“You were away a day and a night, weren’t you?” she answered. “Why? Did it seem long to you?”
“It didn’t seem long while I was there, but now it seems as if I’d been away a thousand years,” was the reply. “Did you miss me, Mother?”
“Indeed I did,” replied Mrs. Blake, with a shake of the head. “We all missed you, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” said Lydia, in a tone of satisfaction, “I asked everybody, and they all said they missed me. Father, and Alexander, and Deborah, and Friend Morris when I took her a bunch of flowers before supper, and the postman when I met him on the road. The postman said he thought I looked older, I’d been away so long. Do you, Mother?”
“No, I can’t say that I do,” said honest Mrs. Blake. “Perhaps he meant taller. You do grow like a weed.”
“No, he said older,” insisted Lydia, twirling the curtain cord as she spoke. “It must have been a joke. The postman is a very joking man, Mother. Anyway, I like to be missed. I like everybody to miss me every minute I’m away. I hope they miss me now at Robin Hill. Roger does, I’m sure. Perhaps he is crying for me this very minute.” And Lydia’s eyes grew pensive at the thought.
Mrs. Blake knew that Lydia was talking in the hope of putting off her bedtime. The little clock on the mantel had struck eight fully five minutes ago.
“Roger is probably sound asleep in bed this minute,” she answered sensibly. “It is after eight o’clock, Lydia.”
“Yes, I know,” answered the little girl, without moving, “but I thought I might be going to stay up a little longer, because it’s the first night I came home.”
Mrs. Blake only smiled at this hint, and opened her book.