"Some people are born lucky, and others have luck thrust upon them," said Tavia pleasantly. "In this case it was as usual. I did the mischief and Dorothy did the rest. That lawyer would never have noticed me if Dorothy hadn't shown her pluck—why, she had my flaming hair wrapped up in a brakeman's coat before he had decided whether to throw it out of the window or over the ice cooler. He seemed to be worried about the ice, for it was directly in the path of the fire."
"Nonsense," said Dorothy, blushing. "He very politely pulled off his coat when I asked him to, and of course, he did not know just what to do with it."
"Lucky thing it was a railroad coat," went on Tavia, "or we might have had to pay damages."
"Lucky thing Dorothy had such presence of mind, at any rate," remarked Mrs. White, "for another touch of that flame and your face, Tavia, might have had a different bill against the railroad company. However, as it ends like a love story, we will live happily ever after," and she gave Tavia such an affectionate kiss, that the girl felt a strange nearness to her new-found friend as if she had been suddenly adopted, socially at least, into Dorothy's family.
"And now, my dears," went on their hostess, "I expect the boys out from camp this afternoon, so you must rest up, and look your prettiest."
Tavia sat up and looked about her.
"Did you ever hear that story about why a widower was like a baby?" she asked Dorothy. "Well, I feel just like him. They say he cried for the first six months, then sat up and looked around and it was hard to pull him through the second summer. Now I am looking around, but when I get my five hundred I am afraid I will hardly last through the second summer."
"I know you will like the boys," remarked Dorothy.
"But who will cut my poor old hair?" sang Tavia to the meerschaum pipe tune.
"We will have to put it up in the folded fire escape fashion," said Dorothy, "until we can drive out to a barber's. It is too late this afternoon."