It was three days after Christmas, and what was left of the white crystals was fast becoming brown mud, and the puddles and rivulets of melted snow, very tempting to the small boy, made walking almost impossible for the small boy's elders. The air was soft, and as balmy as the first days of Spring. One almost expected to hear the twittering of a bluebird and the chirp of the robins, but nevertheless a grate fire burned brightly in Dorothy's room, with the windows thrown open admitting the crisp air and sunlight.

"Shall I take my messaline dress, Tavia?" Dorothy asked, holding the garment in mid-air.

"If we go to the opera you'll want it; I packed my only evening gown, that ancient affair in pink," said Tavia, laughing a bit wistfully.

"You're simply stunning in that dress, Tavia," said Dorothy. "Isn't she, Nat?" she appealed to her cousin.

"That flowery, pinkish one, with the sash?" asked the boy.

"Yes," said Tavia, "the one that I've been wearing so long that if I put it out on the front steps some evening, it would walk off alone to any party or dance in Dalton."

"You know," said Nat, looking at Tavia with pride, "when you have that dress on you look like a-er-a well, like pictures I've seen of-red-haired girls," the color mounted Nat's brow and he looked confused. Dorothy smiled as she turned her back and folded the messaline dress, placing it carefully in her trunk. Nat was so clumsy at compliments! But Tavia did not seem to notice the clumsiness, a lovely light leaped to her clear brown eyes, and the wistfulness of a moment before vanished as she laughed.

"I was warned by everyone in school not to buy pink!" declared Tavia.

"So, of course," said Dorothy laughing, "you straightway decided on a pink dress. But, seriously, Tavia, pink is your color, the old idea of auburn locks and greens and browns is completely smashed to nothingness, when you wear pink! Oh dear," continued Dorothy, perplexed, "where shall I pack this wrap? Not another thing will go into my trunk."

"Are you taking two evening wraps?" asked Tavia.

"Surely, one for you and the other for me. You see this is pink too,"

Dorothy held up a soft, silk-lined cape, with a collar of fur. Quick tears sprang to Tavia's eyes, and impulsively she threw her arms about Dorothy.

"Don't strangle Dorothy," objected Nat.

"You always make me so happy, Doro," said Tavia, releasing her chum, who looked happier even than Tavia, her fair face flushed. The hugging Tavia had given had loosened Dorothy's stray wisps of golden hair, that fell about her eyes and ears in a most bewitching way.

"Girls," called Aunt Winnie, from below stairs, "aren't you nearly finished?"

"All finished but Nat's part," answered Dorothy. Then to Nat she said: "Now, cousin, sit hard on this trunk, and perhaps we'll be able to close it."

Nat solemnly perched on the lid of the trunk, but it would not close.

"Something will have to come out," he declared.

"There is nothing, absolutely nothing, in my trunk that I can leave behind," said Dorothy.

"My trunk closed very easily," said Tavia, "I'll get it up from the station and we'll pack the surplus gowns in it," she turned triumphantly to Dorothy. "Too bad I sent it on so early. But we can get it."

"The very thing!" Dorothy laughed. "Run, Nat, and fetch Tavia's trunk from the station."

"Dorothy," called Aunt Winnie again, "we only have a few hours before train time. Your trunk should be ready for the expressman now, dear."

"Hurry, Nat," begged Dorothy, "you must get Tavia's trunk here in two minutes. Coming," she called down to Aunt Winnie, as she and Tavia rushed down the stairs.

"The trunk won't close because the gowns won't fit," dramatically cried Tavia.

"So the boys have gone for Tavia's, and we'll pack things in it,"

hurriedly explained Dorothy.

"What is all this about gowns?" asked Major Dale, drawing Dorothy to the arm of the great chair in which he was sitting.

"I'm packing, father, we're going to leave you for a while," said Dorothy, nestling close to his broad shoulders.

"But not for very long," Aunt Winnie said. "You and the boys must arrange so that you can follow in at least one week."

"Well, it all depends on my rheumatism," answered the major. "You won't want an old limpy soldier trying to keep pace with you in New York City.

Mrs. Martin, the tried and true, will take fine care of us while you are gone."

"No, that won't do," declared Dorothy, "we know how well cared for you will be under Mrs. Martin's wing, but we want you with us. In fact," she glanced hastily at Aunt Winnie, "we may even need you."

"Perhaps the best way," said Aunt Winnie, thoughtfully, "would be to send you a telegram when to come, and by that time, you will no doubt be all over this attack of rheumatism."

"Ned and Nat are as anxious as are you girlies to get there," replied Major Dale, "so I'll make a good fight to arrive in New York City."

"Who is going to tell me stories at bed-time, when Dorothy's gone?" asked little Roger. "I don't want Doro to go away, 'cause she's the best sister that any feller ever had."

Roger was leaning against the Major's knee, and Dorothy drew him close to her.

"Sister will have to send you a story in a letter every day. How will that do?" she asked, as she pressed her cheek against his soft hair.

"Aw, no," pouted Roger, "tell them all to me now, before you go away."

"I'll tell you one and then father will tell one; father will tell one about the soldier boys," murmured Dorothy in Roger's ear.

"Oh, goody," Roger clapped his hands; "and Aunt Winnie and Tavia and Ned and Nat and everybody can tell me one story to-night and that will fill up for all the nights while you are away!"

"Dorothy!" screamed Tavia, bursting into the room in wild excitement, "the boys have gone without my trunk check! They can't get it!"

"And the gowns will have to be left behind!"

"Never!" laughed Tavia, "I'll run all the way to the station and catch them!"

"They've taken the _Fire Bird_, maybe you'll meet them coming back."

Tavia dashed, hatless, from the house. They watched her as she fairly flew along the road, in a short walking skirt, heavy sweater pulled high around her throat, and her red hair gleaming in the sun.

Major Dale had always greatly admired Tavia; he liked her fearless honesty and the sincerity of her affections. Aunt Winnie, too, loved her almost as much as she loved Dorothy.

"I've wondered so much," said Dorothy, "what trouble Miss Mingle is in.

She left school so suddenly that last day, and Cologne was so provoking in her letter."

"An illness, probably," said Aunt Winnie, kindly.

"It can't be anything so commonplace as illness," said Dorothy. "Cologne would have gone into details about illness. The telegram, and her departure, were almost tragic in their suddenness. I feel so selfish when I think of our treatment of that meek little woman. No one ever was interested in her, that I remember. Her great fault was a too-meek spirit. She literally erased herself and her name from the minds of everyone."

Major Dale and Aunt Winnie listened without much enthusiasm. Aunt Winnie was worried about Dorothy, who showed so little inclination to enter the whirl of society in North Birchland. She had looked forward with much pleasure to presenting her niece to her social world.

But Dorothy had little love for the society life of North Birchland. She loved her cousins and her small brothers, and seemed perfectly happy and contented in her home life, and attending to the small charities connected with the town. She seemed to prefer a hospital to a house party, a romp with the boys to a fashionable dance, and she bubbled with glee in the company of Tavia, ignoring the girls of the first families in her neighborhood.