“Dies?” said Lydia, more puzzled than before.
“Yes, dyes the rags different colors, the rags that she uses for her rugs,” explained Friend Deborah, slapping the reins on Maggie’s back.
“Oh,” said Lydia, and fell to thinking. This was a piece of news that must be treasured up for Sammy’s delectation. He would enjoy a piece of work like that. How fascinating to be a different color every day!
So, one afternoon, when Sammy and Mary Ellen walked down from Robin Hill to play with Lydia, whose ankle was well now, the first thing to be talked over was the story of the rug woman.
“She lives in a little house all by herself, with three hens and a pig. Friend Deborah told me. And her hands are bright blue. And she dyes the rags and makes them into rugs. We have one, and so has Friend Morris, and Friend Morris is going to have two more.”
Lydia stopped, out of breath, and Mary Ellen asked:
“Where does she live? Is it far? Could we go?”
“Oh, it’s far up this road,” answered Lydia, pointing. “And when you come to a little bridge, you turn past the mill, and then after a while you’re there.”
“I’m going,” said Sammy, determined to see the woman with the blue hands, or perish in the attempt. “I’m going now,” and he rose to his feet. “Want to come?”
“Oh, I do,” said Lydia piteously. “I want to go dreadfully, but I can’t walk so far. My lame foot gets so tired.”