Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island

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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.