THE RUNAWAY
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.