“Oh, I’ll get to the Birches some time during the summer I guess,” Tavia hurried to say, as she noted Dorothy’s disappointment. “You can depend upon it I expect to have some of the fine times—you are not to have a monopoly of the good things.”
“Then you are going to Dalton first, then to Buffalo, and what time do you count on getting to Birchland?” persisted Dorothy, determined to know, if possible, just what Tavia’s plans really were.
“Oh, my dear,” and Tavia indulged in a discordant yawn, “do let’s go to sleep. I’m almost dead.”
“But, Tavia, you always make some excuse when I ask you about vacation,” and Dorothy’s tone was in no way drowsy—she certainly was not sleepy.
“And you always ask such unreasonable questions,” retorted Tavia. “Just as if I can tell what may happen between now and—midsummer.”
“Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy with a sob. “I feel just as if something dreadful was going to happen. I don’t know why but you—you have—changed so,” and the girl buried her head in her pillow and cried as if something “dreadful” had really happened.
“Doro, dear,” and Tavia clasped the weeping girl in her arms, “what can be the matter? What have I done? You know I love you better than anyone in the whole world, and now you accuse me of changing!”
“But you have changed,” insisted Dorothy, sobbing bitterly. “Everybody is talking about it. And if you knew what a time I have had trying—trying to stand up for you!”
“To stand up for me!” repeated Tavia. “What have I done that need provoke comment? Surely it is my own business if I do not choose to be the school monkey any longer. Let some of the others turn in and serve on the giggling committee. I think I have done my share!”
“Oh, it isn’t that,” and Dorothy jabbed her handkerchief into her eyes, “but you are so—so different. You always seem to be thinking of something else.”