“And now, my dears,” said Mrs. White, a day or two after the trip to New York, “you must soon be thinking of returning to Glenwood. You have had quite a vacation, and it is too early in the season to lay aside school work.”

“Yes, and I will have plenty to do to pull up,” replied Dorothy. “I am working for a prize this year.”

“I shall feel more like doing my part now,” spoke Miette, in whose cheeks the tint of health was beginning to show itself. “And I do believe I shall be very glad to see the girls, also,” she said.

“Well, I am sure the little change has done you both good,” remarked Mrs. White, with an approving look. “After all, there are many important things in life to be learned—and they are not all to be found in books. This afternoon we may expect to see the lawyer from New York, and then I hope all the troublesome business will be settled.” A letter from Tavia brought the news that Nita Brandt was miserable over the part she had taken in the “persecution” of Miette. She said, in her letter, that even Miss Bylow had spoken to the class in “a near apology,” and that when the two “runaways” did return there would be a welcome committee waiting to receive them.

“So, you see,” Dorothy told Miette, “American school girls are not as mean as they may appear. I was positive they would want you back as soon as you left—and it is a great thing to be missed, you know.”

“But I am sure it is you who are missed,” replied Miette, who did not attempt to conceal her pleasure at the tone of Tavia’s letter. “I do not see how they get on without you at all.”

“Oh, indeed,” replied Dorothy, “Glenwood girls are quite capable of taking care of themselves, and they have a particular faculty of being independent of persons and things.”

“I hope I shall be able to stay—allowed to stay, I mean,” said Miette, thoughtfully. “I am so nervous about the lawyer’s visit.”

“No need to be,” Dorothy told her. “I am sure everything will be all right—I can tell by Aunt Winnie’s manner that she expects some pleasant news.” “And if I do stay at Glenwood, and have the pleasure of visiting with you again,” said Miette, “will you come again with me to New York to look for Marie?”

“I’ve got a better plan,” replied Dorothy, “but you mustn’t ask about it yet—the plans are not fully developed.”

“Oh, do tell me?” pleaded Miette, “If it’s about Marie I cannot wait for plans to develop.”

“Well, it includes Marie—I hope,” said Dorothy, with a mischievous shake of her pretty head. “The fact is, I am begging Aunt Winnie to let me turn the Cedars into a Social Settlement—ask some lonely and otherwise ‘abused’ girls to spend their vacation here.”

“Oh, how splendid!” exclaimed Miette, “I know two other very nice girls who worked in the store—they are poor, but—”

“Poverty is no objection,” declared Dorothy. “The fact is, Dad says I have made so many acquaintances in the past few years we ought to have a reunion. I have always loved the social settlement idea, and I’m going to try it on.”

“We would be so happy now,” said Dorothy, “if only we could get some tidings of Urania.”

“Do you think she will come back?” asked Miette. “I am sure she will,” replied Dorothy. “If we only could get some word to her, wherever she is. Sometimes I wake in the night and fancy she is calling me.”

“You love her, I am sure,” said Miette, “and she is such a queer little creature!”

“Yes, I do love her,” declared Dorothy. “She almost risked her life for me, and I will never believe that she did anything wrong—she might be very foolish, but she is not wicked.”

“It is well to have such a friend as Dorothy Dale,” said Miette, with a meaning smile. “I am sure I should have fared very poorly without her aid myself.”

“Now, come,” interrupted Dorothy, “when a girl talks that way I am always certain she wants to borrow something—and all my needles, pins, thread, and even darning ball are at school.”

Miette laughed merrily—she had a way of laughing that might be properly termed infectious, for its ring never failed to bring forth an echo.

It was that laugh that had won for her the heart of Dorothy, when alone she attempted to become one of the “Glens,” and Tavia, with Ned, helped to make the fun on opening day.

The time slipped by like the fleeting autumn clouds that added their gentle reflection to the glorious tints of tree and bush. It might be pleasant to get back with the girls at Glenwood, but it could scarcely be more pleasant than this wonderful day at the Cedars, Dorothy thought. She had many delightful hours with her brothers, Roger and Joe, as well as with the others.

“I think, Miette, you ought really to put on one of my white gowns this afternoon—you look so somber in black, and all white is just as deep mourning as black, you know,” said Dorothy.

“If you would like me to, I shall do it,” replied Miette, “although I shall feel very strange to wear anything but black.”

“It will really be good for you,” urged Dorothy. “You know, they say that black is actually hard on the nerves.”

So it happened that when the lunch bell rang it was a new Miette that came down with Dorothy.

Even Major Dale remarked upon the improvement.

“Well, you see,” said Miette, “when Dorothy wants anything she is sure of getting it. I have often heard that some people have fairies helping them, and I am sure Dorothy’s fairy is very good to her.”

Mrs. White reminded the girls they were not to go off the grounds after lunch, “for the lawyer may want to see you,” she told them.

The early afternoon train brought the expected gentleman—Mr. Pierce by name, of the law firm of Pierce & Sloan, New York City.

He was the same gentleman whom Mrs. White had met in the city, and when he recognized Miette he remarked upon her improved appearance.

“You have gained in the few days,” he said kindly, “I am sure these new friends know how to take care of—lost girls,” he finished with a smile.

Major Dale was present and showed his usual kindly interest in Dorothy’s friends. In fact, he evinced a pardonable pride in the way his daughter won her friends, as he did, too, Mr. Pierce’s statement that Dorothy was a very smart little girl.

Dorothy naturally disliked such compliments, and always maintained she had done nothing more than any other girl would have done under the circumstances. This might have been almost true, or true in a sense, but when men like Lawyer Pierce are initiated into the girl realm, and discover that the members of that realm are not all “silly, giggling school girls,” surprise is natural as well as excusable. In how many homes to-day are not young girls doing things quietly and almost unconsciously to help the entire family, not alone to obtain bread and butter, but to secure real peace and happiness?

Think of the numberless girls who are assisting good mothers with the trying details of the household, taking from tired heads and shoulders a generous share of the burden that would otherwise make life miserable for these same long-taxed mothers!

There are Dorothy Dales in almost every home—but we have not written their story yet. The “Home Girl” is one of the great unwritten volumes that writers hold so sacred in their hearts, scarcely is pen or paper deemed worthy to make the picture.

But we are telling one Dorothy’s story, that those who read may see the others by reflection.

In the library at the Cedars sat the group—Major Dale and his sister, Mrs. White, Lawyer Pierce, and Dorothy with Miette. They were now to learn the story of the real Miette—from the lips of her attorney.

“This young lady,” began the lawyer, indicating Miette, “was the daughter of Marquis de Pleau, a Frenchman of title, and of an American lady, before her marriage, Miss Davis, of Albany.” “Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. White, in surprise, her tone indicating that she knew the mother of Miette, and that the memory was one of pleasant associations. Miette herself evinced some surprise, but Dorothy was too interested to take her eyes off Mr. Pierce.

“The marquis died suddenly,” continued the lawyer, “and the young mother was left with this precious inheritance,” laying his hand on Miette’s shoulder.

“Some years later the mother herself was called away,” he resumed, “and then it was that the child was sent to relatives in this country. Her allowance had been received through our house, we having been appointed by the marquis’ estate, and we in turn had been paying the allowance to an aunt by marriage—Mrs. Charles Huber.”

Miette shrugged her small shoulders in true French fashion. Evidently she had no pleasant thoughts about Mrs. Charles Huber!

“We had no reason to suspect any misuse of this orphan’s money,” continued Mr. Pierce, “until a letter sent from Glenwood school to a girl named Marie Bloise, employed by the firm of Gorden-Granfield, came into the possession of the superintendent of the firm, Mr. Frederic Freeman, who happened to be a personal friend of my own.” “But I sent no letter!” interrupted Miette in surprise.

“No,” answered the lawyer, “the letter was signed Dorothy Dale!”

All eyes were turned on Dorothy.

“I sent it—” she stammered, “to Gorden-Granfield’s because Miette was so anxious to write to Marie, and had lost the letter.”

“And how did you get it?” asked Miette, more surprised than ever.

“Mrs. Pangborn gave it to me, and said I might add a line, and send it to the girl if I wished, but I was not to tell Miette until all the trouble was straightened out. It has not been all settled yet,” finished Dorothy.

“But we are about to finish it,” said the lawyer, smiling. “This letter was turned over to Mr. Freeman because it is against the rules of the house for employes to receive mail through the office.”

“But how did you come to know this letter had to do with your client?” asked Major Dale, much puzzled at the complications.

“Because Dorothy Dale has a very business-like habit of putting the sender’s name on the corner of her letters. This being written by Miette de Pleau, had that name neatly penned in the upper left-hand corner. This caught the eye of Mr. Freeman, and as he had heard me make some remarks about my little client, had even suspected that a girl employed as cash girl in his own store under the name of Marie Varley, might be the very girl I was so anxious to interview personally, he immediately forwarded the letter to me.”

“Yes, they called me that name—to hide who I was. Auntie said I should not let anyone know I was in a store,” said Miette.

“A remarkable case,” said Major Dale.

“Very,” assented the lawyer. “Of course, we have cases with queer phases, but this has been, as you say, Major, remarkable. To think that we should have a client in our own city whom we were never able to see personally. The aunt insisted the child was at boarding school, and it was very likely a fear of detection that prompted her to send the girl to Glenwood finally.”

“And was the woman actually—wicked?” asked Mrs. White.

“No,” replied Mr. Pierce, “and I should have explained that earlier. Her mind was unbalanced, and she is now in a sanitarium.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Miette, “I often thought that! She was so different at times, but after my uncle went away she was very strange.” “Yes,” said Mr. Pierce, “we have learned that her peculiar mania for money was not considered—well, dangerous by her husband, and when he went to the East Indies on a business trip he had no reason to fear that anything would go amiss with his niece. It was then that Mrs. Huber sent Miette to work—she explained that the girl would get an American education in that way.”

“The daughter of a marquis?” exclaimed Mrs. White.

“Exactly,” answered Mr. Pierce. “But we all know the cunning of those afflicted with mania. She was so adroit that she managed well to keep this little girl entirely out of our reach.”

“And now?” prompted Mrs. White.

“Now we must, of course, appoint a new guardian for Miette,” went on the lawyer, “and I have a request from Mr. Huber that some one be appointed who has had children to deal with. His wife was a person brought up singularly alone.”

“Could I choose?” asked Miette, innocently.

“You might suggest,” answered the lawyer.

“Then I would so like—Dorothy’s Aunt Winnie—”

“My dear child!” expostulated Mrs. White. “I have a veritable institution on my hands now—” “Oh, do, Aunt Winnie!” begged Dorothy, throwing her arms about the lovely woman without regard for the presence of the stranger. “I am sure Miette will help take care of me, and I will help take care of Miette.”

“I have always had a sacred love for the orphan,” spoke up Major Dale. “In fact, I do honestly believe that when a helpless child comes to our home, in need of a strong arm to guide and lead the way through life, that such a one is heaven sent. And if there is no technical or legal objection, I would urge you, sister, to listen to the cry of the children here,” pointing to Dorothy and Miette.

“I have been requested to make just this appeal,” said Mr. Pierce. “I had written to Mr. Huber of the circumstances surrounding the rescue of his niece, and he begged me to ask Mrs. White to continue her interest. If ever Mrs. Huber grows strong enough, of course, she may want to take back the charge, but her husband is determined to take her on a long voyage as soon as she shall be strong enough to endure it. This, the doctors think, will be the best kind of treatment for her case.”

“You will, auntie?” pleaded Dorothy.

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Mrs. White happily. “My daughters are multiplying wonderfully of late.”

At the word “daughter,” Miette arose and very solemnly touched her lips to Mrs. White’s forehead.

“You will be a mother to me, I am sure,” she said, “and I will try to be a dutiful daughter to you!”