"I thought perhaps--it might be the party you--that is, the woman wanted
in the Burlock matter," faltered Dorothy.
"I am afraid, daughter," said the major very solemnly, "you have been
bothering your young head about affairs much too grave for you to
handle. I have always regretted sending you to the Bugle office that
morning, so many complications seemed to follow that experiment. Not but
what you got out a splendid paper--better than this week's issue for
that matter," the major hurried to say, for he noticed a look of
disappointment come over Dorothy's face, "but because I seemed to thrust
you out into the world, unprotected, and even in danger."
Major Dale pressed his lips to his daughter's brow. Indeed she had
always been his little helper, his one dear, only daughter. Her
willingness and ambition to help might have misled him, sometimes he
might have forgotten she was only fourteen years old, but now, seated
there beside him, fussing with his "curls," as she insisted his rather
long locks were, she was little Doro again, the baby that had so often
climbed on his knee, in that very room, begging for one more story when
mother announced "bed time."
The mother was gone now--and Dorothy was sitting there.
"Ah, well!" sighed the major, trying to hide his thoughts, "we must talk
of something pleasant.
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