derisively at their attempt to make themselves heard in the world of music makers—­poor little stunted cedars!  So small beside the giant pines, so useless in a tree’s great province—­to give shade; but that file of trees, scarcely taller than a hedge, had for years and years made the division between one land and another, so they stood for that at least.  As Nat had explained to Tavia “they knew where to draw the line.”

The morning that followed was one of those beautiful streaks of Nature’s capriciousness when she allows spring to turn back and give orders to summer.  It was late in June, yet the air was soft and balmy, and the sunshine behaved so nicely that Tavia, looking out of her window actually found dew on the honeysuckle, and saw there was no need to close blinds at even ten o’clock—­which was late for dew certainly, and late for a girl like Tavia Travers to get her first romp out of doors.

Dorothy looked in mischievously.

“We didn’t call you,” she said smiling, “because you were so anxious about your cheeks, you know.  Let me see.  I do declare, Tavia Travers, is that a blush?  Or did you dream you were Rosabel?  Now don’t try to tell me that’s perfectly natural.  It isn’t—­it’s simply divine,” and she gave her friend a reassuring kiss.

“When we get to talking such nonsense,” said Tavia with as much severity as she could summon on short notice, “I think we should do something for it—­get busy at something you know.  It is plainly the result of downright idleness.”

“Dr. Gray’s prescription, you know.  But now for camp.  The boys have gone on ahead, and Aunt Winnie is going to stop at the hotel for lunch, She said she thought we would enjoy it.”

“Oh, I will, I am sure,” answered Tavia, promptly.  “That’s what worries me, I am getting to enjoy everything.  What in the world will I do when I get back to Dalton?”