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{\LARGE\strut{LITTLE FRIEND LYDIA}}
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the \hyperlink{project-gutenberg-license}{Project Gutenberg License}
included with this eBook or online at
{https://www.gutenberg.org/license}.
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Title: Little Friend Lydia
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Author: Ethel Calvert Phillips
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Release Date: February 12, 2012 {[}EBook \#38844{]}
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Language: English
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at {http://www.pgdp.net}.
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BY
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{\Large\strut{ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS}}
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{\itshape{With Illustrations by}}
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EDITH F. BUTLER
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HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
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1920
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Table of Contents}

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\hyperlink{chapter-ichristmas-eve}{CHAPTER I—Christmas Eve}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-iithe-real-christmas-present}{CHAPTER II—The Real Christmas Present}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-iiithe-new-home}{CHAPTER III—The New Home}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-iva-picture-and-a-party}{CHAPTER IV—A Picture and a Party}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-vthe-story-of-little-gwen}{CHAPTER V—The Story of Little Gwen}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-vidaffodils-and-daisies}{CHAPTER VI—Daffodils and Daisies}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-viidr-wolfe}{CHAPTER VII—Dr. Wolfe}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-viiimaggie-medicine}{CHAPTER VIII—Maggie Medicine}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-ixcobbler-cobbler-mend-my-shoe}{CHAPTER IX—Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend My Shoe}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xrobin-hill}{CHAPTER X—Robin Hill}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xiwho-stole-the-brown-betty}{CHAPTER XI—Who Stole the Brown Betty?}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xiiroger-comes-home}{CHAPTER XII—Roger Comes Home}\par
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{\noindent}
CHAPTER I—Christmas Eve}

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{\noindent}
It was Christmas Eve, and twenty little
boys and girls were watching for
Santa Claus. Ten little boys in blue-striped
blouses and dark-blue neckties,
ten little girls in blue-checked aprons and
dark-blue hair-ribbons fixed their eyes
on the big folding doors and thought
the time for them to open would never
come.\par

All day long excitement had reigned
supreme in the Children’s Home, a roomy
comfortable house set on the very edge
of the big city, and where were gathered
the motherless and fatherless children
who found love and care under its hospitable
roof. Each ring of the doorbell
brought chattering groups to hang over
the banisters, each sound of wheels on
the driveway was the signal for excited
faces to be pressed against the window-pane
and for round eyes to try in vain to
bore through the paper wrappings of mysterious
bundles whisked out of sight all
too soon. Peeks through the parlor keyhole
were forbidden, but passing the door
on the way to luncheon several children
were seen to stop and sniff the air as
though they might actually smell out the
secret.\par

“Nurse Norrie called it an ‘entertainment,’”
said big Mary Ellen to a group
gathered round her in the playroom. “I
do wonder what ’t will be. It will be to-night
anyway; she said so.”\par

“It’s cowboys and Indians, that’s
what it is,” declared Sammy, an agile
youth who all morning had somehow
managed to look out of the window and
over the banisters at the same time when
occasion demanded. “It’s going to be a
Wild West show to-night, I think.” And
Sammy galloped up and down the playroom
in imitation of the dashing broncos
he hoped to see that night.\par

“Do you think Miss Martin would
have horses in the parlor?” asked Mary
Ellen scornfully. “I hope it will be tableaux.”
And Mary Ellen immediately pictured
herself the most beautiful tableau
of them all, attired as a Red Cross nurse
draped in the American flag, with a noble
expression on her face, and perhaps supporting
a wounded soldier or two.\par

Little Tom took his finger out of his
mouth long enough to say, “I hope it’s
candy”; and at this pleasing thought
Luley and Lena, the fat little twins,
clapped their hands in agreement. Polly,
always a little behindhand, hadn’t made
up her mind yet what the surprise was to
be. So Mary Ellen turned to Lydia, a
quiet little girl whose brown eyes looked
out shyly upon the world from under a
thatch of yellow curls. Now Lydia remembered
clearly her Christmas a year
ago, so although she felt a little shy about
speaking out before them all, she was
sure she had guessed the secret.\par

“I think it’s Santa Claus,” said Lydia
timidly, “and maybe a Christmas Tree
too.”\par

Miss Martin, who took good care of
these little children and loved them every
one, stood in the doorway listening and
laughing.\par

“I’ll give you just one hint,” said she,
“if you promise not to ask me another
question. Lydia is the warmest. Sammy
is freezing cold, so is Mary Ellen. Tom
is warm, too, but Lydia is hot, red-hot I
should say.” And then Miss Martin closed
the door and fled. In the hall she met fat
Nurse Norrie carrying a pile of clean
blouses.\par

“Hark ye to the noise in there,” said
Nurse Norrie with a chuckle. “I’m
thinking if we live through this day we’ll
live through anything.”\par

But at last evening came and they were
all gathered in the back room with only
a few moments more to wait. Patient
Miss Martin took pity on them and answered
the same questions over and over
as she moved about the room straightening
twisted neckties and perking up fallen
hair-ribbons.\par

“Yes, I’m sure Santa Claus is coming,”
said Miss Martin for the tenth time to
Luley and Lena, who hand in hand trotted
up with the question every few minutes
as if asking something new each time.
“Why am I sure, Polly? Because he
comes every year to the Children’s Home.
He has never forgotten us yet.”\par

“Maybe he’s stuck in the snow,” said
Sammy gloomily; “it’s deep, deep.
Maybe he’s having a fight with the Indians.”\par

At this thought Sammy brightened, but
Luley and Lena put out their under lips
in such pitiful fashion that Miss Martin
was glad to hear Mary Ellen say sturdily:\par

“I don’t believe there ever was a snowdrift
or an Indian either that could keep
Santa Claus away.”\par

“Good, Mary Ellen,” said Miss Martin
with an approving smile; “I’m sure
you are right. Take your finger out of
your mouth, Tom. Yes, Lydia, what is
it?”\par

Lydia stood on tiptoe and spoke softly.
She didn’t want any one else to hear her
question.\par

“Miss Martin,” whispered she, “will
Santa Claus bring you whatever you ask
for—even if it won’t go into your stocking?”\par

“Of course he will,” answered Miss
Martin with an arm about Lydia. “Think
of our big swing he brought last year.
That wouldn’t go in a giant’s stocking.
Think of the big—What’s that sound,
children?”\par

Every one listened. Nearer and nearer
and nearer came the jingle of sleigh-bells,
little by little the folding doors slid open,
and there before their very eyes Santa
Claus himself came into the room. Sammy
said afterward he knew he saw him come
down the chimney and step out of the
fireplace, and this in spite of Mary Ellen
who declared she saw him come walking
through the door. But however he came,
there he was, covered with snow and with
a big pack on his back fairly bursting
with toys. Dolls and drums and horns,
jack-in-the-boxes, toy lambs, furry dogs,
soft white rabbits stuck out in every direction.
Luley and Lena fixed their round
eyes upon two white cats peeping slyly
side by side over the edge of the pack,
and oh, how they hoped that Santa Claus
would know that they wanted those pussies
more than anything in the world.\par

Santa Claus stationed himself beside
the big glittering Christmas Tree gay
with its colored horns, shining balls, red
and white cranberry and popcorn chains.\par

“Here I am, children, at last,” said he,
with an engaging smile all round. “A
little late, but it’s not my fault. You must
blame my reindeer for that. Dancer and
Prancer were in such a hurry to get here
that on a roof near by they didn’t look
where they were going, and Prancer
stubbed his toe quite badly against the
chimney. But here we are now, with a bagful
of toys—something for every one.”\par

Santa Claus looked for a moment into
the blue eyes, the black eyes, the gray
and the brown eyes all earnestly fixed on
him.\par

“First of all,” began Santa Claus with
a merry nod, “here are twin pussycats
who are looking for two little girls just
like these.” And he stepped straight over
to Luley and Lena and put the pussies
into their outstretched arms. How did
he know that that was what they wanted?
Perhaps because they had been looking
so longingly at them ever since he came
into the room. But then how did he know
that Mary Ellen wanted a paint-box and
a Red Cross doll, and Sammy a Noah’s
Ark and a drum and a horn? It was
really wonderful how Santa Claus could
tell exactly what each one wanted. There
was little Tom who longed to play with
dolls, but who couldn’t bear it when the
big boys laughed and called him “a girl.”
And what should Santa Claus give to him
but a soldier boy in khaki uniform, carrying
a shining bayonet. Surely no boy
would be ashamed to play with that, and
yet at night, with the bayonet under
Tom’s pillow, General Pershing, Jr.,
would cuddle as well as any baby doll.\par

Before long every one’s arms were
full. Even the grown-up visitors, enjoying
the scene from a distant corner, were
not forgotten, but held boxes of candy
shaped like little doll houses. Polly carried
a white rabbit and a big picture-book
off into her special corner. Sammy, skillfully
performing on horn and drum simultaneously,
woke echoes in the attic. Toy
trains ran merrily round and round. Fire
engines dashed bravely in every direction.
It seemed as if Santa Claus’s pack must
be empty. But no, there he stood holding
a baby doll in long white dress and
little white cap, a baby doll who stretched
out her arms as if asking some one to
come and hold her, please.\par

“Here’s a baby looking for a mother,”
called out Santa Claus. “Perhaps she
will tell me her mother’s name.” And
Santa Claus held the baby up to his ear.\par

“She says she wants Lydia,” announced
Santa Claus. “Where’s Lydia?”\par

“Yes, where is Lydia?” asked Miss
Martin, looking about. “I haven’t seen
her for a long time.”\par

At this one of the visitors came forward,
a visitor all the children knew, for
she came often to see them. It was Mrs.
Morris, a little old Quaker lady, who
always wore a gray silk dress, a snow-white
kerchief, and sometimes a little
white cap. The children called her “Friend
Morris” after a fashion she loved, and
well might they call her so, for she gave
generously of time and thought and
money for their happiness and welfare.
Friend Morris stepped to an open door
and peeped behind it.\par

“Here is little Friend Lydia,” said she.
“Come out, Lydia. Surely thee is not
afraid of the good Santa Claus.” And she
took Lydia gently by the hand and drew
her out of her corner.\par

Lydia shook her head.\par

“No, Friend Morris,” said she, “I’m
not afraid of Santa Claus. But I want
him to give away all his toys, and then
I will ask him for my present.”\par

“But see what Santa Claus has for
thee, Friend Lydia,” said Mrs. Morris,
leading her to where Santa Claus stood
watching them with a smile on his lips.
“A beautiful baby doll. Surely that is the
present thee wants.”\par

“No, I want to whisper it in his ear,”
persisted Lydia.\par

She raised her brown eyes to Santa
Claus, who looked down at her a moment
in silence and then lifted her in his arms.\par

“What is it, Lydia?” he said softly.
“Tell me.”\par

“I want,” whispered Lydia with her
arm about Santa Claus’s neck, “I want
a father and a mother, a real father and
mother of my own. Miss Martin said you
could give a present that wouldn’t go in
a stocking. And I will give you back the
baby doll.”\par

Santa Claus thought for a moment, and
then he tightened his hold upon the little
girl looking so anxiously into his face.\par

“Now, Lydia,” said he, “I’ll tell you
just how it is. I don’t carry that kind of
a present around in my bag with me, but
I’ll try to get it for you if you are willing
to wait a little while for it. You keep
the baby doll. Take good care of her,
and I’ll go to work and see what I can
do for you. How will that be?”\par

Santa Claus had merry blue eyes, and
now he looked straight at Lydia as if he
meant what he said.\par

“You won’t forget?” asked Lydia.\par

“I won’t forget,” said Santa Claus. “I
promise.”\par

He put Lydia on the ground with a
parting pat on her head.\par

“And now I must be off,” said he.
“My reindeer won’t stand much longer.
I believe they’re out on the lawn here
now. Merry Christmas, children! ‘Merry
Christmas to all and to all a good-night!’”\par

And Santa Claus was out of the window,
across the porch, and out of sight
before you could turn around. The jingle
of the sleigh-bells died away, the Christmas
party was over, and it was time to
go to bed.\par

Lydia slowly climbed the stairs with
the new dolly in her arms. Mary Ellen
was beside her, admiring her own Red
Cross nurse as she went.\par

“What shall you name your doll?”
asked Mary Ellen. “Mine is Florence
Clara Barton Nightingale. See the little
ring your doll has. And a gold locket
round her neck.”\par

“Her name is Lucy Locket,” answered
Lydia in a flash. “I’ve thought of it just
this minute.”\par

Upstairs ten little boys popped into
bed before you could say Jack Robinson.
They had no long hair to be brushed
and braided. But Miss Martin and good-natured
Nurse Norrie worked quickly,
and before long ten little girls were
tucked snugly into their beds too. Miss
Martin lighted the night light and turned
to go.\par

“‘Merry Christmas to all and to all
a good-night,’” said Miss Martin softly,
just like Santa Claus.\par

Lydia was the only little girl wide
awake enough to answer.\par

“Merry Christmas,” said Lydia sleepily.
“Lucy Locket, you heard Santa
Claus promise, didn’t you?”\par

And then little Friend Lydia fell fast
asleep too.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-iithe-real-christmas-present}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iithe-real-christmas-present}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER II—The Real Christmas Present}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Christmas morning, and oh, how
early every one woke and jumped
out of bed! Sammy was the first to look
out of the window, and his shouts of joy
brought everybody pell-mell to look out
too.\par

“Snow,” he called, “more snow! Hurry
up and get dressed.”\par

Sure enough the ground was covered
with a fresh fall of snow, and at that moment
up came the red winter sun making
a beautiful sparkling Christmas world for
the children to look upon.\par

Breakfast over, out they all trooped,
and up went a snowman only to fall under
a hail of snowballs. Mary Ellen and Polly
pulled Lydia and the twins about on the
sled, refreshing themselves between-times
with wild toboggans down the hill. It
seemed only a moment before Miss Martin
called them in to make ready for
church.\par

Two by two they walked along, past
houses with wreaths of holly in the windows,
sometimes catching glimpses between
curtains of Christmas Trees like
their own.\par

In the church it was green and sweet-smelling.
From their seats in the balcony
the children looked up at a big red star
blazing high among the pine and balsam
boughs. They sat quietly, the older ones
now and then understanding a little of
what was said, while between-times they
counted the organ-pipes or swung their
feet softly, the unlucky Sammy occasionally
coming up against the pew with
a thump. Every one—Miss Martin, too—was
glad when their turn came to sing,
and they could stretch stiff little legs and
open their mouths wide. They sang—\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Away in a manger,\par}
{\vl No crib for a bed,\par}
{\vl The little Lord Jesus\par}
{\vl Lay down His sweet head.\par}
{\vl The stars in the sky\par}
{\vl Looked down where He lay,\par}
{\vl The little Lord Jesus\par}
{\vl Asleep on the hay.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl “The cattle are lowing,\par}
{\vl The dear baby wakes.\par}
{\vl The little Lord Jesus\par}
{\vl No crying He makes.\par}
{\vl I love Thee, Lord Jesus,\par}
{\vl Look down from the sky,\par}
{\vl And stay by my cradle\par}
{\vl To watch lullaby.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lydia had a clear little voice and she
sang out with a will, and all the while she
sang she was thinking of Santa Claus’s
promise.\par

After church came dinner—turkey and
plum pudding—and then the children
settled down around the Tree to play
with their new toys. Lydia was rocking
Lucy Locket to sleep when Nurse Norrie
came into the room.\par

“Friend Morris has sent for you,
Lydia,” said she. “Alexander is waiting
outside.”\par

Nurse Norrie looked carefully at Lydia’s
face and hands.\par

“You’re as clean as a pin,” said she.
“It would be well if others were more
like you.” And she rapped gently upon
Sammy’s head as she passed. Sammy
looked up with a grin.\par

“I don’t care,” said he with Christmas
daring. “I don’t want to be clean. It’s
sissy.”\par

On the doorstep Lydia slipped her
hand in Alexander’s, and off they started.
Alexander and his wife, Friend Deborah,
were Quakers who had lived for many
years with Mrs. Morris, and the children
knew them well. Friend Deborah wore a
drab stuff dress and a kerchief like Friend
Morris, and Alexander’s broad-brimmed
hat was quite different from that worn by
other men.\par

“No, Lydia,” Alexander was saying,
“thee is not going to Friend Morris’s
house. She is spending the afternoon
with friends in the city, and thee is to
go there. And thee is going to ride on
the Elevated cars.” Alexander knew that
Lydia would like this.\par

Lydia gave a little skip of happiness.
She did like to ride on the Elevated train
high up in the air and look straight into
the windows of the houses as they passed.
To-day, as she kneeled on the seat and
looked out, she saw Christmas Trees and
family dinner-parties, a baby fastened in
a high chair drumming on the window
with his new rattle, and a little girl holding
up her Christmas dolly to look out
of the window too. At that moment the
train stopped, and Lydia and the little girl
smiled and waved and the dolly threw a
stiff kiss in Lydia’s direction. Then on
they went again, and all too soon Lydia
and Alexander left the train, climbed down
the steep flights of steps, and turned into
a narrow little street with small, old-fashioned
brick houses on either side of
the way. Before one of them Alexander
stopped and rang the bell, and in a moment
the door was opened by a pretty
lady with pink cheeks and soft brown
hair who said, “Merry Christmas, Alexander.
And this must be little Friend
Lydia. Come in, Lydia. Friend Morris
is upstairs waiting for you.”\par

And the pretty lady, whose name was
Mrs. Blake, led Lydia into a bedroom to
leave her hat and coat, and then upstairs
where first of all Lydia spied a little
kitchen and then a big room where Friend
Morris sat before a blazing open fire.\par

It sounds topsy-turvy, doesn’t it? the
bedrooms downstairs and the kitchen upstairs?
But this is how it happened. Mr.
Blake was an artist. He painted the most
beautiful pictures in the world, Lydia
thought, when she saw them, and his
workroom or studio was the whole top
floor of the house, except for a tiny little
kitchen tucked away in a corner at the
head of the stairs. So you see for yourself
why the bedrooms were downstairs, and
as Lydia afterward came to think it the
nicest house that could ever be, it must
have been a good arrangement after all.\par

Lydia felt at home at once, Friend Morris
was so smiling, and Mrs. Blake so
friendly, and Mr. Blake so full of fun. He
stood before the fire looking down at the
little girl, and something in the tall figure
with the merry smile made her thoughts
fly back to Santa Claus and her conversation
with him the night before.\par

“They wouldn’t let me have anything
to eat, Lydia,” said he, taking Lydia’s
hand in his, “and I’m as hungry as a
bear. But now that you’ve come perhaps
they will give me a cake.”\par

Lydia saw the cakes on a little table in
the corner, and hoped that she might have
one too. But before she could answer
some one jumped down from the window-sill
and walked slowly toward her. It was
a big Angora cat gray all over save for
four white boots and a white necktie.\par

“This is Miss Puss Whitetoes,” said
Mr. Blake. “Miss Puss, will you shake
hands with Lydia?”\par

Sure enough, Miss Puss held out her
paw and shook hands most politely. Then
as Lydia sat on the floor beside her, she
jumped into the little girl’s lap and in no
time they were the best of friends.\par

“Lydia!” said a voice from far away,
“Lydia!”\par

Lydia looked up from gently scratching
Miss Puss’s head and saw that Mrs.
Blake, busy at the tea-table, was calling
her. Every one was smiling, so she
smiled back.\par

“Mr. Blake can’t wait any longer for
his cakes, Lydia,” said Mrs. Blake. “Will
you help me pass the tea?”\par

Lydia very carefully carried a cup of
tea to Friend Morris, and one to Mr.
Blake, and then in her own cup of milk
she dipped the silver tea-ball one, two,
three times. It really almost tasted of
tea after that. And as for the cakes—Lydia
never before ate anything quite so
good as those little cakes.\par

“And now, Friend Lydia, will thee
sing a song for us?” asked Mrs. Morris.\par

So Lydia sang:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“I saw three ships go sailing by\par}
{\vl On New Year’s Day in the morning.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Then Mr. Blake and Lydia recited
“The Night Before Christmas,” and
were loudly applauded by Friend Morris
and Mrs. Blake.\par

Now the room began to grow dark.
Miss Puss settled herself for a nap in
front of the fire, and Mr. Blake took
Lydia on his lap. He was glad to hold a
little girl in his arms again, for once he
had had a little daughter of his own and
had lost her.\par

“Did you have a nice Christmas,
Lydia?” he asked. “What did Santa
Claus bring you?”\par

“He brought me a doll,” answered
Lydia, settling down on his lap with a
sigh of content, “and she has a ring and
a locket and so I named her Lucy Locket.
But that’s not my real present. I must
wait for that; and Santa Claus will try
to bring it to me by-and-by. He promised.”\par

“A real present?” said Mr. Blake.
“And what kind of a present is that?”\par

“It’s a father and a mother,” whispered
Lydia in his ear, “a real father
and mother of my own. Do you think
he’ll bring it to me?”\par

“I do,” said Mr. Blake, “I do, indeed.
I’m almost sure he will.”\par

He looked straight at Lydia as he
spoke, and something in his blue eyes
made her say, “You look just like Santa
Claus—the way he did last night.”\par

“Do I?” said Mr. Blake with a laugh.
“Well, I don’t know a better person to
look like than Santa Claus.”\par

Lydia put up her hand and patted his
face.\par

“I’m going to give you something,”
said she. “I was saving it for Mary Ellen.
It’s mine, I didn’t eat it myself, but
I want to give it to you. It’s one of those
good little cakes.” And she drew it from
her crummy pocket and put it in Mr.
Blake’s hand.\par

“Thank you, Lydia,” said he, “thank
you. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs.
Blake could make up a little box for you
to take home to Mary Ellen. Mother!”
he called, “Mother!”\par

Mrs. Blake came into the room, and
then, instead of saying anything about
little cakes for Mary Ellen, “You tell
her, Mother,” said Mr. Blake.
“You tell her.”\par

“Oh, Friend Morris,” said Mrs. Blake,
“you tell Lydia, won’t you?”\par

So Friend Morris came forward, and
she was smiling as she had smiled all
afternoon.\par

“Friend Lydia,” said she, “last night
thee asked a present of Santa Claus, and
to-day the present is given thee. Here
are a good father and a good mother who
will love thee well, and in turn they will
have the love of a good little daughter.
Does thee not understand what I am
saying to thee, Friend Lydia?”\par

For Lydia was staring at Friend Morris
with wide-open eyes. She could
scarcely believe her ears. Friend Morris
was still smiling, but tears were in her
eyes. Then Lydia threw her arms about
Mr. Blake’s neck. “A real father,” said
Lydia. She turned to Mrs. Blake and
held her as if she would never let her go.
“And my own mother,” said Lydia, “my
own mother.”\par

And there they were just so when Alexander’s
knock came at the door.\par

“This is the nicest Christmas we’ve
ever had, isn’t it, Lydia?” said Mr. Blake,
his voice a trifle husky. Lydia smiled up
into his face and softly patted the big
hand laid upon her shoulder.\par

“And you’ll come back day after
to-morrow, Lydia, to stay,” said Mrs. Blake,
her arm still round the little girl, “and
never go away again.”\par

Lydia nodded happily. She wasn’t
able to talk about it yet. It seemed too
good to be true. But she gave every one
a parting hug all round. Then she whispered
something in Mr. Blake’s ear.\par

“Please don’t forget the little cakes for
Mary Ellen,” said little Friend Lydia.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-iiithe-new-home}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iiithe-new-home}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER III—The New Home}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
The next two days were the most
exciting days Lydia had ever known.
First of all she told the good news over
and over to Miss Martin, and Mary Ellen,
and Nurse Norrie, and Sammy, and all the
rest of them. Miss Martin wasn’t a bit
surprised. She almost acted as if she had
known it all along.\par

“The saints bless us! It’s no trouble
you’ll be making any one, the way you
keep yourself clean,” was all Nurse Norrie
said.\par

But Mary Ellen and Polly and Sammy
were as excited and interested as Lydia
could wish. Their tongues flew and their
heads wagged up and down, and if Lydia
couldn’t answer all the questions they
asked her, they answered them themselves.\par

“Do you think you will have ice cream
every day for dinner, Lydia?” asked Polly.\par

Lydia didn’t know what to think, but
Mary Ellen answered for her.\par

“Of course,” said Mary Ellen emphatically,
“and perhaps pie, too. And
always griddle cakes for breakfast.”\par

“Oh, I wish some one would take me,”
said Polly longingly. “If I was prettier
maybe they would.” And Polly sighed as
she wistfully felt of her little snub nose.\par

“Pooh!” said Sammy with a defiant
air, “I don’t care! I’m going to live with
a cowboy out West and ride three horses
at once, I am. Maybe I’ll shoot Indians,
too. I don’t care!”\par

But they all looked at Lydia as if they
thought her a fortunate little girl, and indeed
Lydia herself thought so, too.\par

“Perhaps you will come and see me
sometimes,” said she, giving what comfort
she could, “and we will have more of
those good little cakes.”\par

This happy suggestion made them all
feel better. And when Mrs. Blake came to
take Lydia away, there were only smiling
faces and cheerful good-byes; for the last
thing Mrs. Blake said was:\par

“Lydia is going to have a party some
day very soon and she wants you all to
come. Don’t you, Lydia?”\par

Lydia, smiling, nodded. “I told you
so,” to her friends, and held tight to Mrs.
Blake’s hand as they went down the street.
Every now and then she gave a skip, but
only a very little one, for she carried Lucy
Locket in her arms. Mrs. Blake was as
happy as Lydia, and you had only to
look at the smile on her lips and in her
eyes to know it.\par

“Did I tell you there is a doll carriage
at home for Lucy Locket?” said she, looking
down at the little figure hopping at her
side.\par

Lydia’s eyes sparkled.\par

“I never had a carriage before,” was her
answer. Her heart seemed full to overflowing
with happiness and love. Then
Lydia stood still on the street.\par

“Please, do I call you Mother right
away?” said she, looking up into the kind
face that already wore a look like that of
the mother Lydia did not remember.\par

“Oh, yes, indeed, Lydia,” answered
Mrs. Blake, “this very minute if you
like.”\par

“And Father, too?”\par

“And Father, too, as soon as he comes
home to-night.”\par

“Do you hear, Lucy Locket?” whispered
Lydia. “My Mother and Father,
my Mother and Father, my Father and
Mother, my Father and Mother.”\par

It made a nice little song, and Lydia
was singing it to herself as they went up
the steps of the little brick house that was
to be her home.\par

Once inside, Mrs. Blake led the way
down the hall and opened the door.\par{}

\begin{figure}[h!tbp]
\label{figure-34}%
\hypertarget{figure-34}{}%
\label{this-is-your-bedroom-lydia}%
\hypertarget{this-is-your-bedroom-lydia}{}%
\noindent\hfill{}\begin{minipage}{0.800\textwidth}
\begin{container}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
{[}image{]}
\endgraf}
\par
\end{container}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centerleft{{\itshape{“THIS IS YOUR BEDROOM, LYDIA”}}
}}
\end{minipage}
\hfill{}
\end{figure}

“This is your bedroom, Lydia,” said
she, watching the brown eyes grow bigger
and bigger as they gazed. Lydia looked
round the room, and then she looked up
at her new mother, and then she looked
round the room again. It was hard to believe
that this was all for her. For she saw
a little white bed, and beside it a white
cradle just big enough for Lucy Locket.
There was a little bureau and a book-case
full of picture-books. On a low table
stood a work-basket, and near by a little
rocking-chair held out its arms as if saying,
“Come and sit in me.” And over in the
corner was the doll carriage, only waiting
to give Lucy Locket a ride.\par

But Lydia was walking slowly around
the room, for halfway up the wall there
were pictures, pictures of people Lydia
knew very well.\par

“There’s Red Riding Hood,” said she,
“and her mother with the basket. And
here she meets the wolf, and here is grandmother’s
house with the wolf in bed. And
here are the Three Bears and Goldilocks,
and there she goes running home to her
mother. And here is Chicken Little, and
Henny Penny, and all of them. Mean Foxy
Loxy!” said Lydia.\par

Lydia’s pleasure in the room was so keen
that Mrs. Blake felt well repaid for her effort
in making it ready for the little girl.
She smiled at Lydia’s raptures, and opened
the little closet door.\par

“You might put your hat and coat
away,” said she, “and then perhaps Lucy
Locket wants to go riding or to sleep in
the cradle.”\par

“I think she wants a ride,” said Lydia.\par

But when she peeped under the blue-and-white
cover, there was some one
already taking a nap in Lucy Locket’s
carriage. Who but Miss Puss Whitetoes
who opened her eyes sleepily at Lydia
and shut them tight again. Then she wiggled
her little pink nose. That meant, “I’m
sleepy.” She winked one ear. That meant,
“Go away.” So Lydia tucked the cover
about her, and put Lucy Locket to bed in
the new cradle. Lucy was a good child
and soon fell fast asleep, and then Lydia
rode the sleeping Miss Puss up and down
the hall until she woke, and, springing out
of the carriage, whisked upstairs like a
flash.\par

Lydia followed, and found Mother at
work in the kitchen, briskly beating eggs
in a big yellow bowl and taking peeps now
and then into the oven which gave out
savory smells whenever the door was
opened.\par

“Will it be pie and ice cream to-night,
Mother?” asked Lydia, remembering the
words of Mary Ellen.\par

“No,” said Mrs. Blake with a laugh;
“Indian pudding to-night.”\par

“That’s what Sammy would like,” said
Lydia, sniffing hungrily. “He’s going to
shoot Indians or be an Indian chief when
he grows up. He doesn’t know which.”\par

In the studio a fire was blazing and
crackling, and Lydia lay down on the rug
to watch it and wait for Father to come
home. Her head was whirling with all the
pleasant happenings of the day. Even the
flames seemed to have merry faces that
smiled and nodded to her as they rose and
fell.\par

“Red and orange and yellow fairies, and
little blue ones too,” thought Lydia. “And
they dance and they dance and they never
stop. I wonder if they ever go to bed?”
And with that Lydia shut her eyes and
sailed off to sleep herself.\par

Miss Puss jumped down from the window-sill
and sat before the fire to wash
her face. But though she was busy she
kept her eyes wide open, and every now
and then she changed her place, because
the fire was crackling harder than ever,
and little yellow sparks were flying about.
Suddenly an extra big spark lighted on
the rug close beside Lydia. The little yellow
light grew larger and larger, and soon
it began to creep closer and closer to the
sleeping little girl.\par

And what did wise Miss Puss do then?\par

Out into the kitchen she ran where
Mother was making the Indian pudding.\par

“Meow! Meow!” said Miss Puss,
pulling at Mrs. Blake’s apron with her
paw. “Me-o-ow!”\par

“What is it, Miss Puss?” said Mother.
“I never heard you cry like that before.”\par

“Meow!” answered Miss Puss, and
back she ran into the studio. Mrs. Blake
followed, and just in time, for the corner
of the rug was blazing merrily, and Lydia
was still sound, sound asleep.\par

It took only a moment to lift Lydia out
of danger and to stamp down the flame,
and luckily Mr. Blake came home in time
to help. Lydia was neither frightened nor
hurt, and indeed rather enjoyed the excitement,
while every one was so proud
of Miss Puss that they couldn’t praise
and pet her too much.\par

After dinner, Mother, and Father, with
Lydia on his lap, sat watching Miss Puss
enjoy, as a reward, a saucer of cream for
her supper.\par

“We must give her some fish to-morrow,”
said Mr. Blake. “That’s what pussies
like to eat, eh, Lydia?”\par

“Every time I see that hole in the
rug I shall remember what Miss Puss did
the very first night Lydia came to us,”
said Mother, leaning forward to give
Lydia’s hair an affectionate smooth.\par

“We’ll write a poem about it,” said
Mr. Blake.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“This hole is to remind the Blakes\par}
{\vl That for their own and Lydia’s sakes,\par}
{\vl Miss Puss must dine on richest cream\par}
{\vl And little silver canned sardine.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“That’s lovely!” interrupted Lydia,
clapping her hands, “and here’s some
more:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Because she saved me from burning up,\par}
{\vl She is better than any doggy pup.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Well,” said Mr. Blake, holding the
satisfied Lydia off at arm’s length to look
at her, “why didn’t you tell me before
that you were a poetess? You’ve given
me a shock.” And to her delight he fanned
himself as if quite overcome.\par

“I didn’t know it myself until just this
minute,” said Lydia, trying to be modest
under this praise. She settled back in his
arms and reached out for Mrs. Blake’s
hand.\par

“Isn’t it nice?” said she happily, looking
from one face to the other. “Aren’t
we going to have good times? I am. I
know I am. They’ve begun now.”\par

“I feel sure you are right, Lydia,”
answered Mrs. Blake promptly. “Now
that you’ve come, I know we shall all
have the very best times we’ve ever had
in our lives. Just wait and see.”\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-iva-picture-and-a-party}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iva-picture-and-a-party}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER IV—A Picture and a Party}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Lydia’s good times began every
morning when she opened her eyes
and leaned over the edge of the bed to
see how Lucy Locket had spent the night
in her new white cradle.\par

And all day long Lydia was so busy
that at night she had been known to fall
asleep on Father’s lap upstairs, and not
remember a single thing about going to
bed at all. After breakfast she dried the
dishes for her mother, and no one could
dust a room any better than could Lydia
Blake. Then out to market with Mother,
and home again to wheel the doll carriage
up and down the sunshiny street.\par

And who do you think rode in the
carriage? It really belonged to Lucy
Locket. But when day after day Miss
Puss Whitetoes snuggled down on the
cushions and held up her paws so that
Lydia could fasten the carriage strap,
Lydia couldn’t resist giving sly Miss
Puss a ride. And Lucy Locket didn’t
mind at all. She was a great sleepy-head,
and liked nothing better than to lie in her
cradle. Sometimes, too, Lydia would prop
her up in the front window and wave to
the smiling Lucy every time she wheeled
the carriage past the house. At first Miss
Puss would sit up straight like a baby,
with her paws folded in front of her, but
little by little her eyes would close and she
would slip down until all you could see
was one gray ear. And by that time Lydia
herself was ready to go into the house.\par

And her afternoons were busy too. For
one day Mr. Blake said,\par

“Lydia, would you like to give a present
to Friend Morris?”\par

Yes, indeed, Lydia would.\par

“I can make nice horse-reins on a
spool, Father,” said she, proud of her
accomplishment.\par

“I know you can,” said Mr. Blake.
“But I was wondering if Friend Morris
wouldn’t like a picture of you dressed
like a little Quaker girl. Mother will make
the dress, just like the one Friend Morris
wore when she was a little girl. I will
paint the picture, and you shall give it to
her. I believe Friend Morris would like
that present.”\par

“I think she would too,” said Lydia,
who herself liked the idea of dressing up.
“It’s much nicer than horse-reins.”\par

So Mother made a little gray dress,
with a white kerchief, and a white cap.
And over the cap Lydia wore a little gray
Quaker bonnet.\par

Then every afternoon, she stood very
still while Mr. Blake painted the picture,
looking from Lydia to the canvas and
back again at Lydia.\par

“Couldn’t Miss Puss be in the picture,
too?” asked Lydia. “She is all gray and
white, just like me.”\par

So Miss Puss was put in the picture,
sitting as still as could be at Lydia’s feet.
Mr. Blake worked quickly, and so the
picture was soon finished, and it happened
that the very next day Lydia had a party.
Mary Ellen and Sammy and Polly and
little Tom were coming with Miss Martin
to spend the afternoon.\par

When Lydia saw the children walking
up the street, their friendly faces shining
with soap and water and happy smiles,
she hopped up and down in the window
and waved both hands in greeting. If she
had been a boy she would have turned a
somersault, I know.\par

“Is this our quiet little Lydia?” Miss
Martin asked Mrs. Blake, with a laugh.
“What have you done to her?”\par

For Lydia was dragging the children
into her bedroom, and telling them of
Mother and Father and Miss Puss, and
bidding them look at Lucy Locket’s cradle,
and the doll carriage, and the picture-books,
all in one breath, and before they
even had time to take off their hats and
coats. From the noise, and the confusion,
and the rushing about, and the sound of
many voices all talking at once, as Lydia
took them from one end to the other of
that little house, you might have thought
that all twenty children from the Children’s
Home had come visiting instead
of four!\par

But after a little they quieted down,
and when Mrs. Blake and Miss Martin
peeped in at them, this peaceful scene met
their eyes. Sammy was lying flat on the
floor, lost in a picture-book of cowboys
and Indians galloping madly over the
Western plains. Polly was wheeling lazy
Miss Puss up and down the hall. Over
in a corner, sure that no one was looking
at him, little Tom had turned his back
upon the world, and was comfortably
rocking Lucy Locket to sleep as he
swayed to and fro in the little rocking-chair.
In the closet, Lydia was proudly
showing her Quaker dress to the admiring
Mary Ellen. When she spied her
mother—\par

“May I put it on?” she asked. “Mary
Ellen thinks it’s almost as good as a Red
Cross nurse.”\par

“Would you like to dress up as a
nurse yourself this afternoon, Mary Ellen?”
asked Mrs. Blake, who read a longing
in Mary Ellen’s eye.\par

And in a twinkling you wouldn’t have
known happy Mary Ellen. For a big
cooking-apron covered her from neck to
heels, and, with a Red Cross cap on her
head, you couldn’t have found a better
nurse if you had searched the whole world
over. Polly was turned into a fine lady,
in a silk dress, a lace cap, and three
strings of beads about her neck. Such
flauntings and preenings, such bowing
and curtsying as the three little peacocks
indulged in, what time they weren’t admiring
themselves in the mirror! They
looked up to see Mr. Blake laughing at
them in the doorway. He made a low
bow and shook them by the hand as if
they had been real grown-up people.\par

“Aren’t you going to do anything for
the boys?” he asked, for Sammy and
Tom were looking on with envious eyes.
“Come upstairs with me, boys. I’ve a
trunkful of things to wear.” And so he
had, to use when he was painting pictures.\par

Such shouting and laughing as now
floated down from the studio! The little
girls sat at the foot of the stairs, and
every now and then they would creep a
step higher. At last the door opened and
they started up with a rush, but it was
only Father speaking to Miss Martin.\par

“Do you mind if I put paint on their
faces?” he asked.\par

“Not a bit,” said Miss Martin, who
was used to all kinds of antics on the
part of her brood, and who never said
“no” when she could possibly answer
“yes.”\par

“But not on their mouths, Father,”
called Mother. “We haven’t had the
real party yet.”\par

Then the door closed again, for hours
and hours it seemed to Lydia and Polly
and Mary Ellen, though Mother said it
was only ten minutes by the clock.\par

But when Mr. Blake called “All aboard!”
and they trooped up into the studio, they
forgot their long wait in admiration at
what they saw. For there stood an Indian,
wearing a real deerskin over his
shoulders, and with real deerskin leggings
that ended in gay beaded moccasins.
On his head was a gorgeous feather
head-dress, and in his hands he carried
a bow and arrow. His face was ornamented
with spots and stripes and splashes
of red and yellow and blue paint. He was
not a very fierce-looking warrior, for he
was grinning from ear to ear, and when
the girls saw that smile, they knew.\par

“Sammy!” said Lydia and Polly and
Mary Ellen in a breath.\par

As for Tom, there he stood in a black
velvet cloak, and a big black hat, with
green plumes drooping off the edge. He
had a big black curling mustache that almost
covered his face, but the pride of
his heart was a pair of high, shiny, black
boots, so big for him that he couldn’t
take a step without holding on to them
with both hands for fear of losing them
off. He wore a short wooden sword thrust
in his belt, and I really don’t know what
the fine lady and the Quakeress would
have done without that sword. For they
immediately set sail down Studio River
in a boat made of two chairs and a
stool. Tom’s sword kept the alligators
and crocodiles from climbing into the
boat after them. But alas! they were attacked
by an Indian brave, skulking in
the woods. They were all but killed by
him, but were speedily brought back to
health by a Red Cross nurse, who happened
to be taking a stroll that afternoon
in those selfsame woods.\par

This was such a good game that they
played it over and over again, until Mrs.
Blake called them to come to the “real
party,” and that they were quite ready to
do. Sandwiches, little cakes, cups of milk
disappeared like magic. They ate and
ate and ate until even Sammy could eat
no more.\par

Then there came a knock at the door,
and who should it be but Friend Morris!
She stared in surprise at all of them, but
at Lydia most of all. And when Mr.
Blake whispered in Lydia’s ear, and she
led Friend Morris over to the picture
Father had painted for her, it was a long
time before Friend Morris had a word
to say. She looked and looked at the
picture, and she looked and looked at
Lydia. Lydia couldn’t tell whether Friend
Morris was going to laugh or cry.\par

“Don’t you like the present?” asked
Lydia. “I wanted to make you horse-reins,
but Father said you would like
this better.”\par

“Like it, Friend Lydia?” said Mrs.
Morris at last. “There isn’t another
present in the whole world that I would
like so well as this.”\par

Lydia and Father and Mother nodded
and smiled at one another. They were
so glad that Friend Morris was pleased,
and that their present was a success.\par

Then, cozily, they all gathered round
the open fire, and each of the children
hung up an apple on a string to roast
before the blaze. They turned and turned
the string to cook the apples through and
through, and when at last they were done,
a grown person might have thought them
burned in spots and raw in others, but
the children ate them with the greatest
relish.\par

And while they watched the apples
twist and turn, and the flames rise and
fall—\par

“Would thee like me to tell a story?”
asked Friend Morris, with a hand on
Lydia’s Quaker cap,—“a story my grandmother
used to tell me, of a little Quaker
girl who lived a long time ago?”\par

“Are there Indians in it?” demanded
Sammy, admiring, with head on one side,
his deerskin leggings stretched before
him.\par

Friend Morris nodded, and every one
settled back comfortably to hear the story
she had to tell.\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER V—The Story of Little Gwen}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
“It was a long time ago,” began Friend
Morris, “when a little Welsh girl
named Gwen set sail from England,
with her father and mother and a company
of Friends, to cross the Atlantic
Ocean and make a new home for themselves
in America. When they were perhaps
halfway across, Gwen had a new
little brother, and as he was born on the
ocean he was given the name ‘Seaborn.’\par

“Travel was slow in those days, and
it seemed a long time to little Gwen before
the ship reached land, and she could
run and jump as much as she pleased on
the solid ground, as she could not do on
the crowded ship’s deck. But even then
their travels were not over, for Gwen’s
father, with a few other men and their
families, pushed on into the woods where
they meant to settle and build their
homes.”\par

“Were there Indians in the woods?”
asked Sammy eagerly.\par

“Yes, plenty of them, but all friendly
to the Quakers,” answered Friend Morris.
“I’m sorry for thee, Sammy, but
there won’t be a single fight in this story.”\par

“Never mind,” said Sammy generously,
“I’ll like to hear it just the same.”\par

“What kind of a house did Gwen have
in the woods?” asked Mary Ellen, anxious
to hear the story.\par

“No house at all, for a time,” said
Friend Morris. “At first, each family
chose its own tree, and under it they lived,
glad of any shelter that would protect
them from sun and rain.”\par

“Like the squirrels and rabbits,” murmured
Lydia.\par

“Then, as the weather grew colder,
they dug caves in the bank of the river,
where with a roof of boughs and comfortable
beds of leaves, they lived until they
were able to build real houses of logs or
stone.”\par

“That was nice,” said little Tom. “I’d
like to live in a cave. I’d keep the bears
out with my sword.”\par

“Gwen liked it, too, though I don’t
know that she saw any bears,” answered
Friend Morris. “But oh, how glad her
mother was when their log house was
finished. It had a ladder on the outside
that led to the upper room, and Gwen
learned to run up and down this ladder
as quickly as a squirrel runs up a tree.
Gwen’s father had built the house on the
river-bank far away from his friends, for
some day he meant to clear the land and
have a large farm.\par

“There was little time for visiting in
those busy days, and Gwen might have
been lonely if it had not been for
Seaborn. He was a fat roly-poly, a year old
now, creeping and crawling into all kinds
of mischief, and Gwen spent her spare moments
trotting around after him. He was a
good-natured baby, but now he was cutting
his teeth, and this made him cross
and fractious. And he cried. Oh! how he
cried. His mother rubbed his gums with
her thimble to help his teeth through, and
he cried harder than ever. Gwen danced
up and down and shook his home-made
rattle, a gourd filled with dried peas, but
he only pushed her away. And just then
came the time for the big Friends’ Meeting
to be held across the river in the town
of Philadelphia.\par

“‘Father will go, but we must stay
at home, Gwen,’ said her mother. ‘We
meant to take thee, and Seaborn, too, but
thee couldn’t ask me to take this crying
baby anywhere.’\par

“‘How long would thee be gone,
Mother? Two days and a night?’ asked
Gwen. ‘Wouldn’t thee trust me to stay
at home and take care of Seaborn?’\par

“And Gwen coaxed and wheedled,
and wheedled and coaxed, until the next
morning, feeling very important and
grown-up, she saw her father and mother
start across the river in their little boat,
bound for the great Quarterly Meeting.\par

“That very afternoon Seaborn’s nap
was so quiet and peaceful that Gwen
wasn’t the least surprised, on peeping
into his mouth when he woke, to see a
big new tooth shining in that pink cavern.
What if it was raining and they
couldn’t go out of doors? It was easy
enough to amuse Seaborn now.\par

“All day and all night it rained, and the
next morning the sky was as gray and
the rain came down as hard as ever.
Gwen saw that the river was rising, and
had overflowed its banks, and she hoped
nothing would prevent Mother and Father
from coming home that night. She was a
little lonely, but not one bit frightened
until, late in the afternoon, a narrow
stream of water came under the door, and
trickled slowly across the floor. Gwen
ran to the window. There was water
several inches deep all around the house,
and she could see that it was rising every
moment.”\par

“Oh dear,” said Polly, “what did she
do?”\par

“This is what she did,” said Friend
Morris. “The only way to go upstairs
was by the ladder on the outside of the
house. Gwen wrapped Seaborn in a
shawl, and splashing through the water,
she carried him upstairs. Then down
she ran for milk and a bowl of cold porridge,
and by that time the water was
so deep she was afraid to go downstairs
again.”\par

“I think she was a clever little girl to
think and act so quickly,” said Mrs. Blake,
who was enjoying the story quite as well
as the children.\par

“She was a brave little girl, too,” went
on Friend Morris. “She wrapped up
warmly, and, lighting a candle, sat down
in the doorway of the upper room to
watch and wait. It grew darker and
darker, and still the rain fell steadily.
Seaborn was sound asleep, and Gwen
was nodding, when suddenly she sat up
with a jerk. A little boat was moving
toward them over the water that covered
the ground in front of the house, and to
Gwen’s delight it stopped at the foot of
the stairway ladder.\par

“‘Father,’ called Gwen, ‘Mother, has
thee come home? Here we are, upstairs
in the doorway.’\par

“But it was neither father nor mother
who answered. A deep voice said, ‘Ugh!
Missy come, I take.’ And Gwen looked
down into the brown face of an Indian.”\par

“In his war paint, with a tomahawk?”
asked Sammy, his own feathers standing
out with interest.\par

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Morris, “in
peaceful attire. He had often traded with
Gwen’s father, and he knew the Quakers
were having a Meeting over the river.
So when he saw the light in the house,
he came as a friend to help. He was
called Lame Wolf, because he limped a
little, and Gwen was very glad indeed to
see him.\par

“‘I take,’ said Lame Wolf again, and
held up his arm to beckon Gwen.\par

“Down the ladder she scrambled, with
Seaborn in her arms, and off the canoe
glided through the darkness. And that is
the last sleepy little Gwen remembered
until she woke the next morning with the
sun shining in her face.\par

“She was lying in an Indian wigwam,
with a fire burning in the middle of the
floor, and beside it, crouching over the
blaze, an old Indian squaw.\par

“‘My brother!’ cried Gwen, springing
up; ‘where is Seaborn?’\par

“The old woman seemed to understand,
for she grunted and pointed outside.
And there, hanging from the low
branch of a big tree, in company with
several Indian babies, swung Seaborn.”\par

“Oh, didn’t it hurt?” asked Lydia,
with a little shudder. “Did they hang
him by the neck?”\par

“No, Lydia, no,” said Friend Morris,
with a smile. “He was strapped in an
Indian cradle, a flat board covered with
skins and moss. And he seemed to like
it, for he smiled and chuckled when he
saw his sister.\par

“Gwen knew they must be in an Indian
camp, for she saw many wigwams,
and horses tethered about them. Already,
groups of Indian squaws were at work,
scraping animal skins and trimming leggings
and moccasins with bright-colored
beads. Little girls were going to and fro,
carrying wood and water. Little brown
boys ran past, with bows and arrows in
their hands, off for a day’s play. Gwen
was glad to see her friend, Lame Wolf,
limping toward her. He said, ‘Eat!
Come!’ and led the way back into the
wigwam where the old squaw gave Gwen
a bowl of soup.\par

“Then Lame Wolf lifted Seaborn down
from the tree, and took them before the
chief Big Bear. Big Bear listened to
Lame Wolf’s story. He looked kindly
at Gwen, motioned Lame Wolf to hang
Seaborn on a near-by tree, where his own
papoose swung in the shade, and then
called to his little girl, Winonah, peeping
shyly round the wigwam. She took Gwen
by the hand and led her off to see her
dolls.”\par

“Dolls?” said Polly and Lydia together.
“Do little Indian girls have
dolls?”\par

“Certainly they do. These dolls were
made of deerskin, with painted face, beads
for eyes, and one had a fine crop of
horsehair and another one of feathers.
Each doll had its cradle, too, and Gwen
and the chief’s little daughter played happily
together.\par

“In the afternoon, Seaborn and Papoose,
all the name the chief’s little boy
owned as yet, were taken from their
cradles and put upon the ground to roll
and tumble to their hearts’ content. Gwen
and Winonah were near by watching
them. Suddenly little Papoose began to
choke and cough. His eyes grew big and
round and he gasped for breath. Winonah
ran for her mother and left Gwen
alone. And then in a flash, Gwen knew
what she must do. Once Seaborn had
swallowed a button and it had lodged in
his throat. Little Papoose must have put
something in his mouth that was choking
him now. So Gwen did as she had seen
her mother do for Seaborn. She bravely
put her fingers down poor little Papoose’s
throat, grasped something, and drew it
out. It was a smooth white pebble big
enough to choke a dozen little Papooses!”\par

“She was as good as a Red Cross
nurse,” said Mary Ellen excitedly, her
eyes shining. “Didn’t Big Bear and little
Papoose’s mother praise her for saving
his life?”\par

“Yes, indeed, Mary Ellen,” answered
Friend Morris. “They praised her, and
they gave her presents when she went
home the next day, and all her life they
were her good friends. And that was
really best of all.”\par

“What were the presents?” asked the
children in chorus.\par

“An Indian dress for herself, a cradle
for Seaborn, a doll in its little cradle, and
beautiful skins as a present for her mother.
And that is all my story,” ended Friend
Morris, smiling down into the flushed
faces gathered about her knee.\par

“Thank you, Friend Morris,” said
Lydia, giving her apple a last twirl.
“Gwen was a nice girl.”\par

“It was a good story,” said Sammy,
with a nod of his feathered head, “even
if there wasn’t any fighting in it.”\par

“Now, eat your apples, children,” said
Miss Martin. “Here’s Alexander come
to take us home, and somehow you must
be turned back into boys and girls again
before you can go out into the street.”\par

It was hard to go back to checked
aprons and blouses after ribbons and
feathers and war paint, but at last it was
done. And Mary Ellen said “Thank
you” for all of them when she put her
arms round Mrs. Blake’s neck.\par

“Good-night,” said Mary Ellen. “And
please do ask us soon again.”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VI—Daffodils and Daisies}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Daffydowndilly has come up to town,\par}
{\vl In a yellow petticoat and a green gown,”\par}
\end{verse}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
sang little Friend Lydia, as she pushed the
doll carriage up and down in the warm
spring sunshine. From the window of
each little house in Lydia’s street, bowls
of bright daffodils or tulips nodded to her
as she passed, and the flower-beds in the
near-by park were masses of scarlet and
yellow bloom.\par

“It’s spring, Lucy Locket,” chattered
Lydia. “That’s why you have a new hat
and a new dress. Sit up straight and don’t
crush your flowers.” And Lydia sat Lucy
up and straightened her gay rose-covered
straw bonnet.\par

“There’s Father coming,” went on
Lydia. “Hold on tight, and we’ll go meet
him.” And Lydia ran the carriage over the
stones so fast that poor Lucy slipped down
under the blanket quite out of sight, hat
and all.\par{}

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{\centerleft{{\itshape{“IT’S SPRING, LUCY LOCKET,” CHATTERED LYDIA. “THAT’S WHY YOU HAVE A NEW HAT AND A NEW DRESS”}}
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“Father!” called Lydia. “There’s
something the matter with Miss Puss.
She wouldn’t come riding to-day, and she
ran away from me down cellar. She’s
hiding behind a barrel and she won’t come
out.”\par

“She probably doesn’t feel well,” said
Mr. Blake, waiting for Lydia at the foot
of their own steps. “I should leave her
alone, if I were you, until she is better.
You know when a cat is sick she goes off
by herself, and I shouldn’t be surprised
if that is why Miss Puss hides down cellar.
Perhaps she has spring fever.” And
Mr. Blake smiled down into Lydia’s anxious
face.\par

“Can’t you give her some medicine?”
she asked. “You made me well when I
had a pain.”\par

“She may need a change of air,” answered
Father seriously. “Suppose we
take her to the country?”\par

“For a whole day, with lunch?”—and
Lydia beamed at the thought.\par

“No, for the whole summer,” said
Father, pinching Lydia’s cheek. “Lock
the front door here and go.”\par

“When?” demanded Lydia, her eyes
shining—“to-morrow? I’m ready. I have
a new hat, and so has Lucy. Come up here,
you poor child, and we’ll go in and tell
Mother.” And Lydia dragged the long-suffering
Lucy, still smiling, from under
her blanket, and darted into the house,
leaving Father to follow with the carriage.\par

“Mother, we’re all going to the country!”
cried Lydia, running into the studio,
where Mother was setting the table for
lunch. “Maybe we’ll go to-morrow. Shall
I pack my bag right away?”\par

Mrs. Blake sat down to laugh.\par

“Well, now that Father has told you,
the sooner we go the better, I’m sure,”
said she. “Pack your bag, if you like, but
I don’t think we can be ready to go before
ten days at least.”\par

“Ten days?” And Lydia looked as
disappointed as if Mother had said ten
years.\par

“That isn’t long,” said Father encouragingly.
“Come here, and I’ll show you
how short it is.”\par

Mr. Blake was busy with paper and
scissors. Snip, snip, snip, and ten little
paper dolls holding hands in a row were
unfolded before Lydia’s curious eyes.\par

“Here’s a doll for every day,” said Mr.
Blake. “Tear off one each morning until
there is only one left, and that is the day
we go to the country.” And Father set
Lydia on his shoulder and wheeled gayly
about the room.\par

“Come to lunch, you ridiculous pair,”
said Mother, laughing at them. “Lydia,
you haven’t asked yet where you are
going, and so I’ll tell you. You are going
up to Hyatt, where the children have
their summer home, and our little house is
just over the way from Friend Morris’s
big house. And you can see Mary Ellen
and Sammy and all of them every day if
you like, and Father’s going to paint
his masterpiece, and we’ll have the nicest
summer we’ve ever had in all our lives.”\par

And Mother, out of breath, with cheeks
as pink as Lucy Locket’s rosy hat, joined
her “ridiculous pair” in a second dance
of joy down the room and back to the
luncheon table again.\par

For the next ten days Lydia was as
busy as a bumble-bee. She packed and
unpacked her new little traveling-bag no
less than a dozen times. She trotted
about on errands until Father took to calling
her “Little Fetch-and-Carry.” She
spent a great deal of time instructing
Lucy Locket how to behave on the train,
and she tenderly cared for the invalid
Miss Puss, who was slowly recovering
her former high spirits.\par

Day after day she tore off the paper
dolls and put them away in a box for
“Lucy to play with on the train,” and
when at last there was only one doll left,
Lydia placed a kiss upon her tiny paper
cheek.\par

“You are the nicest one of all,” she
whispered, “because to-day we go.”\par

And go they did, Father carrying a
heavy suitcase and Lydia’s little bag,
Mother with Miss Puss in a wicker basket,
and Lydia bearing the proud Lucy
Locket, decked in her finest and on her
very best behavior. Lydia waved good-bye
to Tony, the iceman, and stopped
to tell Joe, the one-legged newsboy, who
had a paper-stand on the corner under the
Elevated Road, that she would be away
all summer. Then after a short ride underground
she found herself on the train,
really bound for the country.\par

It is to be hoped that Lucy Locket
and Miss Puss behaved on that train ride
as well as they ought, for Lydia, with
her nose pressed against the window-pane,
was so interested in all she saw
that she quite forgot her charges, and
could scarcely believe it when Father
said, “There’s the river, Lydia. We get
off station after next.”\par

But sure enough, at station after next
there stood Alexander ready to lift her
down the high steps of the train, and to
drive them all home along the River
Road behind Friend Morris’s fine gray
horses, Owen and Griff. Friend Morris
was already settled for the summer, and
she was watching for them on the steps
of her broad veranda, overlooking the
river, as Alexander swung round the
drive and up to the door in fine style.\par

Lydia leaned from the carriage for a
peep at her own house just across the
road. She saw a low, white cottage,
whose tiny porch, with a bench at either
end, she decided at once would make a
good place to play dolls. The vines over
the porch fluttered a welcome to her, the
trees waved and beckoned her to come,
and Lydia could scarcely wait to eat her
supper at Friend Morris’s before running
over and visiting every nook and corner
of the little house. It was not very large
inside, but what of that when two big
porches, one upstairs and one down, ran
across the back of the house that overlooked
the river.\par

“The downstairs porch is where we
spend our days,” said Mother, “and the
upstairs porch is where we spend our
nights.”\par

“Me, too?” asked Lydia, all excitement
at the prospect.\par

“You, too, Lyddy Ann,” answered
Father, “and Lucy Locket and Miss
Puss likewise, unless she chooses to
spend her nights in the catnip bed.”\par

For Miss Puss had scented the bed of
catnip round the corner of the house, and
was rolling and tumbling in it to her
heart’s content. Mr. Blake and Lydia
stood enjoying the sight, and Father
pointed out a little garden bed that was
to be Lydia’s very own.\par

“Will you plant flowers or vegetables?”
asked he.\par

“Flowers, please,” said Lydia, her face
aglow with pleasure. “Pink and red and
blue and yellow ones I’d like.”\par

“To-morrow, then, we’ll spade it up,”
said Father. “And now we had better be
off to bed if we are going to do gardening
in the morning.”\par

Out on the upper porch stood the three
beds in a row. Lydia, in her long nightgown,
hopped about, so excited it was
hard to think of going to sleep.\par

But Mother tucked her under the warm
blankets, and soon the sleeping-porch
was as quiet as the soft, dark night all
about it.\par

But Lydia was not asleep. She lay
watching the twinkling stars and waving
tree-tops, and suddenly the thought of
Lucy Locket popped into her head. Lydia
remembered just where she had left her,
lying on the table in the hall below. Poor
Lucy, missing her own white cradle, no
doubt, to say nothing of her little mother’s
care.\par

Softly Lydia crept out of bed and pattered
across the sleeping-porch. She
groped her way through the bedroom
and started downstairs. And then, somehow,
she tripped over her long nightgown,
and down the stairs she crashed
head first.\par

It seemed as if Father reached the foot
of the stairs almost as soon as Lydia did.
He picked her up carefully, and felt all
over for broken bones, and then he carried
the sobbing Lydia upstairs, and tenderly
placed her in Mother’s arms.\par

“My head! My foot! Lucy Locket!”
sobbed Lydia.\par

There was a big lump on her head, and
out came the bottle of witch hazel to be
used with soothing effect. The bruised
ankle was gently rubbed with something
that smelled like furniture polish.\par

And then Lydia was tucked in bed
again, this time with Lucy Locket beside
her.\par

But instead of going to sleep, Lydia
began to cry. She was tired, and excited,
and frightened by her fall. At first she
cried so softly that only Lucy Locket
knew it, but the sobs grew so loud that
in a moment Father said, “Lydia, crying?”\par

A sniff was all Lydia’s answer, but it
said, “Yes, Father, I’m crying,” as plainly
as could be.\par

Mr. Blake put out his strong right arm
and pulled Lydia’s little bed close beside
his own.\par

“What’s the trouble, Lydia?” said he
gently.\par

“I’m afraid,” said Lydia, with another
sniff. “I’m afraid a big fish will come out
of the river and get me.” And she really
thought that was the reason she was
crying.\par

Mr. Blake hunted for Lydia’s hand and
found it.\par

“In the first place,” said he, “there
isn’t any such fish. And in the second
place, if he comes I won’t let him hurt
you. Now will you try to go to sleep?”\par

“Yes,” said Lydia, “I will.”\par

So holding fast to Father with one
hand, and to Lucy Locket with the other,
Lydia at last fell asleep.\par

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CHAPTER VII—Dr. Wolfe}

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{\noindent}
The next morning when Lydia woke,
the bump on her head felt as big
as a hen’s egg. She lay feeling it proudly,
and wishing that Mary Ellen could see
it. Mary Ellen was always so interested
in bumps, and cuts, and bruises, but the
children’s summer home, Robin Hill,
would not open until next week, and
Lydia could only hope the bump was a
lasting one. She hoped, too, it would be
bright red or purple, but when she climbed
out of bed in search of a mirror, poor little
Lydia fell on the floor in a heap and
screamed with pain.\par

“My ankle! My ankle!” was all she
could say.\par

And when Father saw the badly swollen
ankle, he said:\par

“This won’t do. I’ll have to send for
Dr. Wolfe.”\par

But at these words, Lydia clung to
Mother and began to scream again.\par

“No, no!” she cried, “I won’t, I won’t,
I won’t have Dr. Wolfe!”\par

“Why not?” asked Father in astonishment.
“What’s the matter with Dr.
Wolfe?”\par

“I’m afraid!” sobbed Lydia. “It’s
Red Riding Hood’s wolf. I’m afraid!”\par

“Lydia,” said Father impatiently,
“you are talking nonsense. Dr. Wolfe
is an old friend of Friend Morris. He is
as kind as he can be, and very fond of
little girls.”\par

“Yes, fond of eating them,” thought
Lydia.\par

She didn’t say this aloud, but she
buried her head in her pillow and refused
to listen to any pleasant things about Dr.
Wolfe. He was Red Riding Hood’s wolf,
and she wouldn’t see him, and her ankle
hurt, and she was the most miserable
little girl in the world.\par

So Mr. Blake, shaking his head, went
away, and that was really the best thing
he could do. For when Lydia was left
alone she stopped crying, and by the
time Mother appeared with a breakfast
tray, she was able to sit up and eat a
whole bowl of oatmeal without stopping.
Her ankle did not hurt unless she moved
it, so, propped up with pillows, and looking
at a picture-book, she felt quite like
herself again.\par

“Hello the house!” said a voice, and
Lydia, peering through the piazza railing,
saw a man on the grass below looking
up at her. He was short and plump,
with a little white beard and glittering
gold-bowed spectacles. He smiled up at
Lydia and called:\par

“Good-morning! Is anybody home?”\par

“Yes, I am,” answered Lydia. “I
don’t know where Mother and Father
are. I haven’t seen them for a long
time.”\par

“Isn’t it rather late to be in bed?”
asked the little old gentleman. “I’ve
been up a long time myself, and had a
walk by the river too.”\par

“But I’m sick,” said Lydia importantly;
“I’ve hurt my head and my
ankle. I can’t get up.”\par

“You don’t say so,” said the old gentleman,
interested at once. “Well, in that
case, I’d better come up.”\par

And in a twinkling he was up the steps
and sitting at the side of Lydia’s bed.\par

“How did you get such a bump on
your head?” said he. “It’s as handsome
a one as ever I saw, and I’ve seen a
good many.”\par

“I fell downstairs last night,” answered
Lydia, feeling her “handsome bump”
with fresh pleasure, and glad to tell her
story. “I hurt my head and my ankle.
I can’t walk.”\par

“Then I’m the very man for you,”
returned the old gentleman cheerfully,
“for I’m a tinker. I tinker people—their
heads, and their arms, and their legs. It’s
well I happened along this morning. And
now that I’ve seen the bump on your
head, if you’re willing I’ll have a look
at your ankle, too.”\par

Lydia sat very still while the jolly tinker
carefully felt of the injured ankle, and
asked her a question or two. She screwed
up her face with pain now and then, but
she didn’t shed a single tear. At last the
tinker nodded as if satisfied, and sat down
again on the side of the bed.\par

“In tinker talk,” said he, “it’s a strain.
But the truth is that overnight you’ve
been bewitched. Yes,” said the tinker
gravely, “you’ve been turned into the
Princess-Without-Legs. And I have a
pretty good idea who did the mischief.
But my magic is stronger than his magic,
and the first thing you know, you will be
as well as ever again.”\par

Lydia was listening to all this with eyes
and mouth wide open.\par

“Who did it?” said she in a whisper.
She felt as if she had stepped inside a fairy
book, and that if she spoke aloud she
would step outside again.\par

“My cousin,” answered the old gentleman
in a low voice, “my wicked cousin.
Did you ever hear the story of Red Riding
Hood?”\par

Lydia nodded and leaned farther forward.\par

“The wolf in that story is my wicked
cousin,” said the old gentleman sadly. He
felt in his pocket for his handkerchief and
blew his nose violently.\par

“A wolf,” thought Lydia, “for a cousin.
Why, I know who he is.—You are Dr.
Wolfe!” cried she, her voice loud with
surprise. “Are you Dr. Wolfe?”\par

“That’s what they call me,” admitted the
tinker, “but if you don’t care for the name
you may call me anything you like. I can’t
help what my cousin does, you know. It’s
very hard to have him in the family. And
I’m not one single bit like him. Can’t you
see that?”\par

“Yes, I can,” said Lydia pityingly, the
tinker seemed so downcast. “You can’t
help it, and I don’t mind calling you Dr.
Wolfe one bit. I’m sorry for you.” And
she reached out and took his hand in hers.\par

“Then you forgive me for having such
a cousin?” asked the anxious Dr. Wolfe.\par

“Yes, I do,” returned Lydia earnestly.
“I do.”\par

“Good,” said the Doctor, shaking her
hand. “And now we must set our magic
to work and cure that ankle. First of
all, the Princess-Without-Legs must have
a slave.” And he clapped his hands together
one, two, three times.\par

Lydia’s eyes sparkled in anticipation.
A slave! She fixed her eyes on the doorway,
and was very much disappointed at
the appearance of her own mother in answer
to the summons.\par

“Not you, not you, Mrs. Blake,” said
Dr. Wolfe, laughing. “That was meant
to call the slave of the Princess-Without-Legs.”\par

“Who?” asked Mrs. Blake, opening
her eyes as wide as Lydia’s. “Princess
who?”\par

“It’s me, Mother, it’s me,” Lydia called
out. “I’m the Princess-Without-Legs,
and this is Dr. Wolfe, and I’m going to
have a slave.”\par

“Well,” said Mrs. Blake, smiling at the
Princess, “you are? And where is the
slave?”\par

“I’ll fetch him,” said Dr. Wolfe briskly,
disappearing into the bedroom, where
Lydia could hear him talking in a low
voice.\par

Presently he reappeared followed by
Mr. Blake, and in his arms Dr. Wolfe
carried a big brown furry rabbit with glittering
yellow glass eyes.\par

“Your slave, Princess,” said Dr. Wolfe,
putting him on the bed beside Lydia, who
fell to stroking the soft fur. “He will take
his head off for you if needs be, he’s that
faithful. Try and see.”\par

Lydia gently lifted off the rabbit’s head
and peeped inside. He was filled with red
and green and white candies.\par

“You may think these are candies,
Princess,” said Dr. Wolfe with a twinkle
in his eye, “but they are far more than
that. They are magic pellets, an offering
of your devoted slave. The red pellets
will make you brave if your ankle gives
you pain. The white ones will keep you
happy and cheerful so long as you have
to lie still. And the green ones are for
good luck. They must be taken three
times a day, one of each kind after each
meal, and you must take your after-breakfast
dose now.”\par

Lydia picked out a red and a green and
a white pellet, and putting bunny’s head
on again, popped the red one into her
mouth. She saw Dr. Wolfe unrolling a
wide white bandage, and she thought just
then she needed the red one most of all.
But with Father’s arm about her, and
Mother’s hand in both of hers, Lydia
bore the pain without crying, and smiled
bravely at the slave, whose yellow eyes
gleamed sympathetically at her ankle
nicely bound in its white bandage.\par

And in the week that followed, a week
that might have been long and tiresome
for a little girl who was not used to
keeping still, the slave of the Princess-Without-Legs
did his work well. As a soft,
comfortable bedfellow, he was second only
to Lucy Locket. He listened patiently to
the long stories Lydia spun for him. And
his manners with Miss Puss Whitetoes
were truly remarkable, and should have
put that rude cat to shame. For though
Miss Puss in the country was much more
independent than Miss Puss in the city,
and not only declined to be cuddled, but
often refused to keep company with Lydia
when she was all alone, still Miss Puss
was jealous of the slave, and could scarcely
bear to see him in his place of favor at
Lydia’s side. She growled and hissed
and arched her back at the sight, and
many a good laugh Lydia had at her silly
behavior.\par

And Lydia had great comfort in the
slave’s magic pellets. With a red candy
in her mouth, she took pride in not
crying or wincing when her ankle was bandaged.
She tried to remember that the
white candies meant, “No grumbling, no
complaining, Lydia. Squeeze out a smile,
Lydia. Don’t be a snarley-yow, Lydia.”
And they helped her over many moments
when she wanted to be cross and disagreeable.\par

But the green candies that brought
good luck! Lydia often counted over on
her fingers what they had done for her.\par

“There’s the three picture-puzzles
that Friend Morris gave me, that’s one,”
she would say. “And the little boy and
girl cookies that Friend Deborah makes
for me, that’s two. And the boat with
the wooden sailor that Alexander whittled,
that’s three. Then there’s the
afghan for Lucy Locket that Mother
showed me how to knit. And Father’s
postcard game. Is that number five or
six?”\par

And Lydia would begin all over again
counting on her fingers.\par

Of all these pastimes, Lydia liked best
the afghan, and the postcard game. The
afghan was a gay striped affair—Roman,
Mother called it—pink and blue and
yellow and white and black. Before you
were tired of working on pink it was time
to begin on blue, and so it was always
interesting. To be sure, at first, Mother
had to be near at hand to pick up dropped
stitches, but after a little practice Lydia
could knit nicely by herself, with a mishap
only now and then.\par

Mr. Blake’s postcard game was the
most fun. One day, in he came with a
package of picture postcards, showing
the river, the church, the bridge, the
schoolhouse, Crook Mountain where the
river turned—all the pretty spots in
the town of Hyatt. On every one of
these he wrote Lydia’s name and address,
and put them into an empty box, with a
little book of stamps.\par

“Every day you must choose a card
to send to yourself,” said he, “and I will
mail it for you.”\par

So at once, Lydia chose a picture of
Friend Morris’s house, and the next
morning she was listening for the postman’s
whistle, when round the house he
came on his bicycle and handed in the
postcard. But what do you think sly
Father had done? On the back of the
card he had drawn a picture, a picture
that made Lydia, and the friendly postman,
and Mother, and every one who
saw it laugh. For there was Lydia, after
her fall, being helped up the stairs again
by Lucy Locket, while round the top of
the stairs peeped the head of the faithful
slave. And Lydia’s own head and ankle
were wrapped round and round in yards
and yards of bandage.\par

“Just like the soldiers at the war,” said
the delighted Lydia.\par

So every morning she had a visit from
the postman, who enjoyed the pictures
quite as well as any one else. And they
were funny. For once it was Lydia running
away from a wolf straight into the
open arms of the real Dr. Wolfe, and as
he and Lydia were now the best of friends
you may be sure they both enjoyed the
joke. And again it was Miss Puss pushing
Lydia in the doll carriage as a return
for past favors, or Lydia in a mad ride on
the back of her slave, her hair blown in
the wind, while tiny rabbit slaves cheered
them on their way.\par

So the days slipped quickly by, and
now Lydia could be carried about the
house by Father, her “second slave,” as
he sometimes called himself in fun.\par

“Come, Lyddy Ann,” said he one
morning, “you are going to have a long
trip to-day, over to Friend Morris’s. She
has some medicine for you.”\par

“Medicine?” said Lydia, making a
wry face. “I don’t want any medicine,
Father, I don’t.”\par

“Yes, you do,” said Mr. Blake, picking
her up; “you want this kind. Its
name is Maggie.”\par

“Maggie?” said Lydia, patting the top
of Mr. Blake’s head and crushing his hat
over one eye. “Maggie Medicine, Maggie
Medicine. I never heard of that kind
before. Hurry, please, Father, take me
quick, so I can see Maggie Medicine.”\par

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CHAPTER VIII—Maggie Medicine}

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{\noindent}
Friend Morris and Mrs. Blake
sat rocking on the broad veranda as
Mr. Blake carried Lydia, waving and
blowing kisses, across the road.\par

“Oh, Mother, what is Maggie Medicine?”
called Lydia. “Friend Morris, do
you know?”\par

The ladies laughed and nodded, and
Father said, “Listen, Lydia.”\par

There was a sound of crunching gravel
and the roll of wheels, and then round
the corner of the house stepped a little
dark-brown pony, drawing a light wicker
basket wagon after him, and led by Alexander,
who tried in vain to repress a
proud smile.\par

“This is thy medicine, Friend Lydia,”
said Friend Morris, coming forward to
the veranda steps, “a medicine that will
bring back rosy cheeks to thee, I hope.
Every day thee is to go for a ride—”\par

But Friend Morris got no farther, for
Lydia lurched forward in Father’s arms
and caught her round the neck.\par

“I love thee, Friend Morris,” she whispered,
“and I love thy medicine. And I
will lend thee Lucy Locket for a whole
day, and give thee three green candies
for good luck beside.”\par

“I thank thee, little Quaker,” answered
Friend Morris with a laugh, straightening
her cap and patting Lydia’s cheek.
“Now, Alexander has a lump of sugar
for thee to give Maggie, and then he will
take thee for a ride.”\par

So Lydia rather timidly fed Maggie a
lump of sugar, and then Alexander drove
her in triumph down the River Road as
far as the village, where he bought a little
whip with a red ribbon to be stuck in
the front of Maggie’s cart, but never to be
used on her, at Lydia’s earnest request.\par

And every pleasant day after that,
Lydia went for a drive with Mother or
Father or Alexander. One day Friend
Deborah drove Lydia far up a shady
back country road in search of a woman
who wove rag rugs. Friend Morris
wanted to order two blue-and-white rugs
for the upper hall. The rug woman stood
at her gate as she bargained with Friend
Deborah, and Lydia could only stare at
her in amazement, for the woman’s hands
were bright blue! She could scarcely
wait until Maggie was trotting homeward
to ask Friend Deborah if she had
seen them, too.\par

Friend Deborah laughed.\par

“It’s because she dyes, Lydia,” said
she.\par

“Dies?” said Lydia, more puzzled
than before.\par

“Yes, dyes the rags different colors,
the rags that she uses for her rugs,” explained
Friend Deborah, slapping the
reins on Maggie’s back.\par

“Oh,” said Lydia, and fell to thinking.
This was a piece of news that must be
treasured up for Sammy’s delectation.
He would enjoy a piece of work like
that. How fascinating to be a different
color every day!\par

So, one afternoon, when Sammy and
Mary Ellen walked down from Robin
Hill to play with Lydia, whose ankle
was well now, the first thing to be talked
over was the story of the rug woman.\par

“She lives in a little house all by herself,
with three hens and a pig. Friend
Deborah told me. And her hands are
bright blue. And she dyes the rags and
makes them into rugs. We have one,
and so has Friend Morris, and Friend
Morris is going to have two more.”\par

Lydia stopped, out of breath, and Mary
Ellen asked:\par

“Where does she live? Is it far? Could
we go?”\par

“Oh, it’s far up this road,” answered
Lydia, pointing. “And when you come
to a little bridge, you turn past the mill,
and then after a while you’re there.”\par

“I’m going,” said Sammy, determined
to see the woman with the blue hands, or
perish in the attempt. “I’m going now,”
and he rose to his feet. “Want to come?”\par

“Oh, I do,” said Lydia piteously. “I
want to go dreadfully, but I can’t walk so
far. My lame foot gets so tired.”\par

“We’ll carry you,” announced Mary
Ellen, with a decided air. “Sammy and I
will make a chair of our hands and carry
you.”\par

But Sammy had a bright idea. He
pointed to the open stable door, and, out
of it, as if to solve their problem for them,
walked Maggie Medicine, harnessed to
her cart.\par

“Quick,” said Sammy, “before any one
stops us.”\par

“Oh, Sammy, do you think we ought?”
asked Mary Ellen in a little voice, a question
that was not meant to be answered,
for she had already boosted Lydia into the
cart and was scrambling in herself.\par

“’Fraid-cats may stay at home. We’re
a-going,” was Sammy’s reply, as he
started Maggie down the drive with a
shake of the reins and a flourish of the
whip.\par

And while Maggie Medicine jogs peacefully
along the country road, shaking her
head and twitching her ears now and then
as a sign to Sammy to stop jerking the
reins, let us see where all the grown people
were this sunny afternoon.\par

In the first place, Mary Ellen and
Sammy had been asked to spend the
afternoon to keep Lydia company, because
Father and Mother and Friend Morris
were invited out to spend the day. Friend
Deborah, who had gone about her work
all morning with her head tied up in a
handkerchief, had at last been forced to go
to bed “to favor the faceache,” as she said.
Alexander, to keep the house quiet and
give the children a good time, had planned
a drive, but no sooner had he fastened the
last strap in Maggie’s harness than word
came that the black colt had jumped the
pasture bars and was running away.\par

So poor patient Alexander was racing
up the hot, dusty road in one direction,
while innocent Maggie, with her load, ambled
along in the other. When they came
to the little bridge, Maggie saw a cool,
shady back road stretching before her in
pleasant contrast to the dusty highway,
and being a wise little pony, she promptly
turned in and trotted briskly past the mill
as she had done the week before with
Friend Deborah. Sammy thought it was
due to his skillful driving, but Maggie
twitched her ear as if to say, “Don’t imagine
that I pay any attention to you children,
please.”\par

On they went, until Lydia pointed to a
little house, half hidden under vines, with
two or three bedraggled hens scratching
about in the front yard.\par

“That’s it,” said Lydia. “I remember
it. That’s it.”\par

“What shall we say when we see her?”
asked Mary Ellen anxiously. “Goodness,
I almost wish we hadn’t come.”\par

“We’ll ask her for a drink,” responded
Sammy, never at a loss, whose sharp eyes
had spied a well round the corner of the
house. “We’ll have a good look at her
hands, too, when she works the bucket.”\par

The children scrambled out of the cart,
and leaving Maggie to nibble the
roadside grass, walked into the front yard. The
house seemed deserted. There was no stir
of life within doors, and without, the hens
stepped about and pecked at the ground
in perfect silence. A hush fell upon the
children. It was not nearly so much fun as
they had expected. To tell the truth, Lydia
wished she were at home.\par

“I smell the pig,” whispered Mary
Ellen.\par

Lydia nodded.\par

Sammy, the venturesome, pushed round
the corner of the house, and beckoned
with a grimy hand for them to follow.\par

“The woodshed,” he exclaimed in a
stage whisper. “Look, full of things.”\par

On a bench in the woodshed stood
a row of kettles, each full of a colored
liquid. Sammy stuck his finger in one
and drew it out dripping with yellow
dye.\par

“Whiz!” muttered Sammy. “Looka!”\par

In went another finger—this time it
came out purple.\par

“Try it,” urged Sammy; “this is
great.”\par

The girls shrank away at Sammy’s
approach. Unfortunately, they leaned
against the bench, and how were they to
know that this particular bench had a
weak leg? Over it went, with a frightful
clashing and crashing of kettles, and a
perfect flood of gay color streamed over
the woodshed floor, generously splashing
shoes and stockings in spite of a hurried
rush outside.\par

But at the corner of the house, the children
almost wished they had stayed in
the woodshed, and allowed themselves to
be drowned in a sea of dye. For a dreadful
figure rose before them, a figure whose
hands dripped red, whose face was marked
with red, whose apron bore the print
of scarlet hands—and the dripping red
hands were shaken angrily at them, and
a hoarse voice called words to them they
were too frightened to hear. It was only
the rug woman, summoned by the noise
from her task of re-dipping the faded red
church carpet, but the sight of her almost
stopped the children’s hearts from
beating, and made their breath come
quick.\par

Sammy, the boaster, he who often
bragged that one day he would dispose
single-handed of six red Indian braves
on the war-path, even Sammy quailed,
and, with not a thought of his companions,
made a dash for Maggie, gazing
over the fence with inquiring eyes, and
with one bound seated himself in the
cart. The girls made haste to follow,
Mary Ellen with her arm about Lydia,
for the lame ankle had received a cruel
wrench, and tears were rolling down
Lydia’s cheeks as she hopped and
hobbled and stumbled along in her haste to
be gone.\par

But at last they were safely in the
cart, and Maggie, excited no doubt by
Sammy’s shouts and the woman’s angry
cries, broke into a canter that speedily
took them out of sight and sound of the
catastrophe. On sped Maggie, through
the hot summer afternoon, past the mill,
round the curve, down the broad road
toward home.\par

And there a short distance from Friend
Morris’s gate came running toward them
Friend Deborah and Alexander. Poor
Friend Deborah held a hand to her aching
face, but she was able to gasp,
“Oh, children, how thee has frightened
me!”\par

“And exasperated me,” added truthful
Alexander, as his eye traveled from
panting little Maggie, with foam-flecked
mouth, to the once neat little cart, now
covered with dust, and badly stained
within by spots and splashes of dye.\par

Good Quaker that he was, he said no
more, but he looked grave as he listened
to the story the children had to tell.\par

“Has thee stopped to think at all of
the trouble and the loss thee has caused
the poor rug woman, who never did thee
any harm?” he inquired soberly.\par

The children hung their heads and did
not answer. At last Mary Ellen, twisting
the end of her braid, murmured, “I will
give her my spending money until I’ve
paid her back,” and Sammy nodded in
agreement. As they each had a penny a
week for spending money Alexander’s
lips twitched, but this the children did
not see.\par

“And look at thy shoes and stockings,”
said Friend Deborah, who had been surveying
the three culprits as they stood
before her. “What must be the state of
thy feet? Will thee ever wash them white
again?”\par

This was too much for Lydia. Her lip
had been trembling for some time, and
now the thought of red and green and blue
feet upset her completely. She broke into
loud sobs, and cast herself down upon
the roadside grass.\par

“My foot hurts, my foot hurts, and no
one loves me.” And she buried her face
in the friendly clover, and cried despairingly.\par

Sammy was winking hard, and Mary
Ellen was biting her lip and digging a
hole in the dust with the tip of her strange
green and purple shoe.\par

Alexander’s kind heart melted at the
sight.\par

“Ye cannot have gray heads on green
shoulders,” said he; and as Friend Deborah
carried the weeping Lydia into the
house for a bath and bed, Alexander helped
the other two travelers upon a passing
wagon and rode with them to Robin Hill.\par

Lydia and Mary Ellen and Sammy
never knew how Mr. Blake laughed when
he heard the story. He himself went to
see the rug woman, and his visit was so
satisfactory that when he left, the rug
woman held out her hand, purple this
time, and invited him to come again.\par

“You are a gentleman, sir,” said she,
“and you have more than paid for what
I lost. Bring your little girl the next time
you come.”\par

But Lydia had no desire to pay that
visit.\par

For a long time, Father’s favorite question
was, “Lydia, what color feet do you
prefer?” But Lydia could never see anything
funny in that joke.\par

She quite agreed, however, with Friend
Morris, who said when she heard the
story:\par

“I think the most sensible member of
the party was Maggie Medicine, who
took thee safely there and back.”\par

And to this Friend Lydia always
nodded “yes.”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER IX—Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend My Shoe}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
“Lydia,” called Mrs. Blake one morning,
from the lower porch where she
sat sewing, “what makes you walk on
the side of your foot?”\par

Lydia was carrying the heavy watering-can
round to her garden-bed. There
had been no rain for weeks, and the
leaves and the grass and the flowers all
bore a coating of fine dust. Last night
Lydia had forgotten to water her garden,
and now she was hurrying to do it before
the sun crept round the corner of
the house.\par

But at the sound of her mother’s voice,
she set the can on the gravel path and
sat herself down beside it.\par

“Because, Mother, there’s a hole in
my shoe, and the pebbles get in,” she
answered. “Look,” and she lifted her
foot so that Mother could see the sole of
her little canvas shoe.\par

“Sure enough, I see it,” said Mrs.
Blake. “Go in and change your shoes,
Lydia, and then run up to the shoemaker’s,
and see whether he can mend this
old pair. But water your garden first,
and be sure you put the can away.”\par

Lydia hurried through her task, and
then, stealing softly behind Mrs. Blake,
put her arms about her mother’s neck.\par

“Mother,” she whispered, “may I
wear my ‘brown bettys’? I’ll be so careful
of them.”\par

“Brown bettys” was Lydia’s affectionate
name for her new bronze slippers,
slippers worn only on Sunday or upon
special occasions, and Mrs. Blake raised
her eyebrows at this request.\par

“Your best slippers?” said she. “Why
should you wear them to the
shoemaker’s? No, Lydia, I couldn’t consider it.
It wouldn’t be suitable.”\par

“It would suit me very much,” pouted
Lydia. “The shoemaker would like to see
them, and maybe I’ll meet the minister.
I want to wear them. I do.” And Lydia,
with a frown on her face, stood kicking
the piazza railing and scowling at her
mother.\par

Mrs. Blake sewed for a moment without
speaking. Then she looked down the
path to the river.\par

“Here comes your father,” she said
quietly. “Don’t let him see you with
such a look on your face. Go in at once,
and put on your black ‘criss-cross’ shoes,
and when you come out I will tell you
how to go to the shoemaker’s.”\par

As Lydia disappeared, Mr. Blake came
slowly up the path, and threw himself
into a porch hammock.\par

“Hot work, painting a masterpiece,”
said he, with a yawn, and before Lydia
came out in her black “criss-cross” shoes,
as she called her strapped slippers, her
father had fallen asleep.\par

Every morning, before the clock struck
three, Mr. Blake was on his way up the
river, and by the time the sun rose he
was already hard at work upon his picture,
for the subject of “the masterpiece”
was Dawn on the River, and must be
painted at dawn and at no other time.
Naps followed such early rising as a matter
of course, and Lydia, after a peep,
came tiptoeing out on the porch as softly
as could be for fear of wakening him.
Her ill-humor had vanished, and she listened
to her mother’s directions with not
a cloud on her face.\par

“Go up the village road and take the
first turn,” said Mother in a whisper.
“Walk along until you come to something
that doesn’t look one bit like a shoemaker’s
shop. You will know it by the flowers,
and by the trademark over the door.
The shoemaker’s name is Mr. Jolly.”\par

So Lydia skipped up the road with
her old shoes under her arm.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Cobbler, cobbler, mend my shoe,\par}
{\vl Have it done at half-past two,\par}
{\vl Stitch it up and stitch it down,\par}
{\vl And see if now my shoe is found,”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
she sang over and over to herself as she
went.\par

Up the side road the houses were few,
and Lydia peered carefully at each for
special flowers and the shoemaker’s trademark
over the door. But only the usual
garden flowers nodded in the breeze, so
Lydia kept on until she saw a blaze of
color down the road before her. She could
see the scarlet and white of flowers and
the bright green of leaves, but they seemed
to be growing on top of the house instead
of on the ground, and it was not until she
drew very near that she saw it was not a
house at all, but a carriage drawn up at
the side of the road, an old-fashioned
black coach that had certainly been turned
into a shoemaker’s shop, for out of the
open window floated Rap-i-tap-tap! Rap-i-tap-tap!
Rap-i-tap-tap! that told of
some one hard at work within. Over the
door on a nail hung a pair of baby’s pale-blue
kid shoes, the cobbler’s trademark,
and as for the flowers—Lydia wished
her own little garden-bed looked one
quarter as well. For gorgeous masses of
scarlet and white bloom covered the carriage
roof, flowered in the coachman’s
box, and grew in little window-boxes
cunningly fastened on the doors.\par{}

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Such a cobbler’s shop had never been
seen before, and Lydia was staring at it
in amazement when a head popped out
of the doorway, and a voice said:\par

“Flowers or shoes?”\par

“W-what?” stammered Lydia, taken
by surprise.\par

“I said ‘flowers or shoes’?” repeated
the voice, that belonged to Mr. Jolly, the
cobbler, Lydia felt sure, for he wore a
leather apron, and held a small hammer
in one hand and a shoe in the other.
“Some folks come to me for flowers,
some folks come to me for shoes. Which
are you?”\par

“Shoes,” answered Lydia, taking them
from under her arm and handing them up
to Mr. Jolly. “My mother wants to know
whether you can mend them.”\par

Mr. Jolly looked them over with his head
on one side like a bird. Then he nodded.\par

“Yes, I can,” said he. “Done to-morrow
this time. Don’t you like flowers?”\par

Lydia was no longer startled by his
abrupt questions.\par

“Yes, I do,” she answered, as sparing
of words as he.\par

“Have you a garden?” he asked.\par

“Yes,” said Lydia, “but not so nice as
yours.”\par

“Take good care of it?” inquired Mr.
Jolly, with a keen look. “Ever forget to
water it? Dry weather we’re having.
Plenty of care, plenty of water; that’s
what makes a good garden.”\par

“I take pretty good care of it,” answered
Lydia truthfully. “Sometimes I
forget. I’ll come to-morrow for my
shoes.” And she turned to go.\par

“Wait,” called Mr. Jolly. “Don’t you
want to know why I have a shop like
this?”\par

“Yes, I do want to know,” answered
Lydia, wondering whether he read the
question in her eye.\par

“Too polite to ask, eh?” said Mr. Jolly.
“Well, most folks ask, and I tell them
it’s for ‘hedloes to catch medloes.’ You’re
Mr. Blake’s little girl, aren’t you? He’s
a nice man. Well, I’ll tell you because
you didn’t ask. I have my shop out here
because she can’t stand the noise of the
hammer”—and Mr. Jolly nodded toward
the nearest house. “Twenty years she’s
been lying in that bed and never touched
a foot to the floor, and two years ago last
spring she said to me, ‘Jolly, I can’t bear
another tap of that hammer.’ And so I
bought the old coach—springs are gone—and
moved out here. Gives the town
something to talk about, too. Everybody
comfortable all round.” And Mr. Jolly
with a chuckle drew in his head and fell
to work again.\par

Above the taps of his hammer Lydia
called out, “I’ll come to-morrow for my
shoes. Good-bye!” and then home she
ran as fast as she could go.\par

“Father!” she cried, climbing upon
Mr. Blake’s lap as, refreshed by his nap,
he sat reading the newspaper, “Mr. Jolly
knows you. He says you are nice. Who is
‘she’?”\par

“She?” repeated the puzzled Mr.
Blake. “You will have to tell me something
more about her before I can answer
that question, I’m afraid. Is it a puzzle?”\par

“She has been in bed for twenty years,
and never touched a foot to the floor, and
she can’t bear the sound of the hammer,”
explained Lydia in an excited burst.\par

“Oh, that’s Mrs. Jolly,” said Mr. Blake.
“She has something the matter with her
back and can’t walk. Mr. Jolly and I are
old friends. He’s a good fellow.”\par

“He’s going to mend my shoes for me,”
went on Lydia. “He told me to take good
care of my garden, and I must go to-morrow
and get my shoes.”\par

Lydia could talk of nothing for the rest
of the day but Mr. Jolly and his strange
little shop.\par

The next morning she was impatient to
be off on her errand, but Mrs. Blake woke
with a bad headache, and there were many
odds and ends that Lydia could do about
the house to save her mother steps. At
last Mrs. Blake went to lie down, and
Lydia, after spreading a shawl over the
invalid’s feet, and pressing a kiss into the
palm of the hand that lay so limply on the
bed, hurried up the road after her shoes.\par

The tap of Mr. Jolly’s hammer reached
her ears soon after she came in sight of
the flowery shop, but Lydia was intent
upon a little figure seated upon the step of
the coach. It was that of a small boy, perhaps
four years old, whose hair was as
black as Lydia’s was golden, whose face
was streaked with the mark of tears and
dirt, and who held in his hand a slice of
bread and butter.\par

“I wonder if it’s Mr. Jolly’s little boy?”
thought Lydia.\par

But when Mr. Jolly looked up from his
hammering, he gave a bird-like nod at
Lydia, and then one at the little boy.\par

“Look what I found in my shop this
morning,” said he.\par

The little boy’s brown eyes filled with
tears, and he put his slice of bread and
butter on the grass beside him.\par

“I won’t go back,” said he, his lip
quivering. “I won’t go back.”\par

“No, sonny, that you won’t, if I can
help it,” returned Mr. Jolly, with an emphatic
tap of his hammer. “They didn’t
serve you right, and that’s a fact. It’s the
little Bliss boy,” he explained to Lydia.
“What did you say your name was?”\par

“Roger,” murmured the child huskily.\par

“His father and mother just died, and
there’s no one to take care of him, so
Farmer Yetter said he’d take him and
bring him up with his own boy sooner
than see him go to the poorhouse. But
he says he didn’t have much to eat, and
they worked him hard for such a little feller,
and the big boy plagued him. So last
night he up and run away, and this morning
I found him asleep in my shop.”\par

“I won’t go back,” insisted Roger, as
Mr. Jolly paused for breath. “I won’t go
back. He pinched me. He hit me with the
harness.” And pushing back his sleeve,
he showed great black-and-blue spots on
his thin little arm.\par

“No, sonny, you shan’t go back,” repeated
Mr. Jolly soothingly. “I’ll take
you to a nice place, Robin Hill. I guess
they’ll make room for you somehow. This
little girl will tell you how nice it is there.
Won’t you?”\par

“Are there any boys?” asked Roger
anxiously. “I won’t go if there are.”\par

“But they are nice boys,” said Lydia,
eager for the good name of her special
friends, Sammy and Tom. “They wouldn’t
hurt you for anything. They are lots
of fun to play with. And you will like
Miss Martin, she is so good to you.”\par

Roger shook his head.\par

“I don’t like boys,” said he. “Do you
live there?”\par

“I used to,” answered Lydia, “but I
don’t now.”\par

“Then I’ll go with you,” announced
Roger, picking up his bread and butter,
and taking a firm hold on Lydia’s dress.\par

“You stay here with me, sonny,” said
Mr. Jolly, nodding and winking in a
friendly way, “and long about evening
when I get my work done I’ll take you
up to Robin Hill. You heard the little
girl tell it’s a good place to be.”\par

“No, I’ll go home with her,” said
Roger, his mind quite fixed. “I like her.
I want to live with her.” And he held
tighter than ever to Lydia.\par

Mr. Jolly and the little girl looked at
one another a moment in silence. Neither
knew quite what to do or say. At last
Lydia spoke.\par

“If you let him go home with me, I’ll
tell Father all about it, and he will fix
it for us somehow. I know he will.”\par

“Maybe you’re right,” said Mr. Jolly,
after a pause. “Mr. Blake’s a good man.
You tell him if there’s any trouble with
Farmer Yetter that I’ll take the blame.
And I’ll step round to-night and see
what he says.”\par

Lydia and Roger started off together,
and it was not until they were nearly
home that Lydia thought of her shoes.
She had completely forgotten them, and
so had Mr. Jolly.\par

But once in sight of home, Lydia spied
Father on the little front porch, watching
up the road for her. So, taking a fresh
hold on the little boy’s hand, she hurried
forward, forgetting everything in her
eagerness to tell Roger’s story.\par

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CHAPTER X—Robin Hill}

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{\noindent}
Mr. Blake came down the road
to meet them, and in his hand he
carried Lydia’s little traveling-bag.\par

“I’m going away,” thought Lydia.
“Where am I going? And what will become
of Roger?”\par

As Mr. Blake drew nearer he smiled
and waved the bag in the air.\par

“You are going visiting, Lydia,” he
called cheerfully. “But who is your new
little friend?”\par

“Oh, Father, it’s Roger,” answered
Lydia, forgetting her own affairs in her
interest in the little boy who stood peeping
shyly over her shoulder. “He wanted
so to come with me, and Mr. Jolly didn’t
know what to do, so I said you would
fix it. And Mr. Jolly will come and see
you to-night, and I was to tell you all
about it.”\par

Mr. Blake sat down on the stone wall
at the side of the road, and listened to
the tale Lydia had to tell.\par

“Let me see your arm, son,” said he
gently, when Lydia had finished. “So
that is where the big boy pinched you,
is it? Have you any more places like
that?”\par

Roger nodded, and put his hand on
his side and his back.\par

“He hit me with the harness,” said he,
with trembling lip. “I want to stay with
her. I won’t go back.” And Roger
smeared away his tears with the back of
a grimy little hand, while with the other
he clutched his new friend Lydia.\par

“No, of course you won’t go back,
son,” answered Mr. Blake, pursing up
his lips as if to whistle. “We can do better
by you than that. My little girl is
going up to Robin Hill to make a visit, and
you shall go along with her. Miss Martin
will simply have two visitors instead
of one.” And Mr. Blake smiled down
into the serious little faces looking up
into his.\par

“Mother’s head is worse, Lydia,” he
explained, “and Dr. Wolfe isn’t sure
what the trouble is. So you are to make
a little visit at Robin Hill, and I will
telephone every day, and come to see
you when I can.”\par

“But won’t Mother want me to wait
on her?” asked Lydia anxiously. “Is
she very sick?”\par

“I hope not,” answered Father, in
such a cheerful voice that Lydia felt better
immediately. “Don’t fret. You will
probably be home in a few days, and
you know you will want to stay, anyway,
until Roger feels at home. Here
comes Alexander; he will take you up.
And I packed your bag myself, Lydia.
I think I put everything in. I know I
packed your favorite brown slippers, and
Lucy Locket is on top of everything.”\par

Mr. Blake was lifting the children into
the cart as he spoke. He talked in a low
voice to Alexander, and then with a kiss
to Lydia, and a pat upon Roger’s black
pate, he started back to the house, and
off they drove.\par

“They are my ‘brown bettys’!” cried
Lydia after him. “Tell Mother I’ll wear
them only on Sunday.”\par

Maggie Medicine trotted bravely up
the road and under the big oak trees that
made the driveway at Robin Hill such
a shady and comfortable place to play.
There were no children in sight, but Miss
Martin was watching for them on the
broad veranda, and she came forward to
help them out of the cart.\par

“So this is Roger,” said she, smiling
and holding out her arms to the forlorn
child, who willingly crept into their comfortable
shelter. “Your father has just
telephoned me, Lydia, so I know all
about him. You will find the children in
the barn, I think.” And Miss Martin carried
Roger off for the bath and the nap
that the tired, dusty little boy needed
sorely.\par

Lydia gladly left her charge in such
good hands, and with a hasty good-bye
to Alexander, ran off to find her friends.
She was glad to be visiting, and she
thought Robin Hill beautiful, and indeed
it was as pleasant a place to spend the
summer as could be found anywhere.
The living-rooms were spacious and cool,
the bedrooms sunny and airy. A big attic,
meant for play on rainy days, crowned
the top of the house, and there each child
had a place for the treasures that would
otherwise have been strewn from one
end to the other of Robin Hill, or have
been banished altogether. Sticks, stones,
weeds, cocoons, acorns, “Anything that
can’t walk, swim, or fly,” was Miss Martin’s
decree. “Live-stock must go into
the barn.”\par

So out in the barn lived Snowball and
Nig, the white and the black rabbits given
Sammy by Dr. Wolfe. The first day, yes,
the first hour of Sammy’s arrival at Robin
Hill, in trying to climb the old apple-tree,
down he came to the ground on his head,
and four big stitches were set by the doctor
in order to mend his broken crown.
Sammy bore the pain like a hero, and
not until it was all over and he was left
alone with Miss Martin did he shed a
few salt drops upon her friendly shoulder.
But the sore head was soon forgotten,
when that very afternoon had come the
two rabbits to be Sammy’s special charge
and delight throughout his summer stay.
Friendly old Billy, the horse, and the
two placid white cows, Brindle and Bossy,
were quite accustomed to their many little
visitors, and submitted with a good
grace to be patted, and stroked, and fed
hay and lumps of sugar.\par

Back of the house lay the garden, and
there each child large enough to wield
rake and hoe had his own little plot. During
the first weeks of spring planting,
Miss Martin was overwhelmed with promises
of peas and beans and radishes for
the Robin Hill table. Sammy and Polly
and Mary Ellen had a scheme whereby,
if their crops were as successful as they
hoped, they would sell their produce to
the village grocer, and with the proceeds
make an interesting purchase.\par

“We’ll buy a piano,” said Polly.\par

“A gold chain for Miss Martin,” said
Mary Ellen.\par

“A hand-organ,” said Sammy, in a
burst of inspiration, “and travel all over,
taking pennies in a hat. We’ll be rich.”
And Sammy smacked his lips at the
thought.\par

To-day, after dinner, at which Roger
did not appear, Lydia, with arms about
Mary Ellen and Polly, visited the pets,
and listened to all the hopes and plans
of her friends, not, however, without telling
a few of her own.\par

Tom, growing brown and rosy and
more boyish every day, led her to the
swing lately put up in the woodshed, and
gave her a swing in his finest style, running
under and back in a manly fashion
that he much admired. He seldom put
his finger in his mouth now, and resorted
to General Pershing, Jr., for comfort only
on the rare occasions when in disgrace.\par

Sammy graciously permitted Lydia to
feed Snowball and Nig with cabbage
leaves, and her admiration of their
wiggling pink noses so moved him that he
offered to show his cut without asking
a favor in return, quite contrary to his
usual custom.\par

Lydia missed two of her old friends.
Luley and Lena had gone away to a new
home of their own, and Polly and Mary
Ellen excitedly told of their call last week
at Robin Hill.\par

“They came in an automobile,” said
Polly, much impressed, “and their hair
was done in curls, just alike, and they
wore beautiful big pink hair-ribbons. And
their new mother’s hat was just dripping
with feathers. She doesn’t call them Luley
and Lena any more at all. Their
names are Eloise and Eleanore.” And
Polly rolled up her eyes at the thought
of her little friends’ grandeur.\par

“I shouldn’t think they would know
who they are, changing their names that
way,” said downright Mary Ellen. “And
their clothes were so fine they didn’t
dare play with us, either. I don’t believe
they have any better times than we do.”
And Mary Ellen surveyed with complete
satisfaction her dark gingham dress and
stout little shoes. The children no longer
dressed alike in blue-and-white, and Mary
Ellen was particularly proud of her blue-and-green
Scotch plaid.\par

“Oh, I do,” said Polly, not at all influenced
by this good sense. “I think
it’s lovely to change your name. I’d
give anything if mine was Edna Muriel.
Don’t you think that’s a pretty name,
Lydia?”\par

“Yes, lovely,” answered Lydia absently.
She was thinking of her bronze
slippers, and wondering what Mary Ellen
would say to them. Perhaps she
would scorn her for taking such pleasure
in them. It was quite true that they were
not meant for rough play.\par

But Nurse Norrie was calling them in
to supper, and Lydia could only say in a
low voice to Polly as they lagged behind
Mary Ellen on their way to the house:\par

“I’ve a lovely pair of bronze slippers
with me, and you shall try them on after
supper.”\par

Polly nodded, her eyes dancing, and
as they hurried out on the porch after
washing face and hands, she pinched
Lydia’s arm gently, by way of reminder
of their secret, as she passed her on the
way to her seat.\par

The table was set on the back veranda
where it was cool and shady, and
each boy and girl stood quietly behind
his or her chair until grace was said and
Miss Martin had taken her seat. To-night
Miss Martin came leading little
Roger whose long nap was only just
over, and on her other side stood Tom,
his heart in a flutter. It was his turn for
the first time to say grace. Bravely he
started off, but to his great surprise he
heard himself saying:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Now I lay me down to sleep,\par}
{\vl I pray, Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
He heard Sammy snicker, he felt the
little girl beside him shake with laughter,
so Tom stopped short.\par

“No, that isn’t right,” said he aloud.\par

He thought for a moment, but not a
word of the little grace so carefully taught
him came back to help him out. Suddenly,
his Bible verse of last Sunday flashed
upon his mind.\par

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall
not want,” repeated little Tom boldly,
and then he turned to pull out Miss Martin’s
chair as a sign that his part was
done.\par

“Was that all right?” he whispered
audibly; “I forgot the other one.”\par

There was a strange look about Miss
Martin’s mouth, and she passed her handkerchief
over her face before answering.\par

“Very nice, Tom, to think of another
verse so quickly, since you forgot the
grace.” She spoke so that the whole
table could hear, and her eyes were fixed
on Sammy, whose face was red and who
was making queer noises. “I wish I felt
sure we all could do that,” she added
pointedly.\par

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sammy, choking
back his laugh. “I mean, no, ma’am,
I don’t think I could.” And Sammy fell
to work upon the bowl of oatmeal before
him, glad to escape the gaze of so many
eyes.\par

Roger looked slowly round the long
table laden with plates of brown and
white bread, pitchers of foamy milk,
bowls of apple-sauce. His eyes traveled
down one side of the table, past his friend
Lydia, to Sammy, intent now upon his
supper; flyaway Cora, never still a minute;
big Joe, little Joe, Josephine, and
Joey; freckled little Freddy; and rested
upon Mary Ellen presiding sedately over
the foot of the table. Up the other side
he came, looking at little English Alfie;
spectacled John; Louise and Minette,
the tiny, black-eyed French refugees;
honest American William, with round
blue eyes and snub nose; fat little Gus,
whose pranks and hairbreadth escapes
already rivaled those of Sammy; baby
Celia; Polly, smiling and nodding mysteriously
at Lydia; and lastly at Tom,
who, duty done, was thoroughly enjoying
his well-earned meal. Eighteen hearty
and happy little boys and girls they were,
kindly and well disposed toward him,
too, for they smiled and nodded at the
newcomer, and attentively saw that all
his wants were supplied.\par

“Aren’t they nice?” asked Lydia, following
Roger’s gaze. “I knew you would
like the boys. They won’t hurt you. And
the girls are fun, too.” And Lydia beamed
proudly round at her friends, old and
new.\par

“I’ll take you out to see my rabbits
after supper, if you like,” offered Sammy,
extra polite because of his recent behavior.\par

“And I’ll give you a swing,” volunteered
Tom bashfully.\par

The boys were nice, Roger thought,
and when, after supper, Lydia whispered
hastily, “You go with the boys now,
Roger, and I’ll come in a minute; I only
want to show something to Polly,” he
trotted off contentedly, and was soon engrossed
in the bunnies, who obligingly
devoured cabbage leaves, with seemingly
no limit to their appetite.\par

Lydia and Polly hastened upstairs and
into the room where Lydia was to sleep
that night with two other little girls. Her
bag had been unpacked, and her clothes
neatly disposed in one of the small cupboards
that lined the wall. On the window-sill
lay Lucy Locket, and beside
her only one of the bronze slippers.\par

“Why, I don’t see it anywhere, Polly,”
said Lydia, after a third search of the
cupboard for the missing shoe. “You
help me look.”\par

The girls made a careful search, but
no bronze slipper was to be found.\par

“I know I brought them both,” said
Lydia at last, her face puckering. “Father
said so, and I looked in the bag myself.”\par

“Perhaps some one has taken it,” was
all Polly, her eyes big and round, could
suggest.\par

“I know who did it!” exclaimed Lydia,
her head in a whirl at her loss. “It’s that
Mary Ellen. She took my slipper
because she didn’t like them, and I’m going
to tell Miss Martin.”\par

And in a twinkling, Lydia was running
down the hall calling:\par

“Miss Martin! Miss Martin! One of
my ‘brown bettys’ is gone, and Mary
Ellen took it! Mary Ellen has taken one
of my ‘brown bettys’!”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XI—Who Stole the Brown Betty?}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Out on the front veranda, in the twilight,
sat Miss Martin surrounded
by a little group of children. It was the
quiet hour before bedtime when, by ones
and twos and threes, the children came
together for the talk or story that made
a pleasant ending to their day.\par

To-night, Louise and Minette were having
a lesson in English. They were perched
like two little blackbirds on the arm of
Miss Martin’s chair, and Louise was repeating
obediently, “Yez, Meez Mart, I
lov’ you, Jo,” while Minette’s contribution
was to pull her curls across her eyes
and laugh. Mary Ellen sat on the top
step, engrossed in the braiding of a horse-hair
ring. Sammy and Tom, escorting
little Roger, came round the house from
the barn, and settled themselves at Miss
Martin’s feet.\par

“Tell us a story, please, Miss Martin,”
begged Josephine, twisting Louise’s
black curls as she spoke, “about when
you were a little girl.”\par

“Were you ever a little girl?” asked
Gus, sitting up straight in his amazement.
“Did you ever have a father and
a mother?”\par

Miss Martin laughed, but before she
could answer this question there was a
sound of flying feet, and Lydia ran out
into the midst of the peaceful scene.\par

“My slippers! My ‘brown bettys’!” she
gasped excitedly. “One is gone! Mary
Ellen took it. I know she did! I can’t
find it, and Polly can’t find it either.”\par

Mary Ellen dropped her horse-hair ring,
and stared at Lydia in astonishment.\par

“I never did!” said Mary Ellen in a
burst. “I never touched them. I didn’t
see her slippers.” And her eyes flashed
in righteous indignation.\par

“Yes, she did,” interposed Roger, going
over to Lydia and taking her hand.
“Mary Ellen took Lydia’s slippers.”\par

“Oh, you—you—” cried Mary Ellen,
making a dart at Roger as words
failed her in her wrath.\par

“Children, stop!” commanded bewildered
Miss Martin. “Stop this minute,
and tell me what all this trouble is about.
What have you lost, Lydia, and why do
you think Mary Ellen has taken it?”\par

“I didn’t,” muttered Mary Ellen defiantly.
“I didn’t.”\par

“Be quiet, Mary Ellen,” said Miss
Martin again. “Tell, Lydia, what have
you lost?”\par

“My slippers,” said Lydia, her eyes
filling with tears at the thought of her
lost treasure; “one of my ‘brown bettys,’
my bronze slippers. They are my
best. Father packed them for me, and I
saw them in my bag, and now only one
of them is upstairs with the rest of my
clothes. I can’t find the other, and Polly
can’t either.”\par

“But why do you say that Mary Ellen
has taken it?” asked Miss Martin,
with a keen look at both little girls.\par

“She didn’t like it because Luley and
Lena were too dressed up to play,” answered
Lydia, “so she wouldn’t like my
slippers either.”\par

“But I don’t think Mary Ellen would
touch them, even if she didn’t approve
of them,” said Miss Martin, hoping to
find her way out of the tangle. “Did you
touch Lydia’s slippers, Mary Ellen?”\par

“No, ma’am,” answered Mary Ellen
virtuously, feeling public opinion turn her
way.\par

Behind Miss Martin’s back, her eyes
fixed on Lydia, she noiselessly said:\par

“I’ll never speak to you again as long
as I live.”\par

“I don’t care,” answered Lydia out
loud.\par

“Don’t care?” repeated Miss Martin,
not understanding. “Of course you care;
we all do. Now, Roger, why did you
say Mary Ellen took the slipper? Did
you see her take it?”\par

“No, but Lydia said so,” returned the
little boy innocently. To a stanch friend
like Roger, whatever Lydia said must
be so.\par

“Children, did any of you see or touch
Lydia’s slipper?” was the next question.
“No? Then, Sammy, go find out who
unpacked Lydia’s bag, and ask her to
come here.”\par

Sammy returned with Kate, Nurse
Norrie’s niece.\par

“Sure I saw the slippers, Miss Martin,”
said Kate. “I put them both on the
window-sill with the doll baby, and then
I saw that the screen had fallen out of
the window, and I ran down to tell Mat
to put it in, and I never thought of them
from that moment to this.”\par

“It must have fallen out of the window,”
said Miss Martin, “though I don’t
exactly see how. We’ll ask Mat to take
a lantern and look for it in the grass.”\par

Mat carefully searched in the grass,
and round the roots of the big tree, whose
branches brushed against the very window-sill,
and which knew the answer to
the puzzle if only they could tell. He
swung his lantern over the piazza roof
and window-ledges, too, but in vain. The
bronze slipper was not to be found, and
Lydia and Mary Ellen went to bed side
by side without even saying good-night.\par

Miss Martin hesitated whether to try
to reconcile the little girls, but Lydia still
believed Mary Ellen responsible for her
loss, and Mary Ellen was hurt and angry
at the undeserved suspicion.\par

“If I talk to them, no doubt they will
say they are sorry, and that they forgive
one another,” Miss Martin reflected wisely,
“but they will say it really to please me.
They won’t feel any different in their
hearts. I will wait and see whether the
mystery won’t clear itself up to-morrow.”\par

So, trusting in the morrow, Miss Martin
put the thought out of her mind for
the time being, since no one but Lydia
now believed Mary Ellen had anything
to do with the disappearance of the
“brown betty,” and Lydia was forbidden
to repeat her unwarranted accusation.\par

“Good news for you, Lydia,” was
Miss Martin’s morning greeting. “Your
mother is better, and you are to go home
this afternoon.”\par

“Oh, goody!” said Lydia, smiling
broadly as she sat up in bed. But the
next instant the smile was gone and a
cloud had come in its place.\par

“Did you find my slipper?” she asked
eagerly.\par

“We haven’t looked for it again,” answered
Miss Martin cheerfully. “After
breakfast every one will turn to and hunt,
and I feel sure we shall find it. We will
do our best, anyway, won’t we, Mary
Ellen?” And Miss Martin smiled into
the downcast face.\par

“Yes, Miss Martin,” returned Mary
Ellen politely, but she continued to lace
her boots without a glance in Lydia’s direction.
Plainly Mary Ellen still felt herself
to be an injured person. There was
even an idea in shrewd Miss Martin’s
mind that Mary Ellen found not a little
enjoyment in her martyrdom.\par

After breakfast every one started in a
different direction, but search and hunt
as children, maids, and men did in every
conceivable nook and corner, there was
no trace of the missing slipper, and at
last they were forced to give up the
search, and admit that apparently it had
simply vanished from the face of the
earth.\par

“But it must be somewhere,” Miss
Martin repeated. “It didn’t walk away
by itself. I won’t give up.”\par

By dinner-time the fruitless search was
over, and in the afternoon the children
scattered to their play, Polly and Tom
escorting Lydia and Roger in a tour of
the vegetable garden, hoping thus to raise
the drooping spirits of their visitors.\par

Miss Martin missed Mary Ellen, and
going in search of her, found her in her
bedroom, leaning on the window-sill from
which the bronze slipper had taken its
mysterious flight.\par

The little girl had nursed her sense of
injury all day, and now had stolen away
from the other children to spend a lonely
afternoon. She was deep in thought, but
not so absorbed that she did not hear
Miss Martin enter the room, although
she continued to gaze out of the window.\par

“I guess if I died, Lydia would feel
badly,” she was thinking. “I would be
dressed all in white, with my hair in long
curls, and I would hold one white rose
in my hand. They would all come and
look at me, and oh, how they would all
cry! I guess Lydia would cry hardest of
all. Perhaps, though, they wouldn’t even
let her in, she’s been so mean to me.”
And a tear was all ready to roll down
Mary Ellen’s cheek, when she felt a hand
on her shoulder.\par

“What do you see, sister Anne?” asked
Miss Martin, gayly. “Are there any
birds’ nests in the tree?” She
apparently did not notice the abused look Mary
Ellen turned upon her as she sat down in
the window beside the child.\par

“No, but there are two squirrels in the
tree, big fellows. Here they come.” And
Mary Ellen pointed to the two gray
squirrels climbing in swift darts higher
and higher up the old trunk. “Aren’t
they cute?” she whispered, neglecting
her own grievance for interest in the
squirrels. “Their hole is by that big
branch. There goes one in now.”\par

Mary Ellen and Miss Martin held their
breath as the remaining squirrel pursued
his way up the tree. When he reached
the branch opposite their window, to
their delight he turned and crept toward
them. Motionless, they watched him leap
from the tip of the swaying bough to the
broad window-sill, where he sat upright,
peering sharply about with his bright
little eyes.\par

And then in a flurry, with every appearance
of haste, Mr. Squirrel departed,
for Mary Ellen had abruptly broken the
spell. She had waved her arms wildly,
and had called out in a loud voice:\par

“Miss Martin, I believe they took
Lydia’s slipper.”\par

Miss Martin stared at Mary Ellen for
a moment.\par

“I believe they did, Mary Ellen,” said
she slowly. “I never heard of such a
thing before, but I do believe they did.”\par

“The screen was out,” went on Mary
Ellen, “and they are great big squirrels,
and the slippers are little. He came right
up on the window-sill now; you saw
him yourself, Miss Martin. Oh, how can
we find out? Can’t we find out?”\par

“Of course we can,” said Miss Martin,
as pleased as could be at the thought.
“At least we can try. Come, Mary Ellen,
won’t it be a surprise if those
squirrels are the thieves?” And she ran downstairs
with Mary Ellen at her heels.\par

Five minutes later, when Mat placed
the long ladder against the old maple and
prepared to mount it, not a child was
missing from the group at the foot of the
tree. The news had spread like wildfire,
and long legs and short legs had toiled
desperately in those few moments for
fear of missing some of the excitement.\par

All eyes were fixed on Mat as he
paused on the ladder outside the squirrels’
hole, and slowly and impressively
drew on his baseball glove. That had
been his solution of the problem, when
Miss Martin had feared that the squirrels
would bite his hands.\par

In went the glove, and out it came
with a chattering, scolding bunch of fur
that Mat deposited at arm’s length upon
a branch. Next came a trembling gray
ball, also to be placed carefully out of the
way, and then, for the third time, Mat
thrust in his hand and slowly drew out
the missing “brown betty,” scratched in
places, filled with leaves, one button gone,
but Lydia’s lost bronze slipper nevertheless.\par

The children shrieked and hopped up
and down in their excitement as Mat
dangled it in the air before their eyes.
Lydia was smiling happily, but her face
was not so bright as Mary Ellen’s.\par

“Try to put the squirrels back in their
hole, Mat,” called Miss Martin; but with
a flirt and a whisk the squirrels proved
that they had other plans, and were out
of sight in a twinkling among the green
leaves.\par

Slowly Mat descended to earth, and
handed the slipper to Miss Martin, who,
in turn, put it in Mary Ellen’s hands.\par

“You, Mary Ellen, must have the pleasure
of giving it to Lydia,” said she,
“because you are really the one who found
the hiding-place.”\par

Lydia received the slipper from her
friend with a shy smile.\par

“Thank you, Mary Ellen,” said she.
“I’m sorry I thought you took it. And
now that it’s scratched, you won’t mind
my wearing them so much, will you?”\par

And arm in arm, the girls moved off,
both entirely satisfied with this handsome
apology.\par

“Look at them, whispering together
out there,” said Miss Martin, half an
hour later, to Mr. Blake, as she told him
the story of the slippers. “They are the
best of friends now.”\par

“Wouldn’t it be a good thing if Mary
Ellen had a pair of those fancy slippers
for herself?” asked Mr. Blake. “If you
say so, I’ll take her down to the village
now, and see what we can buy.”\par

“Oh, that would be nice,” answered
Miss Martin, smiling at this good friend
of her children. “She says she doesn’t
like them, but that is only because she
hasn’t any, I think. And we mustn’t let
Mary Ellen be too strong-minded. She
is only nine years old, you know.”\par

But Mary Ellen was not strong-minded
in the least when she reached the village
shoe shop. Indeed, she changed her mind
three times before she finally decided
upon a gay little pair of patent leather
slippers with silver buckles.\par

“Now, what would you like, Roger?”
asked kindly Mr. Blake of Lydia’s faithful
shadow, who had accompanied them
as a matter of course.\par

“I’d like to go home with Lydia,” answered
Roger in all earnestness.\par

“I meant in the way of shoes,” explained
Mr. Blake. “Shiny rubbers, or
high boots?”\par

But Roger selected a warm little pair
of red felt slippers, in view, perhaps, of
approaching winter weather.\par

The parting with Lydia was very hard.
Roger wouldn’t and couldn’t understand
why he must be separated from his friend,
though Miss Martin explained it in the
kindest and simplest way.\par

So Lydia, almost in tears herself, said
good-bye, for Mr. Blake would not let her
slip away when Roger’s back was turned.\par

“We mustn’t deceive him,” said he.
“He must learn he is among friends he
can trust.”\par

“I’ll come and see you to-morrow,”
whispered Lydia, with a last warm hug.
“I promise.”\par

And with that bit of comfort, Lydia
went home.\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XII—Roger Comes Home}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
“Mother, how long was I away?”
asked Lydia that night after supper.\par

The evenings grew cool now, and Mrs.
Blake and Lydia were sitting indoors,
while Mr. Blake walked up and down the
gravel path, finishing his cigar. Lydia, on
the window-seat, watched the red spark
moving to and fro, while Mrs. Blake, with
cheeks as pale as her soft white shawl, sat
in the lamplight with a book on her lap.\par

“You were away a day and a night,
weren’t you?” she answered. “Why?
Did it seem long to you?”\par

“It didn’t seem long while I was there,
but now it seems as if I’d been away
a thousand years,” was the reply. “Did
you miss me, Mother?”\par

“Indeed I did,” replied Mrs. Blake,
with a shake of the head. “We all missed
you, I’m sure.”\par

“Yes,” said Lydia, in a tone of satisfaction,
“I asked everybody, and they
all said they missed me. Father, and
Alexander, and Deborah, and Friend
Morris when I took her a bunch of flowers
before supper, and the postman when
I met him on the road. The postman
said he thought I looked older, I’d been
away so long. Do you, Mother?”\par

“No, I can’t say that I do,” said honest
Mrs. Blake. “Perhaps he meant
taller. You do grow like a weed.”\par

“No, he said older,” insisted Lydia,
twirling the curtain cord as she spoke.
“It must have been a joke. The postman
is a very joking man, Mother. Anyway,
I like to be missed. I like everybody
to miss me every minute I’m away.
I hope they miss me now at Robin Hill.
Roger does, I’m sure. Perhaps he is
crying for me this very minute.” And
Lydia’s eyes grew pensive at the thought.\par

Mrs. Blake knew that Lydia was talking
in the hope of putting off her bedtime.
The little clock on the mantel had
struck eight fully five minutes ago.\par

“Roger is probably sound asleep in
bed this minute,” she answered sensibly.
“It is after eight o’clock, Lydia.”\par

“Yes, I know,” answered the little girl,
without moving, “but I thought I might
be going to stay up a little longer, because
it’s the first night I came home.”\par

Mrs. Blake only smiled at this hint,
and opened her book.\par

Lydia was able now to make ready for
bed by herself. When she was in her
nightgown, she would call her mother,
and Mrs. Blake would go upstairs to
braid Lydia’s curls into two little pigtails,
hear her evening prayers, and tuck her
in bed with a good-night kiss. But this
evening Lydia was putting off her bedtime
as late as she could.\par

“I’ll just go say good-night to Father,
then,” she murmured gently, slipping
down from the window-seat. She meant
to take at least five minutes doing this, but
the telephone rang and spoiled her plan.\par

Mr. Blake answered it. “Hello,” said
his voice from the hall. “Yes, Miss Martin.
What’s that? Roger? No, he isn’t
here. I’ll come up and help you.”\par

Mr. Blake stepped into the doorway,
hat in hand.\par

“Miss Martin has telephoned that Roger
has run away, and she thought he might
possibly have found his way here. The
rascal slipped out of bed, and they are
pretty sure that he is not anywhere in
the house. I’m going up to help her look
for him. Perhaps I had better take Alexander
with me, too,” he added.\par

“Take me, Father, oh, take me!” cried
Lydia, who had been listening with open
eyes and ears. “I can find Roger, I know
I can. Oh, take me with you!” And she
rushed forward and clasped Mr. Blake
about the knees.\par

“Take you, little magnet,” said Mr.
Blake, laughing; “I think Mother had
better take you to bed.” And he was
gone, leaving Lydia so wide-awake she
never wanted to go to bed again, she
told her mother.\par

“You may wait until half-past eight,”
said indulgent Mrs. Blake, “if there is no
news by that time you must go to bed.
But after that, as soon as I hear anything,
I will come and tell you, if you are awake.”\par

Lydia stationed herself in the window
to watch. It was not much fun staring
out into the black night, but anything
was better than going to bed. And any
moment Father might come home with
news of Roger. Oh, how she wished the
little clock would stop or Mother would
fall asleep. But nothing happened, and
at half-past eight she started upstairs,
dragging one foot slowly after the other.\par

Ten minutes later, Lydia was downstairs
again in her nightgown, brush and
comb in hand.\par

“I thought you would like to braid
my hair down here to-night, Mother,”
said she, placing the cricket at Mrs.
Blake’s feet, and seating herself in view
of the front door.\par

Mrs. Blake smiled at this new thoughtfulness.
But she understood Lydia’s feelings,
and in her sympathy she brushed
and braided as slowly as she could. She
herself wished Mr. Blake would return
with news of the missing child. There
were too many horses and automobiles,
even at night, to make the roads safe for
a “Wee Willie Winkie” to\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Run through the town,\par}
{\vl Upstairs and downstairs,\par}
{\vl In his nightgown.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
So they both were watching and listening
when Mr. Blake’s step sounded on
the porch. Lydia twitched the braid from
her mother’s hands, and flew into the hall.\par

In came Mr. Blake with the runaway
in his arms. He placed him in Mrs.
Blake’s lap where, winking and blinking
his dark eyes in the lamplight, in his
dew-stained night-clothes, he lay looking
about him like a little white bird. He
wore his new red felt slippers, now covered
with dust, and he carried in his hand
a tiny horse given him by one of the
children at Robin Hill. He smiled when
he saw his friend Lydia kneeling at his
feet, and waved his red slippers at her in
greeting. It was plain to be seen that he
was well pleased with his evening’s work.\par

“I found him marching down the road
halfway between here and Robin Hill,”
said Father, answering the question in
Mrs. Blake’s eyes. “Alexander has gone
on to tell Miss Martin. Well, young man,
what have you to say for yourself?” he
went on. “Running away seems to be your
specialty. Do you mean to stay here with
us for a while, or will you get me up in
the middle of the night to bring you back
from another trip down the road?” And
Mr. Blake smiled down at the contented
little figure cuddled in Mrs. Blake’s lap.\par

“You won’t run away again, will you,
Roger?” asked Lydia coaxingly. “You
want to stay here with me, don’t you?”\par

Roger nodded solemnly.\par

“Yes,” said he, “I’ll stay with you.
I’ll stay with you forever.”\par

And then he sneezed one, two, three
times.\par

“Mercy me!” said Mother. “Off to
bed, both of you.”\par

And, bundled in the white shawl, the
triumphant Roger was borne upstairs,
Lydia hopping alongside, delighted with
this unexpected turn of affairs.\par

“Roger is visiting us, Mother says,”
explained Lydia the next morning, as
she and Roger paid an early morning
call upon Friend Deborah in her spotless
kitchen, “but Roger says he has
come to stay.”\par

The little boy, his eyes fixed upon a
bowl of peaches, nodded.\par

“I like it here,” he said gravely. “I
like Lydia. I like my new mother and
father. I like peaches, too.”\par

“You mustn’t say that!” cried Lydia,
scandalized. “It isn’t polite. You mustn’t ask, ever.”\par

“I didn’t ask,” returned Roger stoutly.
“I only said I liked.”\par

But Lydia sighed, as if she had all the
cares of a large family upon her
shoulders. Roger must be taught so many lessons
in politeness, and his table manners
needed constant attention.\par

“Just watch me, Roger,” instructed
Lydia. “Do just what I do.”\par

But at last Roger tired of her corrections.\par

“You have more spots at your place
than I have,” he retorted between mouthfuls
of mush. “And I didn’t cry when I
took my medicine, and you did. And I
wasn’t put to bed yesterday like you.”
And with a flourish of his spoon, Roger
placidly finished his supper, while the
crestfallen Lydia slipped away to console
herself with Lucy Locket, who never
“answered back.”\par

“It is good for her, I suppose,” said
Mrs. Blake, who, with Mr. Blake, was
an amused spectator of this scene. “I
am afraid we were making her selfish. It
isn’t well for a child to grow up alone.
And they love each other dearly. Roger
follows Lydia about like her shadow.”\par

And so it was settled that Roger was
to stay “forever” as he said.\par

“He’s stopped visiting!” cried the delighted
Lydia, flying over to Friend Morris
with the news. “He’s stopped visiting,
and he’s going to be my brother.
Isn’t it nice?”\par

Friend Morris nodded.\par

“He setteth the solitary in families,
little Friend Lydia,” was her reply.\par

“Yes, Friend Morris,” answered Lydia
politely, though she didn’t understand
in the least what Friend Morris meant.
“And I think we are all going home
soon. Father’s ‘masterpiece’ is finished,
and Miss Puss is so fat she can scarcely
walk. It’s high time we went home,
Mother says.”\par

But before the last day came, Mr. Blake
planned a farewell ride, a ride back in
the country to see the famous waterfalls
that people traveled from far and wide to
view.\par

Friend Morris was invited, and Deborah
and Alexander, and all Robin Hill,
too. So, early on a bright, crisp autumn
afternoon they started, three carriage
loads—in deference to Friend Morris,
who did not like automobiles—full of
happy, chattering children, and grown
folks, happy, too, if in a quieter way.\par

Deborah drove one carriage, with Mrs.
Blake, on the back seat, watching over the
safety of her special little flock. Alexander
carefully drove Friend Morris, who had
the quietest, best-behaved children placed
in her charge, reliable children like Mary
Ellen and Tom, wise, spectacled John
and stolid English Alfie. The more harum-scarum
boys and girls rode with Miss
Martin and Mr. Blake, who took good
care that Gus was placed next Miss
Martin, and that Sammy sat beside him on
the front seat.\par

“Are we going to see a real Indian
woman, Mr. Blake?” asked Sammy,
bouncing with excitement. “Lydia said
you said so.”\par

“She will be at the toll-gate where we
hitch the horses,” answered Mr. Blake.
“At least, she has been there for years,
and I suppose she is here this summer,
too. In fact, I think she lives near by
all the year round.”\par

Sammy possessed his soul in such patience
as he could summon, and strained
his eyes up the road for the interesting
figure long before it was possible for her
to be in sight.\par

Yes, the Indian woman was standing
at the toll-gate, but Sammy was distinctly
disappointed when he saw her.
Neither did she improve upon closer inspection.\par

She was merely a swarthy-skinned,
black-haired woman, dressed in a checked
gingham dress and blue gingham apron,
neither particularly clean, and she answered
to the name of Mrs. Jones. Fancy
an Indian named Jones! Sammy could
scarcely conceal his indignation, and stared
at the unconscious Mrs. Jones with such
resentment in his eye that Miss Martin
hurried him swiftly through the toll-gate,
and past the cabin where Indian souvenirs
were displayed for sale.\par

The party wandered along over the
damp, mossy ground, and proceeded to
survey the waterfalls, all of which were
fortunately within easy walking distance.\par

“I choose High Falls,” remarked little
Tom, as they wended their way back
toward the gate. “It’s so big and high,
and dashes down so hard.”\par

Most of the children had been greatly
impressed by the huge, foaming
cataract, that continually dashed its white
length downward with a dull, booming
roar. But Mary Ellen and Polly cast their
vote for the delicate Bridal Veil; while
Lydia, echoed by Roger, thought Silver
Thread Falls the most beautiful of all.\par

Near the gate were rough wooden
tables and benches, and, once seated,
Sammy thought somewhat better of Mrs.
Jones when she served them with birch
beer or sarsaparilla in thick mugs with
handles.\par

“Now,” said Mr. Blake, when the
mugs were empty, “each one must choose
an Indian souvenir, in memory of the
day.”\par

The delighted children crowded into
the cabin, and critically surveyed the display
placed before them. There were little
birchbark canoes, and whisk-broom
holders, also made of bark, beaded moccasins,
strings of wampum, and small
beaded pocketbooks. There were charming
little pictures, not only of the Falls,
but of Indian braves and maidens as
well, and though it took a long time, at
last every one had satisfactorily made his
or her selection.\par

“Why are you so good to my children?”
Miss Martin asked Mr. Blake, as,
watching the boys and girls chattering
happily over their treasures, they stood by
the toll-gate waiting for a straggler or so.\par

“Think how good you have been to
me,” answered Mr. Blake promptly. “Didn’t
you give us Lydia? And without
Lydia, we might never have had Roger.
No, I think I owe you a good many
more parties before we are even, Miss
Martin.”\par

“Look, Father!” cried Lydia, running
up with Roger at her heels. “I chose a
pocketbook. Do you like it? And Roger
took a canoe.”\par

The Indian woman, with the proceeds
of the party jingling pleasantly in her
pocket, smiled upon the little pair before
her.\par

“Good friends, eh?” she commented.
“I see, they stay together always. Good
friends!”\par

“No,” said Lydia shyly. “We are
not friends; he’s my brother.”\par

“But you are my friend, too,” returned
Roger stoutly. “Friend Morris calls you
that, and so do I.”\par

On the drive home the children were
tired and sleepy. They were content to
sit quietly, and more than one stole a
cat-nap on the way.\par

The Robin Hill party was safely deposited
at their door, and Lydia and Mr.
Blake drove slowly down the familiar
road toward home. Mrs. Blake with
Roger asleep on her lap, Deborah holding
the reins, rode swiftly past them.\par

“Father,” said Lydia, nestling close
to him, “do you like the name that
Friend Morris and Roger call me? Would
you want to be called Friend Lydia?”\par

“I think it is a beautiful name,” answered
Mr. Blake, looking tenderly down
at the little face gazing up into his. “And
no matter how long you live, or wherever
you go, I shall always hope that
somebody in the world will call you little
Friend Lydia.”\par

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\bookmark[level=1,page=1]{Table of Contents}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-ichristmas-eve]{CHAPTER I—Christmas Eve}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iithe-real-christmas-present]{CHAPTER II—The Real Christmas Present}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iiithe-new-home]{CHAPTER III—The New Home}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iva-picture-and-a-party]{CHAPTER IV—A Picture and a Party}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-vthe-story-of-little-gwen]{CHAPTER V—The Story of Little Gwen}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-vidaffodils-and-daisies]{CHAPTER VI—Daffodils and Daisies}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-viidr-wolfe]{CHAPTER VII—Dr. Wolfe}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-viiimaggie-medicine]{CHAPTER VIII—Maggie Medicine}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-ixcobbler-cobbler-mend-my-shoe]{CHAPTER IX—Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend My Shoe}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xrobin-hill]{CHAPTER X—Robin Hill}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xiwho-stole-the-brown-betty]{CHAPTER XI—Who Stole the Brown Betty?}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xiiroger-comes-home]{CHAPTER XII—Roger Comes Home}
\hbox{}
\end{document}

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