“I must go home. I must not stay.”
“London is at your father’s house ere this, and will tell him that you are to spend the night here. They will not be anxious about you,” said Mrs. Lyon; “and now slip out of those wet garments. I have warm water to bathe your feet,” and almost before Anna realized what was happening she found herself in a warm flannel wrapper, her bruised feet bathed and wrapped in comforting bandages, and a bowl of hot milk and corn bread on the little table beside her. When this was finished Mrs. Lyon led the little girl to a tiny chamber at the head of the stairs. A big bedstead seemed nearly to fill the room.
“Say your prayers, Anna,” said Mrs. Lyon, and without another word she left the little girl alone. Anna was so thoroughly tired out that even the strange dark room did not prevent her from going to sleep, and when she awoke the tiny room was full of sunshine; she could hear robins singing in the maples near the house, and people moving about down-stairs. Then she sat up in bed with a little shiver of apprehension.
What would the minister and Mrs. Lyon and Melvina say to her? Perhaps none of them would even speak to her. She had never been so unhappy in her life as she was at that moment. She slipped out of bed; but the moment her feet touched the floor she cried out with pain. For they were bruised and sore.
There was a quick rap at the door, and Mrs. Lyon entered. “Good-morning, Anna. Here are your clothes. I have pressed them. And I suppose these are your shoes and stockings!” and she set down the stout shoes and the knit stockings that Anna had supposed had been swept out to sea.
“When you are dressed come to the kitchen and your breakfast will be ready,” said Mrs. Lyon, and left the room before Anna had courage to speak. Anna dressed quickly; but in spite of her endeavors she could not get on her shoes. Her feet hurt her too badly to take off the bandages; she drew her stockings on with some difficulty, and shoes in hand went slowly down the steep stairs.
When she was nearly down she heard Mrs. Lyon’s voice: “She is a mischievous child, and her parents encourage her. She looks like a boy, and I do not want Melvina to have aught to do with her.”
Anna drew a quick breath. She would not go into the kitchen and face people who thought so unkindly of her. “I will go home,” she thought, ready to cry with the pain from her feet, and her unhappy thoughts. The front door was wide open. There was no trace of the storm of the previous night, and Anna made her way softly across the entry and down the steps. Every step hurt, but she hurried along and had reached the church when she gave a little cry of delight, for her father was coming up the path.
“Well, here’s my Danna safe and sound,” he exclaimed, picking her up in his arms. “And what has happened to her little feet?” he asked, as he carried her on toward home.
And then Anna told all her sad story again, even to the words she had overheard Mrs. Lyon say.