“Of course,” began Dorothy, breaking into the topic of summer vacation, “you will go home first, before you come to North Birchland. You will want to see everybody in Dalton—I wish I could go along with you. But I have no home in Dalton now.”

“Come with me,” suggested Tavia. “We have plenty of room.”

“Oh, I was only romancing. Of course I should like to see everybody in dear old Dalton, but I have to go to daddy and the boys. Isn’t it splendid to have a vacation? It makes school worth while.”

“Yes,” replied Tavia, vaguely, preparing to turn out the light.

“When do you think you will come to North Birchland?” asked Dorothy directly.

“I can’t tell. I expect to visit Grace Barnum in Buffalo. Her folks are old friends of mother’s. I had a letter from her yesterday, especially inviting me.”

“Oh, did you?” and Dorothy looked surprised. “I did not hear you speak of going to Buffalo. I thought you intended to come to Birchland as soon as you had seen your folks. You know Aunt Winnie expects you. And so do the boys.”

“Oh, I’ll get to the Birches some time during the summer I guess,” Tavia hurried to say, as she noted Dorothy’s disappointment. “You can depend upon it I expect to have some of the fine times—you are not to have a monopoly of the good things.”

“Then you are going to Dalton first, then to Buffalo, and what time do you count on getting to Birchland?” persisted Dorothy, determined to know, if possible, just what Tavia’s plans really were.

“Oh, my dear,” and Tavia indulged in a discordant yawn, “do let’s go to sleep. I’m almost dead.”

“But, Tavia, you always make some excuse when I ask you about vacation,” and Dorothy’s tone was in no way drowsy—she certainly was not sleepy.

“And you always ask such unreasonable questions,” retorted Tavia. “Just as if I can tell what may happen between now and—midsummer.”

“Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy with a sob. “I feel just as if something dreadful was going to happen. I don’t know why but you—you have—changed so,” and the girl buried her head in her pillow and cried as if something “dreadful” had really happened.

“Doro, dear,” and Tavia clasped the weeping girl in her arms, “what can be the matter? What 

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