Of course the four little Blossoms had a great deal to tell about the children they had helped Captain Jenks to rescue from Kidd’s Island.  Daddy and Mother Blossom had seen the captain in Greenpier and already knew of the rescue, but did not know many of the details that the children now gave them.

“We saw Mr. Harley,” said Mother Blossom, bringing out her darning basket after lunch to one of the pretty trees where the family were fond of sitting.

“I wish he could find Mrs. Harley,” grieved Meg.  “Yesterday, when we were playing at Mr. Harley’s house, we found a little hobby horse, that must have belonged to one of the boys.  I s’pose there wasn’t room for it in the trunk.”

“I don’t think poor Mrs. Harley packed a trunk,” sighed Mother Blossom.  “Mr. Harley says he believes she walked out of the house and took nothing with her except the clothes she wore.  She had a suitcase of things for the children, Polly said, and that was all.”

“Well, if that’s the case, it’s funny we can’t find a clue,” remarked Daddy Blossom.  “I’ve looked, and I know Dick has looked, everywhere for some kind of note or even a letter she might have left.  There isn’t a scrap to build on.”

A few days after this Daddy Blossom announced that he was going to Greenpier on important business.

“I know, Daddy,” shouted Twaddles.  “Fireworks for the Fourth of July.”

Father Blossom was going over on the morning boat to do his shopping, and soon after he had gone down to the wharf the four little Blossoms decided to go to “Mr. Harley’s house” to play.  Mother Blossom, who was writing a long letter to Aunt Polly, was willing, and the four trotted off down the little path their own feet had worn.

“Let’s go another way,” suggested Meg suddenly.  “We’ve always said we’d go through the woods, and we always come this same old way.  Come on, Bobby, we can’t get lost.”

The “woods” that Meg spoke of were mostly underbrush and second growth of trees, with here and there a fine old oak that had escaped the wood-chopper’s ax.  The children scrambled through the bushes, climbed over the big gray rocks that stood half hidden under a covering of dead leaves and creeping vines, and finally came out behind the Harley shack.

“I never saw this side of it, did you, Meg?” asked Bobby.  “Look, this must have been the lean-to where Mrs. Harley did the washing.  Yes, here’s an old wooden tub all fallen to pieces.”

The children poked about in the rubbish carelessly until Twaddles happened to spy one of the apple trees on the point.

“They’re ripe!” he cried in great excitement, though he had had his breakfast less than an hour before.  “The apples are ripe, Dot!  Mr. Harley said we could eat ’em!”

He and Dot raced for the tree, while Meg followed more slowly.  Bobby remained to turn more stones over with his foot.

Presently the others heard him shout.