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In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in discussion with her “help” over the weighty question of how the damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled; Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked. Clemantiny was always very positive. She had “bossed” Miss Salome for years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but the argument had to be carried out for dignity’s sake.

“They’re so sour when they’re baked,” protested Miss Salome.

“Well, you don’t want damsons sweet, do you?” retorted Clemantiny scornfully. “That’s the beauty of damsons–their tartness. And they keep ever so much better baked, Salome–you know they do. My grandmother always baked hers, and they would keep for three years.”

Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them up and trust to Providence for the next year’s supply.

“Well, well, bake them then,” she said placidly. “I don’t suppose it makes much difference one way or another. Only, I insist–what was that noise, Clemantiny? It sounded like something falling against the porch door.”

“It’s that worthless dog of Martin’s, I suppose,” said Clemantiny, grasping a broom handle with a grimness that boded ill for the dog. “Mussing up my clean doorstep with his dirty paws again. I’ll fix him!”

Clemantiny swept out through the porch and jerked open the door. There was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Salome heard her say, “For the land’s sake! Salome Whitney, come here.”

What Miss Salome saw when she hurried out was a white-faced boy stretched on the doorstep at Clemantiny’s feet.

“Is he dead?” she gasped.

“Dead? No,” sniffed Clemantiny. “He’s fainted, that’s what he is. Where on earth did he come from? He ain’t a Hopedale boy.”

“He must be carried right in,” exclaimed Miss Salome in distress. “Why, he may die there. He must be very ill.”

“Looks more to me as if he had fainted from sheer starvation,” returned Clemantiny brusquely as she picked him up in her lean, muscular arms. “Why, he’s skin and bone. He ain’t hardly heavier than a baby. Well, this is a mysterious piece of work. Where’ll I put him?”

“Lay him on the sofa,” said Miss Salome as soon as she had recovered from the horror into which Clemantiny’s starvation dictum had thrown her. A child starving to death on her doorstep! “What do you do for people in a faint, Clemantiny?”

“Wet their face–and hist up their feet–and loosen their collar,” said Clemantiny in a succession of jerks, doing each thing as she mentioned it. “And hold ammonia to their nose. Run for the ammonia, Salome. Look, will you? Skin and bone!”

But Miss Salome had gone for the ammonia. There was a look on the boy’s thin, pallid face that tugged painfully at her heart-strings.

When Chester came back to consciousness with the pungency of the ammonia reeking through his head, he found himself lying on very soft pillows in a very big white sunny kitchen, where everything was scoured to a brightness that dazzled you. Bending over him was a tall, gaunt woman with a thin, determined face and snapping black eyes, and, standing beside her with a steaming bowl in her hand, was the nice rosy lady who had given him the taffy on the boat!

When he opened his eyes, Miss Salome knew him.

“Why, it’s the little boy I saw on the boat!” she exclaimed.

“Well, you’ve come to!” said Clemantiny, eyeing Chester severely. “And now perhaps you’ll explain what you mean by fainting away on doorsteps and scaring people out of their senses.”

Chester thought that this must be the mistress of Mount Hope Farm, and hastened to propitiate her.

“I’m sorry,” he faltered feebly. “I didn’t mean to–I–“