Dorothy Dale at Glenwood School

"Octavia Travers! Birthday is within the octave of Christmas," declared the Dalton girl impressively.

"Oct or Ouch! That sounds too much like Auch du lieber Augustine, or like a cut finger," studied Edna. "Better take yours from Christmas – Chrissy sounds cute."

"Yes, especially since I have lately had my hair cut Christy – after our friend Columbus," agreed Tavia, tossing back her new set of tangles. "I was in a railroad accident, you know, and lost my long hair. I had the time of my life getting it cut off properly, in a real barber shop. Dorothy's cousins, two of the nicest boys, were with us – Dorothy went too. It was such fun."

"All right, it shall be Chrissy then," decided Edna. "It's funny we always turn a girl's name into a boy's name when we can. Let's go and see Dick," and at this she dragged Tavia out of the corner of the hall where they had taken refuge from a girl who was threatening them for upsetting all her ribbons and laces.

"Oh, there you are, Ned Ebony," greeted Molly as the two bolted into her room. "Where's everybody. I haven't seen Fiddle yet."

"Viola Green?" asked Tavia. "Funny I should have thought of that name for her."

"You knew she plays the fiddle adorably."

"No, but I knew she had been named after her grandfather's violin. What a queer notion."

"Queer girl, too," remarked Molly, "but a power in her way. Did she come up yet?"

"On our train," said Tavia, too prudent, for once in her life, to tell the whole story.

"She is going to cut the Nicks," announced Edna. "She told me so first thing. Then she slammed her door and no one has caught a glimpse of her since."

Tavia was fairly bursting with news at this point, but she had promised Dorothy not to interfere with Viola in any way and she wisely decided not to start in on such dangerous territory as Viola's visit to Dalton. So the matter was dropped, and the girls went forth for more fun.

Dorothy had met Miss Higley, Mrs. Pangborn's assistant. She proved to be a little woman with glasses, the stems going all the way back of her ears. She seemed snappy, Dorothy thought, and gave all sorts of orders to the girls while pretending to become acquainted with Dorothy.

"The crankiest crank," declared one girl, when the little woman had gone further down the hall with her objections. "But, really, we need a chief of police. Don't you think so?"

"Isn't Mrs. Pangborn chief?" asked Dorothy.

"Oh, she's president of the board of commissioners," replied Rose-Mary. "Miss Honorah Higley is the chief of all departments."

"And Miss Crane?" inquired Dorothy. "I have met her."

"Oh, she's all right," declared the informer. "Camille Crane is a dear – if the girls do call her Feathers."

"I thought all that nick-name business was done in colleges," remarked Dorothy. "Every one here seems to have two names."

"Couldn't possibly get along without them," declared Cologne. "I've been Cologne since my first day – what have they given you?"

"I haven't heard yet," said Dorothy, smiling. "But I do hope they won't 'Dot' me. I hate dots."

"Then make it Dashes or Specks, but you must not be Specks. We have one already."

"Glad of it," returned Dorothy. "I don't like Specks either."

"I guess we will make it 'D. D.' That's good, and means a whole lot of things. There," declared Cologne. "I've had the honor of being your sponsor. Now you must always stick by me. D. D. you are to be hereafter."

"That will tickle Tavia," declared Dorothy. "She always said I was a born parson."

"Better yet," exclaimed Cologne. "Be Parson. Now we've got it. The Little Parson," and away she flew to impart her intelligence to a waiting world of foolish schoolgirls.

CHAPTER XIV

THE INITIATION

The first days at Glenwood revolved like a magic kaleidoscope – all bits of brilliant things, nothing tangible, and nothing seemingly important. Dorothy had made her usual good friends – Tavia her usual jolly chums. But Viola Green remained a mystery.

She certainly had avoided speaking to Dorothy, and had not even taken the trouble to avoid Tavia – she "cut her dead." Edna tried to persuade Tavia that "Fiddle" was a privileged character, and that the seeming slights were not fully intended; but Tavia knew better.

"She may be as odd as she likes," insisted the matter of fact girl from Dalton, "but she must not expect me to smile at her ugliness – it is nothing else – pure ugliness."

Dorothy had sought out Viola, but it was now plain that the girl purposely avoided her.

"Perhaps she is worrying about her mother, poor dear," thought the sympathetic Dorothy. "I must insist on cheering her up. A nice walk through these lovely grounds ought to brighten her. And the leaves on these hills are perfectly glorious. I must ask her to go with me on my morning walk. I'll go to her room to-night after tea – during recreation. I have not seen her out a single morning yet."

So Dorothy mused, and so she acted according to the logical result of that musing. At recreation time that evening Dorothy tapped gently on the door of Number Twelve.

The door was slightly ajar, and Dorothy could hear the sounds of papers being hastily gathered up. Then Viola came to the entrance.

"May I come in?" asked Dorothy, surprised that Viola should have made the question necessary.

"Oh, I am so busy – but of course – Did you want to see me?" and there was no invitation in the voice or manner.

"Just for a moment," faltered Dorothy, determined not to be turned away without a hearing.

Viola reluctantly opened the door. Then she stepped aside without offering a chair.

"I have been worried about you," began Dorothy, rather miserably. "Are you ill, Viola?"

"111? Why not at all. Can't a girl attend to her studies without exciting criticism?"

Dorothy's face burned. "Oh, of course. But I did not see you out at all – "

"Next time I leave my room I'll send the Nicks word," snapped Viola. "Then they may appoint a committee to see me out!"

Dorothy was stung by this. She had expected that Viola would resent the interference – try to keep to her chosen solitude – but the rudeness was a surprise.

"But you are getting pale, Viola," she ventured. "Couldn't you possibly take your exercise with me to-morrow? I would so like to have you. The walk over the mountains is perfectly splendid now."

"Thank you," and Viola's black eyes again looked out of their depths with that strange foreign keenness. "But I prefer to walk alone."

Dorothy was certain a tear glistened in Viola's eye.

"Alone!" repeated the visitor. "Viola, dear, if you would only let me be your friend – "

"Dorothy Dale!" and the girl's eyes flashed in anger. "I will have none of your preaching. You came here to pry into my affairs just as you did on the train, when you made me tell all about my dear, darling mother's illness, before those giggling girls. Yes, you need not play innocent. I know the kind of girl you are. 'Sugar coated!' But you may take your sympathy where strangers will be fooled by it. Try it on some of the Babes. But you must never again attempt to meddle in my affairs. If you do I'll tell Miss Higley. So there! Are you satisfied now?"

Dorothy was stunned. Was this flaming, flashing girl the same that had smiled upon her when the sick mother was present? What was that strange unnatural gleam in the black eyes? Anger or jealousy?

"I am sorry," faltered Dorothy; then she turned and left the room.

One hour later Tavia found Dorothy buried in her pillows. Tears would still come to her eyes, although she had struggled bravely to suppress them.

"Doro!" exclaimed her friend in surprise. "Are you homesick?"

"No," sobbed the miserable girl. "It isn't exactly homesick – ." Then the thought came to her that she should not implicate Viola, she had promised to save her from further suffering. Surely she had enough with the sick mother.

"Then what is it?" demanded Tavia.

"Oh, I don't know, Tavia," and she tried again to check her tears, "but I just had to cry."

"Nervous," concluded the Dalton girl. "Well, we must cure that. You know we are to be initiated this evening. Aren't you scared?"

"Oh, yes," and Dorothy sat upright. "I quite forgot. Do we join the Nicks?"

"Unless you prefer the Pills. They are the stiffest set – not a bit like our crowd. And the way they talk! A cross between a brogue and Tom Burbank. 'I came hawf way uptown before I could signal a car-r'," rolled out Tavia, mocking the long A's, and rolled R's of the New England girl. "How's that for English? I call it brogue."

"It does sound queer, but they tell me it is the correct pronunciation," Dorothy managed to say, while working diligently with her handkerchief on her eyes and cheeks.

"Then, as in all things else," declared Tavia, "I am thankful not to be orthodox – I should get tonsilitis if I ever tried anything like that."

"Where is the meeting to be held?" asked Dorothy.

"Don't know – we must not know anything. Ned says it will be easy. Dick is the guide, and I know Cologne has something to do with it. I do hope you won't be sad-eyed, Doro."

"You can depend upon me to do Dalton justice," declared the girl on the bed. "I'm anxious to see what they will do to us. No hazing, I hope."

"In this Sunday school? Mercy no! No such luck. They will probably make us recite psalms," asserted the irreverent Tavia.

"But being Parson that would be appropriate for me," Dorothy declared.

"And for a Chris! That would be all right also," added Tavia. "Well, I know one or two."

"There is someone coming to call us," and Dorothy jumped to her feet. "I must bathe my stupid eyes."

A half hour later the meeting was called. It was held in a little recreation room on the third floor. To this spot the candidates were led blindfolded. Within the room the shuffling of feet could be heard, then a weird voice said in a muffled tone:

"Hear ye! Honored Nicks! Let their scales fall!"

At the word the bandages were dropped from the eyes of Dorothy and Tavia.

A glimpse around the half-lighted room showed a company of masked faces and shrouded forms – sheets and white paper arrangements. On the window seat sat the Most High Nick – the promoter. At her feet was crouched the Chief Ranger.

"Number one!" called the Ranger, and Dorothy was pressed forward.

"Chase that thimble across the room with your nose," demanded the Ranger, placing a silver thimble at Dorothy's feet.

Of course Dorothy laughed – all candidates do – at first.

"Wipe your smile off," ordered the Promoter, and at this Dorothy was obliged to "wipe the smile" on the rather uncertain rug, by brushing her mouth into the very depths of the carpet.

"Proceed!" commanded the Ranger, and Dorothy began the thimble chase.

It is all very well for the "uppers" to laugh at the Babes, but it was no easy matter to get a thimble across a room by nose effort. Yet Dorothy was "game," her nominating committee declared in the course of time, and, between many pauses, chief of which was caused by the irrepressible smiles that had to be wiped off on all parts of the floor for every offense, Dorothy did get the thimble over to the corner.

"Number two," called the Ranger, and Tavia took the floor.

"The clock," indicated the Promoter, whereupon Tavia was confined in a small closet and made to do the "Cuckoo stunt." Each hour called was responded to by the corresponding "cuckoos," and the effect was ludicrous indeed. Every break in the call meant another trial, but finally Tavia got through the ordeal.

Next Dorothy was called upon to make a speech – the subject assigned being "The Glory of the Nicks." An impromptu speech might be difficult to make under such circumstances had the subject been a word of four letters, like Snow, Love or even Hate, but to extemporize on the society which was giving her the third degree – Dorothy almost "flunked," it must be admitted.

The final test was that of singing a lesson in mathematics to the tune of America, and the try that Tavia had at that broke every paper mask in the room – no, not every one, for over in the corner was a mask that never stirred, one that left the room before the candidates had been welcomed into the society of honorable Nicks. That mask went into room twelve.

CHAPTER XV

LOST ON MOUNT GABRIEL

A full month of school life had passed at Glenwood. The beautiful autumn had come to tint the leafy New England hills, when Mrs. Pangborn announced that her classes might go on a little picnic to the top of Mount Gabriel. The day chosen proved to be of the ideal Indian summer variety, and when the crowd of happy students skipped away through the woods that led to the mount, there seemed nothing to be wished for. Miss Crane had been sent in charge, and as Edna said, that meant just one more girl to make sport.

As usual Viola did not join the merry-makers. She had the continuous excuse of her mother's illness, which had really been a matter of great worry to her, as Mrs. Pangborn, if no other at the school, knew to be true.

"It's as warm as August," declared Nita Brant, scaling a darling little baby maple and robbing it of its most cherished pink leaves.

"Oh, Nita," sighed Tavia, "couldn't you take some other tree? That poor little thing never wore a pink dress before in all its young life!"

"Too young to wear pink," declared the gay Nita, affecting the brilliant leaves herself. "I just love baby leaves," and she planted the wreath on her fair brow.

This started the wreath brigade, which soon terminated in every one of the picnickers being adorned with a crown of autumn foliage.

At the foot of the mountain the girls made an effort to procure mountain sticks, but this was not an easy matter, and much time was taken up in the search for appropriate staffs. Those strong enough were invariably too hard to break, and those that could be procured were always too "splintery." But the matter was finally disposed of, and the procession started up the mountain.

It was growing late in the afternoon, the pilgrimage not having been taken up until after the morning session, and when the top of the mountain was finally reached, Miss Crane told her charges that they might scurry about and get such specimen of leaves or stones as they wished to bring back, as they would only remain there a short time.

The air was very heavy by this time, and the distant roll of thunder could be heard, but the gay girls never dreamed of a storm on that late October afternoon as they ran wildly about gathering bits of every procurable thing from moss to crystal rocks. Tavia wanted Jacks-in-the-pulpit, and sought diligently for them, getting away from all but Dorothy in her anxiety to find her home flower. She dearly loved Jacks – they grew just against the Dale wall in dear old Dalton, and she wanted to send one flower home to little Johnnie. It would be crushed in a letter of course, but she would put some dainty little ferns beside it and they would keep the lazy look. Then she could tell Johnnie all about the mountain top – send him some bright red maple leaves, and some yellow ones.

"Oh, Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "I see some almost-purple leaves," and down the side of a ledge she slipped. "Come on! The footing is perfectly safe."

Dorothy saw that the place was apparently safe, and she made her way eagerly after Tavia. Dorothy, too, wanted to send specimens home from Mount Gabriel, so she, too, must try to get the prettiest ones that grew there.

The roll of thunder was now heard by the pair but it was not heeded. Bit by bit they made their way along the newly-discovered slope; step by step they went farther away from their companions.

Suddenly a flash of lightning shot down a tree! The next minute there was a downpour of rain, like the dashing of a cloud burst.

"Oh!" screamed Dorothy. "What shall we do?"

"Get under the cliff!" ordered Tavia. "Quick! Before the next flash!"

Grasping wildly at stumps and brush, as they made their way down the now gloomy slope, the two frightened girls managed to get under some protection – where trees, overhanging the rocks, formed a sort of roof to a very narrow strip of ground.

"Oh! What shall we do?" cried Dorothy again. "We can never make our way back to the others."

"But we must," declared Tavia. "I'm sure we cannot stay here long. Isn't it a dreadful storm?"

Flash upon flash, and roar upon roar tumbled over the mountain with that strange rumble peculiar to hills and hollows. Then the rain —

It seemed as if the storm came to the mountain first and lost half the drops before getting farther down. It did pour with a vengeance. Several times Tavia ventured to poke her head out to make weather observations, but each time she was driven unceremoniously back into shelter.

"It must be late!" sighed Dorothy.

"That it must!" agreed her companion, "and we have got to get out of here soon. Rain or no rain, we can't stay here all night. The thunder and lightning is not so bad now. Come on! Let's go!"

Timidly the two girls crept out. But the rain had washed their path away and they could barely take a step where so short a time before they seemed to walk in safety.

"Don't give up!" Tavia urged Dorothy. "We must get to the top."

But the stones would slide away and the young trees, loosed by the heavy rain, would pull up at the roots.

"Try this way," suggested Tavia, taking another line from that which the girls knew ran to the mountain top.

This proved to be safer in footing at least. The rocks did not fall with such force, and the trees were stronger to hold on to.

But where was that path taking them? Both girls shouted continually, hoping to make the others hear, but no welcome answer came back to them.

Then they realized the truth. They were lost!

Night was coming, and such a night!

On a mountain top, in a thunder storm, with darkness falling!

The girls never knew just what they did in that awful hour, but it seemed afterwards that a whole lifetime had been lost with them in that storm. So far from every one on earth! Not even a bird to break that dreadful black solitude!

And the others?

The storm, violent as it was, did not deter them from searching for Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had shouted her throat powerless, and the others had not been less active. But by the strange circumstances that always lead the lost from their seekers, both parties had followed different directions, and at last, as night came on, Miss Crane was obliged to lead her weeping charges down Mount Gabriel and leave the two lost ones behind.

CHAPTER XVI

WHAT VIOLA DID

"When we get to the top we will surely be able to see our way down," declared Tavia. "So let us keep right on, even though this is not the path we came up."

"But the others will not find us this way," sighed Dorothy, "and isn't it getting dark!"

"Never mind. There must be some way of getting out of the woods. No mountains for mine. Good flat terra firma is good enough for Chrissy."

Dorothy tried to be cheerful – there were no bears surely on these peaks, and perhaps no tramps – what would they be doing up there?

"Now!" cried Tavia, "I see a way down! Keep right close to me and you will be all right! Yes, and I see a light! There's a hut at this end of the mountain."

To say that the lost Glenwood girls slid down the steep hill would hardly express the kind of speed that they indulged in – they went over the ground like human kangaroos, and made such good time that the light, seen by Tavia, actually stood before them now, in a little house against the hill.

Two ferocious dogs greeted their coming – but Tavia managed to coax them into submission, and presently a woman peered out of a dingy window and demanded to know what was wanted. She seemed a coarse creature and the place was such a hovel that the girls were sorry they had come.

"Don't answer her," cautioned Dorothy quickly. "Let's make our way to the road."

Tavia saw that this would be safest, although she was not sure the woman would allow them to pass unquestioned past her stone fence. But with a dash they did reach the highway and had made tracks along through the muddy narrow wagon road before the woman, who was now calling after them, could do anything more disagreeable. The dogs followed them up for a few paces, and then turned back while the woman continued to shout in tones that struck terror into the hearts of the miserable girls.

"We may be running away from Glenwood!" ventured Tavia, spattering along, "but this road surely goes to some place – if we can only get there."

"Oh, I'm so out of breath," panted Dorothy. "We can walk now. The woman has ceased shouting."

"Wasn't it dreadful!" exclaimed Tavia. "I was just scared stiff!"

"We do get into such awful predicaments," mused Dorothy. "But I suppose the others are almost as frightened as we are now, – I was dreadfully afraid when the woman shouted to us."

"Wasn't she a scarecrow? Just like an old witch in a story book. Listen! I thought I heard the girls!"

"Hark!" echoed Dorothy. "I am sure that was Edna's yoddle. Answer it!"

At the top of her voice Tavia shouted the familiar call. Then she listened again.

"Yes," declared Dorothy, "that's surely Ned. Oh, do let's run! They might turn off on another road! This place seems to be all turns."

When the welcome sounds of that call were heard by both parties little time was lost in reaching the lost ones. What had seemed to be nightfall was really only the blackness of the storm, and now, on the turnpike, a golden light shot through the trees, and wrapt its glory about the happy girls, who tried all at once to embrace the two who had gone through such a reign of terror.

"Hurry! Hurry!" called Miss Crane, skipping along like a schoolgirl herself.

To tell the story of their adventures, the Dalton girls marched in the center of the middle row – everyone wanted to hear, and everyone wanted to be just as near as possible to Tavia and Dorothy.

Taking refuge under the cliff seemed exciting enough, but when Dorothy told how they had lost the trail to the mountain top, and how all the footing slipped down as they tried to make the ascent, the girls were spell-bound. Then to hear Tavia describe, in her own inimitable way, the call of "the witch" – made some shout, ad the entire party ran along as if the same "witch" was at their heels.

When the report was made to Mrs. Pangborn, that dignified lady looked very seriously at Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had explained the entire affair, making it clear that the girls became separated from the others by the merest accident, and that the storm did the rest.

"But you must remember, my dears," said Mrs. Pangborn kindly, "that, as boarding school girls, you should always keep near to the teacher in charge even when taking walks across the country. It is not at all safe to wander about as you would at home. Nor can a girl depend upon her own judgment in asking strangers to direct her. Sometimes thoughtless boys delight in sending the girls out of their way. I am glad the affair has ended without further trouble. You must have suffered when you found you really could not reach your companions. Let it be a lesson to all of you."

"Oh, if Miss Higley had been in charge," whispered Edna, when the girls rehearsed their interview with Mrs. Pangborn. "You would not have gotten off so easily. She would have said you ran away from us."

So the days at Glenwood gently lapped over the quiet nights, until week after week marked events of more or less importance in the lives of those who had given themselves to what learning may be obtained from books; what influence may be gained from close companionship with those who might serve as models; and what fun might be smuggled in between the lines, always against the rules, but never in actual defiance of a single principle of the old New England institution.

"Just the by-laws," the girls would declare. "We can always suspend them, as long as we do not touch the constitution."

This meant, of course, that innocent, harmless fun was always permissible when no one suffered by the pranks, and no damage was done to property or character.

Rose-Mary Markin had become Dorothy's intimate friend. She was what is termed an all-round girl, both cultured and broad minded, a rare combination of character to find in a girl still in a preparatory school. She was as quick as a flash to detect deceit and yet gentle as one of the Babes in settling all matters where there was a question of actual intention. The benefit of the doubt was her maxim, and, as president of the Glenwood Club, the membership of which included girls from all the ranks, there was plenty of opportunity for Rose-Mary to exercise her benificence.