“Oh, Major Dale!” and the old man fell into his chair. “Girl, I never knew who you was, and that constable from the Birches, he gave me such a story. Well if you’ll only try to make the major see the way it was—”
“I’ll do all I can,” said Dorothy, hurrying to get away, for Miette was in the car at the door and the chauffeur was ready to start. The police officer stood at the door, and his daughter was on the walk, making sure that the girls were in the auto safely.
“Good-bye,” called Dorothy as the machine began to puff. Miette smiled to the woman, then she looked timidly at the old man. Suddenly another tall figure stepped up to the police station—that of a tall man, with slouch hat—
“The constable!” exclaimed Miette to Dorothy.
But the automobile was off, and the two men on the steps of the country jail were gazing after the cloud of smoke and dust left in the automobile’s track—while Dorothy and Miette were safely flying away to the Cedars.
CHAPTER XXII
SINCERE AFFECTION’S POWER
It was two days later, and Miette had almost forgotten to “be careful”—she felt so strong and well in her pleasant surroundings at the Cedars.
As Dorothy expected, Mrs. White took the lonely girl to her heart at once, and it was only a matter of time—that of waiting for Miette’s convalescence,—that now withheld them from taking the trip to New York in search of the girl’s friends or relatives.
Nothing had been seen or heard of Urania. The other girls’ experience in the country jail had been discussed and settled amicably through the charitable interference of Dorothy, who insisted that the old officer was not responsible, that he did not mean to treat them so harshly, but was frightened into taking the extreme measure of holding them through the “story” given by the constable who was working so assiduously for the reward.