“Oh, please!” shrilled the child’s sweet voice, “is this the big school where my Miss Dorothy—— Oh, my dear Dorothy Dale!” she concluded, and ran sobbing into Dorothy’s arms.
There was great confusion for the next few moments—not only at the gate, where Dorothy and Tavia took turns in hugging and quieting the sobbing child—but when they returned with Celia to the porch, where the other girls had gathered to satisfy their curiosity about the stranger.
“No,” said Dorothy, decidedly; “you must not all talk at once. It bothers her. Tavia and I are going to take her to our room—— No! you can’t all of you come. Go on about your business. By supper time Celia will be all right and you shall all get acquainted with her.”
She picked the little girl up in her arms—oh, how thin the little body was!—and carried her all the way to Number Nineteen. Tavia “tagged” closely, just as interested as she could be in the child.
“How did you get here, Celia?” demanded Dorothy, gravely, as she sat before the register, “skinning” off the little one’s damp stockings, after Tavia had removed the worn shoes.
“I rode-ed part of the way,” confessed Celia, nodding. “But Bentley didn’t know about it. I hide-ed in the back of the wagon.”
“My dear!” gasped Dorothy. “You ran away?”
“Bully!” murmured Tavia. “I love her for it.”
“Hush!” commanded Dorothy; but Celia did not hear what Tavia said.
“Yes, Dorothy Dale, I jes’ had to run away to see you. I jes’ knowed I could find you.”