“No, no!” she cried, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t have Dr. Wolfe!”
“Why not?” asked Father in astonishment. “What’s the matter with Dr. Wolfe?”
“I’m afraid!” sobbed Lydia. “It’s Red Riding Hood’s wolf. I’m afraid!”
“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.”
“Yes, fond of eating them,” thought Lydia.
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.
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.
“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:
“Good-morning! Is anybody home?”
“Yes, I am,” answered Lydia. “I don’t know where Mother and Father are. I haven’t seen them for a long time.”