"Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little kettles. Ben promised we should have half," answered Betty, still intent on her cookery.
"I shall save some of mine for Thorny."
"I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia."
"Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she went away?"
"I wonder what she'll bring us."
Before Bab could conjecture, the sound of a step and a familiar whistle made both look expectantly toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry out with one voice, "How many have you got?" Neither spoke a word, however, for the figure which presently appeared was not Ben, but a stranger,—a man who stopped whistling, and came slowly on, dusting his shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the sleeves of his shabby velveteen coat as if anxious to freshen himself up a bit.
"It's a tramp, let's run away," whispered Betty, after a hasty look.
"I aint afraid," and Bab was about to assume her boldest look when a sneeze spoiled it, and made her clutch the gate to hold on.
At that unexpected sound the man looked up, showing a thin, dark face, with a pair of sharp, black eyes, which surveyed the little girls so steadily that Betty quaked, and Bab began to wish she had at least jumped down inside the gate.
"How are you?" said the man with a good-natured nod and smile, as if to re-assure the round-eyed children staring at him.