Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island

A September morning has dawned with only a vague tang of autumn in the air. In the green old dooryard at the Red Mill under the spreading shade trees two girls are shelling a great basket of dried lima beans for the winter's store. The smaller black-haired girl begins the conversation. Suppose Jane Ann doesn't come Ruth? You mean on this morning train? responded the plumper and more mature-looking girl whose frank face was particularly attractive. Yes.