The excitement of the day had the effect of shortening the hours, and night came before the young folks at the Cedars realized that the day was done.

The matter of “doing something for Urania,” had been the all absorbing topic during the evening meal, when the various plans talked of during the day were brought up for final consideration.

Mrs. White agreed with Dorothy that the gypsy girl should be sent to some school, and the boys, Nat and Ned, had formed the committee that went to the camp to consult with the girl’s father about the matter.

As Urania had warned them, the trip was entirely unnecessary, for the man seemed to care very little where Urania went.

Such was the report brought back by the “committee.”

But to find a school where Urania would be received was not an easy task. Mrs. White, as well as Dorothy, had been telephoning to the city offices during the afternoon, and as Nat said, they had landed one school where girls would be taken in without reference, but they didn’t find a place where they would undertake to train circus riders, and Urania wanted a pony, she said, more than an education.

In fact the girl did not agree to go to school at all, in spite of all the efforts the others were making “to fix her up.”

Dorothy and Tavia had told her all about the good times she would have, and had even recalled some of the most exciting incidents that had marked their own school days at Glenwood, but Urania was not easily persuaded. Still, all the clothes that could be spared from the wardrobes of Dorothy and Tavia were taken out, and as only a few more days remained before the girls would start for Glenwood, it was necessary to arrange Urania’s affairs as quickly as possible, so that she would not be left behind when the others were not at the Cedars to keep track of her.

That night Urania was to stay with John’s wife in her rooms over the coach house. Dorothy brought her down to the house after supper, and even gave her one of her own sleeping gowns, besides a comb and brush, the first the poor girl had ever owned.

“And now good night,” said Dorothy, when she had settled the girl comfortably, “in the morning you will be all ready to start for Deerfield. Just think how lovely it will be to go to a real boarding school.”

“Can I go out when I like?” asked Urania, anxiously.

“Why, of course,” replied Dorothy, “that is, you can when it is recreation hour—time for play you know.”

“And I will have to sleep on a bed and eat off a table? You know I never did eat off a table until I came to your house.”

“Oh, but you’ll soon get used to that,” Dorothy assured her, “and you will like it much better than eating off the—ground. And surely it is very nice to sleep on a good, soft bed.”

“It’s nice all right,” admitted the other, “but you see it’s different. I don’t know as gypsies are like other folks about things. My own mother lived in a house one time, but I never lived in a house.”

“But now you won’t be a gypsy any longer,” said Dorothy. “You are going to be a nice girl, learn to read and write and then when you get older, you can go to work and be just like other people.”

“Won’t be a gypsy any more?” asked Urania, evidently not pleased at the thought.

“Well, I mean you will give up gypsy ways. But now I must go back to the house. I’ll be up early to go with you. Mrs. White is going to take us in the Fire Bird. I’ll have all your clothes ready. Be sure to use plenty of soap and water in the morning,” finished Dorothy, as she hurried off, well pleased that all arrangements were finally complete, and that she had had the courage to give the gypsy girl her first lessons in personal cleanliness.

And it was now time for every one to pack up and make ready to start off for the new school term. The boys were to leave the following afternoon, (Urania was to go her way directly after breakfast). Dorothy and Tavia would leave the next day. Major Dale, and the boys, had not returned to the Cedars, their trip being lengthened by a visit paid to the old home in Dalton.

“And now,” said Nat, as late that night the little party gathered in the dining room for a final “feed,” together, “when we get to Cadet Hall and I start in to write business letters (with a sly wink at Tavia) I hope they will be answered promptly by every one who is honored by receiving one. I remember last year, momsey, you kept me waiting two whole days for a little check—and you know a thing like that puts a fellow out dreadfully.”

“But, my dear,” replied the mother, “you should manage your allowance better. This year I will positively not advance a single dollar to either of you.”

“Send checks ma, do,” put in Ned. “We ain’t fussy about the currency.”

“Now, we must not stay up too late,” added Mrs. White. “I wish we had been able to let the Urania matter wait for a few days—it seems I have quite an institution to clear out all at once, but since the Deerfield school opens to-morrow, I think it will be best for her to be there on time. I hope she will get along.”

“So do I,” spoke up Dorothy, with a promptness that signified anxiety as to the question. “Urania is a queer girl, and has had her own way always. It will be very different now, especially as Deerfield School makes a specialty of taking in—odd girls.” “She’s odd all right,” chimed in Ned, “and not so bad looking either. I quite took to her in those new togs.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. White smiling, “she did look well in that little blue dress of Dorothy’s. Let us hope she will become the clothes as they become her.”

With more small talk interrupted finally with a decided “Go to bed,” from Mrs. White, the dining room was empty at last, and the prospective scholars soon sleeping the sleep that blesses a well-filled day.

A rainy day dawned on the morrow—rainy and dreary as any day in early fall could be.

Tavia and Dorothy saw the outlook from their window and added to the misery such groans and moans as girls preparing for a long journey might be pardoned for making under the circumstances.

“You needn’t care,” said Tavia to Dorothy. “There’s a good tight shut-in box to the ‘Fire Bird,’ but I wanted to gather some wild flower roots to take to Glenwood. Those ferns we brought back with us last year just kept me alive in my ‘glumps,’ and I’m sure to have them bad as ever when I get there this time.”

“I suppose you miss the boys,” said Dorothy, innocently. Then, seeing the effect of her words, she tried in vain to make amends.

“I’m sure I miss them,” she hurried to add, “I am always homesick for a week, but I have to get to work, and that’s the best cure I know of.”

“And it has exactly the opposite effect on me,” declared Tavia. “If I didn’t have to get to work, I fancy school life would not be such a bore.”

“But you manage to keep going. I suppose you and Ned Ebony will be as thick as ever. And you and Nita Brandt will be as—”

“Thin as ever,” finished Tavia, “which means that we will run like melted butter at ninety degrees. I never could get along with that splinter.”

“Well, I hope Cologne will be there when we arrive. She always seems to be the first bell—starts everything up,” continued Dorothy. “I’m going to work hard this year. There are prizes, you remember.”

“Mine for the ‘booby,’” sighed Tavia. “I hate prizes. Always make me think of putting your name on the church envelope. Kind of cheap advertising.”

“Oh, I don’t feel that way about it,” objected Dorothy. “When one wins a prize it is something to have a remembrance of the contest. That’s the way I look at it.”

“Well, I always like to forget the contests,” insisted the obdurate Tavia, “so I don’t mind not having the medal. But say! Isn’t it time you went down? Urania was to start early. Don’t wait for me. I’m going to take my time this morning. Last morning I’ll get time to take until holidays.”

At this Dorothy ran lightly down the stairs, and with a word to Mrs. White she hurried over to the coach house to make sure that Urania was ready before she should stop for breakfast.

“I haven’t called the poor thing yet,” apologized John’s wife, Mary, as Dorothy entered. “She looked that worried and played out I thought to let her sleep until the last minute. I’ll help her to dress.”

Dorothy entered the little bedroom with the woman.

“She’s gone!” both exclaimed together.

“Ran away!” added Dorothy, as the unruffled bed told the tale.

“And we never heard her move!” declared the woman, in alarm. “How ever did she get out?”

“After all our trouble!” moaned Dorothy. “Well, perhaps it is better to happen now than when she got off there alone. I guess there’s no use trying to make a lady of a gypsy girl,” she finished sadly. “But I did hope Urania would amount to something.”

“As you say, miss, it’s better now,” put in the woman, “and like as not she’s gone back to the camp.”

“Oh, no, I’m positive she did not intend to go back there. She really meant to leave the gypsies, and I suppose she has carried out her plan. You see, she had some money, and she’s not afraid to travel. Well, I must go and tell Aunt Winnie. They will all be so disappointed!”

“I hope they won’t blame me,” said the woman, anxiously. “I didn’t suppose she had to be watched, Miss Dorothy.”

“You are not in the least to blame, Mary. No matter how we watched her, she could get away if she wanted to. Well, I hope she takes care of herself.”

“She spoke right smart to me last night,” went on Mary. “She talked of how good you had been to her, and she said she would make it right some day. It’s a pity she has no one to guide her.”

As Dorothy said, the folks were disappointed when they heard of the runaway, but Mrs. White made the best of the affair by declaring that it was better for the girl to go away as she had done, than to have made some trouble at the school—perhaps induced other girls to run off with her.

That afternoon Ned and Nat left for Cadet Hall, and early the next morning Dorothy and Tavia started off for Glenwood. Little did the girls dream of under what peculiar circumstances they were to meet Urania again.