“WE’LL ASK HER FOR A DRINK,” RESPONDED SAMMY, NEVER AT A LOSS

Little Friend Lydia

BY

ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS

With Illustrations by

EDITH F. BUTLER

Boston and New York

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Table of Contents

Illustrations

[“We’ll ask her for a drink,” responded Sammy, never at a loss]

[“This is your bedroom, Lydia”]

[“It’s spring, Lucy Locket,” chattered Lydia. “That’s why you have a new hat and a new dress”]

[Such a cobbler’s shop had never been seen before]

Little Friend Lydia

[CHAPTER I—Christmas Eve]

It was Christmas Eve, and twenty little boys and girls were watching for Santa Claus. Ten little boys in blue-striped blouses and dark-blue neckties, ten little girls in blue-checked aprons and dark-blue hair-ribbons fixed their eyes on the big folding doors and thought the time for them to open would never come.

All day long excitement had reigned supreme in the Children’s Home, a roomy comfortable house set on the very edge of the big city, and where were gathered the motherless and fatherless children who found love and care under its hospitable roof. Each ring of the doorbell brought chattering groups to hang over the banisters, each sound of wheels on the driveway was the signal for excited faces to be pressed against the window-pane and for round eyes to try in vain to bore through the paper wrappings of mysterious bundles whisked out of sight all too soon. Peeks through the parlor keyhole were forbidden, but passing the door on the way to luncheon several children were seen to stop and sniff the air as though they might actually smell out the secret.

“Nurse Norrie called it an ‘entertainment,’” said big Mary Ellen to a group gathered round her in the playroom. “I do wonder what ’t will be. It will be to-night anyway; she said so.”

“It’s cowboys and Indians, that’s what it is,” declared Sammy, an agile youth who all morning had somehow managed to look out of the window and over the banisters at the same time when occasion demanded. “It’s going to be a Wild West show to-night, I think.” And Sammy galloped up and down the playroom in imitation of the dashing broncos he hoped to see that night.

“Do you think Miss Martin would have horses in the parlor?” asked Mary Ellen scornfully. “I hope it will be tableaux.” And Mary Ellen immediately pictured herself the most beautiful tableau of them all, attired as a Red Cross nurse draped in the American flag, with a noble expression on her face, and perhaps supporting a wounded soldier or two.

Little Tom took his finger out of his mouth long enough to say, “I hope it’s candy”; and at this pleasing thought Luley and Lena, the fat little twins, clapped their hands in agreement. Polly, always a little behindhand, hadn’t made up her mind yet what the surprise was to be. So Mary Ellen turned to Lydia, a quiet little girl whose brown eyes looked out shyly upon the world from under a thatch of yellow curls. Now Lydia remembered clearly her Christmas a year ago, so although she felt a little shy about speaking out before them all, she was sure she had guessed the secret.

“I think it’s Santa Claus,” said Lydia timidly, “and maybe a Christmas Tree too.”

Miss Martin, who took good care of these little children and loved them every one, stood in the doorway listening and laughing.

“I’ll give you just one hint,” said she, “if you promise not to ask me another question. Lydia is the warmest. Sammy is freezing cold, so is Mary Ellen. Tom is warm, too, but Lydia is hot, red-hot I should say.” And then Miss Martin closed the door and fled. In the hall she met fat Nurse Norrie carrying a pile of clean blouses.

“Hark ye to the noise in there,” said Nurse Norrie with a chuckle. “I’m thinking if we live through this day we’ll live through anything.”

But at last evening came and they were all gathered in the back room with only a few moments more to wait. Patient Miss Martin took pity on them and answered the same questions over and over as she moved about the room straightening twisted neckties and perking up fallen hair-ribbons.

“Yes, I’m sure Santa Claus is coming,” said Miss Martin for the tenth time to Luley and Lena, who hand in hand trotted up with the question every few minutes as if asking something new each time. “Why am I sure, Polly? Because he comes every year to the Children’s Home. He has never forgotten us yet.”

“Maybe he’s stuck in the snow,” said Sammy gloomily; “it’s deep, deep. Maybe he’s having a fight with the Indians.”

At this thought Sammy brightened, but Luley and Lena put out their under lips in such pitiful fashion that Miss Martin was glad to hear Mary Ellen say sturdily:

“I don’t believe there ever was a snowdrift or an Indian either that could keep Santa Claus away.”

“Good, Mary Ellen,” said Miss Martin with an approving smile; “I’m sure you are right. Take your finger out of your mouth, Tom. Yes, Lydia, what is it?”

Lydia stood on tiptoe and spoke softly. She didn’t want any one else to hear her question.

“Miss Martin,” whispered she, “will Santa Claus bring you whatever you ask for—even if it won’t go into your stocking?”

“Of course he will,” answered Miss Martin with an arm about Lydia. “Think of our big swing he brought last year. That wouldn’t go in a giant’s stocking. Think of the big—What’s that sound, children?”

Every one listened. Nearer and nearer and nearer came the jingle of sleigh-bells, little by little the folding doors slid open, and there before their very eyes Santa Claus himself came into the room. Sammy said afterward he knew he saw him come down the chimney and step out of the fireplace, and this in spite of Mary Ellen who declared she saw him come walking through the door. But however he came, there he was, covered with snow and with a big pack on his back fairly bursting with toys. Dolls and drums and horns, jack-in-the-boxes, toy lambs, furry dogs, soft white rabbits stuck out in every direction. Luley and Lena fixed their round eyes upon two white cats peeping slyly side by side over the edge of the pack, and oh, how they hoped that Santa Claus would know that they wanted those pussies more than anything in the world.

Santa Claus stationed himself beside the big glittering Christmas Tree gay with its colored horns, shining balls, red and white cranberry and popcorn chains.

“Here I am, children, at last,” said he, with an engaging smile all round. “A little late, but it’s not my fault. You must blame my reindeer for that. Dancer and Prancer were in such a hurry to get here that on a roof near by they didn’t look where they were going, and Prancer stubbed his toe quite badly against the chimney. But here we are now, with a bagful of toys—something for every one.”

Santa Claus looked for a moment into the blue eyes, the black eyes, the gray and the brown eyes all earnestly fixed on him.

“First of all,” began Santa Claus with a merry nod, “here are twin pussycats who are looking for two little girls just like these.” And he stepped straight over to Luley and Lena and put the pussies into their outstretched arms. How did he know that that was what they wanted? Perhaps because they had been looking so longingly at them ever since he came into the room. But then how did he know that Mary Ellen wanted a paint-box and a Red Cross doll, and Sammy a Noah’s Ark and a drum and a horn? It was really wonderful how Santa Claus could tell exactly what each one wanted. There was little Tom who longed to play with dolls, but who couldn’t bear it when the big boys laughed and called him “a girl.” And what should Santa Claus give to him but a soldier boy in khaki uniform, carrying a shining bayonet. Surely no boy would be ashamed to play with that, and yet at night, with the bayonet under Tom’s pillow, General Pershing, Jr., would cuddle as well as any baby doll.

Before long every one’s arms were full. Even the grown-up visitors, enjoying the scene from a distant corner, were not forgotten, but held boxes of candy shaped like little doll houses. Polly carried a white rabbit and a big picture-book off into her special corner. Sammy, skillfully performing on horn and drum simultaneously, woke echoes in the attic. Toy trains ran merrily round and round. Fire engines dashed bravely in every direction. It seemed as if Santa Claus’s pack must be empty. But no, there he stood holding a baby doll in long white dress and little white cap, a baby doll who stretched out her arms as if asking some one to come and hold her, please.

“Here’s a baby looking for a mother,” called out Santa Claus. “Perhaps she will tell me her mother’s name.” And Santa Claus held the baby up to his ear.

“She says she wants Lydia,” announced Santa Claus. “Where’s Lydia?”

“Yes, where is Lydia?” asked Miss Martin, looking about. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

At this one of the visitors came forward, a visitor all the children knew, for she came often to see them. It was Mrs. Morris, a little old Quaker lady, who always wore a gray silk dress, a snow-white kerchief, and sometimes a little white cap. The children called her “Friend Morris” after a fashion she loved, and well might they call her so, for she gave generously of time and thought and money for their happiness and welfare. Friend Morris stepped to an open door and peeped behind it.

“Here is little Friend Lydia,” said she. “Come out, Lydia. Surely thee is not afraid of the good Santa Claus.” And she took Lydia gently by the hand and drew her out of her corner.

Lydia shook her head.

“No, Friend Morris,” said she, “I’m not afraid of Santa Claus. But I want him to give away all his toys, and then I will ask him for my present.”

“But see what Santa Claus has for thee, Friend Lydia,” said Mrs. Morris, leading her to where Santa Claus stood watching them with a smile on his lips. “A beautiful baby doll. Surely that is the present thee wants.”

“No, I want to whisper it in his ear,” persisted Lydia.

She raised her brown eyes to Santa Claus, who looked down at her a moment in silence and then lifted her in his arms.

“What is it, Lydia?” he said softly. “Tell me.”

“I want,” whispered Lydia with her arm about Santa Claus’s neck, “I want a father and a mother, a real father and mother of my own. Miss Martin said you could give a present that wouldn’t go in a stocking. And I will give you back the baby doll.”

Santa Claus thought for a moment, and then he tightened his hold upon the little girl looking so anxiously into his face.

“Now, Lydia,” said he, “I’ll tell you just how it is. I don’t carry that kind of a present around in my bag with me, but I’ll try to get it for you if you are willing to wait a little while for it. You keep the baby doll. Take good care of her, and I’ll go to work and see what I can do for you. How will that be?”

Santa Claus had merry blue eyes, and now he looked straight at Lydia as if he meant what he said.

“You won’t forget?” asked Lydia.

“I won’t forget,” said Santa Claus. “I promise.”

He put Lydia on the ground with a parting pat on her head.

“And now I must be off,” said he. “My reindeer won’t stand much longer. I believe they’re out on the lawn here now. Merry Christmas, children! ‘Merry Christmas to all and to all a good-night!’”

And Santa Claus was out of the window, across the porch, and out of sight before you could turn around. The jingle of the sleigh-bells died away, the Christmas party was over, and it was time to go to bed.

Lydia slowly climbed the stairs with the new dolly in her arms. Mary Ellen was beside her, admiring her own Red Cross nurse as she went.

“What shall you name your doll?” asked Mary Ellen. “Mine is Florence Clara Barton Nightingale. See the little ring your doll has. And a gold locket round her neck.”

“Her name is Lucy Locket,” answered Lydia in a flash. “I’ve thought of it just this minute.”

Upstairs ten little boys popped into bed before you could say Jack Robinson. They had no long hair to be brushed and braided. But Miss Martin and good-natured Nurse Norrie worked quickly, and before long ten little girls were tucked snugly into their beds too. Miss Martin lighted the night light and turned to go.

“‘Merry Christmas to all and to all a good-night,’” said Miss Martin softly, just like Santa Claus.

Lydia was the only little girl wide awake enough to answer.

“Merry Christmas,” said Lydia sleepily. “Lucy Locket, you heard Santa Claus promise, didn’t you?”

And then little Friend Lydia fell fast asleep too.

[CHAPTER II—The Real Christmas Present]

Christmas morning, and oh, how early every one woke and jumped out of bed! Sammy was the first to look out of the window, and his shouts of joy brought everybody pell-mell to look out too.

“Snow,” he called, “more snow! Hurry up and get dressed.”

Sure enough the ground was covered with a fresh fall of snow, and at that moment up came the red winter sun making a beautiful sparkling Christmas world for the children to look upon.

Breakfast over, out they all trooped, and up went a snowman only to fall under a hail of snowballs. Mary Ellen and Polly pulled Lydia and the twins about on the sled, refreshing themselves between-times with wild toboggans down the hill. It seemed only a moment before Miss Martin called them in to make ready for church.

Two by two they walked along, past houses with wreaths of holly in the windows, sometimes catching glimpses between curtains of Christmas Trees like their own.

In the church it was green and sweet-smelling. From their seats in the balcony the children looked up at a big red star blazing high among the pine and balsam boughs. They sat quietly, the older ones now and then understanding a little of what was said, while between-times they counted the organ-pipes or swung their feet softly, the unlucky Sammy occasionally coming up against the pew with a thump. Every one—Miss Martin, too—was glad when their turn came to sing, and they could stretch stiff little legs and open their mouths wide. They sang—

“Away in a manger,

No crib for a bed,

The little Lord Jesus

Lay down His sweet head.

The stars in the sky

Looked down where He lay,

The little Lord Jesus

Asleep on the hay.

“The cattle are lowing,

The dear baby wakes.

The little Lord Jesus

No crying He makes.

I love Thee, Lord Jesus,

Look down from the sky,

And stay by my cradle

To watch lullaby.”

Lydia had a clear little voice and she sang out with a will, and all the while she sang she was thinking of Santa Claus’s promise.

After church came dinner—turkey and plum pudding—and then the children settled down around the Tree to play with their new toys. Lydia was rocking Lucy Locket to sleep when Nurse Norrie came into the room.

“Friend Morris has sent for you, Lydia,” said she. “Alexander is waiting outside.”

Nurse Norrie looked carefully at Lydia’s face and hands.

“You’re as clean as a pin,” said she. “It would be well if others were more like you.” And she rapped gently upon Sammy’s head as she passed. Sammy looked up with a grin.

“I don’t care,” said he with Christmas daring. “I don’t want to be clean. It’s sissy.”

On the doorstep Lydia slipped her hand in Alexander’s, and off they started. Alexander and his wife, Friend Deborah, were Quakers who had lived for many years with Mrs. Morris, and the children knew them well. Friend Deborah wore a drab stuff dress and a kerchief like Friend Morris, and Alexander’s broad-brimmed hat was quite different from that worn by other men.

“No, Lydia,” Alexander was saying, “thee is not going to Friend Morris’s house. She is spending the afternoon with friends in the city, and thee is to go there. And thee is going to ride on the Elevated cars.” Alexander knew that Lydia would like this.

Lydia gave a little skip of happiness. She did like to ride on the Elevated train high up in the air and look straight into the windows of the houses as they passed. To-day, as she kneeled on the seat and looked out, she saw Christmas Trees and family dinner-parties, a baby fastened in a high chair drumming on the window with his new rattle, and a little girl holding up her Christmas dolly to look out of the window too. At that moment the train stopped, and Lydia and the little girl smiled and waved and the dolly threw a stiff kiss in Lydia’s direction. Then on they went again, and all too soon Lydia and Alexander left the train, climbed down the steep flights of steps, and turned into a narrow little street with small, old-fashioned brick houses on either side of the way. Before one of them Alexander stopped and rang the bell, and in a moment the door was opened by a pretty lady with pink cheeks and soft brown hair who said, “Merry Christmas, Alexander. And this must be little Friend Lydia. Come in, Lydia. Friend Morris is upstairs waiting for you.”

And the pretty lady, whose name was Mrs. Blake, led Lydia into a bedroom to leave her hat and coat, and then upstairs where first of all Lydia spied a little kitchen and then a big room where Friend Morris sat before a blazing open fire.

It sounds topsy-turvy, doesn’t it? the bedrooms downstairs and the kitchen upstairs? But this is how it happened. Mr. Blake was an artist. He painted the most beautiful pictures in the world, Lydia thought, when she saw them, and his workroom or studio was the whole top floor of the house, except for a tiny little kitchen tucked away in a corner at the head of the stairs. So you see for yourself why the bedrooms were downstairs, and as Lydia afterward came to think it the nicest house that could ever be, it must have been a good arrangement after all.

Lydia felt at home at once, Friend Morris was so smiling, and Mrs. Blake so friendly, and Mr. Blake so full of fun. He stood before the fire looking down at the little girl, and something in the tall figure with the merry smile made her thoughts fly back to Santa Claus and her conversation with him the night before.

“They wouldn’t let me have anything to eat, Lydia,” said he, taking Lydia’s hand in his, “and I’m as hungry as a bear. But now that you’ve come perhaps they will give me a cake.”

Lydia saw the cakes on a little table in the corner, and hoped that she might have one too. But before she could answer some one jumped down from the window-sill and walked slowly toward her. It was a big Angora cat gray all over save for four white boots and a white necktie.

“This is Miss Puss Whitetoes,” said Mr. Blake. “Miss Puss, will you shake hands with Lydia?”

Sure enough, Miss Puss held out her paw and shook hands most politely. Then as Lydia sat on the floor beside her, she jumped into the little girl’s lap and in no time they were the best of friends.

“Lydia!” said a voice from far away, “Lydia!”

Lydia looked up from gently scratching Miss Puss’s head and saw that Mrs. Blake, busy at the tea-table, was calling her. Every one was smiling, so she smiled back.

“Mr. Blake can’t wait any longer for his cakes, Lydia,” said Mrs. Blake. “Will you help me pass the tea?”

Lydia very carefully carried a cup of tea to Friend Morris, and one to Mr. Blake, and then in her own cup of milk she dipped the silver tea-ball one, two, three times. It really almost tasted of tea after that. And as for the cakes—Lydia never before ate anything quite so good as those little cakes.

“And now, Friend Lydia, will thee sing a song for us?” asked Mrs. Morris.

So Lydia sang:

“I saw three ships go sailing by

On New Year’s Day in the morning.”

Then Mr. Blake and Lydia recited “The Night Before Christmas,” and were loudly applauded by Friend Morris and Mrs. Blake.

Now the room began to grow dark. Miss Puss settled herself for a nap in front of the fire, and Mr. Blake took Lydia on his lap. He was glad to hold a little girl in his arms again, for once he had had a little daughter of his own and had lost her.

“Did you have a nice Christmas, Lydia?” he asked. “What did Santa Claus bring you?”

“He brought me a doll,” answered Lydia, settling down on his lap with a sigh of content, “and she has a ring and a locket and so I named her Lucy Locket. But that’s not my real present. I must wait for that; and Santa Claus will try to bring it to me by-and-by. He promised.”

“A real present?” said Mr. Blake. “And what kind of a present is that?”

“It’s a father and a mother,” whispered Lydia in his ear, “a real father and mother of my own. Do you think he’ll bring it to me?”

“I do,” said Mr. Blake, “I do, indeed. I’m almost sure he will.”

He looked straight at Lydia as he spoke, and something in his blue eyes made her say, “You look just like Santa Claus—the way he did last night.”

“Do I?” said Mr. Blake with a laugh. “Well, I don’t know a better person to look like than Santa Claus.”

Lydia put up her hand and patted his face.

“I’m going to give you something,” said she. “I was saving it for Mary Ellen. It’s mine, I didn’t eat it myself, but I want to give it to you. It’s one of those good little cakes.” And she drew it from her crummy pocket and put it in Mr. Blake’s hand.

“Thank you, Lydia,” said he, “thank you. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Blake could make up a little box for you to take home to Mary Ellen. Mother!” he called, “Mother!”

Mrs. Blake came into the room, and then, instead of saying anything about little cakes for Mary Ellen, “You tell her, Mother,” said Mr. Blake. “You tell her.”

“Oh, Friend Morris,” said Mrs. Blake, “you tell Lydia, won’t you?”

So Friend Morris came forward, and she was smiling as she had smiled all afternoon.

“Friend Lydia,” said she, “last night thee asked a present of Santa Claus, and to-day the present is given thee. Here are a good father and a good mother who will love thee well, and in turn they will have the love of a good little daughter. Does thee not understand what I am saying to thee, Friend Lydia?”

For Lydia was staring at Friend Morris with wide-open eyes. She could scarcely believe her ears. Friend Morris was still smiling, but tears were in her eyes. Then Lydia threw her arms about Mr. Blake’s neck. “A real father,” said Lydia. She turned to Mrs. Blake and held her as if she would never let her go. “And my own mother,” said Lydia, “my own mother.”

And there they were just so when Alexander’s knock came at the door.

“This is the nicest Christmas we’ve ever had, isn’t it, Lydia?” said Mr. Blake, his voice a trifle husky. Lydia smiled up into his face and softly patted the big hand laid upon her shoulder.

“And you’ll come back day after to-morrow, Lydia, to stay,” said Mrs. Blake, her arm still round the little girl, “and never go away again.”

Lydia nodded happily. She wasn’t able to talk about it yet. It seemed too good to be true. But she gave every one a parting hug all round. Then she whispered something in Mr. Blake’s ear.

“Please don’t forget the little cakes for Mary Ellen,” said little Friend Lydia.

[CHAPTER III—The New Home]

The next two days were the most exciting days Lydia had ever known. First of all she told the good news over and over to Miss Martin, and Mary Ellen, and Nurse Norrie, and Sammy, and all the rest of them. Miss Martin wasn’t a bit surprised. She almost acted as if she had known it all along.

“The saints bless us! It’s no trouble you’ll be making any one, the way you keep yourself clean,” was all Nurse Norrie said.

But Mary Ellen and Polly and Sammy were as excited and interested as Lydia could wish. Their tongues flew and their heads wagged up and down, and if Lydia couldn’t answer all the questions they asked her, they answered them themselves.

“Do you think you will have ice cream every day for dinner, Lydia?” asked Polly.

Lydia didn’t know what to think, but Mary Ellen answered for her.

“Of course,” said Mary Ellen emphatically, “and perhaps pie, too. And always griddle cakes for breakfast.”

“Oh, I wish some one would take me,” said Polly longingly. “If I was prettier maybe they would.” And Polly sighed as she wistfully felt of her little snub nose.

“Pooh!” said Sammy with a defiant air, “I don’t care! I’m going to live with a cowboy out West and ride three horses at once, I am. Maybe I’ll shoot Indians, too. I don’t care!”

But they all looked at Lydia as if they thought her a fortunate little girl, and indeed Lydia herself thought so, too.

“Perhaps you will come and see me sometimes,” said she, giving what comfort she could, “and we will have more of those good little cakes.”

This happy suggestion made them all feel better. And when Mrs. Blake came to take Lydia away, there were only smiling faces and cheerful good-byes; for the last thing Mrs. Blake said was:

“Lydia is going to have a party some day very soon and she wants you all to come. Don’t you, Lydia?”

Lydia, smiling, nodded. “I told you so,” to her friends, and held tight to Mrs. Blake’s hand as they went down the street. Every now and then she gave a skip, but only a very little one, for she carried Lucy Locket in her arms. Mrs. Blake was as happy as Lydia, and you had only to look at the smile on her lips and in her eyes to know it.

“Did I tell you there is a doll carriage at home for Lucy Locket?” said she, looking down at the little figure hopping at her side.

Lydia’s eyes sparkled.

“I never had a carriage before,” was her answer. Her heart seemed full to overflowing with happiness and love. Then Lydia stood still on the street.

“Please, do I call you Mother right away?” said she, looking up into the kind face that already wore a look like that of the mother Lydia did not remember.

“Oh, yes, indeed, Lydia,” answered Mrs. Blake, “this very minute if you like.”

“And Father, too?”

“And Father, too, as soon as he comes home to-night.”

“Do you hear, Lucy Locket?” whispered Lydia. “My Mother and Father, my Mother and Father, my Father and Mother, my Father and Mother.”

It made a nice little song, and Lydia was singing it to herself as they went up the steps of the little brick house that was to be her home.

Once inside, Mrs. Blake led the way down the hall and opened the door.

“THIS IS YOUR BEDROOM, LYDIA”

“This is your bedroom, Lydia,” said she, watching the brown eyes grow bigger and bigger as they gazed. Lydia looked round the room, and then she looked up at her new mother, and then she looked round the room again. It was hard to believe that this was all for her. For she saw a little white bed, and beside it a white cradle just big enough for Lucy Locket. There was a little bureau and a book-case full of picture-books. On a low table stood a work-basket, and near by a little rocking-chair held out its arms as if saying, “Come and sit in me.” And over in the corner was the doll carriage, only waiting to give Lucy Locket a ride.

But Lydia was walking slowly around the room, for halfway up the wall there were pictures, pictures of people Lydia knew very well.

“There’s Red Riding Hood,” said she, “and her mother with the basket. And here she meets the wolf, and here is grandmother’s house with the wolf in bed. And here are the Three Bears and Goldilocks, and there she goes running home to her mother. And here is Chicken Little, and Henny Penny, and all of them. Mean Foxy Loxy!” said Lydia.

Lydia’s pleasure in the room was so keen that Mrs. Blake felt well repaid for her effort in making it ready for the little girl. She smiled at Lydia’s raptures, and opened the little closet door.

“You might put your hat and coat away,” said she, “and then perhaps Lucy Locket wants to go riding or to sleep in the cradle.”

“I think she wants a ride,” said Lydia.

But when she peeped under the blue-and-white cover, there was some one already taking a nap in Lucy Locket’s carriage. Who but Miss Puss Whitetoes who opened her eyes sleepily at Lydia and shut them tight again. Then she wiggled her little pink nose. That meant, “I’m sleepy.” She winked one ear. That meant, “Go away.” So Lydia tucked the cover about her, and put Lucy Locket to bed in the new cradle. Lucy was a good child and soon fell fast asleep, and then Lydia rode the sleeping Miss Puss up and down the hall until she woke, and, springing out of the carriage, whisked upstairs like a flash.

Lydia followed, and found Mother at work in the kitchen, briskly beating eggs in a big yellow bowl and taking peeps now and then into the oven which gave out savory smells whenever the door was opened.

“Will it be pie and ice cream to-night, Mother?” asked Lydia, remembering the words of Mary Ellen.

“No,” said Mrs. Blake with a laugh; “Indian pudding to-night.”

“That’s what Sammy would like,” said Lydia, sniffing hungrily. “He’s going to shoot Indians or be an Indian chief when he grows up. He doesn’t know which.”

In the studio a fire was blazing and crackling, and Lydia lay down on the rug to watch it and wait for Father to come home. Her head was whirling with all the pleasant happenings of the day. Even the flames seemed to have merry faces that smiled and nodded to her as they rose and fell.

“Red and orange and yellow fairies, and little blue ones too,” thought Lydia. “And they dance and they dance and they never stop. I wonder if they ever go to bed?” And with that Lydia shut her eyes and sailed off to sleep herself.

Miss Puss jumped down from the window-sill and sat before the fire to wash her face. But though she was busy she kept her eyes wide open, and every now and then she changed her place, because the fire was crackling harder than ever, and little yellow sparks were flying about. Suddenly an extra big spark lighted on the rug close beside Lydia. The little yellow light grew larger and larger, and soon it began to creep closer and closer to the sleeping little girl.

And what did wise Miss Puss do then?

Out into the kitchen she ran where Mother was making the Indian pudding.

“Meow! Meow!” said Miss Puss, pulling at Mrs. Blake’s apron with her paw. “Me-o-ow!”

“What is it, Miss Puss?” said Mother. “I never heard you cry like that before.”

“Meow!” answered Miss Puss, and back she ran into the studio. Mrs. Blake followed, and just in time, for the corner of the rug was blazing merrily, and Lydia was still sound, sound asleep.

It took only a moment to lift Lydia out of danger and to stamp down the flame, and luckily Mr. Blake came home in time to help. Lydia was neither frightened nor hurt, and indeed rather enjoyed the excitement, while every one was so proud of Miss Puss that they couldn’t praise and pet her too much.

After dinner, Mother, and Father, with Lydia on his lap, sat watching Miss Puss enjoy, as a reward, a saucer of cream for her supper.

“We must give her some fish to-morrow,” said Mr. Blake. “That’s what pussies like to eat, eh, Lydia?”

“Every time I see that hole in the rug I shall remember what Miss Puss did the very first night Lydia came to us,” said Mother, leaning forward to give Lydia’s hair an affectionate smooth.

“We’ll write a poem about it,” said Mr. Blake.

“This hole is to remind the Blakes

That for their own and Lydia’s sakes,

Miss Puss must dine on richest cream

And little silver canned sardine.”

“That’s lovely!” interrupted Lydia, clapping her hands, “and here’s some more:

“Because she saved me from burning up,

She is better than any doggy pup.”

“Well,” said Mr. Blake, holding the satisfied Lydia off at arm’s length to look at her, “why didn’t you tell me before that you were a poetess? You’ve given me a shock.” And to her delight he fanned himself as if quite overcome.

“I didn’t know it myself until just this minute,” said Lydia, trying to be modest under this praise. She settled back in his arms and reached out for Mrs. Blake’s hand.

“Isn’t it nice?” said she happily, looking from one face to the other. “Aren’t we going to have good times? I am. I know I am. They’ve begun now.”

“I feel sure you are right, Lydia,” answered Mrs. Blake promptly. “Now that you’ve come, I know we shall all have the very best times we’ve ever had in our lives. Just wait and see.”

[CHAPTER IV—A Picture and a Party]

Lydia’s good times began every morning when she opened her eyes and leaned over the edge of the bed to see how Lucy Locket had spent the night in her new white cradle.

And all day long Lydia was so busy that at night she had been known to fall asleep on Father’s lap upstairs, and not remember a single thing about going to bed at all. After breakfast she dried the dishes for her mother, and no one could dust a room any better than could Lydia Blake. Then out to market with Mother, and home again to wheel the doll carriage up and down the sunshiny street.

And who do you think rode in the carriage? It really belonged to Lucy Locket. But when day after day Miss Puss Whitetoes snuggled down on the cushions and held up her paws so that Lydia could fasten the carriage strap, Lydia couldn’t resist giving sly Miss Puss a ride. And Lucy Locket didn’t mind at all. She was a great sleepy-head, and liked nothing better than to lie in her cradle. Sometimes, too, Lydia would prop her up in the front window and wave to the smiling Lucy every time she wheeled the carriage past the house. At first Miss Puss would sit up straight like a baby, with her paws folded in front of her, but little by little her eyes would close and she would slip down until all you could see was one gray ear. And by that time Lydia herself was ready to go into the house.

And her afternoons were busy too. For one day Mr. Blake said,

“Lydia, would you like to give a present to Friend Morris?”

Yes, indeed, Lydia would.

“I can make nice horse-reins on a spool, Father,” said she, proud of her accomplishment.

“I know you can,” said Mr. Blake. “But I was wondering if Friend Morris wouldn’t like a picture of you dressed like a little Quaker girl. Mother will make the dress, just like the one Friend Morris wore when she was a little girl. I will paint the picture, and you shall give it to her. I believe Friend Morris would like that present.”

“I think she would too,” said Lydia, who herself liked the idea of dressing up. “It’s much nicer than horse-reins.”

So Mother made a little gray dress, with a white kerchief, and a white cap. And over the cap Lydia wore a little gray Quaker bonnet.

Then every afternoon, she stood very still while Mr. Blake painted the picture, looking from Lydia to the canvas and back again at Lydia.

“Couldn’t Miss Puss be in the picture, too?” asked Lydia. “She is all gray and white, just like me.”

So Miss Puss was put in the picture, sitting as still as could be at Lydia’s feet. Mr. Blake worked quickly, and so the picture was soon finished, and it happened that the very next day Lydia had a party. Mary Ellen and Sammy and Polly and little Tom were coming with Miss Martin to spend the afternoon.

When Lydia saw the children walking up the street, their friendly faces shining with soap and water and happy smiles, she hopped up and down in the window and waved both hands in greeting. If she had been a boy she would have turned a somersault, I know.

“Is this our quiet little Lydia?” Miss Martin asked Mrs. Blake, with a laugh. “What have you done to her?”

For Lydia was dragging the children into her bedroom, and telling them of Mother and Father and Miss Puss, and bidding them look at Lucy Locket’s cradle, and the doll carriage, and the picture-books, all in one breath, and before they even had time to take off their hats and coats. From the noise, and the confusion, and the rushing about, and the sound of many voices all talking at once, as Lydia took them from one end to the other of that little house, you might have thought that all twenty children from the Children’s Home had come visiting instead of four!

But after a little they quieted down, and when Mrs. Blake and Miss Martin peeped in at them, this peaceful scene met their eyes. Sammy was lying flat on the floor, lost in a picture-book of cowboys and Indians galloping madly over the Western plains. Polly was wheeling lazy Miss Puss up and down the hall. Over in a corner, sure that no one was looking at him, little Tom had turned his back upon the world, and was comfortably rocking Lucy Locket to sleep as he swayed to and fro in the little rocking-chair. In the closet, Lydia was proudly showing her Quaker dress to the admiring Mary Ellen. When she spied her mother—

“May I put it on?” she asked. “Mary Ellen thinks it’s almost as good as a Red Cross nurse.”

“Would you like to dress up as a nurse yourself this afternoon, Mary Ellen?” asked Mrs. Blake, who read a longing in Mary Ellen’s eye.

And in a twinkling you wouldn’t have known happy Mary Ellen. For a big cooking-apron covered her from neck to heels, and, with a Red Cross cap on her head, you couldn’t have found a better nurse if you had searched the whole world over. Polly was turned into a fine lady, in a silk dress, a lace cap, and three strings of beads about her neck. Such flauntings and preenings, such bowing and curtsying as the three little peacocks indulged in, what time they weren’t admiring themselves in the mirror! They looked up to see Mr. Blake laughing at them in the doorway. He made a low bow and shook them by the hand as if they had been real grown-up people.

“Aren’t you going to do anything for the boys?” he asked, for Sammy and Tom were looking on with envious eyes. “Come upstairs with me, boys. I’ve a trunkful of things to wear.” And so he had, to use when he was painting pictures.

Such shouting and laughing as now floated down from the studio! The little girls sat at the foot of the stairs, and every now and then they would creep a step higher. At last the door opened and they started up with a rush, but it was only Father speaking to Miss Martin.

“Do you mind if I put paint on their faces?” he asked.

“Not a bit,” said Miss Martin, who was used to all kinds of antics on the part of her brood, and who never said “no” when she could possibly answer “yes.”

“But not on their mouths, Father,” called Mother. “We haven’t had the real party yet.”

Then the door closed again, for hours and hours it seemed to Lydia and Polly and Mary Ellen, though Mother said it was only ten minutes by the clock.

But when Mr. Blake called “All aboard!” and they trooped up into the studio, they forgot their long wait in admiration at what they saw. For there stood an Indian, wearing a real deerskin over his shoulders, and with real deerskin leggings that ended in gay beaded moccasins. On his head was a gorgeous feather head-dress, and in his hands he carried a bow and arrow. His face was ornamented with spots and stripes and splashes of red and yellow and blue paint. He was not a very fierce-looking warrior, for he was grinning from ear to ear, and when the girls saw that smile, they knew.

“Sammy!” said Lydia and Polly and Mary Ellen in a breath.

As for Tom, there he stood in a black velvet cloak, and a big black hat, with green plumes drooping off the edge. He had a big black curling mustache that almost covered his face, but the pride of his heart was a pair of high, shiny, black boots, so big for him that he couldn’t take a step without holding on to them with both hands for fear of losing them off. He wore a short wooden sword thrust in his belt, and I really don’t know what the fine lady and the Quakeress would have done without that sword. For they immediately set sail down Studio River in a boat made of two chairs and a stool. Tom’s sword kept the alligators and crocodiles from climbing into the boat after them. But alas! they were attacked by an Indian brave, skulking in the woods. They were all but killed by him, but were speedily brought back to health by a Red Cross nurse, who happened to be taking a stroll that afternoon in those selfsame woods.

This was such a good game that they played it over and over again, until Mrs. Blake called them to come to the “real party,” and that they were quite ready to do. Sandwiches, little cakes, cups of milk disappeared like magic. They ate and ate and ate until even Sammy could eat no more.

Then there came a knock at the door, and who should it be but Friend Morris! She stared in surprise at all of them, but at Lydia most of all. And when Mr. Blake whispered in Lydia’s ear, and she led Friend Morris over to the picture Father had painted for her, it was a long time before Friend Morris had a word to say. She looked and looked at the picture, and she looked and looked at Lydia. Lydia couldn’t tell whether Friend Morris was going to laugh or cry.

“Don’t you like the present?” asked Lydia. “I wanted to make you horse-reins, but Father said you would like this better.”

“Like it, Friend Lydia?” said Mrs. Morris at last. “There isn’t another present in the whole world that I would like so well as this.”

Lydia and Father and Mother nodded and smiled at one another. They were so glad that Friend Morris was pleased, and that their present was a success.

Then, cozily, they all gathered round the open fire, and each of the children hung up an apple on a string to roast before the blaze. They turned and turned the string to cook the apples through and through, and when at last they were done, a grown person might have thought them burned in spots and raw in others, but the children ate them with the greatest relish.

And while they watched the apples twist and turn, and the flames rise and fall—

“Would thee like me to tell a story?” asked Friend Morris, with a hand on Lydia’s Quaker cap,—“a story my grandmother used to tell me, of a little Quaker girl who lived a long time ago?”

“Are there Indians in it?” demanded Sammy, admiring, with head on one side, his deerskin leggings stretched before him.

Friend Morris nodded, and every one settled back comfortably to hear the story she had to tell.

[CHAPTER V—The Story of Little Gwen]

“It was a long time ago,” began Friend Morris, “when a little Welsh girl named Gwen set sail from England, with her father and mother and a company of Friends, to cross the Atlantic Ocean and make a new home for themselves in America. When they were perhaps halfway across, Gwen had a new little brother, and as he was born on the ocean he was given the name ‘Seaborn.’

“Travel was slow in those days, and it seemed a long time to little Gwen before the ship reached land, and she could run and jump as much as she pleased on the solid ground, as she could not do on the crowded ship’s deck. But even then their travels were not over, for Gwen’s father, with a few other men and their families, pushed on into the woods where they meant to settle and build their homes.”

“Were there Indians in the woods?” asked Sammy eagerly.

“Yes, plenty of them, but all friendly to the Quakers,” answered Friend Morris. “I’m sorry for thee, Sammy, but there won’t be a single fight in this story.”

“Never mind,” said Sammy generously, “I’ll like to hear it just the same.”

“What kind of a house did Gwen have in the woods?” asked Mary Ellen, anxious to hear the story.

“No house at all, for a time,” said Friend Morris. “At first, each family chose its own tree, and under it they lived, glad of any shelter that would protect them from sun and rain.”

“Like the squirrels and rabbits,” murmured Lydia.

“Then, as the weather grew colder, they dug caves in the bank of the river, where with a roof of boughs and comfortable beds of leaves, they lived until they were able to build real houses of logs or stone.”

“That was nice,” said little Tom. “I’d like to live in a cave. I’d keep the bears out with my sword.”

“Gwen liked it, too, though I don’t know that she saw any bears,” answered Friend Morris. “But oh, how glad her mother was when their log house was finished. It had a ladder on the outside that led to the upper room, and Gwen learned to run up and down this ladder as quickly as a squirrel runs up a tree. Gwen’s father had built the house on the river-bank far away from his friends, for some day he meant to clear the land and have a large farm.

“There was little time for visiting in those busy days, and Gwen might have been lonely if it had not been for Seaborn. He was a fat roly-poly, a year old now, creeping and crawling into all kinds of mischief, and Gwen spent her spare moments trotting around after him. He was a good-natured baby, but now he was cutting his teeth, and this made him cross and fractious. And he cried. Oh! how he cried. His mother rubbed his gums with her thimble to help his teeth through, and he cried harder than ever. Gwen danced up and down and shook his home-made rattle, a gourd filled with dried peas, but he only pushed her away. And just then came the time for the big Friends’ Meeting to be held across the river in the town of Philadelphia.

“‘Father will go, but we must stay at home, Gwen,’ said her mother. ‘We meant to take thee, and Seaborn, too, but thee couldn’t ask me to take this crying baby anywhere.’

“‘How long would thee be gone, Mother? Two days and a night?’ asked Gwen. ‘Wouldn’t thee trust me to stay at home and take care of Seaborn?’

“And Gwen coaxed and wheedled, and wheedled and coaxed, until the next morning, feeling very important and grown-up, she saw her father and mother start across the river in their little boat, bound for the great Quarterly Meeting.

“That very afternoon Seaborn’s nap was so quiet and peaceful that Gwen wasn’t the least surprised, on peeping into his mouth when he woke, to see a big new tooth shining in that pink cavern. What if it was raining and they couldn’t go out of doors? It was easy enough to amuse Seaborn now.

“All day and all night it rained, and the next morning the sky was as gray and the rain came down as hard as ever. Gwen saw that the river was rising, and had overflowed its banks, and she hoped nothing would prevent Mother and Father from coming home that night. She was a little lonely, but not one bit frightened until, late in the afternoon, a narrow stream of water came under the door, and trickled slowly across the floor. Gwen ran to the window. There was water several inches deep all around the house, and she could see that it was rising every moment.”

“Oh dear,” said Polly, “what did she do?”

“This is what she did,” said Friend Morris. “The only way to go upstairs was by the ladder on the outside of the house. Gwen wrapped Seaborn in a shawl, and splashing through the water, she carried him upstairs. Then down she ran for milk and a bowl of cold porridge, and by that time the water was so deep she was afraid to go downstairs again.”

“I think she was a clever little girl to think and act so quickly,” said Mrs. Blake, who was enjoying the story quite as well as the children.

“She was a brave little girl, too,” went on Friend Morris. “She wrapped up warmly, and, lighting a candle, sat down in the doorway of the upper room to watch and wait. It grew darker and darker, and still the rain fell steadily. Seaborn was sound asleep, and Gwen was nodding, when suddenly she sat up with a jerk. A little boat was moving toward them over the water that covered the ground in front of the house, and to Gwen’s delight it stopped at the foot of the stairway ladder.

“‘Father,’ called Gwen, ‘Mother, has thee come home? Here we are, upstairs in the doorway.’

“But it was neither father nor mother who answered. A deep voice said, ‘Ugh! Missy come, I take.’ And Gwen looked down into the brown face of an Indian.”

“In his war paint, with a tomahawk?” asked Sammy, his own feathers standing out with interest.

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Morris, “in peaceful attire. He had often traded with Gwen’s father, and he knew the Quakers were having a Meeting over the river. So when he saw the light in the house, he came as a friend to help. He was called Lame Wolf, because he limped a little, and Gwen was very glad indeed to see him.

“‘I take,’ said Lame Wolf again, and held up his arm to beckon Gwen.

“Down the ladder she scrambled, with Seaborn in her arms, and off the canoe glided through the darkness. And that is the last sleepy little Gwen remembered until she woke the next morning with the sun shining in her face.

“She was lying in an Indian wigwam, with a fire burning in the middle of the floor, and beside it, crouching over the blaze, an old Indian squaw.

“‘My brother!’ cried Gwen, springing up; ‘where is Seaborn?’

“The old woman seemed to understand, for she grunted and pointed outside. And there, hanging from the low branch of a big tree, in company with several Indian babies, swung Seaborn.”

“Oh, didn’t it hurt?” asked Lydia, with a little shudder. “Did they hang him by the neck?”

“No, Lydia, no,” said Friend Morris, with a smile. “He was strapped in an Indian cradle, a flat board covered with skins and moss. And he seemed to like it, for he smiled and chuckled when he saw his sister.

“Gwen knew they must be in an Indian camp, for she saw many wigwams, and horses tethered about them. Already, groups of Indian squaws were at work, scraping animal skins and trimming leggings and moccasins with bright-colored beads. Little girls were going to and fro, carrying wood and water. Little brown boys ran past, with bows and arrows in their hands, off for a day’s play. Gwen was glad to see her friend, Lame Wolf, limping toward her. He said, ‘Eat! Come!’ and led the way back into the wigwam where the old squaw gave Gwen a bowl of soup.

“Then Lame Wolf lifted Seaborn down from the tree, and took them before the chief Big Bear. Big Bear listened to Lame Wolf’s story. He looked kindly at Gwen, motioned Lame Wolf to hang Seaborn on a near-by tree, where his own papoose swung in the shade, and then called to his little girl, Winonah, peeping shyly round the wigwam. She took Gwen by the hand and led her off to see her dolls.”

“Dolls?” said Polly and Lydia together. “Do little Indian girls have dolls?”

“Certainly they do. These dolls were made of deerskin, with painted face, beads for eyes, and one had a fine crop of horsehair and another one of feathers. Each doll had its cradle, too, and Gwen and the chief’s little daughter played happily together.

“In the afternoon, Seaborn and Papoose, all the name the chief’s little boy owned as yet, were taken from their cradles and put upon the ground to roll and tumble to their hearts’ content. Gwen and Winonah were near by watching them. Suddenly little Papoose began to choke and cough. His eyes grew big and round and he gasped for breath. Winonah ran for her mother and left Gwen alone. And then in a flash, Gwen knew what she must do. Once Seaborn had swallowed a button and it had lodged in his throat. Little Papoose must have put something in his mouth that was choking him now. So Gwen did as she had seen her mother do for Seaborn. She bravely put her fingers down poor little Papoose’s throat, grasped something, and drew it out. It was a smooth white pebble big enough to choke a dozen little Papooses!”

“She was as good as a Red Cross nurse,” said Mary Ellen excitedly, her eyes shining. “Didn’t Big Bear and little Papoose’s mother praise her for saving his life?”

“Yes, indeed, Mary Ellen,” answered Friend Morris. “They praised her, and they gave her presents when she went home the next day, and all her life they were her good friends. And that was really best of all.”

“What were the presents?” asked the children in chorus.

“An Indian dress for herself, a cradle for Seaborn, a doll in its little cradle, and beautiful skins as a present for her mother. And that is all my story,” ended Friend Morris, smiling down into the flushed faces gathered about her knee.

“Thank you, Friend Morris,” said Lydia, giving her apple a last twirl. “Gwen was a nice girl.”

“It was a good story,” said Sammy, with a nod of his feathered head, “even if there wasn’t any fighting in it.”

“Now, eat your apples, children,” said Miss Martin. “Here’s Alexander come to take us home, and somehow you must be turned back into boys and girls again before you can go out into the street.”

It was hard to go back to checked aprons and blouses after ribbons and feathers and war paint, but at last it was done. And Mary Ellen said “Thank you” for all of them when she put her arms round Mrs. Blake’s neck.

“Good-night,” said Mary Ellen. “And please do ask us soon again.”

[CHAPTER VI—Daffodils and Daisies]

“Daffydowndilly has come up to town,

In a yellow petticoat and a green gown,”

sang little Friend Lydia, as she pushed the doll carriage up and down in the warm spring sunshine. From the window of each little house in Lydia’s street, bowls of bright daffodils or tulips nodded to her as she passed, and the flower-beds in the near-by park were masses of scarlet and yellow bloom.

“It’s spring, Lucy Locket,” chattered Lydia. “That’s why you have a new hat and a new dress. Sit up straight and don’t crush your flowers.” And Lydia sat Lucy up and straightened her gay rose-covered straw bonnet.

“There’s Father coming,” went on Lydia. “Hold on tight, and we’ll go meet him.” And Lydia ran the carriage over the stones so fast that poor Lucy slipped down under the blanket quite out of sight, hat and all.

“IT’S SPRING, LUCY LOCKET,” CHATTERED LYDIA. “THAT’S WHY YOU HAVE A NEW HAT AND A NEW DRESS”

“Father!” called Lydia. “There’s something the matter with Miss Puss. She wouldn’t come riding to-day, and she ran away from me down cellar. She’s hiding behind a barrel and she won’t come out.”

“She probably doesn’t feel well,” said Mr. Blake, waiting for Lydia at the foot of their own steps. “I should leave her alone, if I were you, until she is better. You know when a cat is sick she goes off by herself, and I shouldn’t be surprised if that is why Miss Puss hides down cellar. Perhaps she has spring fever.” And Mr. Blake smiled down into Lydia’s anxious face.

“Can’t you give her some medicine?” she asked. “You made me well when I had a pain.”

“She may need a change of air,” answered Father seriously. “Suppose we take her to the country?”

“For a whole day, with lunch?”—and Lydia beamed at the thought.

“No, for the whole summer,” said Father, pinching Lydia’s cheek. “Lock the front door here and go.”

“When?” demanded Lydia, her eyes shining—“to-morrow? I’m ready. I have a new hat, and so has Lucy. Come up here, you poor child, and we’ll go in and tell Mother.” And Lydia dragged the long-suffering Lucy, still smiling, from under her blanket, and darted into the house, leaving Father to follow with the carriage.

“Mother, we’re all going to the country!” cried Lydia, running into the studio, where Mother was setting the table for lunch. “Maybe we’ll go to-morrow. Shall I pack my bag right away?”

Mrs. Blake sat down to laugh.

“Well, now that Father has told you, the sooner we go the better, I’m sure,” said she. “Pack your bag, if you like, but I don’t think we can be ready to go before ten days at least.”

“Ten days?” And Lydia looked as disappointed as if Mother had said ten years.

“That isn’t long,” said Father encouragingly. “Come here, and I’ll show you how short it is.”

Mr. Blake was busy with paper and scissors. Snip, snip, snip, and ten little paper dolls holding hands in a row were unfolded before Lydia’s curious eyes.

“Here’s a doll for every day,” said Mr. Blake. “Tear off one each morning until there is only one left, and that is the day we go to the country.” And Father set Lydia on his shoulder and wheeled gayly about the room.

“Come to lunch, you ridiculous pair,” said Mother, laughing at them. “Lydia, you haven’t asked yet where you are going, and so I’ll tell you. You are going up to Hyatt, where the children have their summer home, and our little house is just over the way from Friend Morris’s big house. And you can see Mary Ellen and Sammy and all of them every day if you like, and Father’s going to paint his masterpiece, and we’ll have the nicest summer we’ve ever had in all our lives.”

And Mother, out of breath, with cheeks as pink as Lucy Locket’s rosy hat, joined her “ridiculous pair” in a second dance of joy down the room and back to the luncheon table again.

For the next ten days Lydia was as busy as a bumble-bee. She packed and unpacked her new little traveling-bag no less than a dozen times. She trotted about on errands until Father took to calling her “Little Fetch-and-Carry.” She spent a great deal of time instructing Lucy Locket how to behave on the train, and she tenderly cared for the invalid Miss Puss, who was slowly recovering her former high spirits.

Day after day she tore off the paper dolls and put them away in a box for “Lucy to play with on the train,” and when at last there was only one doll left, Lydia placed a kiss upon her tiny paper cheek.

“You are the nicest one of all,” she whispered, “because to-day we go.”

And go they did, Father carrying a heavy suitcase and Lydia’s little bag, Mother with Miss Puss in a wicker basket, and Lydia bearing the proud Lucy Locket, decked in her finest and on her very best behavior. Lydia waved good-bye to Tony, the iceman, and stopped to tell Joe, the one-legged newsboy, who had a paper-stand on the corner under the Elevated Road, that she would be away all summer. Then after a short ride underground she found herself on the train, really bound for the country.

It is to be hoped that Lucy Locket and Miss Puss behaved on that train ride as well as they ought, for Lydia, with her nose pressed against the window-pane, was so interested in all she saw that she quite forgot her charges, and could scarcely believe it when Father said, “There’s the river, Lydia. We get off station after next.”

But sure enough, at station after next there stood Alexander ready to lift her down the high steps of the train, and to drive them all home along the River Road behind Friend Morris’s fine gray horses, Owen and Griff. Friend Morris was already settled for the summer, and she was watching for them on the steps of her broad veranda, overlooking the river, as Alexander swung round the drive and up to the door in fine style.

Lydia leaned from the carriage for a peep at her own house just across the road. She saw a low, white cottage, whose tiny porch, with a bench at either end, she decided at once would make a good place to play dolls. The vines over the porch fluttered a welcome to her, the trees waved and beckoned her to come, and Lydia could scarcely wait to eat her supper at Friend Morris’s before running over and visiting every nook and corner of the little house. It was not very large inside, but what of that when two big porches, one upstairs and one down, ran across the back of the house that overlooked the river.