“Don’t put it that way,” urged Dorothy. “Don’t you all think she is to be excused?”
“Well, wasn’t anybody else ever in a fire?” began Ned Ebony, hotly.
“Think of Shagbark, Myshirt, and Abedwego!” exclaimed Tavia. “Weren’t they the three worthies who went into the fiery furnace?”
“But I hope they didn’t teach school afterward, if it made ’em as cross as Miss Olaine,” sighed Cologne, as she arranged her hair before the glass.
It was agreed, however, that the graduating class of Glenwood was to be particularly nice to Miss Olaine for the rest of the school year.
“We’ll just heap coals of fire on her head,” said Nita.
“Hope it’ll singe her hair, then,” sniffed Tavia.
When the others were gone, she and Dorothy discussed the other—and more interesting—detail of the Rector Street School fire. The other girls had been told nothing about Celia and Tom Moran.
“Where do you suppose he went after that fire?” queried Dorothy, sitting on the edge of the bed with her chin in the cup of her hand.
“Tom Moran?”