“Goat? Who said anything about goat? What d’ye mean, goat?” demanded Tavia, without turning from the window.
“You said kid——”
“And it is! A little girl! Just see here, Doro!” cried Tavia, more energetically. “She’s lost one of those big rubbers in the mud. There! there goes the other——”
Her chum ran to the window to look out and the others crowded up to peer over their shoulders. They all saw the little figure struggling along the muddy road toward the school gate. She had a hood on, and a bedrabbled-looking coat, and tried to carry a broken umbrella.
“The poor little thing!” murmured Cologne.
Dorothy suddenly uttered a cry, backed out of the group with energy, and dashed for the door.
“What is it?” gasped Ned Ebony, who had been almost overturned.
“Who is it?” added Tavia, herself bursting through the group on the trail of her roommate.
“It’s Celia—little Celia!” cried Dorothy, as she ran out of the room without hat, coat, or overshoes.
Tavia followed her. It was a race between them to the gateway of Glenwood. They got there just as the wind-blown and saturated figure of Mrs. Ann Hogan’s little slave-of-all-work arrived at the open gateway.