“You shall not. It is much easier for a boy to go in an office, even in an emergency, than for you to leave this year,” declared Tavia. “Could I see your letter?”
“Of course,” and Dorothy took a slip of paper from her pocket. “Of course you know dad. He would not tell me more than he had to.”
Tavia glanced over the note. “Why,” she exclaimed, “that’s nothing. Joe had a good chance to get in the bank, and he wanted to try it. I can’t see the need of you taking that so seriously.”
“Oh, I know I may be too anxious, but, at the same time, I feel, being the oldest, that I should be there to help in some way,” finished Dorothy dolefully.
“Yes, you might pose as a beauty. I believe there is a great demand for the sylph,” Tavia said facetiously.
Dorothy did not reply. She stood there in her pretty white linen dress, with her unruly hair getting into ringlets in spite of the braids that tried to restrain it.
“Don’t mail your letter,” begged Tavia. “Come over to the court. I expect trouble between Cologne and Cecilia, and if there is anyone in a scrap, I would hate to miss it.”
“All right, you run along. I’ll join you later,” Dorothy conceded, and Tavia left her.
“She may be right,” thought Dorothy, “but I must tell the folks that I am willing to do all I can. I have to mail the letter.”
The girls on the tennis court were all too busy to notice her as she walked out of the grounds, and made her way to the post-office. Through the woods, she was so occupied with the thoughts of home, that she reached the office before she realized the lonely part of her walk had been covered.