The delighted children crowded into the cabin, and critically surveyed the display placed before them. There were little birchbark canoes, and whisk-broom holders, also made of bark, beaded moccasins, strings of wampum, and small beaded pocketbooks. There were charming little pictures, not only of the Falls, but of Indian braves and maidens as well, and though it took a long time, at last every one had satisfactorily made his or her selection.
“Why are you so good to my children?” Miss Martin asked Mr. Blake, as, watching the boys and girls chattering happily over their treasures, they stood by the toll-gate waiting for a straggler or so.
“Think how good you have been to me,” answered Mr. Blake promptly. “Didn’t you give us Lydia? And without Lydia, we might never have had Roger. No, I think I owe you a good many more parties before we are even, Miss Martin.”
“Look, Father!” cried Lydia, running up with Roger at her heels. “I chose a pocketbook. Do you like it? And Roger took a canoe.”
The Indian woman, with the proceeds of the party jingling pleasantly in her pocket, smiled upon the little pair before her.
“Good friends, eh?” she commented. “I see, they stay together always. Good friends!”
“No,” said Lydia shyly. “We are not friends; he’s my brother.”
“But you are my friend, too,” returned Roger stoutly. “Friend Morris calls you that, and so do I.”
On the drive home the children were tired and sleepy. They were content to sit quietly, and more than one stole a cat-nap on the way.
The Robin Hill party was safely deposited at their door, and Lydia and Mr. Blake drove slowly down the familiar road toward home. Mrs. Blake with Roger asleep on her lap, Deborah holding the reins, rode swiftly past them.