Dorothy proceeded to repeat to Tom Moran all the story of little Celia, as the child had told it to her; and she told, also, of her first meeting with Celia and her promise, and how she (Dorothy) had been lost in the snow and had spent Sunday at Mrs. Hogan’s; likewise, how Celia, “jes’ the cutest little thing,” had longed to see Dorothy so much that she had run away from the farm woman and found Glenwood Hall all by herself.
“And if you don’t say she’s the cutest thing you ever saw when you set eyes on her——” interrupted the exuberant Tavia.
“I want to see her bad enough, the Lord knows. I was going to beat it away from Dalton this very night. Lucky you boys set that rick afire, or I’d still been sleeping, and I’d caught the night freight out of here—that’s right,” said Tom Moran.
“But I’ll get a job now—a steady job. I’ll have an anchor if I have Cely. That’s what Miss Olaine used to say I needed. Ye see,” said Tom, again blushing, “she an’ me was awful good friends once.”
“But why did you run away after the schoolhouse fire?” asked Tavia, the curious.
“Well, ye see,” said Tom Moran, “the newspaper made such a fuss over it—and folks began to talk about doin’ foolish things——”
“You were a hero!” cried Tavia. “A real hero.”
“Aw, no,” said Moran, blushing again. “That was all newspaper talk. Anyhow I didn’t want money for saving them kids from being burned up.”
“But you needn’t have run away,” sighed Dorothy. “Your modesty made us a lot of trouble. You know, we might have found you out a long time ago——”
“Huh! Everybody didn’t think so much of me,” grinned Tom Moran. Yet he looked serious the next minute. “You see—Miss—Olaine—— Well, we’d had some words, and I’d left the Morrell Street house before the fire happened. I’d have gone away from that town, anyway.”