I’m sure she became slightly prepossessed in my favor.”
Dorothy then told of her examination by Miss Hexam, and how well she had gone through the ordeal, despite the fact that she had been dreadfully nervous; her examination in music, and her introduction to the other scholars; the antipathy, both felt and expressed for her by Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, a member of the British peerage, who led the student body known as the “Peers”; of her introduction to the “Commons,” the largest and wildest set in the school, who were all daughters of good families, but without rank or titles.
“And I can see my mischievous girl entering into the pranks of the ‘Commons,’” smiled Aunt Betty. “I only hope you did not carry things with a high hand and win the disapproval of Miss Tross-Kingdon.”
“Occasionally we did,” Dorothy was forced to admit. “But for the most part the girls were a rollicking lot, going nearly to the extreme limits of behavior when any fun promised, but keeping safely within the rules. There is no doubt, Aunt Betty, but that Miss Tross-Kingdon was secretly fonder of us than of the more dignified ‘Peers.’”
Then Aunt Betty must know the outcome of the dislike expressed for Dorothy by Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, so the girl recounted her subsequent adventures, including her rescue of Gwendolyn from the water, and the English girl’s brave act in saving Dorothy from a frightful slide down a precipice.
“Just think! You were in deadly danger and I knew nothing of it,” said Aunt Betty, a sternly reproving note in her voice.
“But think, dear Aunt Betty, of the worry it would have caused you. It was all over in a few moments, and I was safe and sound again. If I had written you then, you would have felt that I was in constant peril, whereas my escape served as a lesson to me not to be careless, and you would have worried over nothing.”
“Perhaps you are right, Dorothy; at any rate, now I have you with me, I am not going to quarrel. I’m sure your adventure was merely the result of being thoughtless.”
“It was. And Gwendolyn’s rescue was simply magnificent, auntie. Her only thought at that moment seemed for me.”
“We will try to thank her in a substantial manner some day, my dear.”
“I should dearly love to have her visit me at Bellvieu, if only to show the cold, aristocratic young lady the warmth and sincerity of a Southern reception.”
“And perhaps you will have the opportunity. But not this summer. I have other plans for you.”
“Now, you are arousing my curiosity again,” said Dorothy, in a disappointed tone. “Please, Aunt Betty, tell me what is on your mind.”
“All in good time, my dear.”
“Has it – has it anything to do with Uncle Seth?” the girl queried, a slight tremor in her voice. Somehow, she felt that the death of the “Learned Blacksmith,” with whom Aunt Betty had been so intimate for years, had been responsible in a measure for the present poor state of her health.
“Yes; it has to do with your Uncle Seth, poor man. His death, as you have probably imagined, was a great shock to me. I felt as though I had lost a brother. And then, the news of his demise came so suddenly. It was his dearest wish that you become a great musician. You will remember how he encouraged and developed your talent while we were at Deerhurst, arranging with Mr. Wilmot to give you lessons? He has frequently expressed himself as not being satisfied with your progress. Shortly before his death I had a letter from him, in which he urged me to employ one of the best violin teachers in Baltimore for you at the end of your course at Oak Knowe. I feel it is a small favor, to grant, dear, so if you are still of the notion that you were intended for a great violinist, I have decided to give you a chance to show your mettle.”
“Dear Aunt Betty,” said the girl, earnestly, putting an arm affectionately around the neck of her relative, “it is the dearest wish of my life, but one.”
“What is the other wish, Dorothy?”
“That you be thoroughly restored to health. Then, if I can become perfect on my violin, I shall be delighted beyond measure.”
“Oh, my health is all right, child, except that I am beginning to feel my age. It was partly through a selfish motive that I planned this outing in Western Maryland.”
“An outing in Western Maryland! Oh, and was that the secret you had to tell me?”
“Yes; the South Mountains, a spur of the famous Blue Ridge range, will make an ideal spot in which to spend a few weeks during the summer months.”
“It must be a beautiful spot,” said the girl. “I love the mountains, and always have. The Catskills especially, will always be dear to me. When do we start, auntie?”
“As soon as you have perfected your arrangements with Herr Deichenberg, and have rested sufficiently from your journey.”
“Herr Deichenberg? Oh, then you have already found my teacher?”
“Yes; and a perfect treasure he is, or I miss my guess. Do you remember David Warfield in ‘The Music Master,’ which we saw at the theater a year ago?”
“Indeed, yes, auntie. How could one ever forget?”
“Herr Deichenberg is a musician of the Anton Von Barwig type – kind, gentle, courteous – withal, possessing those sterling qualities so ably portrayed in the play by Mr. Warfield. The Herr has the most delightful brogue, and a shy manner, which I am sure will not be in evidence during lesson hours.”
“And I am to be taught by a real musician?”
“Yes.”
“What a lucky girl I am!”
“If you think so, dear, I am pleased. I have tried to make you happy.”
“And you have succeeded beyond my fondest expectations. There is nothing any girl could have that I have wanted for, since coming to live with you. You are the finest, best and bravest auntie in the whole, wide world!”
“Oh, Dorothy!”
“It’s true, and you know it. It’s too bad other girls are not so fortunate. To think of your having my vacation all planned before I reached home. I said I am tired of railroad trains, but I’ve changed my mind; I am perfectly willing to ride as far as the South Mountains and return.”
“But in this instance we are not going on a train, my dear.”
“Not going on a train?” queried Dorothy, a blank expression on her face. Aunt Betty shook her head and smiled.
“Now, I’ve mystified you, haven’t I?”
“You surely have. The trolleys do not run that far, so how – ?”
Dorothy paused, perplexed.
“There are other means of locomotion,” said Aunt Betty in her most tantalizing tone.
“Yes; we might walk,” laughed the girl, “but I dare say we shall not.”
“No; we are going in an automobile.”
“In an automobile? Oh, I’m so glad, auntie. I – I – ” Dorothy paused and assumed a serious expression. “Why, auntie, dear, wherever are we to get an automobile?
