"Yes, yes," urged Mr. Reed. "Let your friend see you, my girl. Her cheerfulness will help you to forget this rascally, cruel letter. There, good-by for the present," and, kissing her, Mr. Reed left the room.
Josie's bright face soon appeared at the door.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "Are you rehearsing for a charade, Miss Reed? And who are you in your long white train—Lady Angelica, or Donna Isabella, or who?"
"I don't know who I am!" sobbed poor Dorothy, throwing herself upon the bed and hiding her face in the pillows.
"Why, what is the matter? Are you ill? Have you heard bad news? Oh, I forget," continued Josie, as Dorry made no reply; "what a goose I must be! Of course you are miserable without Don, you darling! But I've come to bring good news, my lady—to me, at least—so cheer up. Do you know something? Mamma and Papa are going to start for San Francisco on Wednesday. They gave me my choice—to go with them or to stay with you, and I decided to stay. So they and your uncle settled it late last night that I am to be here with you till they come back—two whole months, Dot! Isn't that nice?"
"Ever so nice!" said Dorry, without lifting her head. "I am really glad, Jo; but my head aches, and I feel dreadfully this morning."
"Have you had any breakfast?" asked the practical Josie, much puzzled.
"N-no," sobbed Dorry.
"Well, no wonder you feel badly. Look at this cold coffee, and that mountain of toast, and not a thing touched. I declare, if I don't go right down and tell Liddy. We'll get you up a good hot breakfast, and you can doze quietly till we come."
Dorry felt a gentle arm round her for an instant, and a warm cheek pressed to hers, and then she was alone—alone with her thoughts of that dreadful letter.