“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.
“My cousin,” answered the old gentleman in a low voice, “my wicked cousin. Did you ever hear the story of Red Riding Hood?”
Lydia nodded and leaned farther forward.
“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.
“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?”
“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?”
“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.
“Then you forgive me for having such a cousin?” asked the anxious Dr. Wolfe.
“Yes, I do,” returned Lydia earnestly. “I do.”
“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.