ssed a countenance that was very much alive, nut-brown and
innumerably wrinkled though it was.

She had been Mr. Jabez Potter's housekeeper at the Red Mill for more
than fifteen years, and if anybody knew the "moods and tenses" of the
miserly miller, it must have been Aunt Alvirah. She even professed to
know the miller's feelings toward his grand-niece, Ruth Fielding, better
than Ruth knew them herself.

The little old woman was expecting the return of Ruth now, and she went
to the porch to see if she could spy her down the road, and thus be
warned in time to set the tea to draw. Ruth and her friends, who had
gone for a tramp in the September woods, would come in ravenous for tea
and cakes and bread-and-butter sandwiches.

Aunt Alvirah looked out upon a very beautiful autumn landscape when she
opened the farmhouse door. The valley of the Lumano was attractive at
all times--in storm or sunshine. Now it was a riot of color, from the
deep crimson of the sumac to the pale amber of certain maple leaves
which fell in showers whenever the wanton breeze shook the boughs.

"Here they come!" murmured Aunt Alvirah. "Here's my pretty!"

She identified the trio striding up the roadway, distant as they were.
Ruth, her cheeks rosy, her hair flying, came on ahead, while the
black-haired and black-eyed twins, Helen and Tom Cameron, walked
hand-in-hand behind her. This was their final outing together in the
vicinity of the Red Mill for many months. Helen and Tom were always very
close companions, and although they had already been separated during
school terms, Tom had run over from Seven Oaks to see his sister at
Briarwood for almost every week-end.

"No more of 'sich doin's now, old man," Helen said to him, smiling
rather tremulously. "And even when you get to Harvard next year, you
will not be allowed often at Ardmore. They say there is a sign 'No Boys
Allowed' stuck up beside every 'Keep Off the Grass' sign on the Ardmore
lawns."

"Nonsense!" laughed Tom.

"Oh, I only repeat what I've been told."

"Well, Sis, you won't be entirely alone," Tom said kindly. "Ruth will be
with you. You and she will have your usual good times."

"Of course. But _you'll_ be awfully lonely, Tommy."

"True enough," agreed Tom.

Then Ruth's gay voice hailed them from the porch upon which she had
mounted yards ahead of them.

"Come on, slow-pokes. Aunt Alvirah has put on the tea. I smell it!"

Ruth Fielding did not possess her chum's measure