She dragged her friend into the yard and up the warped flag stones to the side door of the cottage. A little old woman who had been sitting on the porch in a low rocking chair arose with difficulty, leaning on a cane.
“Oh, my back, and oh, my bones!” murmured Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was not long out of a sick bed herself and would never again be as “spry” as she once had been. “Do come in, dearies. It is a wind storm.”
Ruth stopped to help the little old woman. She continued pale, but her thought for Aunt Alvirah’s comfort caused her to put aside her own fear. The trio entered the house and closed the door.
In a moment there was a sharp patter against the house. The rain had begun in big drops. The rear door was opened, and Tom, laughing and shaking the water from his cap, dashed into the living room. He wore the insignia of a captain under his dust-coat and the distinguishing marks of a very famous division of the A. E. F.
“It’s a buster!” he declared. “There’s a paper sailing like a kite over the roof of the old mill——”
Ruth sprang up with a shriek. She ran to the back door by which Tom had just entered and tore it open.
“Oh, do shut the door, deary!” begged Aunt Alvirah. “That wind is ’nough to lift the roof.”
“What is the matter, Ruth?” demanded Helen.
But Tom ran out after her. He saw the girl leap from the porch and run madly down the path toward the summer-house. Back on the wind came a broken word or two of explanation:
“My papers! My scenario! The best thing I ever did, Tom!”