Amos looked from Lydia to Lizzie, from Lizzie to Lydia.
"Lydia—my little daughter—" he faltered.
The tears flew to Lydia's eyes and she spoke hastily, "Lizzie, show him the fish we caught!"
Amos smiled while he shook his head. "I won't forget it, Lydia. In spite of little Patience's going, you've taken ten years off me this night. What do you suppose John Levine will say?"
"He'll say," replied Lydia, taking her serving of fish, "'If you were ten years older, Lydia, and I were ten years younger,' and I'll say—'then we'd travel.'"
CHAPTER V
ADAM
"A thousand deaths have fed my roots—yet to what end?"—The Murmuring
Pine.
The days slipped by, as days will, even though they are grief laden. Slowly and inarticulately for the most part, Lydia struggled to adjust herself to her new loss. She went back to school, after the quarantine was lifted and the familiar routine there helped her. She was a good student and was doing well in the eighth grade. During school hours her books absorbed her, and she worried through the evenings reading or sewing, with Florence Dombey always in her lap.
Florence Dombey was a great comfort to the child. She slept at night with her black head beside Lydia's yellow one. Sometimes she slipped into the middle of the bed and fat Lizzie rolled on her and woke with a groan.