“Your trip to New York, daughter,” began Major Dale, slily smiling at Aunt Winnie, “will be your _debut_, so to speak, in the world.”
Dorothy answered nothing, but continued to smooth away the hair from Roger’s brow.
“What are you thinking of?” her father asked musingly, not having received an answer to his first remark.
“Oh, nothing in particular,” sighed Dorothy, “except that I don’t see why I should make a _debut_ anywhere. I don’t want to meet the world,—that is, socially. I want to know people for themselves, not for what they’re worth financially or because of the entertaining they do. I just like to know people—and poorer people best of all. They are interesting and real.”
“As are persons of wealth and social position,” answered Aunt Winnie, gently.
“I’m going to be a soldier, like father,” said Joe, “and Dorothy can nurse me when I fall in battle.”
“Me, too,” chirped little Roger, “I want to be a soldier and limp like father!”
“Oh, boys!” cried Dorothy, in horror, “you’ll never, never be trained for war.”
“What’s that?” asked Major Dale. “Don’t you want the boys to receive honor and glory in the army?”
“No,” said Dorothy decidedly, “I’ll never permit it. Of course,” she hastened to add, “if Joe must wear a uniform, he might go to a military school, if that will please him.”
The major scoffed at the idea. Joe straightened his shoulders, and marched about the room, little Roger following in his wake, while the major whistled “Yankee Doodle.”
The sound of the _Fire Bird_ was heard coming up the driveway, and in another second Nat, Ned and Ted rushed into the room.
“We can’t have the trunk without the check,” explained Nat, breathlessly, “where is it?”
“Tavia discovered the check after you left, and she followed you down to the station,” explained Aunt Winnie.
“We took a short cut back and missed her, of course,” said Nat, dejectedly.
“We won’t have any time to spare,” declared Aunt Winnie, walking to the window, “the train leaves at seven-thirty, and it is after six now,” Dorothy followed her to the window. They both stood still in astonishment.
The boys scrambled to the window. There was Tavia, coming up the drive, serenely seated on top of her trunk, in the back part of a small buggy, enjoying immensely the wind that brushed her hair wildly about her face, while the driver, the stoutest man in North Birchland, occupied the entire front seat.
