"Whatever can that girl mean?" exclaimed Dorothy, when Alice and Viola had passed down the walk.  
"Mean! The meanest thing I ever met! Did you see her refuse my hand?" asked Tavia. "Well, it's a good thing to be able to size up a girl like that at the first meeting; it saves complications. But who cares for green violets? What I want to know is, are you really going away, Doro?" and the look on Tavia's face could not be mistaken. She would be dreadfully grieved if compelled to part with Dorothy's companionship.
 
"Aunt Winnie thinks I should go, and father has decided² it is best. Of course I shall hate to leave you, Tavia," and Dorothy wound her arm affectionately around her friend. "In fact I shall never, never, find any girl to take your place in my heart," and something very like tears came into Dorothy's voice.
 
"I knew it! I just knew you would go away when you got that hateful Indian money. And what in the world will I ever do in Dalton? Now I have learned how much pleasure I could have, visiting your friends and riding in automobiles³, and then, just when I get to realizing what a good time we could have, you up and leave me! I might have know better than to go out of my own limits!" and here Tavia actually burst into tears, a most remarkable⁵ thing for her to do.
 
"I am so sorry," said Dorothy with a sigh, putting her arm around the weeping girl.
 
"There! What a goose I am! Of course I would not have done differently if I could do it all over again. The good times we have had are the most precious spots in all my life. And, Doro dear, you did not drag me out of my shell—I was always running after you for that matter, so you need not think the loneliness will be any fault of yours—except that you are such a dreadfully dear girl that no one could help loving you. You really should try to curb⁶ that fault."
 
Tavia had dried her tears. She was that sort of girl who is both too proud and too brave to show "the white feather" as she often expressed the failing of giving away to emotion that might distress⁷ others.
 
"I do wish you could go along," said Dorothy.
 
"Well, I don't believe I would really like to go, Doro," Tavia surprised her by saying. "I should probably get into all kinds of scrapes with that Green Violet, and the scrapes would likely make it unpleasant for you. Besides I have been thinking I ought to go to work. I am old enough to do something—fifteen next month you know—and I would just like to get right out into the world—go with the tide."
 
"Tavia!" exclaimed Dorothy in alarm, for these rash sentiments had of late been strangely common with Tavia. "You do not know what you are talking about. Go with the tide—"
 
"Yes, I just mean take my chances with other girls. I had a letter from a girl in Rochester the other day. She had got work and she is no older than I am."
 
"At what?" asked Dorothy.
 
"On the stage. She is going to take part in some chorus work—"
 
"Tavia, dear!" cried Dorothy. "You must not get letters from such girls. On the stage! Why, that is the most dangerous work any girl could possibly get into."
 
"Now, Doro, I have not got the place, worse luck. And you must not take on so just because I happened to mention the matter. But you must realize there is a vast difference between poor girls like me, and those of your station in life!"
 
What had come over Tavia lately? Why did she so dwell upon the difference between Dorothy's means and her own? Was it a natural pride or a peculiar⁸ unrest—that unrest, perhaps, that so often leads others, who are older, stronger and wiser than Tavia Travers, into paths not the most elevating? And then they may urge the excuse that the world had been hard on them; that they could not find their place in life, when in reality they scorn to take the place offered them, and instead of trying for a better or higher mark they deliberately⁹ refuse the prospects¹⁰ held out, and turn backward—then they blame the world!
 
This condition is called "Social Unrest," and Tavia Travers, though young and inexperienced, was having a taste of its bitter moral poison.
 
"Promise me you will never write another letter to that girl," begged Dorothy, solemnly. "I know your father would not permit it Tavia, and I know such influence is dangerous."
 
"Why the idea! You should have read her letter, Doro. She says the killingest things—But mercy, I must go. I have to go to the Green before tea," and, with a reassuring¹¹ kiss, Tavia darted¹² off.
 
Dorothy looked after her friend as she skipped down the path, and a sense of dread¹, of strange misgivings¹³, took possession of her. What if Tavia should actually run away as she had often threatened in jest! Then Dorothy remembered how well Tavia danced, how she had practiced the "stage fall" after seeing the play in Rochester, and how little Johnnie Travers had barely escaped the falling ceiling that came down with Tavia's attempt at tragedy. Then, too, Dorothy thought of the day Tavia had painted her cheeks with mullin leaves and how Dorothy then remarked in alarm: "Tavia, you look like an actress!"
 
How strangely bright Tavia's eyes seemed that day! How wonderfully pretty her short bronze locks fell against her unnaturally¹⁴ red cheeks! All this now flashed through Dorothy's dazed brain.
 
How could she leave Tavia? And yet she would so soon have to go away—to that far-off school—
 
And that strange girl who had come with Alice. What could she have meant by those horrid¹⁵ insinuations about Dorothy so "suddenly making up her mind" to go to boarding school; and that it would be "too bad to leave Tavia alone in Dalton just then!" as if everyone did not know by this time just what had happened on the auto⁴ ride, and that Ned had actually been offered the reward for the capture of Anderson. Not only this but her two cousins, Ned and Nat, had received public praise for brave conduct, and the two girls, whose names were not mentioned (Major Dale had asked the reporter to omit them if possible from the report), were also spoken of as having taken part in the capture, inasmuch as they allowed Anderson to remain quietly in the car until the young owners of the machine arrived upon the scene.
 
Dorothy sat there thinking it all over. It was almost dusk and on the little vine-clad porch the shadows of the honey-suckle shifted idly from Dorothy's chair to the block of sunshine that was trying so bravely to keep the lonely girl company—every other ray of sunlight had vanished, but that gleam seemed to stay with Dorothy. She did not fail to observe this, as she always noticed every kindness shown her, and she considered the "ray of light" as being very significant in the present rather gloomy situation.
 
"But I must not mope," Dorothy told herself presently. "I simply must talk the whole thing over with Aunt Winnie."
 
How much better for Tavia it would have been had she too determined¹⁶ to "talk the whole thing over" with someone of experience?
 
Dorothy found her aunt busy writing the boarding school letters, and when that task had been finished Mrs. White was entirely¹⁷ at the girl's service. Dorothy tried to unfold to her the situation, without putting unnecessary blame on Tavia, who was such a jolly girl and so absolutely free from dread—never had been known to be afraid of anything, Dorothy declared, and of course there was therefore, all the more reason to be worried about her risks. To Tavia, a risk was synonymous with sport.
 
"I had no idea she would be interested in that sort of thing," said Mrs. White, referring to the matter of going on the stage, "and, perhaps, Dorothy—"
 
"But I am not at all sure that she is interested in it, auntie," Dorothy interrupted. "I am only afraid she may get more letters from that girl— And besides, I will be so lonely without her, and I know she will miss me."
 
"Well, there, little girl," and the aunt kissed Dorothy's cheek, "you take things too seriously. We will see what can be done. I, too, like Tavia, She is an impulsive¹⁸ girl, but as good as gold, and I will always be interested in her welfare."
 
"Thank you, auntie dear. You are so kind and so generous. It would seem enough to be bothered with me, but to give you further trouble with my friends—"
 
"Nonsense, my dear, it is no trouble whatever. I heartily¹⁹ enjoy having your confidences, and you may rest assured very little harm will come to the girl who chooses a wise woman for her adviser²⁰. And I do hope, Dorothy, I am wise in girls' ways if not in points of law, as your dear father always contends."
 
"And auntie," went on Dorothy, rather timidly, "I want to tell you something else, Alice MacAllister brought a girl to visit me this afternoon, and she said such strange things about yesterday's accidents. She was positively²¹ disagreeable."
 
"You are too sensitive, child. Of course people will say strange things every time they get a chance—some people. But you must not bother your pretty head about such gossip. When you do what is right, good people will always think well of you and, after all, their opinion is all that we really care for, isn't it?"
 
"But why should she be so rude? She is a perfect stranger to me?"
 
"Some girls think it smart to be rude, Dorothy. What did she say that troubled you so?"
 
"That's precisely²² it, auntie, no one could repeat her remarks. They were merely insinuations and depended upon the entire conversation for their meaning."
 
"Insinuations? Perhaps that you had been arrested for stealing melons?" and the aunt laughed at the idea. "Well, my dear, I believe it will be well for you to be away from all this country gossip."
 
"But Viola Green goes to Glenwood School!" declared Dorothy.
 
"No! Really? Who is she?"
 
"A friend of Alice MacAllister, from Dunham. I was so surprised when she said she went to Glenwood."
 
"But, my dear, what will that matter? There are many girls at Glenwood. All you will have to do is to choose wisely in selecting your friends from among them."
 
"If Tavia were only with me I would not need other friends," demurred²³ Dorothy.
 
"Does she want to go?" asked Mrs. White suddenly.
 
"I believe she does, but she denies it. I think she does that because she does not want me to bother about her. She is such a generous girl, auntie, and dislikes any one fussing over her."
 
"There's a step on the porch," and both listened. "Yes," continued Mrs. White, "that's Tavia looking for you. Run down to her and I will speak with both of you before she leaves."