"How can you!" almost wept Mrs. Mellows. "I only opened it to save you
the trouble. Of course, I knew all along that it was Teddy Mahr--I
guessed--why not? Really, Dorothy, you misinterpret my interest in you,
really, you do."

Dorothy laughed. "Now, now," she scolded, "don't say that. Here, I'll
divide with you." She separated the fragrant bunch into its components
of smaller bunches, snipped the purple ribbon in two, and neatly devised
two corsage adornments. "Here," she bubbled, "one for you and one for
me--and don't say such mean things about me any more. If you do, I'll
tell Mother about all your flirtations the minute she gets back--I will,
too!"

"That reminds me, my dear," said Mrs. Mellows, her apple-pink face
becoming suddenly serious, "I don't understand why we haven't had any
news from your mother, really, I don't. She might have sent us just a
wireless or something."

"It _is_ odd." Dorothy's laugh broke off midway in a silvery chuckle.
"But something may have gone wrong with the telegraphic apparatus, you
know. We might get the company, and find out if any other messages have
been received from her."

"I never thought of that," exclaimed Mrs. Mellows. "You are quick
witted, Dorothy, I will say that for you. Suppose you do find out."

Dorothy turned to the telephone and made her inquiry. "There," she said
at length, "I guessed it--no messages at all; they are sure it's out of
order. Well, that does relieve one's mind. It isn't because she's ill,
or anything like that. Now, Aunt Lydia, that's _my_ mail."