The day had been unusually tiresome¹, all the little spots of jollity, club meetings, evening fudge parties and the like having suddenly been abandoned, and Dorothy, with Rose-Mary, was trying to find comfort in watching a winter sunset.  
"Did you know Mrs. Pangborn had come back?" asked Rose, burying her chin in her palms, and dropping into a reclining attitude.
 
"No," said Dorothy, simply, still watching the floating clouds.
 
"Yes, and I overheard a maid ask Viola Green to go to the office after tea."
 
"Viola?" echoed Dorothy abstractedly.
 
"Of course you know it is she who made all this fuss, and I'm right glad she has been called to give an explanation at last."
 
"I have not been able to get the least hint of what it was all about," mused² Dorothy. "I had a letter from Tavia to-day, and I'm afraid she cannot come back this term. My last lingering hope went out when I read that. Tavia would be sure to dig it out someway."
 
Rose-Mary thought how foolish had been the talk she had "dug out," and smiled when she imagined Tavia at work at such nonsense. But she would not pain Dorothy with the thought of that talk—too silly and too unkind to bother her with,—decided³ Rose, so that then, as well as on other occasions when the opportunity came to her to mention the arrest story, she let it pass.
 
"Let's go see Dick," suggested Rose, "we'll find Ned there and perhaps we may manage some fun. I'm positively⁴ getting musty."
 
"You go," said Dorothy, just as Rose had expected, "I'll do my exercises—I'm pages behind."
 
"Not without you," argued the other, "I have lots I ought to do, but I'm going to cut it for this night. Come along," and she took Dorothy's arm. "I'm dying to hear Ned sing a coon song."
 
But they found number twenty-three vacant. Edna was out, so was Molly, in fact everybody seemed to be out, for knots of girls talked in every corner of the halls and always stopped speaking when Dorothy and Rose came up to them.
 
"It's the investigation⁵!" whispered Rose. "They are waiting for Viola; did you ever see such a crowd of magpies⁶."
 
"I'm going in," said Dorothy, nervously⁷. "I can't bear the way they look at me."
 
"All right," assented⁸ Rose, "I'll see you home since I dragged you out. And I'll promise to make known to you the words of the very first bulletin. Sorry to be so cruel, but I cannot find any sympathy in my heart for Viola Green."
 
"Oh, indeed I can," spoke⁹ up the kind-hearted Dorothy. "She has so much worry about her mother. And perhaps she inherits some peculiar¹⁰ trait—"
 
"Bottle Green, I suppose. Well, you can pity her if you like, but I will save mine until I know why."
 
So Rose-Mary kissed Dorothy good-night—she had done so regularly of late, and the two friends parted. For some time the hum of voices could be heard in the corridor outside Dorothy's door, then the lights were turned out and everything seemed as usual.
 
But in room twelve Viola Green was struggling—struggling with a weighty problem. What Mrs. Pangborn had said to her that evening in the office meant for Viola dismissal from school, unless—unless—
 
Viola was thinking of a plan. Surely she could make Dorothy agree to it, Dorothy was so easy to manage, so easy to influence.
 
In room nineteen Dorothy had not yet gone to her bed. She felt nervous and restless. Then too, she had fully¹¹ decided to leave Glenwood and she had to think over what that meant for her, for her father and for Aunt Winnie.
 
What explanation could she make? She had never been a coward, why could she not face this thing and show everybody that she deserved no blame?
 
Surely Major Dale's Little Captain should display better courage than to let a crowd of foolish schoolgirls drive her from Glenwood!
 
Dorothy was thinking over the whole miserable¹² affair when a timid knock came to her door.
 
It was too late for any of the girls—perhaps it was Mrs. Pangborn!
 
Dorothy opened the door promptly¹³.
 
Viola Green stood before her—in a nightrobe, with her thick black hair falling about her like a pall¹⁴.
 
"Viola!" whispered Dorothy, as kindly¹⁵ and quietly as if that girl had not stood between her and happiness.
 
"Oh, let me come in," begged the black-eyed girl in a wretched voice. "Quick! Some one may see me!"
 
"What is it?" asked Dorothy, making a chair ready and then turning up the light.
 
"Oh, please don't turn that up," begged the visitor. "I can't stand it! Dorothy, I feel as if I should die!"
 
Dorothy had felt that way herself a moment ago, but now there was someone else to look after; now she must not think of herself. How different it was with Viola! The ability to act is often a wonderful advantage. Viola made excellent use of her talent now.
 
"Dorothy," she began, "I have come to ask a great favor of you. And I do not know how to begin." She buried her face in her hands and left the other to draw out the interview as she might choose to. It was gaining time to lose it in that way.
 
"Is it about your mother?" asked the unsuspecting Dorothy.
 
"Yes, it is," wailed¹⁶ Viola. "It is really about her, although I am in it too."
 
"Is she worse?"
 
"Dreadfully bad"—and in this Viola did not deceive—. "I had a letter to-day—But Oh! Dorothy, promise you will help me!"
 
"I certainly will if I can!" declared Dorothy, warmly, quite anxious about Viola's grief.
 
"Oh, you can—and you are the only one who can! But how will I ask you?" and again Viola buried her white face in her equally white hands.
 
"Tell me what it is," said Dorothy, gently.
 
"Oh, you know that foolish story about the Dalton police

Join or Log In! You need to log in to continue reading

Create a new account   I have a account already

	Create an New Account
Email:  (User Name)
Password:	Letters and numbers only. 6-20 characters.
Retype Password:
Screen Name:	Letters and numbers only. 6-50 Characters.
Confirmation Code:	(Please type in the characters in the green image.)

	Login into Your Account
Email:
Password:
	Remember me on this computer.