“The poor child!” murmured Ruth, thinking only of Amy Gregg.  “What shall we do?”

“I’ll get a lantern and we’ll go hunt around for her,” suggested Curly, ripe for any adventure.

“But where will we hunt?”

“Maybe she’s gone with some other girl somewhere.”

“You know that can’t be so,” Ruth said.  “There isn’t a girl friendly enough with her for her to say ten pleasant words to.  The poor little mite!  I’m just as sorry as I can be for her, Curly.”

“Well!” returned Curly, “what did she want to tell a story for?  I know what she did.  She left the candle burning in her room because she was afraid to come back to it in the dark after supper.  I made her own up to that.”

“Oh! the poor child!” cried Ruth.

“And she didn’t understand the electric light.  They don’t have electricity in the town where she comes from; natural gas, instead.  So that’s the why of the fire,” Curly said.  “I picked that out of her long ago.”

“And she was so close-mouthed with us!” exclaimed Ruth.

“She doesn’t like it at Briarwood.  She doesn’t like the girls.  She doesn’t like the teachers.  Old Scratch!” exclaimed the boy, “I don’t blame her—­and I guess I’d run away myself.”

“You don’t suppose she has run away, Curly Smith?  Not for keeps?”

“I don’t know,” answered the boy.  “Her folks don’t treat her right, I guess.  They sent her to Briarwood to get her out the way.  So she says.  And she’s afraid of what her father will do to her if he ever hears about that candle and about how the dormitory got afire.”

“That’s why she wouldn’t write to him for a contribution to the rebuilding fund,” cried Ruth.

“I guess so,” said Curly.  “She never said much to me about it.  I just wormed it out of her, as you might say.  She isn’t so awful happy here, you bet.”

“Oh, Curly!  I blame myself,” groaned Ruth.

“What for?”

“Because I ought to have learned more about her—­got closer to her.”

“You might’s well try to get close to a prickly porcupine,” laughed the boy.  “She’d made up her mind to hate the rest of you girls and she’s going to keep on hating you till the end of time.  That’s the sort of a girl Amy is.”

“And nothing to be proud about,” declared Ruth, with some vexation.  “Don’t you think it, Curly?”

“Huh!  I don’t.  You’re silly, Ruth—­but I like you a whole lot more than I do Amy.”

“Goodness! what a polite boy,” cried Ruth.  “There’s the telephone!”

She ran back upstairs, hoping the message would be that Amy Gregg was found.  But that was not it.  Over the wire Mrs. Tellingham herself was speaking to Ann.

“No, Ma’am.  We don’t know where to look for her,” Ann said.

“We haven’t any idea.”

“Yes, Ma’am; Helen and I have looked.  She hasn’t taken any of her clothes.”