But Lydia was splendidly strong. One night, after ten days of stupor and delirium, she opened her eyes on Amos' haggard face. She spoke weakly but naturally. "Hello, Dad! Ask Margery to get me the pattern we were talking about. In a day or so I'll be up and around."
Amos began to cry for sheer joy.
Once she began to mend, Lydia's recovery was unbelievably rapid. On a Sunday, a week before the Junior Prom., she was able to dress and to lie on the living-room couch. During the afternoon, Kent came in. He had had one or two glimpses of the invalid before, but this was the first opportunity he'd had for a chat.
"Hello, Lyd!" he cried. "Are you going to go to the Junior Prom. with me, after all?"
"Kent, I can't go. I might be strong enough for one or two dances by that time, but I can't get my clothes done."
"Pshaw, isn't that hard luck!" Kent's voice was soft with sympathy. "Never mind, old lady! I'm so darned glad to have you getting well so fast, that the Prom. doesn't matter. Say, Lyd, Margery's come out fine, since you've been sick!"
"I know it," said Lydia. "Just think of Margery carrying Dad's meals in a basket, and helping Lizzie with the dishes. And I know she hates it worse than poison. She's out in the kitchen now, making fudge."
Kent brightened, perceptibly. "Is she? Er—Lydia, don't you think she'd go to the Prom. with me? Seems to me she's cut out society as long as she needs to."
Lydia buried her nose in a bunch of violets that Professor Willis had sent her. "I think she ought to go if she wants to," she said.
"Guess I'll ask her now," cried Kent, disappearing kitchenward.