The young men were at the spot in a moment. Nat had picked up a croquet mallet and one good blow laid the poor dog out—harmless forever more. Tavia had seized the rescuer’s arm, Jennie was clinging to Ned. Dorothy, awake at last to the facts of the situation, made a great discovery—and almost laughed, serious as the peril had been. “I believe I know which is which now,” she thought, forgetting her alarm. [Illustration: SUDDENLY HE BOUNDED DIRECTLY FOR THE THREE GIRLS. _Dorothy Dale’s Engagement_ _Page 108_ ] CHAPTER XIV TAVIA IS DETERMINED “After that scare I’m afraid the boys will have to go without a bird dog,” Tavia said that night as she and Dorothy were brushing their hair before the latter’s dressing-glass. Tavia and Jennie and Ned and Nat were almost inseparable during the daytime; but when the time came to retire the flyaway girl had to have an old-time “confab,” as she expressed it, with her chum. Dorothy was so bright and so busy all day long that nobody discovered—not even the major—that she was rather “out of it.” The two couples of young folk sometimes ran away and left Dorothy busy at some domestic task in which she claimed to find much more interest than in the fun her friends and cousins were having. “It would have been a terrible thing if the poor dog had bitten one of us,” Dorothy replied. “Dr. Agnew, the veterinary, says without doubt it was afflicted with rabies.” “And how scared your Aunt Winnie was!” Then Tavia began to giggle. “She will be so afraid of anything that barks now, that she’ll want all the trees cut down around the house.” “That pun is unworthy of you, my dear,” Dorothy said placidly. “Dear me, Doro Doodlekins!” exclaimed Tavia, suddenly and affectionately, coming close to her chum and kissing her warmly. “You are such a tabby-cat all of a sudden. Why! _you_ have grown up, while the rest of us are only kids.” “Yes; I am very settled,” observed Dorothy, smiling into the mirror at her friend. “A cap for me and knitting very soon, Tavia. Then I shall sit in the chimney corner and think——” “Think about whom, my dear?” Tavia asked saucily. “That Garry Knapp, I bet.” “I wouldn’t _bet_,” sighed Dorothy. “It isn’t ladylike.” “Oh—de-ah—me!” groaned Tavia. “You are thinking of him just the same.” “I happened to be just now,” admitted Dorothy, and without blushing this time. “No! were you really?” demanded Tavia, eagerly. “Isn’t it funny he doesn’t write?” “No. Not at all.” “But you’d think he would write and thank you for your letter if nothing more,” urged the argumentative Tavia. “No,” said Dorothy again. “Why not?” “Because Mr. Knapp never got my letter,” Dorothy said, opening her bureau drawer and pulling the letter out from under some things laid there. “See. It was returned to-day.” “Oh, Dorothy!” gasped Tavia, both startled and troubled. “Yes. It—it didn’t reach him somehow,” Dorothy said, and she could not keep the trouble entirely out of her voice.