“Oh, she is one of Aunt Winnie’s ‘found daughters,’ too,” said Dorothy. “We are all very fond of Tavia.”
“I am going to give a real party when we get back to Glenwood,” announced Miette. “I will have it done in style—pay for the very best we can get there, with Mrs. Pangborn as—patroness.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” commented Dorothy. “We have very few real affairs out there. But I know we could have them if the girls’ allowances would permit.”
“I have plenty,” responded Miette, “and I would like to show the girls that I do not hold any malice. It is only natural to have little—squabbles, as you call them?”
“Well,” sighed Dorothy, “I do believe I would sleep soundly to-night if I only knew about Urania.”
“Yes,” answered Miette, “It is a pity we cannot let her share our happiness. She surely needs some happiness.”
It may seem to the reader that such things only happen in books, but is not truth actually stranger than fiction?
At that very moment Major was down in the library, reading a letter from one of the town officials, in which was stated the fact that the gypsy girl, Urania, had been entirely cleared of all suspicion—that the wicked men who had stolen the goods from Mrs. White’s home had planned to circulate the story against the girl who had foiled them, and that now the Borough would transfer the reward placed for the capture of the girl to the finding of her—to make right, if possible, the harm done a helpless, innocent creature.
“And furthermore,” continued the official communication, “inasmuch as your daughter has helped this girl at very great personal risks (as we have learned through careful investigation), you may tell your daughter that if she knows anything of the whereabout of this gypsy girl, she need not hesitate in communicating to her this proclamation.”
Major Dale called Dorothy, and told her the good news.