Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays

DOROTHY'S DISTRESS

Complication upon complication!

Dorothy could scarcely think—she was stunned, bewildered.

The thought of Ned's disapproval of Tom's attention to her seemed the most bitter thought of all.

She did love Ned, her own cousin. How could any girl not appreciate the joy of being a cousin to Ned White?

And that he should misunderstand her! Think her frivolous, and even accuse her of flirting!

Dorothy felt that even The Cedars now belonged to Ned, and she, with her father and brothers, were merely his guests.

How ever could she make him understand?

Why are girls neither women nor children in all the troublesome "between" years?

Thoughts of the play, of little Mary's part, then the responsibility of insuring a success, crowded through Dorothy's confused brain.

If the play was a success she had hoped to get little Bennie Baglin into the hospital. He suffered so, and surely could be helped, if not cured, by proper treatment. But the hospital would only accept patients from the Birchlands according as money was contributed from the place, and it would cost considerable to have an incurable (as Bennie was) taken in.

But Dorothy had quietly planned his Christmas. She had saved a little tree from the decorating greens, and had already gathered and bought enough trinkets to trim it.

"If only Ned is not badly hurt," she prayed as the night grew very late. "I do wish they would come."

The sound of automobile wheels on the path answered her wish. The next moment she was at the door.

"Open both doors," Mrs. White said to Major Dale, who stood beside Dorothy. "He cannot walk, and must not be jarred."

Tom and Dr. Whitethorn carried the injured boy into the library.

"How's that?" asked the doctor as Ned fell back amid the cushions of a couch.

"All—right," replied the latter with evident effort.

"Now just keep quiet, and don't attempt to move unaided," said the doctor, "and we'll see how it is in the morning. I think, Mrs. White, you might make him comfortable to-night on this floor. It will be safer."

Ned was very pale. Dorothy could not bear to see his white face with the deep dark rings under his eyes. Tom did what he could, and then was ready to leave.

He took Dorothy's arm and led her out into the hall.

"See here, little girl," he began, "you are not to blame yourself in any way for this. If any one was at fault it was I. I saw how he—felt, and should not have tantalized him."

"It was simply an accident," argued Dorothy feebly.

"Oh, you must have imagined that," answered Dorothy. "Ned is sensitive, but not—unreasonable."

Tom pressed her hand warmly in parting. The action brought warm color to her cheeks. He was trying to cheer her, of course, but Ned would not have liked it.

When the doctor had left, Mrs. White told the major that her son's hip was hurt.

"And that does take so long to mend," she lamented. "The hip is such a network of ligaments."

Acting on the doctor's advice, the injured young man was made comfortable in the library for the night. Nat wanted to stay with him—there were plenty of divans and couches that might be used in the emergency—but Mrs. White insisted upon caring for the boy herself. She noticed he was becoming feverish, and so hurried the others off to bed that the house might be quiet.

Dorothy took Ned's warm hand in hers and touched his forehead with her lips. But she knew better than to utter one word—he must be quiet, very quiet.

Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed. Her heart was very full, everything seemed dark and gloomy now. All the difficulties of yesterday were engulfed in that one sorrow—Ned's accident. Dorothy seemed unable to pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the little tragedy.

"If only I had told Tom—asked him not to! But how could I do that?" she argued against argument. "What would he think of Ned? Of me?"

A step in the hall roused her from her reverie. There was a slight tap on the door, then Tavia entered. Although it was late she was still entirely dressed, and her face showed she had been crying.

"Dorothy," she said, her voice trembling and the tears welling into her eyes, "I must—go home!"

"Why?" asked Dorothy, surprised and startled.

"Dad says so. I must go first thing in the morning."

"Your letter?"

"Has anything happened?"

"Yes, and no. Father has—misunderstood some letters of mine. He found them since I came away—and he blames me—— Oh, Doro!" and Tavia covered her face with her hands. "How I wish I had told you before!"

Tavia was sobbing bitterly. Instantly there came to Dorothy's mind the thought of Miss Brooks' warning, her advice to tell Tavia before it was too late, before all the harm was done. And had she delayed too long? Even that one day might have been sufficient time in which the threatened danger had become a certainty.

"Tavia, dear, don't go on so! It cannot be—so very dreadful."

"Oh, but it is! I never should have done such a thing. I knew better, and I tried to convince myself that I did not. Then I should never have taken your money. Oh, Doro, I deceived you, and I have deceived everybody!"

"You are excited and everything seems worse to you now, dear. Try to be calm and tell me how I can help you."

"Perhaps we can arrange it so you will not have to go," said Dorothy in her own way of promptly attempting to save Tavia from the consequences of her own folly. "It is all about money, I know."

"You know?"

"Yes; Miss Brooks told me that much."

"Miss Brooks told you!"

"She merely said you were in some difficulty and asked me to advise you—to tell your father all about it," Dorothy said cautiously.

"Miss Brooks has no right to interfere!" snapped Tavia, immediately taking offense. "Advice is always cheap!"

"But she surely did it out of kindness," continued Dorothy, "and she really seemed very much concerned."

"I don't want to hear or know anything more about that—person. She is evidently trying to cover up her little mistake in putting a ring in the wrong bag. She knows absolutely nothing about me—she is merely guessing."

"But why did you not do so? Why do you not do so now?"

"I suppose she told you that I——"

"She told me nothing," interrupted Dorothy, "but that you had made some mistake in a money matter and then suggested that the way for you to rectify it would be to write to your father and tell him all about it."

"I wonder she did not essay to do that herself—she seems perfectly qualified to attend to it all for me."

"Now, Tavia," began Dorothy, assuming a voice at once commanding and kind, "it is utterly useless for you to take that view of the matter. If you dislike Miss Brooks' interference, pay no attention to it. Do what you think best. Look the whole question squarely in the face, and then decide."

All Tavia's contrition and her determination to do what was right, which sentiment had entirely possessed her when she entered the room, seemed to have gone with the mention of Miss Brooks' name.

"If she has told Dorothy," thought Tavia, "there is no need for me to repeat it."

BETWEEN THE LINES

When Tavia had left her, Dorothy felt utterly helpless in facing the problems that now confronted her.

"One thing is certain," Dorothy told herself. "Tavia must not go home. In her state of mind, and with her temper, there is no telling what she might do—leave home, or something else dreadful. If I could only see Squire Travers first," she argued, "I am sure I could manage it some way."

"But I cannot possibly go to Dalton now," she decided, "with Ned sick, and the play to-morrow night.

"And how can I persuade Tavia not to go? I suppose she has her bag packed already."

Dorothy seemed incapable of reasoning further. She threw herself down on her bed and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, as if expecting some inspiration to come from the dainty blue and gold papering.

She jumped up suddenly.

"I wonder how Ned is?" she thought. "If only he is not seriously hurt. The doctor said if he slept, and no fever arose, he would do well. I wonder how I can find out. I might slip downstairs and listen."

She drew her heavy blue robe around her, put on her slippers and softly opened the door. There was no light in the upper hall, and a turn from the first flight of stairs hid the dim light below. Directly at this turn a push-button connected with an electric drop lamp, and this button Dorothy touched as she passed.

At the broad window-seat she hesitated for a moment, looked out at the clear, wintry night, and then slipped down the stairs so lightly that even the cushioned velvet carpet took no impress of her footfall.

At the last step she stopped—a terrible fear clutched her heart. The library door was open, but no sound came from the room.

She would just go to the library door——

Involuntarily she turned toward the vestibule. A strange sensation of some one watching her from without possessed her, terrified her, and at the same instant a light tap sounded upon the plate-glass door.

Some one was watching her!

For the moment Dorothy could not move or utter a sound. Then the thought of her sick cousin brought her back to a realization of the emergency. She must answer the knock and not arouse any one.

Summoning all her self-control Dorothy moved toward the front door. Only the glass and a thin lace drapery separated her from without, as the storm door had been left open. Some one stood within the small entrance hall—the shadow was clearly outlined.

She drew aside the lace curtain.

There stood Tom Scott!

"Open the door," he whispered "I—don't want to detain you."

"I had no idea of startling you," began Tom, without waiting for her to speak, "but I have been so anxious! I've been watching the house, and when I saw the light flash upstairs I felt as if something must have happened. The doctor said by midnight——"

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, now realizing the cause of Tom's unexpected visit, "I was coming downstairs to see how he was. If you just wait I'll peek in at the door and see. Won't you step inside?"

"Oh, no, indeed," Tom replied in an undertone. "I had no idea of disturbing any one. I thought just to look around the house and see if all was well. I am on my way home from the telegraph office. Aunt Margaret thought of an important message which she insisted had to go out to-night."

Dorothy turned toward the library. Scarcely had she rounded the alcove when Tom noticed some one at the top of the stairs.

It was Tavia.

She stood for a moment looking at Tom, then she nodded her head in a friendly way and disappeared as quietly as she had come.

Dorothy was coming back now, and she was smiling.

"Sound asleep," she whispered.

"Good," breathed Tom. "Now I won't keep you another second. Awfully good of you to let me in."

"Not at all," stammered Dorothy. "I was just a little frightened first. I will know better than to light up at midnight again."

"The midnight alarm!" quoted Tom, making his way out. "Don't stand in the draft. It's cold enough. Good-night!"

Then he was gone.

Dorothy flew back to her room, agitated, but comforted that Ned was resting. This knowledge seemed to assure her that he was not seriously injured, and now she took up the Tavia question.

"She must not go home," Dorothy repeated. "I will see if she is still up."

A glimmer of light stole under Tavia's door. Dorothy tapped lightly, but opened the door unbidden. She found her chum bent over pen and paper, but as Dorothy came in Tavia dropped the pen and looked up in surprise.

"I cannot," answered Tavia. "I must go."

"Oh, please, Tavia, do listen! If you go, what will you say? What will you do?"

"I don't know."

"Tavia!" pleaded Dorothy, a note of distress in her voice.

The two girls looked into each other's eyes. Dorothy's were brimful, but Tavia's were too "frozen" for tears.

"Tavia, dear," whispered Dorothy.

Tavia's arm stole about Dorothy's neck. She touched the flushed cheek with her dry lips. Then she straightened up in an attitude of defiance.

THE ENTERTAINMENT

How the following day passed Dorothy did not want to remember. From the early morning, when she sent the telegram to Mr. Travers, stating that Tavia could not possibly leave, and that a letter to follow would explain, until the hour set for the charity performance, the girl was in one continuous whirl of excitement.

Ned's accident did not prove to be as serious as had been feared, although there was no possibility of him being about for several days, at least.

In the excitement and emergency Tavia had marshaled all her individual forces, and proved herself worthy to be a friend and chum of Dorothy Dale. With her change of heart—her resolution to "stick to Dorothy"—there seemed to come to her a new power, or, at least, it was a return of the power with which she had previously been accredited.

The characters which Ned was to have impersonated were divided among the other young men, it being necessary of course, to "double up" on three or four parts. Agnes Sinclair openly deplored her loss of a partner, but the others smiled incredulously when she said she preferred to play with Ned and "hated that big bear, Tom Scott."

Tom made this his excuse for being particularly "grizzly" with the pretty Agnes, and at the afternoon rehearsal he nearly went through the big gilt picture frame, in which the illustrations were posed, when he attempted to introduce a little impromptu "business" in "The Maiden all Forlorn."

Then when Roland attempted to do "There was a Man in Our Town," another of Ned's parts, his efforts were so absurd and so utterly unlike what the tableau was expected to be, that it was decided to make it "I Had a Little Husband, no Bigger than my Thumb." Roland certainly looked diminutive enough to fit into a pint pot, and also seemed qualified to do as he might be told with the drum.

Finally all was arranged, or rearranged, and the hour for the play was almost at hand.

Dorothy laughed her light, happy laugh. After all, perhaps everything would come out right—it was such a relief to feel that Ned would soon be better. The worry about him was the very worst part of her troubles. Then, suddenly, like the recurrence of an unpleasant dream, the thought of Tom's midnight visit flashed before her mind.

"Oh, I didn't tell you, Tavia," she said quickly. "I had the awfullest scare the other night. I just stole downstairs to see how Ned was, when all at once some one rapped at the vestibule door."

Tavia gazed upon Dorothy, pride and admiration beaming in her deep, hazel eyes.

"Oh, you needn't tell me, Doro," she interrupted. "I saw the midnight marauder, as the poets say. Lucky for him he stood directly under the light."

"Wasn't it—wasn't it kind of him to be—so—so anxious?" went on Dorothy, making fast her scarf picking up her pretty party-bag.

"Perhaps," assented Tavia, smiling broadly.

Nat was waiting at the door. He took particular pains to be nice to Tavia. In fact, most of the difficulties that had for some weeks been accumulating about The Cedars seemed to take wings with the occurrence of Ned's accident. The oft-quoted saying about an "ill wind" was once more being verified, although it was hard for Ned to be left at home.

The house was already crowded when our friends arrived at Mrs. Brownlie's.

"We will have a good attendance," commented Dorothy with a smile of satisfaction. "If we can only make our hundred dollars, and then get little Bennie into the hospital, how lovely it will be!"

"There must be a hundred persons here now," Nat assured her, "and at a dollar per——"

"Oh, do hurry along," interrupted Eva Brownlie. "We are all waiting for you, Dorothy. We were worried to death for fear something else dreadful might have happened."

Eva surely looked like an angel. She was entirely in white, her hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, with a band of gold, in Roman style, confining it at her brow.

"How's the boy?" he inquired kindly. "Has he forgiven me yet?"

"Of course," replied Dorothy, smiling. "He's getting better. But it was hard to leave him alone with his hurt—and Norah. Not that Norah is to be classed with the injuries," she hurried to add, laughing merrily.

"They are waiting for the orchestra," Tom reminded her, taking her music and escorting her to the piano.

The girls, with their violins, were already in place. Dorothy felt some embarrassment in facing a room filled with those she considered critical spectators, for the best society of all the Birchlands, as well as cultured persons from Ferndale near by, had come to the entertainment.

The Brownlie girls played the violins. Dorothy gave them the "A" note, and they put their instruments in tune, with that weird, fascinating combination of chords which prelude the opening strains of enthralling music. Then they began.

Slowly the curtains were drawn aside. The lights had been "doused" as Nat, the acting stage manager, expressed it, and only a dim glow illuminated the tableau.

An immense gilt frame, containing a landscape as a background. In front of that the living pictures were posed. It was Jack Spratt and his Wife—presented by Tavia and Roland.

The audience instantly recognized the illustration, and vigorous applause greeted the tableau. Tavia was surely funny—so fat, and so comical, while Roland looked like a human toothpick. The clean platter was cleaner than even Mother Goose could have wished it, and, altogether, the first picture was an unqualified success.

Tavia was shaking with nervousness when the curtain was pulled together, and when, in response to an imperative demand from the audience, it was parted again, Tavia could scarcely keep from laughing outright. It was one of the difficult pictures, but the girl's talent for theatricals stood her in good stead, while, as for Roland, he seemed too lazy to make any blunders.

Then Little Bo-Peep appeared—fast asleep, lying on some fresh hay from the Brownlie barn. And what a charming picture Dorothy did make!

She wore a light-blue skirt, with a dark bodice, and a big, soft straw hat, tossed back on her head, did not hide the beauty of her abundant locks. Her crook had fallen from her hand, and rested at the bottom of the little mound of hay. It was a delightful representation, and Dorothy seemed actually painted upon the canvas, so naturally did she sleep. Mrs. Brownlie nodded approvingly to Mrs. White. Dorothy's picture was not only pretty, but it artistically perfect.

The audience seemed loath to disturb the little scene by applause, and instead of answering to an encore Dorothy was obliged to keep her Bo-Peep attitude for the length of time that it would have required to present her tableau a second time.

"Great!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I wish Ned could have seen you!"

Dorothy was glad—pardonably glad. She had thought a "solo" difficult, and had doubted her ability to make it attractive, but now she was quite satisfied.

There was some delay in presenting the next number, but the wait was forgotten when the curtains were pulled apart.

It was a depiction of "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater," with Eva's fair head sticking out of an immense paper pumpkin shell. Nat's face, in the character of Peter, was in a most satisfactory smile, consequent, probably, upon his ability to "keep her very well," and it was surely a very funny picture. Eva assumed a distressed look, and was thankful that only her face had to act, for the quarters of the pumpkin shell were rather limited.

Other tableaux followed, each one more or less well impersonated, until Tom and Agnes went at "The Maiden all Forlorn."

Everybody behind the scenes saw it.

"I never want to act with him again!" declared Agnes loudly and scornfully, as she scrubbed her offended cheek with her handkerchief. "Ned White is always a gentleman."

Dorothy was sorry, but it seemed a natural joke. Every one but Agnes thought the same thing, but somehow the forlorn maiden could not be convinced that Tom was simply thoughtless in his joking.

The incident, trifling as it was, somewhat marred the good humor of the players. Roland came near falling for a second time in his "Jack be Nimble." As it was, the big candlestick did topple over just as the curtain bell sounded. Then Edith Brownlie looked decidedly miserable as "The Queen was in the Kitchen, Eating Bread and Honey." She liked Tom Scott—everybody knew that—and now Tom, in addition to having lately favored Dorothy, had kissed Agnes! Of course, the girls, and boys too, teased the sensitive Edith, and she lost interest in her picture.

Her recitation was entitled "Guilty or Not Guilty?" and as she stepped out and made her bow, the house was hushed in silence. In a plaintive voice she began that well-known poem:

How the lines seemed to suit her! Surely the features of Mary were too old for those of a child. Her face had a drawn, pinched look, and her eyes were so deeply set.

But the pathos of her voice! When she pleaded with the judge for mercy against the charge that she was a thief she mentioned the starving children.

Dorothy was delighted at Mary's success. The girl was her "find," and it was she who had taught her how to use her voice so well in the pathetic lines. True, she found an apt pupil in Mary, and Dorothy was but too glad to accord her the entire triumph, when the recitationist bowed again in response to the hearty applause and retired.

A gentleman in the audience left his chair, and, walking over, spoke to Mrs. White. He was Dr. Baker, one of the hospital staff.

"I think I know that child," he said. "Does she not live with an aged couple named Manning?"

"I believe she does," replied Mrs. White, making a place for Dr. Baker to sit down beside her. "My niece Dorothy is much interested in the child—she seems to have a faculty for discovering genius, has Dorothy."

"Well, I have not seen little Mary for some years, but there is no mistaking her. Her mother, an actress, died in one of the charity wards of the hospital, and I am afraid the child has inherited the fatal malady from her mother. She looks now like a consumptive."

Mrs. White was startled. Certainly Mary was delicate in appearance, but she had not thought of her as having a disease.

"Dorothy did not expect to have a real case assisted so promptly," remarked Mrs. White. "It is rather out of the ordinary—a patient playing for her own benefit."

"I suspect that your pretty niece brought this child out with the sole purpose of making her happy," said Dr. Baker, "and she evidently has no idea how much real happiness she is destined to confer on her. Perhaps a month later it would have been too late to save her. Now I think we can, though there is a flush on her cheeks that I do not like."

The curtains were separated to disclose the last number. It was a tableau of all the girls and boys, posing as the "Haymakers." It made a beautiful picture, the girls in their gaily-colored dresses, with great, broad-brimmed hats, and the boys dressed in equally rural costumes.

Dorothy was so glad that it was all over—that this was the last picture. Agnes stood next to her. The curtains were drawn, and then separated again in response to insistent applause. There was a moment more of posing, and then it was all over.

A STRANGE CONFESSION

Had Agnes actually struck her, Dorothy could not have been more surprised. In the excitement and confusion of the finish of the performance, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for Dorothy to resent such a remark. But after she had reached The Cedars and her quiet, little room, the words seemed to burn themselves into her mind. How dared any one to speak so to her—a mere schoolgirl, with no thoughts of love?

Pained and distressed, she put aside all the play finery and threw herself across the bed. Scarcely had she done so ere she heard her aunt's step approaching.

"I came to congratulate you, my dear," said Mrs. White warmly. "Most of the success of the entertainment was due to—— Why—what—you are almost crying," and she stopped in some confusion.

"Why, what could she say, child?"

"She said—she said," and Dorothy hesitated, while the warm blood coursed to her pale cheeks—"she said—everybody knew Tom Scott was in—in love with me!"

Mrs. White simply stared at her niece. Then she shook her head ruefully, but she hardly knew what to say, for fear of further embarrassing Dorothy.

"Why, you dear, precious baby!" she exclaimed at length, as she placed her hand caressingly on Dorothy's head. "Doesn't everybody know what Agnes thinks of Tom? She is old enough to have such thoughts, and her reason for inflicting them on you, my dear, is merely a consequence of you—of you doing the work that older girls usually do. I should not have allowed you to take so much responsibility, Dorothy. We know, however," continued Mrs. White very gently, "that the pretty Agnes admires Mr. Scott very much. So you must excuse her seeming indiscretion."

"But Agnes seemed so fond of Ned," spoke Dorothy after a pause.

"You are too tired to think about such things now," said Mrs. White firmly. "You are over-sensitive. Why should you care about so trifling a thing as that?"

Dorothy did not answer. She was tired—very tired. Perhaps she was over-sensitive. But when she reflected that Ned had said almost the same thing——

To change the subject Mrs. White told her niece about Dr. Baker, what he had said, and how interested he was in little Mary.

"Oh, I'm so glad of that," said Dorothy. "I hope——"

But at that moment Tavia poked her head in the door to see what was going on in Dorothy's room, that she had not come to her chum, or summoned her, to talk over the events of the evening.

"Ned is calling for you, Mrs. White," said Tavia.

"I'll go at once; but remember," she commanded playfully to the two girls, "no more chattering to-night. To-morrow is another day."

"I will do all the saying that is necessary," bravely offered Dorothy. "It was I who kept you."

"Yes, and I know why."

"Why, then?"

"Simply to fix it up for me. You never could intrust me with such an important commission."

"Well, I am sure when I have a chance to speak to your father—but, dear me, there are so many things!"

"Oh, Doro, I just want to ask you if you saw the 'Babbling Brook' in the audience? She was fairly eating up little Mary with those big optics of hers."

"Miss Brooks? I did not see her," answered Dorothy. "Did she like Mary's effort?"

It was Roger who first tapped at his sister's door the next morning.

"Doro," he called, "when are we going out to see that ghost?"

"Ghost?" repeated the girl, rubbing her eyes and trying to collect her scattered thoughts.

"Yes; you know you promised," and by this time Roger was in the room and had his arms around her neck.

"Oh," she laughed, "we'll take a ride out to the castle just as soon as—as Ned is able to go."

"He's going out riding to-day—I heard him say so," persisted the boy.

"Well, we'll see," replied Dorothy. "But you must run out now. My! it's almost nine o'clock. I didn't think it was so late."

Roger told all this, and more, to Dorothy, so she was obliged to make a tentative promise, at least, that she would go with him to the castle the very first moment she could spare.

The boy renewed his request after breakfast, and was quite insistent.

"I can't go to-day," said his sister. "You know I have many little things to attend to, Roger. It is almost Christmas, you remember, and——"

"Oh, here are your letters; I almost forgot!" cried the little fellow suddenly, drawing from his pocket several envelopes. "Nat went to the post-office while you were at breakfast."

The boy tossed the missives down and ran off. Dorothy glanced over her mail. There were several letters from her school friends, as she could tell by the writing, and some from acquaintances in Dalton. Then this one—who could it be from?—postmarked in a city from which she had never received any mail, and the address written in a strange hand.

STORMBOUND AT TANGLEWOOD

Dorothy dropped the letter in her lap. She was awed, surprised, distressed. Then, Miss Brooks did not take the ring? And why should the woman detective do such a thing?

For an instant only that thought occupied her. The next she pitied Miss Dearing.

"Poor woman!" she sighed to herself. "After all, perhaps she is really a victim of circumstances. And what a letter! If I only could help her—see her before Christmas."

A smile, unbidden, stole across Dorothy's face as she pictured all the tasks she had undertaken to accomplish "before Christmas."

"Luckily there are a few days left," she concluded "One can crowd a great many things into two real, living days."

"I ought to be able to do that," she told herself. "And it would be such a joy to take away all Tavia's worry before Christmas Day."

Then came the recollection that she really knew nothing to tell Squire Travers—she really did not know what Tavia's trouble was. All the girl's conversation on that point amounted to nothing more than inferences, vague and uncertain.

"I am positive Tavia thinks I know all about it," concluded Dorothy, "and I have just a mind to ask her outright. It would be so much easier than beating about the bush this way."

"Doro! Doro!" screamed Roger at her door. "Come on! Get ready! We're going out—for another—Christmas tree! Out to ghost park."

"I—can't!" called back his sister, but the next moment Nat was beside her.

"Come on," he ordered, "get on your togs. We've got to get a hospital tree. The ladies insist it shall be handpicked, and we've got to go to Tanglewood Park."

"Put pink bows on red slippers! Oh, chuck it, Doro! I perfectly hate the smell of Christmas. Tom and Roland are going, and so is Tavia."

He made a queer face as he said this—one of those indescribable boy illustrations quite beyond interpretation.

"Is she?" asked Dorothy, not knowing anything better to say.

"And Tom and Roland, I repeat. We are going to duck the kiddies. Too cold for little boys."

"Oh, then I shan't go," declared Dorothy. "We've been promising Joe and Roger so long."

"But they don't want to go," insisted Nat. "Sammy Blake is launching his iceboat."

"Oh, I suppose that is a superior attraction even to ghosts," said Dorothy, laughing, "But why do we have to get a tree from the park? Couldn't we buy one?"

"Just like a girl. We couldn't possibly buy trees last week, because—they would not be hand-picked. This week why can't we buy them and—hang the handpicked," he finished. "Now, do you understand, little girl, that the tree is to be in the near-infant ward in the hospital?"

"Oh, I suppose there's no use arguing," decided Dorothy. "I may as well give in."

Certainly the morning had passed—and the afternoon would no doubt be equally short. Dorothy hurried to get her warm wraps, called to Tavia, and was at the lunch-table before Nat had returned from the garage, whence he brought the Fire Bird.

"If you do not get caught in a snowstorm this time," commented Major Dale, "I will begin to lose faith in my prophetic bones. They ache for heavy snow."

"Put it off until to-morrow, Uncle Frank," advised Nat. "Then we may get the runners out."

"No, it's not that long off," insisted the major, cringing perceptibly under the aches and pains for the coming storm. "I shouldn't wonder but it reached us by sundown."

Ned was much better, able to sit near the window and wave to the departing ones.

"Roland had another dinner date," he explained. "I'm glad I'm not handsome."

"But the ax?" asked Nat

"For the little tree, you know," replied Tom. "I've tried to catch Christmas trees before."

"Well, we are pretty well loaded up," added Nat, producing from his pocket a revolver.

"Oh!" screamed Tavia; "for goodness' sake is this a murderous plot? I—want—my—mamma——"

"There, there, little girl, don't cry," simpered Tom. "A gun is a fine thing in a jungle——"

"Where ghosts scream," added Dorothy.

"And buggies ride bugs," put in Nat, shifting the lever for more speed. "Well, it's up to us to get there first, and then we may shoot up the whole woods if we like. The girls may—may sit under a shady tree."

"Well, I have made up my brilliant mind," said Nat, "that if that screaming thing is in the woods I am going to get it dead or alive," and he put up the pistol for the time being.

Talk of the play, and of Ned's condition, occupied much of the remaining time consumed in the run to the woods, and when the tall chestnut trees of Tanglewood Park finally faced the strip of road the Fire Bird was covering, snowflakes were beginning to fall. And so fiercely did the winds blow, that presently Nat had all he could do to manage the machine.

"No jollying about this," he made out to say, "I guess it's to the castle for ours, whether we want to hunt ghosts or owls."

"Oh, will we really have to go in that dreadful place?" wailed Tavia. "I think I would as soon die of freezing as die——"

"Of scaring," interrupted Tom, laughing. "Well, there is no immediate cause for alarm in either direction," he went on, "but I think it will be a good idea to get out of this gale as quickly as possible."

Straight for the drive to the castle Nat directed the machine, and by the time the old broken-down steps of the once spacious porch were reached, even Tavia was glad to jump out of the Fire Bird and get her breath in a secluded part of the old balcony.

"Whew!" whistled Tom. "This is something worth while for Christmas! I never saw a storm develop any faster than this."

"Looks bad," commented Nat anxiously, for an automobile in a snowstorm is not to be depended upon, "Hope it quits long enough for us to dash back home."

"Well, we can't try it now, at any rate," replied Tom. "What do you say to exploring?" and he went to the great, old oak door. "Open! Well, that's luck," and as he spoke he pushed back the portal, although it seemed about to fall, rather than swing on the rusty hinges.

"Oh, come on," suggested Tom. "Nobody's in here, and it's better, a good sight, than being out in the storm."

Nat followed Tom's lead, and soon both young men had disappeared within the old mansion.

The girls waited almost breathless—there was something so uncanny about the place. But presently boyish shouts and merry calls from within assured them that no trouble had been encountered, and it was Dorothy who proposed that they follow and seek refuge from the winds, that found the girls' ears and noses, in spite of the shelter of the old porch and the protection of furs and wraps.

"Come on," suggested Dorothy. "Everything must be all right or the boys would not be so jolly. I'm just dying to get indoors—anywhere."

"But the screaming ghost," Tavia reminded her. "And the traveling lamp-post. I feel kind of scary——"

But Dorothy had poked her head in, and now stepped within the old hallway, so that there was nothing left for Tavia to do but to follow.

"And look at the gorgeousness," announced Nat. "Ever see finer wood, or better mantels? Why, I'll bet this was a regular castle, all right. Not so bad now."

The young men were racing about from room to room, but the girls were not so keen on investigating. Dorothy did walk through the great long parlors and admire the handsome Italian marble mantels, and the library with inlaid floor was also explored, but Tavia kept as near as possible to the front door—ready to run, she explained.

"Why, there's nothing to be afraid of," said Dorothy, now quite at ease. "The boys are in the very top of the house, over in the tower, and I am sure if there was anything to fear, they would have discovered it by this time."

"But the cellar," objected Tavia, who was really never as much frightened as she pretended to be, for she had a way of "looking for trouble," as Nat expressed it.

"When they come down I'll ask them to do the cellar," offered Dorothy, with a laugh. "Then will you make yourself comfortable?"

"Oh, come up and see the gallery room," called Nat from the top of the stair-well. "If we don't bring the boys out here and have some doings! This is the swellest kind of a place. Come on up, girls. Nary a ghost nor a ghostie in the diggings."

Tom was singing snatches of songs, and Nat would join in when he came to a "joining," so that the old house fairly rang with the echo of young voices and merry laughter.

Ghost! What ghost could stand that? Tom Scott and Nat White singing coon songs!

"Listen!" called Dorothy. "Tavia wants you to go down cellar to make sure," she called to the boys.

"Oh, all right," agreed Tom. "We'll do the coal-bin and the wine cellar. Now, if we only could chance upon an old bottle of home-made grape juice!"

He slid down the baluster rail in spite of Dorothy's protest, for the floor below was of mosaics, and the rail might not be safe. But Tom landed without accident, and presently was looking for a passageway to the cellar.

It was dark in the cellar—too dark for even Tom's comfort, but after making a series of queer calls, and also supplying the answers, he returned to the first floor, "intact," as Dorothy announced.

But Tom whispered something to Nat—when the girls were not near enough to observe him.

"Things down there!" he said. "I could even smell them, and they did not seem musty, either. Besides, look at everything. Nothing cut up or damaged, like an old, deserted place. Some one may hang out here."

"The ghost," admitted Nat. "Let's see what it looks like outdoors."

Nat put his hand on the pocket, from which his diminutive revolver could be seen to be outlined, and when the front door was opened a gust of wind and snow forced him, as well as Tom, back into shelter.

"Rough," commented Tom, "and almost dark."

"Fierce!" exclaimed Nat in pardonable disgust. "How in the world are we to get back?"

"Oh, can't we go now?" came from Dorothy. "It seems to be getting worse, and if we don't get out of here before dark——"

"Not very interesting after the first glance, I'll admit," replied Tom; "but the nearest house must be half a mile away."

"Suppose we run the machine into the shed and start off to walk?" suggested Nat, now rather uncomfortable because of Tom's hint about the cellar. "It will be better for the girls, at any rate. There's a farmhouse at the turn into Glendale."

It did not take long for the party to follow out this proposal, and in spite of the wind and snow the four young people started bravely off, Nat supporting Dorothy, while Tom put his strong arm about the uncertain Tavia—uncertain because she not only slipped continually, but threatened to do so in between the actual occurrences.

"Awful!" called back Nat, who was somewhat in advance.

"And can't see even the path," yelled Tom, "This snow must have fallen all in one piece."

"If it only would not get dark so quickly," Tavia sobbed, for, indeed, the girl was almost crying—the matter had become very serious—darkness, snowdrifts and wilderness.

Nat and Dorothy stood until the others came up.

Then all four trudged on again. However, could they cover a half mile at that rate?

"We ought to have brought an auto lamp," said Nat.

No sooner had he uttered the words than he slipped, Dorothy fell with him, Tom and Tavia tumbled, full drive, after them, and all were plunged into a hole deep enough to terrify the girls and even to alarm the boys.

"Well," exclaimed Tom, as quickly as he could get speech, "that hole was covered up with a light blanket."

Tavia and Dorothy succeeded in getting to their feet almost as promptly as did the boys, but the shock and the heavy snow had now almost exhausted both.

"Oh," sighed Dorothy, "I don't see how we can ever walk a half mile in this?"

"Nor I," answered Nat "We've got to turn back. We can have shelter, at least, in the castle, and there's likely to be some food in the machine. Norah always pokes a bundle in for a trip like this."

Nat hurried to the Fire Bird, and was not disappointed in his quest, for he brought back to the waiting ones a bundle of such food as the thoughtful Norah made a practice of slipping into the car when the young folks went for a long run.

"Well, that's lucky," commented Tom. "And let us get right at it. Nothing better to ward off cold than a good feed."

"Where?" asked Tavia, referring to the place to eat, not to the location of a possible cold.

Nat brought the machine lamps and placed one on either corner of the broad, low mantel in the dining-room. It was not difficult to know this room from the others, for frescoed mottoes, still clear enough to be made out, invited all strangers, as well as those who roofed therein, to "eat, drink and be merry," and otherwise.

"We must imagine ourselves a jolly hunting party," said Dorothy, "just brought in from a sudden storm. The young lord has invited us, of course."

"And are we really here—for—the night?" gasped Tavia, swallowing a morsel of the sandwich Nat handed her.

"Oh, we may get out," answered Tom, none too hopefully. "But if we don't we must make the best of it. It's too bad for you girls, though."

"Yes," added Nat, his tone following Tom's in its unmistaken note of regret. "I was a fool not to listen to Uncle Frank's knee."

The joke brought forth a very feeble laugh, but even that was better than the groans Tavia had been indulging in. Perhaps an hour passed while our friends were trying to "make the best of it," and then, after putting by the remnants of the lunch for future use, the boys fairly exhausted themselves doing "stunts" calculated to amuse the girls and make them forget the terrors around them.

"Now, I'll just tell you," declared Nat. "There's a sort of couch under each of those posts in the parlor. Tavia take one and Dorothy the other, Tom and I will stand guard. You may as well rest, even if you cannot sleep, for even in the morning it's going to be heavy traveling."

THE GHOST THAT REALLY WALKED

It did seem absurd, in spite of the fact that they were snowbound in a "haunted house." The big automobile lamps glared brilliantly from the mantel, and Tom, with Nat, found another place to rest—on the long, low bench that formed a really artistic seat at the foot of the broad stairway.

"Many a gay fellow has rested here, between the dances, don't you think?" asked Nat. "I fancy I hear the other fellow and his girl coming down the stairs at this moment." He threw himself back in a mocking attitude, while Tom bowed to the "girl coming down the stairs."

But the boys were tired; conversation broke into uneven sentences, then words fell into syllables and finally there remained only the punctuation—a full stop.

She screamed, and every one started up.

"What was it?" cried Dorothy, on her feet in an instant.

Tom and Nat jumped up as quickly, Nat with revolver in hand, and Tom grasping the hatchet.

"I certainly saw a light at the end of the hall," whispered Nat to Tom. "Don't alarm the girls—just watch."

"What was it?" asked Dorothy again.

"Oh, I was dreaming," replied Tavia drowsily, "and that heavy old chandelier came right down and hit me in the face."

"Keep your dreams quiet next time," said Nat, attempting to laugh. "You gave us all a start."

"What time is it?" Dorothy inquired.

Tom glanced at his watch.

"Midnight!" he exclaimed. "Would you believe it? We must have all been asleep."

"And you promised not to shut an eye?" accused Tavia. "How do we know but that we are all kidnapped?"

Just then Nat grasped Tom's arm.

"The light!" he whispered.

"Oh!"

Too frightened to speak, they clung to each other and stood terrified. Tom and Nat stepped farther out into the hallway.

For an instant no one uttered a sound. The next a noise—distinct and welcome—fell upon their ears—the sound of Major Dale's voice.

"It's father!" called Dorothy, breaking away from Tavia. "Oh, they've found us! Let them in! Quick!"

No need to tell the boys that, for the front door was unbolted, and Major Dale rushed in before any of them could actually realize that he had come.

"Oh, father!" gasped Dorothy, falling into his arms. "If you had not come—I should have died!"

"You poor foolish—babies!" he said. "But let the man in. He's frozen, if I am not."

Tavia had her arms around the major's neck—he was patting both girls affectionately.

"There! there!" he soothed. "Now you are all right. Dad's here, and we will be all right presently. Norah sent out the relief stuff—you be starved and perished."

"He won't come in," called Nat, referring to the man outside, "Says he's afraid."

"Oh, yes," said Nat. "That's it. Well, if he won't come in he'll freeze."

"Perhaps if he sees girls—— I'll go and ask him," volunteered Dorothy, now somewhat composed.

Although they had passed from the rear hall to the front, Tom kept his eye on the end of the long passageway. He had seen a light flash back there—he could have sworn to it.

"Here he is!" called Dorothy. "I knew old Abe would come in when I asked him. Right over here, Abe. See, we have plenty of light——"

As if by magic, or some uncanny power, no sooner had she uttered the word "light" than a brilliant flash was plainly seen at the rear of the hall.

The next moment a piercing scream rang out—the same they had heard once before—only so much more terrible to them now—so hideous—so fiendish!

Major Dale was major again, there ready to order, to command—erect, brave, bold, defiant.

Nat never seemed to move.

Tom stood waiting for his orders.

Dorothy and Tavia fell back terrified.

"That scream came from a human being," spoke the major finally. "We must investigate at once. Here, Abe, you take this lamp." Trembling as if he had the ague, the old colored man took the lamp from the mantel. "Tom, you have an ax. Nat, your gun may be handy. Now, girls, don't be alarmed. We are too many for any one here. Just sit there in that corner while we look about."

To all, save Abe and the girls, there was a fascination about this weird hunt. Something or some one screamed. This was surely a vigorous type of ghost.

"Easy, now!" whispered the major as they turned the end of the hall "There!" he exclaimed. "I saw a light flash back of that double door!"

"So did I," agreed Tom, "Let's look in the room."

"Come on, Abe," urged the major, for Abe quickly fell behind.

"What was that?" asked Nat as a noise sounded.

"The shutting of a heavy door—and the light went with it," declared Major Dale. "Now to find the door."

Nat took the light from Abe, and flashed it up and down the heavily paneled walls.

"It's some secret passage, likely," said the major. "Every old house has one, I believe."

"What's—this?"

Nat had come upon a joining in the woodwork.

"That's it!" declared the major, examining the crack carefully. "But where might it open?"

All, even old Abe, felt the wall, up and down, covering every inch within reach.

"There!" exclaimed the major finally. "I've covered a square. It opens from the other side. Tom, here with your ax!"

Dorothy and Tavia had heard every word. Now they stopped their ears. It was too dreadful.

Blow after blow fell on the heavy woodwork.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

But not a word was spoken.

Then the sound of splintered wood.

"Careful!" cautioned Major Dale.

"There she goes!"

Another scream!

"Here, now!" cried the major, seizing the lamp and dashing through the opening with the agility of a schoolboy. "Just surrender, and stop that!"

But he almost fell back—Tom's arm saved him.