"Be silent this moment!" called Miss Ellis, rapping her ruler on the desk. "Your brother's story is of no account in this matter." Dorothy raised her head. The room was in a commotion. Miss Ellis seemed too surprised at the girl's audacity to try to restore order. Perhaps no one was more surprised than Alice herself, for when she spoke first she had no idea of going so far,--it was that remark reflecting upon her brother's veracity that angered her. Then the sobbing of Dorothy--Alice could not stand it to see her crying that way; better brave dismissal than sit by and listen to that. With one glance towards Alice--a glance full of gratitude and love. Dorothy arose and asked to be excused. "I must go home--" she stammered "I have such a sick headache." "Very well," replied the teacher. "You may go." "May I also be excused?" asked Alice, not boldly but with politeness restored to her voice. "By no means," declared Miss Ellis. "I will not brook such insolence." "I thought I might help Dorothy home," Alice explained, taking her seat again. Meanwhile Dorothy was looking for her hat in the cloak room. It was a small stuffy place, and the day was unusually sultry, so that Dorothy felt dizzy there, trying to find her hat--and trying to find--Oh! what was the matter? She could not see! Oh, if some one would only come! Then, with her hands before her, she stumbled and fell,--and all became a terrible blank. CHAPTER IX THE AFTERMATH What a day that had been at the Dalton School for girls! Sarah Ford was at home suffering from a badly sprained ankle; Dorothy Dale had been taken home ill from over-excitement, and Tavia Travers, for whom Squire Sanders had been searching, was not to be found anywhere. The interference of Squire Sanders worried Miss Ellis. A man, especially an official, knows absolutely nothing about girls and their ways, and he is sure to antagonize them in any attempt to force them to betray one another's confidences. But while the teacher, alone in the school, was reflecting upon the tasks she should soon undertake to perform; Dorothy lay in her little room, hot and feverish, with Aunt Libby beside her, bathing the throbbing head tenderly with cold water and vinegar. "You've been doin' too much," muttered the old nurse, "a-runnin' newspapers, helpin' drunkards, teachin' housework to that Tavia, though 'twas a charity to show the child how to iron her own frocks. But you see deary, it was too much for you, you as has always had Aunt Libby at your elbow," and the old linen napkin, the softest of those ever ready for headaches, was dipped again into the blue bowl of cool water and strong vinegar, then pressed lightly to the feverish brow. "Try to sleep a bit now," went on the nurse, as Dorothy looked gratefully into the wrinkled face. "All you want is rest, just a good, quiet rest."