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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“This is Miss Puss Whitetoes,” said Mr. Blake. “Miss Puss, will you shake hands with Lydia?”
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.
“Lydia!” said a voice from far away, “Lydia!”
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.
“Mr. Blake can’t wait any longer for his cakes, Lydia,” said Mrs. Blake. “Will you help me pass the tea?”