contrasted with the utter indifference she had shown to everything about the farm on her arrival in June.

Ida herself was surprised at the amount of thought she gave to those she had left behind. More than once she astonished Angela by remarking that she "wondered what Aunt Patty and Cynthia were doing now," and often, when wandering along the beach, she wished Cynthia could see the waves breaking against the rocks, and hear the lap of the surf.

One day—a day fraught with much importance as it turned out—Angela and Ida drove to the little town of Edgerton to attend to some shopping for Mrs. Leverton, who was an invalid—or fancied herself one.

It was late in the afternoon when they started homeward, and they were bowling along at a good round rate on the hard road, when suddenly Ida laid a hand on the reins.

"Stop a moment, Angela," she said. "Look at that poor woman sitting under that old tree. She must be ill."

"It is more likely that she is intoxicated," answered Angela.

The woman was young, but her appearance was singularly forlorn, for she was ragged, barefoot, and wore a man's straw hat on her dishevelled black hair. She sat with her back against the tree, her chin sunk on her breast, and her eyes closed. In her arms was a baby wrapped in a faded red shawl, and near by was a cart, in which was heaped a miscellaneous collection of household goods. She did not look up as the phaeton stopped, nor appear to hear the voices of the girls.

"I think we ought to find out what is the matter with her," said Ida.

"Oh, it isn't necessary; she is only a common tramp," rejoined Angela.

"She looks as if she were in some sort of a stupor," said Ida.

"Then we had better drive on; she may have some dreadful disease. Ida, surely you are not going to get out. How foolish!"

"Well, it may be foolish; but I cannot drive on without finding out first what is the matter with the poor thing," said Ida, as she stepped out of the phaeton.

Strangely enough, the thought of Aunt Patty had come into her mind. Would Aunt Patty have driven by without making an effort to help? Of course not.

The woman raised her head as Ida drew near, and her heavy eyes opened slowly. She stared dully at Ida without speaking.

"ARE YOU ILL?" ASKED IDA.

"Are you ill?" asked Ida.

"I'm dyin', I guess," answered the poor creature in a thick voice. "I don't know what's the matter of me. I ache all over, 'n' my head's 'most burstin' open."

"Oh, Ida, do—do come away," cried Angela from the phaeton.

But Ida paid no attention to her. She bent over the woman, and, drawing off her gloves, put her soft cool hand on the flushed forehead.

"You have a high fever," she said, "and you ought not to stay here; it will soon be dark. Have you no home nor friends?"

"I'm tryin' to get to my sister in Edgerton," was the reply. "I've walked all the way from Stormville, a-draggin' that cart 'n' a-carryin' of my baby. I can't go no further. I'm clear worn out."

Ida went out into the road again. "Angela! we can't go off and leave this poor woman here to die," she said.

"I don't see what we can possibly do for her," rejoined Angela.

"We might put her in the phaeton and drive her to Edgerton."

"Put her into my nice phaeton! That horrid, dirty woman!" Angela stared at her friend in astonishment at such an extraordinary proposition. "Indeed, she shall not come anywhere near me! I am sure she has some dreadful contagious disease."

"Angela, we can't go off and leave her here. It would be utterly heartless."

Angela set her mouth stubbornly. "Other people will probably come along and do something for her," she said. "There may be a dozen wagons along here before night."

"We can't be sure that even one will pass; this road is not much travelled," said Ida.

"She must take her chances, then." Angela's tone was cool. "Come, do get in, and let us drive on, Ida. We have wasted too much time already."

Ida hesitated. Her gaze wandered from Angela to the sick woman, whose head had fallen forward again. Then her face brightened suddenly. "The cart!" she said. "Why did I not think of it before? I can get her into that cart; it will be quite large enough if I take out all those things."

"But what good will that do?" asked Angela. "How will she be any better off in the cart?"

"I can pull it, and take her to Edgerton in that way."

"Ida!" Angela almost shrieked.

"Yes, I can, and I will, unless," and she smiled winningly, "you will allow me to put the cart behind the phaeton? Then Prince can pull us all."

"Well, I suppose I can do that much," said Angela, reluctantly; "but how will we look!"

"We needn't care for that. People who want to laugh can do so."

"And are you going to handle all those horrid cooking utensils in that cart? And that soiled pillow and blanket? Oh, Ida, I wouldn't touch them for anything you could offer."

Ida laughed. "It's in a good cause," she said, cheerfully.

A few minutes later the sick woman and her child were in the cart, and the little cavalcade set out for Edgerton. As the cart was old and rickety they feared it would fall to pieces under any strain, so Prince was made to walk.

As they reached the outskirts of Edgerton they saw Dr. Stone of that place coming jogging toward them in his low buggy, driving his big gray horse. He pulled up as he met the girls, and listened with interest to the account Ida gave of their charge.

"I fear you have done an imprudent thing for yourselves," he said, "but of course it was only natural and right that you should want to help the poor creature. She must go to the hospital ward of the county poor-house. That's the only place for her. I will drive there at once and order a man to be sent for her." He sprang out of his buggy and drew the cart to one side of the road. "She is asleep, and will not miss you," he said, "and as you have a long drive before you, I advise you to start at once."

The girls were only too thankful to be relieved of their troublesome charge.

"But I venture to say that we have already caught the fever from her," said Angela, as she once more turned Prince's head toward home, "and if I fall ill I will never forgive you, Ida."

"If either of us is to suffer it will be I," said Ida.

"Well, that would be only fair; for you know I didn't want you to go near her, and you would do it. You even handled those soiled things in that miserable cart."

"I know my Aunt Patty would have blamed me had I followed your advice," said Ida.

"Well, you need not have cared for that. What if she did?" replied Angela.

"It would have mattered a great deal," answered Ida, in a low voice. "I don't believe my Aunt Patty ever did an unkind or a cowardly thing in her life."

CHAPTER VIII.

Four days later Ida was lying one morning on a wicker-work lounge on the front porch of Mr. Leverton's cottage, when the man employed to take care of the horses returned from a trip to the post-office, and handed her a letter.

ARRIVAL OF AUNT STINA'S LETTER.

Ida took it listlessly. She had not felt well since the night before; her head had ached; she had pains in her limbs, and felt dull and sleepy.

"From Aunt Stina," she said to Angela, who sat near her, reading. "She writes from Paris," she added, as she tore the letter open.

"Read me anything very interesting," said Angela. "I hope she tells about the Paris fashions."

But Ida read down to the