"I wish we did not have to change so often," said Dorothy to Tavia, when she had finally dried her eyes and looked around with the determination of being young-lady-like, and not crying for those left behind in dear old Dalton.
"Oh, that's the most fun," declared Tavia. "All new people maybe, and different conductors, besides a chance to try if our feet are asleep—mine feel drowsy now," and she jumped into the aisle just to straighten out and make people wonder if she had lost something.
"We will meet the others at the junction—Viola's folks, you know. And that reminds me,—I never had a chance to tell you why she was called Viola. Her grandfather was a great violinist and she was called after his—"
"Fiddle! Good!" interrupted Tavia, the irrepressible. "Then I'll call her 'Fiddle.' That's lots better than the vegetables."
"It's a comfort to have all our things go by express," Dorothy remarked when "Next station Junction!" was called from the front door of the car. "I feel as if I am constantly forgetting something, when I have nothing to carry, but it is a relief to find our racks empty."
"My hat is up there," Tavia remarked, taking down the straw sailor. "And our box of candy—you don't call that an empty rack, do you? Alice's best mixed—all chocolate too."
"I was quite sure you wouldn't forget the candy," answered Dorothy. "And it was awfully good of Alice."
"Junction! Junct-shon!" called the trainman.
"There's our porter," remarked Tavia; with conscious pride as the colored man, whom the major had given the girls in charge of, stepped up the aisle, secured the small satchels and, without so much as, "by your leave," or, "are you ready," handed the two girls off the train.