“But I cannot just exactly understand about that letter,” said Miette, the next day, as she and Dorothy began their packing for Glenwood.

“What more do you want to know?” asked Dorothy archly.

“Whatever did you say to Marie?”

“Why, I just added a line, as Mrs. Pangborn said I might. I said that you were in distress, and if she knew where your aunt lived, should she go there and see if she still was at the same place. Then I asked if she would send me your aunt’s address.”

“What for?” asked Miette.

“Well, I cannot just exactly tell you,” stammered Dorothy, “but I knew if Aunt Winnie went to New York she would not mind calling on your aunt.”

“So,” said Miette, giving Dorothy a gentle hug (everything Miette did was gentle), “you had really decided to have me investigated?” “I knew you needed some attention.”

“And I was so ashamed to have worked in a store,” reflected Miette aloud.

“That was because you were really a ‘somebody,’” answered Dorothy. “I do believe in inheritance. You see, you inherited a perfectly honorable pride. And do you realize you are very rich?”

“I know it, but I do not realize it,” said Miette. “Like the pride, I suppose I consider that my lawful right.”

Dorothy saw how different can be a foreign girl to one accustomed to our delightful American independence.

“Now, if Tavia ever fell into such luck,” said Dorothy, “I can scarcely imagine what would happen.”

“I hope Tavia will not think I have taken her place in your heart,” remarked Miette, at that moment snapping the spring on her suitcase. “I dearly love Tavia myself.”

“Oh, she is one of Aunt Winnie’s ‘found daughters,’ too,” said Dorothy. “We are all very fond of Tavia.”

“I am going to give a real party when we get back to Glenwood,” announced Miette. “I will have it done in style—pay for the very best we can get there, with Mrs. Pangborn as—patroness.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” commented Dorothy. “We have very few real affairs out there. But I know we could have them if the girls’ allowances would permit.”

“I have plenty,” responded Miette, “and I would like to show the girls that I do not hold any malice. It is only natural to have little—squabbles, as you call them?”

“Well,” sighed Dorothy, “I do believe I would sleep soundly to-night if I only knew about Urania.”

“Yes,” answered Miette, “It is a pity we cannot let her share our happiness. She surely needs some happiness.”

It may seem to the reader that such things only happen in books, but is not truth actually stranger than fiction?

At that very moment Major was down in the library, reading a letter from one of the town officials, in which was stated the fact that the gypsy girl, Urania, had been entirely cleared of all suspicion—that the wicked men who had stolen the goods from Mrs. White’s home had planned to circulate the story against the girl who had foiled them, and that now the Borough would transfer the reward placed for the capture of the girl to the finding of her—to make right, if possible, the harm done a helpless, innocent creature.

“And furthermore,” continued the official communication, “inasmuch as your daughter has helped this girl at very great personal risks (as we have learned through careful investigation), you may tell your daughter that if she knows anything of the whereabout of this gypsy girl, she need not hesitate in communicating to her this proclamation.”

Major Dale called Dorothy, and told her the good news.

“But how can we find poor Urania,” sighed Dorothy.

“I’ve never known you to have to look for anything in vain, daughter,” said the Major, with his arm about Dorothy, and his wrinkled face pressed close to her flushed cheek.

This was Thursday evening. The girls were to leave for Glenwood the next day.

“I would like to stay over one day more,” pleaded Dorothy to Mrs. White, “I feel in that time we may hear some news from Urania.”

“Well, just one day, remember. I will not extend the time,” answered Mrs. White, smiling.

Miette was impatient to hear from her beloved Marie. She had sent a letter to Marie in care of the department store, and, by Mrs. White’s direction, had marked it “important.” At last came a letter in return, which caused the French girl much delight.

“It is from Marie, my Marie!” she cried, running up to Dorothy. “She is out of the hospital, and she and her folks have moved to Boston. Her folks are doing better—earning more money—and Marie is to go to school!”

“I am glad to hear that,” replied Dorothy.

“I shall write again—and tell her about my good fortune,” went on the French girl. “Some day I want her to visit me.”

“Yes, for I’d like to know her,” was Dorothy’s answer.

In the Major’s own room, later that evening, he and Dorothy discussed a plan of search for the missing gypsy girl.

“It is more than likely,” said the Major, as Dorothy sat on the stool at his feet, and he re-lighted his Christmas pipe of briar (Dorothy had sent all the way to New York for that pipe), “that the poor girl is hiding somewhere in the woods. She knows every inch of the land about here, and there are still to be found nuts and berries she might try to exist on.” “Yes,” replied Dorothy, “that was how she lived in the Glenwood woods. And now that there are no gypsies in this township, she would feel safe to hide around here.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, daughter, to-morrow morning you and I can start off on a little tramp. It is a long time since I’ve gone through the woods with you, and we may take our lunch just as we used to, insist upon having our own little holiday all to ourselves, and then—then we will find Urania.”

“My same old darling dad!” exclaimed Dorothy, throwing her arms about the Major. “I was afraid you would be too busy to give me all that time—you have so much more land to attend to now—”

“But there’s one estate that is always first, Little Captain,” he replied, and for some moments Dorothy rested like a babe in her father’s arms.

It was not a difficult matter to persuade Miette to remain at the Cedars the next day, instead of accompanying the Major and Dorothy on their tramp. In fact, Miette would have refused to go had she been invited, for she had a fear now of the woods, and the gypsies. She remained indoors to pen another letter for her beloved Marie.

So Dorothy and the Major started off, Dorothy with the dear old lunch basket that had served so many pleasant meals under Dalton trees in her earlier days, and the Major with his trusted stick, the blackthorn, that almost seemed to anticipate his steps, so well acquainted was it with the Major’s travels.

“We had better take the path along the mountain,” suggested the Major, “as I am sure there are many secluded spots and lots of good nuts along the way.”

“Very well,” replied Dorothy. “Surely we will find her. If she can only see us—you and I together, she will be certain that no harm could come to her through us.”

“Poor child!” said the old gentleman, “What if my little daughter—But, of course, she is very different to the girl of the woods.”

“Oh, I don’t think, father, that Urania is really untamed. I have known her to do such good, thoughtful acts—surely she must have a generous heart.”

“No doubt of it, daughter. But take care there,” as the path neared the edge of a precipice. “I know you are sure-footed, but that’s a dangerous pass.”

Dorothy clung to some low branches and gained the broader path without mishap. Then, from the height of the hill, they stopped to call and look over the surrounding slope of woodland.

Dorothy called and called, but only the echo of her own voice against the hills came in answer.

“How I do wish we could find her,” she exclaimed, some discouragement in her tone. “I am sometimes afraid—she might be dead!”

“No fear,” replied the Major, confidently. “Good, strong girls like Urania have business living, and they do not die without just cause. We had best sit down here, and take our lunch,” he went on. “Perhaps those chicken sandwiches may give you new courage. Isn’t there a spring over there near that rock?”

“I can see water trickling down,” answered Dorothy. “I’ll get the cups out and go over.”

In the little lunch basket Dorothy had placed the cups of the automobile lunch set, and with these in her hands she ran over to the rock by the hillside. Major Dale helped lay out the things. It was delightful to be out there in the woods, to hear the birds sing a welcome, and to feel the cool breezes of the autumn air brushing his cheeks.

“I hardly blame the gypsies,” he said to himself. “The outdoor life is the only life, after all.”

Dorothy returned now with the two cups full of fresh spring water, and the little luncheon was soon being made a most enjoyable meal.

“Just like dear old days in Dalton,” said Dorothy, helping the Major to another lettuce sandwich. “I am glad of the holiday. I will have a dear memory to take back to Glenwood now.”

How “glorious” the Major looked. Glorious because his snowy hair fell so gently on his fine, high forehead, because in his rugged cheeks could be plainly seen the glow of health satisfied, because his eyes were so bright—and, oh, how lovely he did look, thought Dorothy, as he sat there in the flickering autumn sunlight, with the great rugged hills behind him and the whole wide world before him!

“It’s a queer picnic,” remarked Dorothy, feeling obliged to keep ever before her the one thought of the miserable Urania.

“But a most delightful one,” replied the Major. “The kind that compensates in ending well. I am perfectly sure we will find your little protÉgÉ.”

“Then I think we had better hurry our dessert,” said the daughter, passing the tiny, frosted cakes. “How good everything does taste out of doors!” “First-rate,” assented the Major between mouthfuls, “but don’t close that basket until I have the one lone sandwich I saw you smuggle in there.”

“And another cup of water?”

“Don’t care if I do,” replied the Major, imitating the boys in his careless manner. “I could eat as much again—Bring it next time.”

After the last crumbs had been disposed of they started off again—this time in the direction of a high rock.

Some boys looking for nuts happened along, and Dorothy asked if they had seen a girl anywhere in the woods.

“What girl?” asked a rather saucy fellow, without raising his cap.

“Any girl,” replied Dorothy, defiantly.

“Plenty of them out here after nuts,” answered the urchin. “I saw one a while ago—looked as if she had never seen a real nut in her life. Guess she hadn’t much to eat lately.”

Dorothy was interested instantly. The Major had gone on ahead, and she called to him to wait while she made further inquiries.

The description seemed to Dorothy to answer to that of Urania, Dorothy thought, and when the boy directed her to a “big chestnut tree, over on the mountain road,” she and the Major promptly took up their travels in that direction.

Dorothy felt she would now find Urania—she must find her—and soon the afternoon would be lapping over into twilight!

“Can you hurry a little, father?” she asked, as the Major trudged bravely along. “It is quite a distance to the hillside.”

“And maybe a ‘wild goose’ chase at that,” replied her father. “I didn’t just exactly like the look on that boy’s face. He may have fooled you.”

“Do you think so!” exclaimed Dorothy, instantly allowing her spirits to flag.

“Well, we may as well look,” answered her father, “but I wouldn’t take too much stock in the word of a youngster of his type.”

Then, in their haste, they forgot conversation, and for some time neither spoke. The road seemed very rough, and the path very uncertain. Dorothy glanced at her father, and was at once concerned for his comfort.

“Are you tired, Daddy?” she asked. “Perhaps I am asking too much of you.”

“Oh, I guess I can stand it,” he replied. “It won’t take much longer to make that hill.”

The great grove of chestnut trees now towered above them. Yes, there were voices—girls’ voices, too!

“I hear someone,” announced Dorothy, as she stepped over a small rivulet.

“Yes, so do I,” said the Major. “But it is hardly likely our little friend would be with a crowd of school girls—see, there is the teacher!”

Dorothy’s heart sank. There was the teacher, sure enough, and the girls—

Urania was not one of them!