Ruth was much interested in the fresh air children, and so was Helen.
They found time to walk down to the Caslon farm and become acquainted
with the entire twelve. Naturally, the "terrible twins" held their
attention more than the others, for it _did_ seem so strange that the
little brothers of Sadie Raby should come across Ruth's path in just
this way.
Of course, in getting so well acquainted with the children, Ruth and her
chum were bound to know the farmer and his wife better. They were very
plain, "homey" sort of people, just as Ruth had guessed, and it appeared
that they were not blessed with an over-abundance of ready money. Few
farmers in Mr. Caslon's circumstances are.
What means they had, they joyfully divided with the youngsters they had
taken to board. The Caslons had no living children; indeed, the two they
had had, years ago, died while they were yet babies. This Mrs. Caslon
confided to Ruth.
"It left an empty place in our hearts," she said, softly, "that nothing
but other little children can fill. John has missed them fully as much
as I have. Yes; he lets these little harum-scarums pull him around, and
climb all over him, and interfere with his work, and take up his time a
good deal. Yes, I know the place looks a sight, inside the house and
out, when they go away.
"But for a few weeks every year we have a host of young things about us,
and it keeps our hearts young. The bother of 'em, and the trouble of
'em, is nothing to the good they do us both. Ah, yes!
"Yes, I've often thought of keeping one or two of them for good. There's
a-many pretty ones, or cunning ones, we'd like to have had. But
then--think of the disappointment of the rest of the darlings!
"And it would have narrowed down our sympathy--mine and John's,"
proceeded Mrs. Caslon, shaking her head gently. "We'd have centered all
our love and longin' into them we took for keeps, just as we centered
all our interest in the two little ones God lent us for a little while,
long ago.
"Havin' a number of 'em each year, and almost always different ones, has
been better, I guess--better for all hands. It keeps John and me
interested more, and we try to make them so happy here that each poor,
unfortunate orphan will go away and remember his or her summer here for
the rest of their lives.
"And they _do_ have so little to be happy over, these orphans--and it
takes so very little to make them happy.
"If I had money--much money," continued the farmer's wife, clasping her
hands, fervently, "I'd move many orphan asylums, and such like, out of
the close, hot cities, where the little ones are cramped for room and
air, and put each of them on a farm--a great, big farm. City's no place
for children to grow up--'specially those that have no fathers and
mothers.
"You can't tell me but that these young ones miss their parents less
here on this farm than they do back in the brick building they live in
most of the year," concluded the good woman, earnestly.
Ruth quite fell in love with the old lady--who did not appear so very
old, after all. Perhaps she had kept her heart young in serving these
"fresh air" orphans, year after year. And Mr. Caslon seemed a very
happy, jolly sort of man, too.
The two girls stole away quite frequently to watch the youngsters play,
or to teach them new means of entertaining themselves, or to talk with
the farmer's wife. But they did not wish the other girls, and the
Steeles, to know where they went on these occasions.
Their host, who was the nicest kind of a man in every other way, seemed
determined to look upon Caslon as his enemy; and Mr. Steele was ready to
do anything he could to oust the old couple from their home.
"Pshaw! a man like Caslon can make a good living anywhere," Mr. Steele
declared. "His crops just _grow_ for him. He's an A-1 farmer--I'd like to
find as good a one before next year, to superintend my whole place. He's
just holding out for a big price for his farm, that's all he's doing.
These hayseeds are money-mad, anyway. I haven't offered him enough for
his old farm, that's all."
Ruth doubted if this were true. The Caslon place was one of the oldest
homesteads in that part of the State, and the house had been built by a
Caslon. Mr. Steele could not appreciate the fact that there was a
sentiment attached to the farmer's occupancy of his old home.
The Caslons had taken root here on this side-hill. The farmer and his
wife were the last of the name; they had nobody to will it to. But they
loved every acre of the farm, and the city man's money did not look good
enough to them.
Ruth Fielding hungered to straighten out the tangle. She wished she
might make Mr. Steele understand the old farmer's attitude. Was there
not, too, some way of settling the controversy in a way satisfactory to
both parties?
Meanwhile the merry party of young folk at Sunrise Farm was busy every
waking hour. There were picnics, and fishing parties, and games, and
walks, and of course riding galore, for Mr. Steele had plenty of horses.
Ruth and Helen privately worked up some interest among the girls and
boys visiting the farm, in a celebration on the Fourth for the fresh air
children. Ruth had learned that the farmer had purchased some cheap
fireworks and the like for the entertainment of the orphans; but Ruth
and her chum wanted to add to his modest preparations.
Ten dollars was raised, and Tom Cameron took charge of the fund. He was
to ride into town the afternoon before the Fourth to make the purchases,
but just about as he was to start, a thunderstorm came up.
Mr. Steele, who was a nervous man, forbade any riding or driving with
that threatening cloud advancing over the hills. The lightning played
sharply along the edges of the cloud and the thunder rolled ominously.
"You youngsters don't know what a tempest is like here in the hills,"
said Mr. Steele. "Into the house--all of you. Take that horse and cart
back to the stables, Jackson. If Tom wants to go to town, he'll have to
wait until the shower is over--or go to-morrow."
"All right, sir," agreed young Cameron, cheerfully. "Just as you say."
"Are all those girls inside?" sharply demanded Mr. Steele. "I thought I
saw the flutter of a petticoat in the shrubbery yonder."
"I'll see," said Tom, running indoors.
Nervous Mr. Steele thought he saw somebody there behind the bushes,
before he heard from Tom. It had already begun to rain in big drops, and
suddenly there was a flash of lightning and a report seemingly right
overhead.
The host turned up his coat collar, thrust his cap over his ears, and
ran out across the lawn toward the path behind the shrubbery. It led to
a summer house on the side lawn, but this was a frail shelter from such
a tempest as this that was breaking over the hill.
Mr. Steele saw the flutter of a skirt ahead, and dashed along the path,
the rain pelting him as he ran.
"Come back here! Come to the house, you foolish girl!" he cried, and
popped into the summer house just as the clouds seemed to open above and
the rain descend in a flood.
It was so dark, and Mr. Steele was so blinded for a moment, that he
could scarcely see the figure of whom he was in search. Then he beheld a
girl crouching in a corner, with her hands over her ears to shut out the
roar of the thunder and her eyes tightly closed to shut out the
lightning.
"For mercy's sake! get up and come into the house. This place will be
all a-flood in a minute," he gasped.
Suddenly, as he dragged the girl to her feet by one shoulder, he saw
that she was not one of the house party at all. She was a frail,
shrinking girl, in very dirty clothing, and her face and hands were
scratched and dirty, too. A regular ragamuffin she appeared.
"Why--why, where did _you_ come from?" demanded Mr. Steele.
The girl only stuttered and stammered, looking at him fearfully.
"Come on! never mind who you are," he sputtered. "This is no place for
you in this tempest. Come into the house!"
He set out on a run again for the front veranda, dragging her after him.
The girl did not cry, although she was certainly badly frightened by the
storm.
They reached the door of the big house, saturated. Here Mr. Steele
turned to her again.
"Who are you? What are you doing around here, anyway?" he demanded.
"Ain't--ain't this the place where they got a bunch of fresh air kids?"
asked the girl.
"What?" gasped Mr. Steele. "I should say not! Are you one of those young
ones Caslon has taken to board to the annoyance of the whole
neighborhood? Ha! what were you doing trespassing on my land?"
"I ain't neither!" returned the girl, pulling away her hand. "You lemme
be."
"I forbade any of you to come up here----"
"I ain't neither," reiterated the girl. "An' I don't know what you mean.
I jest got there. And I'm lookin' for the place where the fresh air kids
stay."
In the midst of this the door was drawn open and Mrs. Steele and some of
the girls appeared.
"Do come in, Father," she cried. "Why! you're soaking wet. And that
child! bring her in, whoever she is. Oh!"
Another flash of lightning made them all cower--all but Ruth Fielding,
who had crept forward to look over Mrs. Steele's shoulder. Now she
dashed out and seized the bedrabbled looking stranger by the hand.
"Why, Sadie Raby! who'd ever expect to see you here? Come in! do let her
come in out of the storm, Mrs. Steele. I know who she is," begged Ruth.