Dorothy frowned, then laughed. There was no use taking Tavia seriously, and, besides, she very rarely meant any of the flippant things she said.
The Mr. Grant whose hair and whiskers Tavia so openly admired was the new owner of the Bugle and a dignified old gentleman whom Major Dale held in great esteem. To hear Tavia refer to him so flippantly rather shocked Dorothy. But then, Tavia was Tavia, and there was no use trying to change her.
“I wish the Major had not sold the Bugle,” Dorothy repeated, with a sigh. “It seems, somehow, like turning against an old friend.”
The two girls walked on in silence through the lovely spring sunshine, each busy with her own thoughts. They were very happy thoughts, for both Dorothy and Tavia had every reason to be happy.
During the past winter the chums had become engaged to the “two dearest fellows in the world.” Nat White, Dorothy’s cousin and Tavia’s “bright particular star,” to use the latter’s own phrase, was expected in Dalton that afternoon. At the thought that Nat might even reach her home before Dorothy and herself, Tavia quickened her pace, eagerly urging the thoughtful Dorothy along with her.
Garry Knapp, Dorothy’s wild and woolly Westerner—again Tavia’s description—had returned to his beloved West to cultivate his land and raise the “best wheat crop anywhere near Desert City.” Dorothy was fully in sympathy with this ambition. The only part of it she did not like was the long miles that separated her from Garry and Garry from her. It was not so very long since she had seen him, yet it seemed to her like an interminable space of time.
“I bet I can guess what you are thinking about,” said Tavia, reading Dorothy’s wistful expression. “Are you on?”
“I never bet,” replied Dorothy primly, and Tavia hugged her.
“You blessed Puritan! Just for that I’ll tell you, anyway.”
“You needn’t bother,” said Dorothy hastily, for she was sometimes afraid of her friend’s intuitions.