So the girl who had been tempting1 fate, who had refused to right a wrong, who had turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of friends and the commands of superiors, was now summoned to the bedside of the one person in all the world she really loved—her mother!
Viola grasped the message from the hands of Mrs. Pangborn herself, who thought to deliver it with as little alarm as possible. But it was not possible to deceive Viola. Instantly she burst into tears and moans with such violence that the principal was obliged to plead with the girl to regard the feelings of those whose rooms adjoined hers. But this did not affect Viola. She declared her darling little mother would be dead before she could reach her, and even blamed the school that marked the distance between the frantic2 daughter and the dying parent.
How bitterly she moaned and sobbed3! What abandon and absolute lack of self-control she displayed, Mrs. Pangborn could not help observing. This was the character Viola had fostered, and this was the character that turned upon her in her grief and refused to offer her sympathy or hope.
"You should try to control yourself, Viola," said Mrs. Pangborn gently. "You will make yourself ill, and be unfit for travel."
But all arguments were without avail. The girl wept herself into hysterics, and then finally, overcome with sheer exhaustion4, fell into a troubled sleep.
On the first train the next morning Viola left Glenwood. It was Dorothy who helped her dress and pack, and Dorothy who tried to console her.
At one moment it did seem that Dorothy had finally reached the heart of the strange girl, for Viola threw her arms about the one who had made such sacrifices for an unrelenting pride, and begged she would pray that the sick mother might be spared.
"If she is only left to me a little longer," pleaded Viola, "I will try to be satisfied, and try to do what is right. Oh, I know I have done wrong," she wailed5. "I know you have suffered for me, but, Dorothy, dear, you did it for my mother, and I will always bless you for it. If I had time to-day I would try—try to clear you before the girls."
"Then I will make the explanation," said Dorothy, relieved to feel that at last she might speak for herself.
"Oh, please don't," spoke6 up Viola again, not quite sure that she was willing to be humiliated7 in spite of the words she had just spoken. "Try to forgive me, and then what does it matter about the others?"
So Viola Green passed out of Glenwood, and left Dorothy Dale praying that the sick woman might be spared.
"I could not do anything against her," Dorothy reflected. "Poor girl, she has enough to bear! It must be righted some day—oh, yes, some day it must all come right. Another Power looks after that."
A long letter from home, from Major Dale, was brought to Dorothy on the early mail. This cheered her up and reflected its smiles of happiness on all the school day.
The major told how well the boys were; how they longed to see Dorothy, and how little Roger had saved all his kindergarten cards and pictures for her. Besides these a wonderful house made of toothpicks and stuck together with green peas was in imminent8 danger of collapse9 if Dorothy did not hurry up and come home. Then Aunt Winnie had planned a surprise for all her children who were away at school, the letter also stated, and on the list, for the good time promised, were Dorothy, Tavia, Nat, Ned, Joe (and of course little Roger), besides a guest that each of these mentioned would be allowed to invite home for the holiday. Easter was only a few weeks off.
The day passed quickly indeed. Spring sunshine had come, everything had that waiting look it takes on just before the buds come, and Dorothy was almost happy. If only everybody could know that she and Tavia had not done wrong and had not been in disgrace!
The classes were dismissed and Dorothy was up in her room reading her father's letter for the third time.
There was a rush through the hall! Then the girls' voices in laughter stopped exactly at her door!
The next minute Tavia bolted into the room.
"Not a soul to meet me!" she began cycloning around and winding10 up with crushing Dorothy. "Oh, you old honey-girl!" and Tavia kissed her friend rapturously. "I have been dead and buried without you. Run away, little girls (to those peeping in at the door). Run away—we're busy."
Dorothy was so surprised she just gazed at Tavia, but a world of love and welcome went out in the look. "If we had known you were coming," she faltered11.
"Known it! Couldn't you feel my presence near! Well, James brought me up. But say, Dorothy! I ran across—whom do you think?"
"Couldn't guess!"
"Viola Green! And say, she looked like her own ghost. Her train had a long wait at noon and she saw me. And the way she bolted out of her car and made her way to my window, just to say, 'Tell Dorothy to go ahead and tell her story! It will be all right!' Now I'd like to know if Viola Green had really gone daffy?"
"Why, no, Tavia. It is all about—Oh, it is such a long story."
"The very thing for mine—a serial12. There's Cologne and Ned and Dick! Come on in, everybody! I want you all to see this hat before I take it off. The milliner declared I would never get it on right again."
In rushed the "troop," all so glad to see Tavia back, and all aching for a glimpse of the new spring hat.
"Tell me about the story, Cologne," said Tavia. "You can go on admiring me just the same. What's Dorothy's serial that Viola has the copyright on?"
"That is precisely13 what we want you to find out," answered Rose-Mary. "We have been trying to do it for a whole month."
"And I'll wager14 it won't take me ten minutes!"
"But do take your things off," pleaded Dorothy.
"Not yet. I can't give up this hat so unceremoniously. Isn't it a beauty? But for the story. Go ahead, Cologne."
"Why, I couldn't tell where to begin," begged off Rose-Mary.
"Begin at the place where Dorothy Dale went to pieces, and lost all her pretty pink cheeks," suggested Tavia, noting how much Dorothy had changed during her absence.
"I'll tell you," said Rose-Mary. "We'll all run away and let you have a minute to yourselves. Perhaps the serial will leak out."
"What is it, Dorothy?" asked Tavia seriously when they were alone.
"Why, all about that police ride," sighed Dorothy. "I really never could find out just what story was told—they kept me in ignorance of it all, except that it was dreadful. Oh, Tavia! Only lately the girls notice me. They all gave me up, all but Ned, Dick and Cologne!"
"Gave you up! And about that story! Why didn't you tell them?"
"Oh, I had promised Viola, and she was afraid she would be dismissed—"
"Promised Viola!" and Tavia stared blankly at Dorothy. "You poor little darling! And no one here to take your part!" and she held Dorothy to her heart a moment. "Who knows the story as she told it—I always knew she would tell it!"
"Perhaps some of the Pilgrims may know. They split and formed the Rebs."
"Without me? I'll bet they died an early death! I'm the only thoroughbred Reb in America!" and she
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