“Well, I only hope they have him now,” said Tavia, “I would like to have another chance at his—­hat.”

Then the conversation drifted back to North Birchland.  Both girls looked much benefited by their visit, and even Tavia’s short hair and unnatural red cheeks did not detract from the noticeable improvement.  Dorothy’s face had rounded some too, and the Lake air had given a ruddiness to her naturally delicate tinting, that was most becoming to her as a summer girl.

“I never saw such nice boys,” remarked Tavia, “I think, after all, it takes money to polish people.”

“Not at all,” insisted Dorothy.  “It is not money but good breeding.  There are plenty of poor persons who are just as polished as you call it.  Father often told us about a family he visited when he was abroad.  They were so poor in clothes—­pathetically shabby, and yet they went in the very best society.  Father used to make us laugh by his funny descriptions of the ladies at dinners.  At the same affairs would be Thomas Carlyle, and just think, these poor people—­he was a parson, lived on the very ground that was once part of the garden of Sir Thomas Moore.  Father saw the famous mulberry trees there, that so much has been written about.  I hope I may be able to go there some time—­we have relatives in England.”

“I would not care to travel,” said Tavia impatiently.  “This seems a long enough trip for me.”

“Only two more stops,” said Dorothy as the train rattled past the stations.  “Oh, I shall be so glad to see them all.”

“And lonesome for the Cedars after you have seen them all,” Tavia hinted.  “That’s the worst of it, home is always with us—­”

“Get your hat box down,” Dorothy interrupted.  “We are slackening up now.”

“Dalton!  Dalton!” called the brakeman at the door, and the next minute the girls were being kissed heartily by Joe, Roger and Johnnie, “the committee on arrival,” as Tavia said.  The lads were fully qualified to carry off the honors in the way of boxes and small bundles.

“How is Aunt Libby?” asked Dorothy as soon as she could say anything relevant.

“Better,” said Joe, “but father does not feel well—­you are not to worry—­” seeing how her face clouded, “he is only tired out.  He has been working at the office and writing so many letters—­”

“That I should have written.  Poor dear father!  I hope he is not going to have another spell,” and Dorothy sighed.

“No, the doctor said he would be all right if he would only stay quiet, but he is about as quiet as my squirrel in its new cage,” said Joe.

“Home again,” called Dorothy, waving her hand to the major who now appeared on the piazza.  “Here we are, bag and baggage,” and then it seemed all the “pain of separation” was made up for in that loving embrace—­the major had the Little Captain in his arms again.

CHAPTER XXVI