“She may need a change of air,” answered Father seriously. “Suppose we take her to the country?”
“For a whole day, with lunch?”—and Lydia beamed at the thought.
“No, for the whole summer,” said Father, pinching Lydia’s cheek. “Lock the front door here and go.”
“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.
“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?”
Mrs. Blake sat down to laugh.
“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.”
“Ten days?” And Lydia looked as disappointed as if Mother had said ten years.
“That isn’t long,” said Father encouragingly. “Come here, and I’ll show you how short it is.”
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.