Dorothy had been at the Cedars¹ one short, delightful² week when again the question of Tavia and her plans came up for serious consideration. Mrs. White and her niece sat out on the veranda³, with the early summer flowers perfuming the soft zephyrs⁴ that came through the vine-covered lattice, and they were talking of the absent one—wondering why she did not come to Birchland and instead went to the city in the summer—to Buffalo⁵ when everybody in the place (except the tourists on the way to Niagara to the Falls), were leaving for more quiet and recreative surroundings.

 

“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. White finally, “that Tavia is ‘stage-struck.’”

 

These words came to Dorothy like a blow—something long dreaded⁷ but materialized at last—in spite of hopes and promises.

 

“Oh, Aunt Winnie!” exclaimed Dorothy with a sigh, “you don’t really think Tavia would do anything wrong?”

 

[107]

“No, that I do not, my dear,” promptly⁸ answered Mrs. White. “A thing is not wrong unless we intend to make it so. But Tavia has a queer idea of right and wrong. You know she has had no home discipline—no training in character building. She has grown to be as good as she is through the commonest law of nature—she was born good. But she has not gone beyond that same law in growing better than she started out to be—that is moral development, and requires careful culture and prudent⁹ discipline.”

 

“But the stage,” whispered Dorothy, as if afraid the very word would breathe contamination. “Do you think—Tavia would—would ever try to—to go on a public stage?”

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