Tavia was back almost instantly.
“They’re gone!” she gasped. “They’re haunted I think—unless the Jean changed her mind and is now howling in throes of suicide. There I heard a howl. You two better not be caught in the corridors, or you may be implicated,” and with this, she, in her careless way, almost brushed the two girls out and locked the door.
But over in her own corner, under her own lamp, Tavia read a name on a slip of paper. Then she put it in her letter box, and turned out the lights.
Two more days and school would formally open. That which followed the arrival of some belated girls from the West dawned as perfect as a September day could blaze, and Dorothy was at her window, looking over the hills before Tavia had so much as given a first yawning signal of waking.
A soft, misty atmosphere made the world wonderful under the iridescent blades of light that fell from the sunrise.
“It seems a shame to stay indoors,” reflected Dorothy, “and it will be two hours before breakfast. I’ll just slip into a gingham, and take a walk over to the barns. Jacob will be out with the horses and dogs.”
Few of the girls were awake as she passed lightly through the halls. Maids were already busy with sweepers and brushes.
Dorothy knew many of the help, and bade them a pleasant good morning. From the broad veranda she stopped to look at the growing day.
“I think I won’t go to the stables,” she decided. “I’ll go out and get a bunch of late flowers. Mrs. Pangborn is so fond of them.”
Down the roadway she ran. The whistle of an engine attracted her attention.