Mrs. Pangborn listened first to Dorothy, and then to Miette. That the little French girl had been abandoned by her relatives, as Miette claimed, was hard to believe, but it was also a fact that Mrs. Pangborn had received no reply to a letter she had written to the address of Miette’s guardian. In her story all the wrongs that Miette had been trying in the past so assiduously to hide were now poured out in a frenzy of indignation. She declared her aunt had brought her out to Glenwood “to get rid of her,” and that all her mother’s money had been stolen by this relative. She repeated the wrong she was made to endure while acting as “cash girl” in a New York department store, and declared that “only for Marie, she would have died.”

“And now it is Dorothy who helps me,” finished the girl, “and if she had not so insisted on being my friend I should have run right away—why should I stay here now? Where shall I go after the term is finished? I must at once let my own aunt in France know how these people in America have treated me!”

“But, my dear,” counseled Mrs. Pangborn, “we must wait. You are not at all sure that your aunt has gone away. And if she has, you need not worry—we can take care of you nicely until some of your other relatives come.”

“But my money!” wailed Miette, “they have it all!”

“Perhaps it is all safely put away for you,” replied Mrs. Pangborn. “You must not be too quick to judge.”

“But they made me work, and I knew it was my money that bought all the new things.”

“Well, my dear, you must try now to be calm, and we will attend to all your troubles at once. I am sorry you did not trust me before—”

“But I dared not tell,” insisted Miette. “My aunt particularly said I should go to some awful place if I told. And that is why I should not have written the note to Marie. But I do so love Marie.”

When Miette left the office Dorothy stayed to speak alone with Mrs. Pangborn.

“I would like,” said Dorothy, “to take a little trip down to North Birchland. I need to see my aunt about—”

“The funny little boy,” interrupted the president of Glenwood. “Well, I do think he is a queer chap, and only for your recommendation I should be quite afraid to have him around Glenwood,” said Mrs. Pangborn good-naturedly.

“Then you haven’t seen—”

“Oh, indeed, I have, but I must still call him a queer little chap,” went on the president. “I think the disguise rather clever, but of course it was dangerous.”

“And may I go to North Birchland?” asked Dorothy.

“If you think it necessary, of course,” replied Mrs. Pangborn, “but you cannot afford to leave your school work unless it is necessary,” she finished.

“I will make it up,” agreed Dorothy. “I feel I must talk to Aunt Winnie. She will know exactly what is best to do.”

“I am sure I can depend upon you to do your best,” replied the president.

“I suppose,” ventured Dorothy, “it would not be possible to take Miette along? She has been almost ill, you know, and if she could do better work after the change—” “Oh, you dear little schemer!” said Mrs. Pangborn, smiling. “Here, you have arranged it all. You are to carry Miette off to North Birchland, and then you are to fix it up for the queer boy. Why, my dear, I do not see why you take other people’s troubles so seriously,” and Mrs. Pangborn gave her a reassuring glance. “But I must not forget,” she hurried to add, “that it was I who imposed Miette’s worries upon you.”

“I am sure it was no trouble at all,” declared Dorothy, “and I love to do what I can—”

“Exactly. It is a case of willing hands. Well, my dear, if you really must go to North Birchland, I can’t see but the trip would serve to—straighten out Miette. In fact, you will be near New York, and it might be just possible that Mrs. White would be kind enough to make some inquiries for me. It is really quite impossible for me to go to New York at present.”

“I am sure she would be glad to,” answered Dorothy. “We always go to New York when I am home.”

So the interview ended, and Dorothy found herself plunged deeper than ever into the mysteries of others’ affairs.

“But no one else can just do it,” she argued to herself, “and surely I can spare the time—I’ll work at night, if necessary, to make it up.”

The prospect of a trip to the Cedars was pleasant in itself to Dorothy, and then to have Miette with her, to show her to Aunt Winnie, besides being assured that no one could so wisely act in the case of lost relatives as could Aunt Winnie—Dorothy could scarcely sleep that night thinking of it all.

She simply told Tavia she was going to the Cedars “on business.”

“And why can’t I go?” demanded Tavia, always ready for a trip, especially with her chum.

“Why, you have already got work to make up,” explained Dorothy, “and how could you expect to leave now?”

“I’ve a mind to, anyway,” declared Tavia. “We are all going to strike if that ‘Bylow—baby-bunting’ does not come to terms. She’s perfectly hateful, and not a girl can get along with her.”

“I’ve managed to keep out of trouble,” remarked Dorothy abstractedly.

“Oh, you!” exclaimed Tavia, “you don’t go in for that kind of trouble lately. But I notice you have plenty of other domestic brands.” “Yes,” sighed Dorothy, “I have some—just now.”

“Well, I may as well sleep it off,” answered Tavia. “But I surely would like a trip just now—to cut that ‘condition’ I have to make up. Seems to me school days get harder every twenty-four hours,” and she turned away, without any apparent worry, in spite of her declaration of “too much to do.”

But Dorothy did not turn over to rest. Instead, she lay wide awake, the “Hunter’s Moon” shining full in her window, and making queer pictures on the light-tinted walls.

To take Miette—and to take Urania (for my readers must have guessed that the “queer boy” was none other than the gypsy girl), now seemed to Dorothy something more than a mere matter of going from Glenwood to North Birchland. Miette would be no trouble, of course—but Urania?

A reward had been offered for the capture of the gypsy girl. And country officers are “keen” where a cash reward is in question. Certainly Urania would have to be disguised. She could not wear the old torn boy’s clothes in which she had come to Glenwood—Dorothy could not travel with her in that garb. She was too small to be dressed as a woman—anyone could see that disguise, thought Dorothy. But one thing seemed possible to do to work out the plan of getting into North Birchland without detection. Urania must impersonate Tavia, she must dress in Tavia’s clothes, and look as much as she could be made to look like Tavia Travers.

That much settled, Dorothy bade the “Hunter’s Moon” good-night, and passed from the realm of waking dreams into the depths of slumber visions.

It was a very early morning call that Dorothy made at the room across the hall with her news for Miette.

“You are to come to the Cedars with me,” Dorothy told the surprised little French girl, “and perhaps Aunt Winnie will take us over to New York.”

“Oh, how splendid!” exclaimed Miette, clapping her hands. “I may then see Marie?”

“Well, I cannot tell, of course,” replied Dorothy, “but I always go to New York when I am at the Cedars, and I am sure Aunt Winnie will want to go,” she added, thinking of Mrs. Pangborn’s message to Mrs. White. “Perhaps we will all go together.” “It will be splendid,” declared Miette. “I can hardly do anything until I am sure—about my aunt.”

“That is the reason Mrs. Pangborn has been so good and lets you have the holiday,” said Dorothy. “I promised we would both work doubly hard when we came back.”

“Indeed I will!” assented Miette. “But what time must we start?” she asked, all eager for the journey.

“On the ten o’clock train. You see, I have to bring back with me the other girl—she whom we found in the woods.”

“And she is a girl? I thought so. I saw her yesterday in girl’s clothes—”

“We must not talk about that now,” interrupted Dorothy. “I have to do a great deal for her before we start. And I am trembling lest Mrs. Pangborn might change her mind—think it all too risky.”

At this Dorothy was gone, and Miette began to make ready for the trip.

And Dorothy was right—Mrs. Pangborn was apt to change her mind: in fact, a call for Dorothy to come to the office directly after breakfast confirmed her suspicion. “I am almost afraid, Dorothy,” said the president of Glenwood, in the after-breakfast interview, “that I was rather too hasty in agreeing with you that you should take the trip to the Cedars. I would not mind you going alone, or even taking Miette. But this gypsy girl—I don’t quite like all that.”

“But, Mrs. Pangborn,” pleaded Dorothy, “I am perfectly safe. And if I do not take her back I am afraid some officer may find her—”

“But if she is such an unruly girl—”

“Indeed, she is not,” declared Dorothy. “Urania has never done anything really wrong. I have known her for a long time, and she has done many good turns for us. I really feel that I can do this, and not be detected, whereas anyone else might—spoil it all.”

“Well, my dear, I like your courage. And I also believe there are quite as important things as book lessons in life for young girls to learn, and helping their fellow creatures is certainly one of these. And, besides, I would not like to disappoint you. So if you will promise to follow my advice carefully, in regard to telegraphing either to your aunt or to me at once, should you get into any difficulty, I will give my permission.” Dorothy willingly agreed to these conditions, and then Mrs. Pangborn gave her a note for Mrs. White.

“This will explain all I can tell her about Miette’s affair,” said Mrs. Pangborn, “and if she can possibly attend to it personally for me, I shall be greatly obligated. I will be so glad to know about the child’s relatives.”

Dorothy took the note, and thanking Mrs. Pangborn for the privileges she had given her, hurried off to “fix up Urania.”