CHAPTER XIIIToC
THE SAD AWAKENING
Such a long, lovely sleep, on that fluffy feather bed! Everything so sweet, so wholesome, even in her half-conscious state Dorothy knew that things about her were right—that they were "homey."
Then the smooth-roughness of that woman's hands, the life of them seemed to cry out comfort, while the harsh flesh told another story.
Twice Dorothy had opened her eyes over a pan of chicken broth. She had to take it, and she was glad of it.
Then, outside in the hall room, that was really nothing more nor less than a landing for the unrailed stairs, she thought she could hear the old-fashioned voice of a very old-fashioned man—he wanted to fetch her something, and he didn't seem to care just what.
"Couldn't I git her a hunk of thet sausage that we brung home?" he begged.
"You loon," was his answer. "Are you set on murder? Do you want to kill her outright?"
This repressed his enthusiasm. "Never do I," he declared, "spite of the reward, Samanthy. Don't she look like what our little 'un ought to look like if—she grew to look?"
"You loon! How could you tell what she ought to have looked like when her own mother never saw her try? Oh, Josiah," and the lines of hardship melted into possibilities, "wouldn't it have been lovely—if she did—live—to look!"
"'Tweren't your fault—nor mine, Samanthy. He knows, and mebby thet's why He sent this 'un. Ain't she purty? And I don't care a durn about the sanitarition folks. Of course—if we've found her—and they want her——"
It was a strange sight. Those two wrinkled old faces peering into the blossom that lay on that feather bed!
"Josiah Hobbs! You are an old loon! I can't see how you kin make out that this is heaven-sent," and she brushed a fly from the white forehead.
"Oh—yes—you—kin, Samanthy. Else why did you shoo thet fly?"
"Shet up! Do you want to rouse her?" and she went over, and pulled down the green curtain with the pink rose border.
"Are you sartin thet—she's the one?"
"Didn't I say I seen her? Are there so many cornsilk heads around here? Now, the question is——"
"Jest what I was a-thinkin': The question is——"
"We kin lock this room—and put the bars ag'in the shutters. But I don't want to scare her."
"It's the best, though. We hev got to make it s'cure. I don't 'magine she'll care fer awhile, any way. And then we kin tote her back to the sanitation."
"Well, we'll see. Now, you sneak off and I'll tuck her in. Poor lamb! To think that she's looney!"
"Ain't it a shame! If our'n was alive we wouldn't care if she could think or not—we would think fer her—wouldn't we, Samanthy?"
"Mebby," she answered, giving the quilt a smoothing. "But there's no tellin'. She might have run off——"
The remainder of the soliloquy was lost in the red and white quilt.
There Dorothy slept. The tin dipper of fresh water was on the wooden chair at her side. The green curtain was drawn down to the very sill of the window. The door was shut—and it was hooked on the outside.
How long she slept she could not by any means know, but certainly the sun had sailed around to the window, that wore no curtain, and through which the glint of a fading day cut in like a faithful friend to poor Dorothy Dale.
She groped her way over to the door. It was bolted, and the windows were securely fastened.
The awful truth forced itself into her fagged brain. She was a prisoner! Why? What had she done? Wasn't that woman kind? And did not the man go to the spring for water? She heard him say so, and he was a feeble old man. Why was she locked—barred in that smothering attic room?
She picked up a heavy block that lay near, and with it rapped vigorously on the bare floor.
A shuffling of feet on the stairs told that she had been heard, and presently the not unkindly face of Samanthy Hobbs made its way into the room.
"Why am I locked in?" gasped Dorothy. "Why do you not let me go back to my friends?"
"Hush there, now, dearie," and she smoothed the hand that lay idly on the red and white quilt, as Dorothy stood beside the bed. "You'll be all right. Don't you go and get bothered. We've sent fer the doctor, and when he comes, he'll fetch you right home to your maw. But you have got to keep quiet, or else the fever will set in, and then there's no tellin'. I told Josiah that we would do fer you like as if you was our'n, but you must not talk, dearie. You must be mournful still."
Dorothy looked keenly into the face that leaned over her. What did it mean? Whom did they take her to be?
"Do you know who I am?" she ventured.
"Why of course we do, lovey. But don't you bother to talk. The doctor will be here in the morning, and he'll take you back to your maw."
"I have no mother," sighed Dorothy. "I am a stranger around here, and I hope you will not keep me from my friends. They are probably looking for me now."
"Course they be. But now a little chicken soup? No? Then a sip of tea. It's revivin'. Josiah! Josiah! Come with that milk! How long does it take to milk a brindle cow?"
The fresh milk was brought, and crowded upon the already well-filled wooden chair.
"Thank you very much," murmured Dorothy, "but I cannot eat or drink. I must go to my friends!"
In spite of her will the tears came. At the sight of them the woman shuffled off. Evidently tears were too much for Samanthy Hobbs.
"I'll leave you a candle—no, I guess I had better jest raise the lattice, and if you wants anything I'll hear you if you knocks. Don't you worry, dearie. Samanthy Hobbs ain't no—well, she ain't, that's all!"
Then Dorothy was alone—all alone in the stuffy room. Could she escape; get out of a window—anything to be in the free open air, and to run—run back to dear old camp?
She tried every crack, every window, the old door, even the hole that opened out on the slant roof.
Barred! Locked! Everything was locked against her!
"Oh, must I die here?" she murmured. Then she fell back on the bed, on the red and white quilt. Sobbing, too weak to cry, too weak to think, but not too weak to know!
CHAPTER XIVToC
TAVIA'S MISTAKE
Meanwhile Tavia Travers, the light-hearted, reckless Tavia, realized that she had made a dreadful mistake. It was the second afternoon since she had left the camp, and she was at the railroad station, waiting for something unforseen to develop that would enable her to get back to her friends.
It was such a lonely place—away out there in the woods, and she had spent one awful night locked up in that station!
"I'll walk," she declared, "if I cannot get away from here before dark!"
Walk! Fifteen miles to Innernook! With hardly a chance of a single town in between!
It was at the little rustic bridge that she had met the man, according to the appointment made under the harvest apple tree.
"Come with me and I will prove to you that what I say is absolutely correct," he declared. "I have an old uncle out at Breakaway, and he will tell you about the fortune with his own lips—I shall make him do so."
"But is it far?" Tavia had demurred, for she did not just like that glassy stare in the man's eyes, handsome though he was.
"Only a pleasant little train ride—it will do you good to get away from this place. They call it camp—I would call it 'cramp,'" and he chuckled at his attempted joke.
Tavia had not been inclined to go. He had seen that she hesitated.
"Well, if you think I am not brotherly enough, I can take you to my sister Belle. She is surely sisterly enough—she will meet us at Durham."
This had convinced Tavia. Surely if they met his sister at the first station, there could be no harm in her going. And though the story about the fortune might be vapory, it was fun to have had such an experience—to actually run away!
Poor foolish Tavia! Was it fun to run away?
At the station, of course, there had been no sister Belle, but Tavia could not turn back now. This man seemed so compelling—so completely her master! What was his strange power?
On they had gone, he telling all sorts of absurd stories about the money, which, he claimed, was actually secreted in his uncle's house. But long before he reached the station at Breakaway Tavia had decided that he was insane—and that she had been insane not to have realized this awful truth before.
Then she knew that she must humor him—what might happen if she crossed this strange man of iron will, who had only to ask her to do such a ridiculous thing and she did it?
To run away from camp! Fun! Yes, it was funny, very——
"When we get to the station I will go on ahead," he had said, to her immense relief. "Then, when I have told uncle you are coming, and I have gotten him into his good clothes—uncle is very vain when there are ladies around—then I shall return for you," and he had waved himself like a tall young sapling, in that conceited self-conscious pose peculiar to the stage and to—but Tavia was not sure. Perhaps, after all, he might not be altogether unbalanced.
With many protestations of his earnestness he had left her at the little railroad station, and as she saw him saunter down the tan-barked path, she had been glad; then again she was sorry.
It was dreadful to be all alone there, and night coming on. Even the station was locked; to whom could she go or whom could she ask for money to get back to the dear old camp?
For two long hours she had sat there, then the old station agent hobbled along, and opened the ticket office. Tavia told him something of her plight, but instead of saying that she had come away from her friends on the word of a perfect stranger, she pardonably made the man out to be a distant cousin.
"Hum! That fellow with the long hair? Well, I guess they'll git him to-night. He's got loose from the sanitarium on the hill, and there's been a lot of looking for him in the last two weeks. Seems to me he's jest about toured the country," said the old man as he dusted the window shelf with his cap. "I reckon they'll git him now. And you was out with that chap?"
"Why—yes, no, that is——"
"Your cousin, eh? Say, miss, he ain't nobody's cousin. But like as not he thinks he is cousin to the president himself."
"If I could only borrow a dollar!" sighed Tavia.
"Well, you could if I hadn't been caught with that trick twice this summer. Why, if I gave you a dollar, girl, you would make me believe I was your cousin, too."
This retort angered Tavia, and she determined to ask no further favors from this old man. Though he did wear the uniform of a Civil War veteran, he certainly had poor manners.
"What will happen?" she asked herself, confident that something must happen to relieve the situation.
"The best I kin do," growled the old station agent, "will be to fetch you a bite to eat back from my boardin' house; and then let you sleep here till mornin'——"
"Sleep alone in a station!" exclaimed Tavia. "I'm not afraid of anything—but—I don't believe I'd like to stay in this—place all night. I have a horror of rats."
"Rats! No rats around here. I've got the best cat in the country. Switch is his name, an' that's him—he's no slouch."
"But shut up alone with a big strange cat——" and Tavia looked at the animal curled up under the beautifully-blacked and summer-shined stove.
"Well, you kin do as you please, miss, but there ain't no more trains your way to-night, supposin' you did have a ticket."
Tavia looked out over the gloom that was quickly descending upon the little hamlet. Soon it would be night! No one but that station agent in sight! No place to go, but over the hills to his boarding house, or perhaps to some farm house; where, should she have the courage to make her way through the fields up to a cabin, perhaps fierce dogs, that were already howling and barking, would become more her enemies than would be the cat, and the solitude of the station.
"And is there no church—no minister's house where a stranded girl might get shelter?"
"Nice young girls don't often get stranded," replied the old man not unreasonably, "and if I was you I'd keep my trouble purty much to myself. You kin depend upon Sam Dixon. If I say I'll do a thing I'll do it; and no harm will come to you in this here station for a night. Besides, I come over for the ten o'clock train, and I'm back for the milk train before daylight."
Something about this speech convinced Tavia she was unfortunate, and it would be best to keep her trouble to herself, for what would strangers care about her predicament? Could she deny that it was through her own fault that she had been thus situated?
"I'm goin' along now, and say," said the agent, "if you like I'll just lock the office, and give you the outside door key. There ain't no tramps, but if you should be timid, before I come back, just turn the key in the door."
"Oh, thank you," Tavia was compelled to say, for this was a condescension; "I'm sure I shall not be afraid—in the twilight."
"Well, take the key anyhow," and locking the inner office he came out in the open room. "I'll fetch you a bite—I'm glad I ain't got no gals to—get left over from way trains."
How Tavia Travers ever choked down the biscuit and the slice of ham that Sam Dixon brought back to her that night—how she actually fondled old gray Switch, and was glad of his friendly purring during that long, dreary night, as she lay cuddled up in the very farthest corner bench—how the night did, after all, go by, and a very gray dawn bring the welcome step or limp of the station agent, only Tavia—poor unfortunate Tavia—could ever know!
And it was the next day—daylight at last!
To-day she must get back to camp if she had to walk!
Oh, she must get back! Surely something would happen to assist her!
CHAPTER XVToC
WHEN THE TRAIN CAME IN
In a very dark corner of the station Tavia found a broken washbowl, and from the water pail she carried two cups full of water, with which to refresh her worn and haggard face.
Sam Dixon had brought her word that she might ride back to his boarding house with him, and share his coffee, but she was to say that she was his niece, and that she was on her way to her grandmother's, "like little red riding hood," chuckled Sam, when he disclosed his plan.
Tavia cared little for coffee, but she was weak, and the fear of being again left in the station alone prompted her to accept the well-meant invitation. In fact, she had in her hours of desolation become quite fond of the little old man with the blackthorn cane.
"Yes, I'll go gladly," she answered, and his pleasure could not be doubted.
Accordingly, when the milk train had pulled out, and the station was again locked, Tavia jumped into the narrow carriage beside the old man, and, asking if he would not like to have her drive, she pulled up the reins, and they started off.
Here was a new experience. If only now she could forget the agony that Dorothy must be experiencing, it would not be so dreadful to go at this early morning hour, over the dewy roads, in the ramshackle buggy with her benefactor at her side.
"At any rate," she thought to herself, "I'll have a good story to tell when I do get back to camp."
"Is your place far?" she asked of Sam, more for the sake of talking than of asking.
"Not so very. You see, it has always been rather rough out this way—lumbermen and the like always puttin' up at Dobson's. That's why I thought you was better off in the station, than to try to make your way about last night. And some of them rough fellows stop at my place—that's Dobson's—so while they're out now is your chance to get a hot drink."
As he spoke, a rough man, indeed, passed the carriage in which Tavia and Sam were riding! Wasn't he rough! Tavia instinctively shrugged up closer to the old man beside her.
"Uncle Sam, was that a—woodman?"
Tavia fell in quite naturally to calling the station agent Uncle Sam.
"Yep, he's one of the sort," taking care to keep his smile focussed on the man, who although he was going in the opposite direction was able to keep his eye on Tavia. "You see they are the most suspicious set—takes a man a lifetime to know them, a woman an eternity, and then she has to depend upon their good nature."
Tavia smiled, and hurried the old horse until his ears "sassed her back." They jogged along—every moment nature was getting more and more wideawake, until Tavia feared she would really wake up to the magnitude of her own personal offence, everything else seemed so straightforward and so upright!
Why in the world had she ever listened to the ravings of that man with the soft hat and the hard smile?
After all, Dorothy must be right—and she, Tavia, was wrong. Yes, it was indisputably wrong to do the things that had seemed so smart before—things that Dorothy could never laugh at.
She sighed heavily. Sam heard it.
"What's wrong?" he asked, looking over his glasses, and under his wrinkles.
"Oh, nothing," Tavia sighed further. "Only I am wondering what my friends are thinking—of—me—about me."
"Well, there's scarcely any doubt about that think," he replied. "Like as not they think you are drowned—no good friend would ever think you were—stranded!"
Sam's logic was irresistible. Tavia had not thought of this contingency; they might think her drowned!
"I must hurry to get back," she said suddenly. "I wonder could I do any little work, at your boarding house, to earn the price of my—ticket?"
"You couldn't manage to stay over until the afternoon, do you think? I have some mending I'd be mighty glad to get done—and then I could give you a ticket," said Sam.
"Oh, that would be splendid!" exclaimed Tavia. "I would willingly wait over even if I had a chance to go sooner, for you have been so good to me, Uncle Sam," she said warmly. "I shouldn't want to go until I had done something for you."
"Then it's a bargain. While you're eatin' your coffee, I'll grab up the things, and you kin mend over in the station. We'll stick to the story that you are my niece, and you kin come inside the office and mend all you like, and it ain't nobody's business. You see, sister died last year, and I ain't had nobody to fix up the things for me since."
"I'll be very glad to do what I can," said Tavia, "but I never was much good at sewing. However, I'll do the very best I can, Uncle Sam."
"Sure you will, and that'll be all right. Here we are. Now, you just wait while I get the horse's oats, and then we'll get ours."
The house before which he drew up was of the old Colonial type—the posts had been white, and imposing at some time, but they were now neither white nor any other true color. Also, they threatened to topple over on the vines, that so kindly did their part in trying to make the old place look alive.
An old man sat on the porch, smoking his pipe. Sam Dixon spoke to him as he passed around the house to get the horse his breakfast. Presently a woman, enveloped in gingham dress, and lost in a gingham sunbonnet, came out and stood in wonderment, looking at Tavia. She glared at her for a moment or two, and then, without speaking a word, entered the house again. This was not a very cordial welcome for Tavia, but she patted the horse, and pretended not to notice the slight. Then Sam came limping along with the oats in a nose bag for Major.
"Now eat," ordered Sam, "and——" Then it struck him that he had not fixed on a name for his "niece." Tavia saw his embarrassment, but before she could suggest a name, he added, "Betsy, you and me's hungry too, I reckon. Let's see what Sarah has to eat in the kitchen."
"All right, Uncle Sam," replied "Betsy," with a smile, "I am hungry."
They entered the house, and soon were seated on the old-fashioned hickory chairs, before some steaming cakes, and equally steaming coffee. Tavia was indeed hungry, and she "fell to," as did Sam, without any unnecessary ceremony.
How strange it was! But what if the folks at camp thought her drowned? At any rate she must earn her ticket back.
What an eternity it seemed since she stole away to that little bridge—she could not bear to think of it now! And what would Dorothy think. Ah, how little Tavia knew what poor Dorothy was thinking at that very moment!
"Now, when you're ready, we'll hop along," said Sam as Sarah came in the room, and looked to see if her guests would take more coffee. "How's things to-day, Sarah?"
"Ain't you heard?" she replied ambiguously.
"No, what?" pressed Sam.
"Why, a girl has 'scaped from the hospital. 'Tain't very safe fer a strange girl to be around here now. It might be her," and she shot an unmistakable threat at Tavia. "Ain't never heard you speak, before, of Betsy, Sam. Where's she bin?"
"Say, Sarah. Is there any money up fer findin' the girl?" he asked, and there was no mistaking his meaning. "'Cause it ain't no use fer you to—speculate on Betsy. She's no house-pital breakaway."
But Sarah looked at Tavia with unveiled suspicion. Tavia felt it—and the thought that she was a stranger, and might be mistaken for the escaped girl, made her most uncomfortable.
It was a relief when Sam returned from up-stairs, his articles that needed mending done up in a clumsy bundle, and his hat cocked on his head with the army badge over the back of his neck.
CHAPTER XVIToC
A HARROWING EXPERIENCE
When Dorothy awoke, to find herself still in that attic room, to know that it was not all an awful dream, but a terrible reality, the full meaning her position flooded into her strained mind, like some awful deluge of horror!
That the people who held her captive did so for some undefinable reason was perfectly clear; but why they did so, was just as mysterious as was their reason for plying her with coddling words, as if she were a baby.
Realizing that they would not let her go her way, Dorothy determined, as she lay there, with the moonlight making queer shadows on the slant wall, that she would escape that day!
How little did Tavia know of the danger into which she had thrown her best friend!
"And I wonder," thought Dorothy, "if Tavia is safely back at camp? And what do the folks think of me?"
A sigh, as deep as it was sincere, escaped from her lips, and she crawled out of bed to see if daylight was near.
"Such a long night!" she sobbed, "and to think that I am a prisoner!"
The low windows were shut, and the air of the room was stifling. Dorothy groped around to see if she might find the candle that she had noticed on the stand, but it was gone.
"They haven't even left me a match," she told herself. "Did they think I would eat matches?"
Then she decided she would raise a window if she had to break it open. A curtain roller lay on the floor. With this she tried to pry up the uncertain sash, and in doing so she fell over a low stool.
The noise disturbed the folks in the lower rooms, for directly Dorothy heard a shuffle of feet on the stairs.
At first she felt indignant, then her helplessness prompted caution, and she hurried into bed.
The door opened softly.
"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Hobbs, who, as Dorothy could see, was enveloped in a robe of the same pattern as that which she herself wore. "Did you call?"
"Oh, thank you. I only wanted a little air," replied Dorothy. "Couldn't we open a window?"
"Well, perhaps we had best not, dearie," replied the woman. "There might be a draught."
"I wish there was," Dorothy could not help replying. Then she quickly added: "Don't you think fresh air is very good at this warm season?"
"Oh, yes, for some folks," said Mrs. Hobbs, tucking the warm bed clothes more warmly about the sweltering girl. "But, you see—well, this room—we don't always open the windows—fer company."
"I will be able to go back to my friends in the morning," said Dorothy promptly. "I am sure it has been very kind of you to take care of me as you have done."
"Now, don't talk too much dearie," ordered the woman. "You see, head troubles—that is, when a girl falls on her head—she has got to be dreadful careful, fer a long time."
"Oh, my head is not hurt," declared Dorothy, as she leaned upon her elbow. "I feel able to walk back to camp now."
"Camp?" asked the woman.
"Why, yes. Didn't you know I came from a camp out Everglade way? I was with one of the other girls from camp when I—got lost," finished Dorothy quite helplessly.
"Some folks don't call them places 'camps,'" Mrs. Hobbs ventured. "But of course the name ain't got anything to do with it."
"What do they call them?" pressed Dorothy.
"Oh, now, you never mind. You will be all right. Jest go off to sleep, and as soon as Josh milks, I'll fetch you a nice drink of the warm suds—it's splendid fer nerves."
Dorothy was completely mystified. Perhaps the old woman was queer, and she might better humor her.
"Well, I may sleep a little more," she said, "and then when daylight comes, I shall be ready to start off. Would you mind handing me my jacket. It has my purse in it, and I want to make sure that it is all right."
Samanthy Hobbs hobbled over to where Dorothy's clothes lay in a heap. She fumbled through the garments, and Dorothy distinctly saw her take the beaded purse in her hand.
"That's it," said Dorothy.
"No pocketbook here," replied the woman.
"Why, that little beaded bag I saw you take from my pocket; that is my purse!"
"Ain't no sign of sech a thing here," declared the woman, who was at that very moment trying to secret the purse in the folds of her robe.
Dorothy was more puzzled than ever. Would this woman steal her pocketbook? How could she ever get away from the place if penniless?
"Give me that purse," the girl demanded, jumping up out of bed, and attempting to get hold of the beaded trifle.
"Josh! Josh!" called the woman. "Come up here and help me! She's gettin' vi'lent!"
"Violent!" repeated Dorothy, "I ought to get—crazy, to be shut up here—this way."
"Well, dearie, I didn't want to scare you," said the woman, in that tantalizing voice, "but if I was you, I wouldn't get any crazier than I was—if I was you."
"Crazy! Do you think I'm crazy? Is that it?" and poor Dorothy fell back upon the bed.
Fortunately Josiah did not hear his wife call, and of course did not come in answer.
"There now, there now!" and Mrs. Hobbs smoothed out the bed things. "I will fetch you some nice, warm milk. And perhaps to-day I'll be able to send you back to your ma."
"I have no mother," insisted Dorothy. "I told you that my name is Dorothy Dale, and my father is Major Dale of the United States army. If any one attempts to—wrong me, he will see that they are punished."
With all the vehemence she could muster up Dorothy spoke these words, and she saw that they had some effect upon Mrs. Hobbs. Would she believe her, and let her go?
"Well, of course, you are a stranger to me," said the woman, "and, as I live, girlie, I intend to do right by you. But it's finding out the right that sometimes makes the wrong."
"Oh, I am sure Mrs. Hobbs you have been kind," Dorothy said, in a sobbing voice, "but you see how dreadfully hard it is to be kept away from one's friends. Why, I don't dare to think how they feel! How my cousins are worrying, and, of course, they have sent word to father. Oh, dear Mrs. Hobbs, help me to get back! Help me to get away to-day, for if I don't—they will think I am—dead!"
Dorothy had actually seized the woman's hands, and was almost kneeling before her. To be away for two days and a night!
The woman looked keenly into Dorothy's blue eyes. She smoothed back the pretty, neglected yellow hair, and she brushed the flaming cheek kindly. "I would not harm you for the world," she declared, "for if you are not the lost girl—you are—an angel!"
"Here, Samanthy!" called Josiah, from below stairs. "Come and git me a cup of coffee. I ain't got all day to wait around! I've got to git to town!"
"All right, Josh. I'll be there right away. Now, dearie, jest you be patient, and everything will come out all right."
"But can't I have a window open? I am almost smothered. You know I am used to almost living out doors."
"Well," then, she whispered, "wait till Josh gets off and I'll slip up and fix you. He's awfully fussy about some things."
There was nothing for Dorothy to do but wait. But how long it seemed! How close the day was, as the sun opened up on that hot roof! Oh, if she did not get away, surely she would go crazy!
She could hear the old farmer grumbling. Evidently he was not pleased about something. But Mrs. Hobbs was cautioning him not to speak so loud. Of course they were afraid of being overheard. "If she opens the window," Dorothy decided, "I'll drop to the piazza roof! Then I can escape! Oh, I must escape!"
She dare not, however, make any preparations to get away until after the farmer had gone to town; until after Mrs. Hobbs had opened the window and until after—she hoped this would happen—after Mrs. Hobbs went off to the fields for her berries.
CHAPTER XVIIToC
STRANGER STILL
"You kin mend furst rate, Betsy," complimented old Sam Dixon, as Tavia plied her needle in the little ticket office, "and do you know, I've taken quite a shine to you? You might be my niece if you liked. I have a penny or two, and there ain't no pockets in shrouds."
Tavia looked up in surprise! After all, might there be "a fortune" somewhere for her or for her family? The thought seemed too absurd.
"Why, Uncle Sam, what do you mean?" she asked.
"Even Sam Dixon can't live forever, sis, and you know it's sort of lonely to think, that, when he goes, there won't be no one to think of him, like he thinks of them. That's why I want your name and address. But there comes the train from the city. Would you mind attendin' to the window while I run out with the mail bag?"
"Certainly I will—I know where the tickets are, and can ask you the price if any one wants to buy one." Wasn't it queer to sell tickets?
But that was the train to the city!
"Oh, Uncle Sam!" called Tavia. "Isn't that the train I should go on?"
"Without giving me your address?" and he was running down the platform with the mail bag. "Couldn't you wait till the next?"
There seemed nothing else to do! But to stay longer away from camp?
Well, she might as well be content now. It was too late to get a ticket, too late to say good-bye to Sam, too late to do anything but attend to the people who came in the station after the train pulled out.
"Have you seen the carriage from the sanitarium?"
The speaker, who had just alighted from the train, addressed Tavia, but the latter was so surprised that she caught her finger in the ticket stamper. Before the little window stood a young woman in the garb of a nurse—and she wanted the carriage from the sanitarium.
"If you will wait a minute or two the agent will be back," said Tavia in her very nicest voice. "He is just putting the mail on the train."
"Dear me!" and the nurse turned away. Then she returned. "Are you his daughter?"
"No, his—his niece," quibbled Tavia. What else could she do just then? And didn't Sam say he would adopt her?
"Well, since you are going to be around here we may as well get acquainted—I shall probably have plenty of calls at the station. I see you are the whole service outfit. The telephone, telegraph, and, I suppose, the—Press Bureau."
"Oh, yes," replied Tavia, not grasping the sarcasm of the "Press" remark. "Uncle Sam has a great deal to attend to."
The nurse laughed to show her pretty teeth, Tavia thought. She was pretty, and her immaculate white linen was immensely becoming.
"My name is—Bell—Mary Bell," she said, "and yours is——"
"Betsy Dixon," replied Tavia. (Oh, what a tangled web we weave!)
"What a charming name—Betsy Dixon! Quite like a—bullet from Molly Pitcher's gun," said the nurse. Tavia smiled but failed to catch the significance of that remark. Betsy was a good old name. Why like a war bullet?
"Here is the station agent," said Tavia, as Sam limped back. "Uncle Sam, have you seen the carriage from the sanitarium?"
Tavia could not overlook the joy in that name—Uncle Sam. It was so simple, and so mouth-fitting.
"Here it comes," replied Sam, also noting how nicely Tavia fell into her role. "But is this the new nurse? I have an important message for Miss Bennet. That's her—in the carriage."
"Miss Bennet! Why, she's my classmate! I never expected to find her, out here in the hills," spoke the stranger.
The carriage drew up to the little platform. Miss Bennet alighted and Miss Bell hurried out to meet her.
"Oh, you dear thing!"—this was very extravagant for trained and graduated nurses—"to think I should meet you here! Isn't it just too nice!" It was Miss Bell who said that.
"Why, Mary Bell!" replied Miss Bennet. "How glad I am to see you! And what a surprise! You are the new nurse! And I never knew it. I'm just starting out on such an interesting case! A young girl, the dearest little thing, has escaped from the sanitarium, and I came out with the carriage to hunt her up. We had word last night that an old farmer—named Hobbs—had caught her. It may not be true, but I am going out there to see. It's a lovely ride. Can you come?"
The girl who escaped! Tavia remembered Sarah's story.
"Miss Bennet, I have a message for you," said Sam, very slowly. "It came in over the wire a half hour ago." And he handed her the yellow slip of paper.
Miss Bennet looked at it.
"Oh, my!" she gasped. "My mother!" and she dropped upon a nearby bench. "She—is—dying!"
Her face turned as white as the linen she wore. Instinctively Tavia ran for the water at the corner of the room. Miss Bell snatched up a paper and started to fan her.
"There, dear, don't faint," said the new nurse. "Of course, you must go to her."
"But! I must go after the escaped girl!" gasped Miss Bennet, and she again almost swooned. "Oh, my darling mother! All I have in the whole, wide world!"
"You go to her. Take my coat and hat, and I will take your case. Agent, what time does a train leave for Mountainview?" She had the telegram in her hand.
"In just two minutes. There's the bell now."
"Come Laura, get into this coat and take my hat. You will reach home before anything serious happens, and perhaps, when your dear mother sees you——. We must hope for the best."
Laura Bennet slipped into her friend's coat and took the little Panama hat that Miss Bell handed to her. "Then you will go after the girl and return her to the sanitarium? It will be your first case. Can you manage it?"
"Certainly I will. You run along for the train. Have you a ticket? Mountainview," she called to Tavia.
Tavia stamped the ticket. Sam was inside, but she had it ready before he had made his way to the window.
"And how shall I know the girl?" asked Miss Bell.
"Know her? Oh, yes! Why, you can't mistake her. She's the prettiest little thing, with yellow hair and blue eyes—there is not another like her. Oh, how frightened I am! It is so good of you, Mary!"
And she was on the train.
Miss Bell got into the wagon with the driver from the sanitarium. Tavia was wishing that the drive had been in the other direction, for then she could have gone in the carriage perhaps, and have caught a train at the switch station. That she was staying so long away from camp now began to worry her. What would Dorothy think!
"Uncle Sam, couldn't I get a train earlier by going over to the station I heard you telephone to?" she asked. "I don't mind a good walk."
"Why, yes, that's so," replied Sam. "Of course I'd like to keep you, Betsy. You make a first-class assistant agent. But I know how you feel, and I wouldn't have you stay longer than you wanted to. There'll be a train here soon for the Junction, and if you are sure you can make the other—you'll have to flag it with your handkerchief—then, if you get left, there will be no train either way. I don't know as you ought to risk it."
"Oh, I can manage very well," she assured him. "I'll take the train, and get the other from the Junction, all right. I am so much obliged to you. I would love to stay longer, if I could, but perhaps I may be able to come up again while I'm at camp." She tried to fix up a little, it was so miserable to have had one's clothes on all night.
"Well, there's the train," and he pulled open the switch, which was operated by a lever in the ticket office. "Good-bye, Betsy, and I won't forget you."
"Nor will I forget you, Uncle Sam," said Tavia with something like real sentiment in her voice. "I am glad I got lost just to have found you."
"Now, don't mix up the instructions," Sam Dixon warned her. "There ain't no agent around the Junction—in fact, there ain't nothin' around there but wild animals."
"Oh, really, wild animals?" she asked in surprise.
"Used to be a great place fer huntin', but beasts don't like the railroad, so you don't need to be afraid of them. Good-bye, Betsy; good-bye!"
And Tavia started for camp.