“Why, that is Mrs. Petterby, the younger,” drawled Tavia, flashing a glance at Dorothy.
“Married?” gasped Dorothy.
“According to law,” responded Tavia, solemnly. “And worse. Read on.”
Breathlessly, Dorothy Dale consumed the remainder of the letter. Some of it she murmured aloud:
“‘The kid is a wonder. You’d ought to see her. Two weeks old to-day and I bet she could sit a bucking pony. You’re elected godmother, Miss Tavia, because she is going to be called ‘Octavia Susan Petterby,’ believe me!”
“Oh, Tavia!” finished Dorothy, crumpling the letter in her hand. “And you never told us a word about it. That’s why you wanted to buy a silver mug!”
“Yes,” Tavia admitted.
“And they have been married how long?”
“Almost a year. Soon after we came away from Hardin.”
“And you never said a word,” Dorothy said accusingly. “We all supposed——”