"How we miss Ida!" said Aunt Patty or Cynthia half a dozen times a day during the next week, and with what pleasure they read her frequent letters! Their tone was entirely different from that of those she had written during her stay at Aunt Stina's.
"She actually inquires about Moses," laughed Cynthia one day, as she laid down a letter just received from Ida.
As Moses was only a lame white turkey, this interest on Ida's part seemed surprising when 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.