"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.