"Oh, that is it!" He laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, the truth is, little sister, I hadn't made up my mind fully. I thought it might be Philadelphia, but I was looking over a newspaper down-stairs and saw some notes about new developments in New York, and I decided to go there."
"Oh, New York!" the child cried. "That is the biggest city in the country. Old Roly-poly says the lid is always off up there, and—"
"Stop!" Not since leaving Ridgeville had John's tone been so sharp and commanding. "Don't mention that man's name ever again, Sis. And another thing! Let's agree between us never to speak of any of it again—not to each other or to anybody else. Do you understand? I want all of it buried forever in a grave as deep as from here to the middle of the earth."
"Not your ma, nor Aunt Jane—?"
"No, no!" he said, fiercely.
"Nor Tilly?"
"No, never—under any circumstances. If people want to know about us, send them to me—or simply say we are orphans, father and mother both dead. John and Dora Trott. You understand now, don't you?"
The little tousled head moved wearily on the big pillow. She did not understand his far-seeing policy, but it didn't matter. He knew best.
There was a rap on the door. Opening it, he admitted a waiter with a tray containing some steaming milk-toast. "I forgot ordering it," John said to Dora, as the man moved a small table up to her bedside and rested the tray on it. "You must not go to bed on an empty stomach, and this is just light enough to make you sleep soundly."
The sight of the food, which was attractively served, appealed to the child, and when the man had left the room, John propped her up with the pillow and put the tray into her lap. She ate heartily, and when she had finished he set the tray aside.