CHAPTER XII—Roger Comes Home

CHAPTER XII—Roger Comes Home“Mother, how long was I away?” asked Lydia that night after supper.The evenings grew cool now, and Mrs. Blake and Lydia were sitting indoors, while Mr. Blake walked up and down the gravel path, finishing his cigar. Lydia, on the window-seat, watched the red spark moving to and fro, while Mrs. Blake, with cheeks as pale as her soft white shawl, sat in the lamplight with a book on her lap.“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.Lydia was able now to make ready for bed by herself. When she was in her nightgown, she would call her mother, and Mrs. Blake would go upstairs to braid Lydia’s curls into two little pigtails, hear her evening prayers, and tuck her in bed with a good-night kiss. But this evening Lydia was putting off her bedtime as late as she could.“I’ll just go say good-night to Father, then,” she murmured gently, slipping down from the window-seat. She meant to take at least five minutes doing this, but the telephone rang and spoiled her plan.Mr. Blake answered it. “Hello,” said his voice from the hall. “Yes, Miss Martin. What’s that? Roger? No, he isn’t here. I’ll come up and help you.”Mr. Blake stepped into the doorway, hat in hand.“Miss Martin has telephoned that Roger has run away, and she thought he might possibly have found his way here. The rascal slipped out of bed, and they are pretty sure that he is not anywhere in the house. I’m going up to help her look for him. Perhaps I had better take Alexander with me, too,” he added.“Take me, Father, oh, take me!” cried Lydia, who had been listening with open eyes and ears. “I can find Roger, I know I can. Oh, take me with you!” And she rushed forward and clasped Mr. Blake about the knees.“Take you, little magnet,” said Mr. Blake, laughing; “I think Mother had better take you to bed.” And he was gone, leaving Lydia so wide-awake she never wanted to go to bed again, she told her mother.“You may wait until half-past eight,” said indulgent Mrs. Blake, “if there is no news by that time you must go to bed. But after that, as soon as I hear anything, I will come and tell you, if you are awake.”Lydia stationed herself in the window to watch. It was not much fun staring out into the black night, but anything was better than going to bed. And any moment Father might come home with news of Roger. Oh, how she wished the little clock would stop or Mother would fall asleep. But nothing happened, and at half-past eight she started upstairs, dragging one foot slowly after the other.Ten minutes later, Lydia was downstairs again in her nightgown, brush and comb in hand.“I thought you would like to braid my hair down here to-night, Mother,” said she, placing the cricket at Mrs. Blake’s feet, and seating herself in view of the front door.Mrs. Blake smiled at this new thoughtfulness. But she understood Lydia’s feelings, and in her sympathy she brushed and braided as slowly as she could. She herself wished Mr. Blake would return with news of the missing child. There were too many horses and automobiles, even at night, to make the roads safe for a “Wee Willie Winkie” to“Run through the town,Upstairs and downstairs,In his nightgown.”So they both were watching and listening when Mr. Blake’s step sounded on the porch. Lydia twitched the braid from her mother’s hands, and flew into the hall.In came Mr. Blake with the runaway in his arms. He placed him in Mrs. Blake’s lap where, winking and blinking his dark eyes in the lamplight, in his dew-stained night-clothes, he lay looking about him like a little white bird. He wore his new red felt slippers, now covered with dust, and he carried in his hand a tiny horse given him by one of the children at Robin Hill. He smiled when he saw his friend Lydia kneeling at his feet, and waved his red slippers at her in greeting. It was plain to be seen that he was well pleased with his evening’s work.“I found him marching down the road halfway between here and Robin Hill,” said Father, answering the question in Mrs. Blake’s eyes. “Alexander has gone on to tell Miss Martin. Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?” he went on. “Running away seems to be your specialty. Do you mean to stay here with us for a while, or will you get me up in the middle of the night to bring you back from another trip down the road?” And Mr. Blake smiled down at the contented little figure cuddled in Mrs. Blake’s lap.“You won’t run away again, will you, Roger?” asked Lydia coaxingly. “You want to stay here with me, don’t you?”Roger nodded solemnly.“Yes,” said he, “I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you forever.”And then he sneezed one, two, three times.“Mercy me!” said Mother. “Off to bed, both of you.”And, bundled in the white shawl, the triumphant Roger was borne upstairs, Lydia hopping alongside, delighted with this unexpected turn of affairs.“Roger is visiting us, Mother says,” explained Lydia the next morning, as she and Roger paid an early morning call upon Friend Deborah in her spotless kitchen, “but Roger says he has come to stay.”The little boy, his eyes fixed upon a bowl of peaches, nodded.“I like it here,” he said gravely. “I like Lydia. I like my new mother and father. I like peaches, too.”“You mustn’t say that!” cried Lydia, scandalized. “It isn’t polite. You mustn’t ask, ever.”“I didn’t ask,” returned Roger stoutly. “I only said I liked.”But Lydia sighed, as if she had all the cares of a large family upon her shoulders. Roger must be taught so many lessons in politeness, and his table manners needed constant attention.“Just watch me, Roger,” instructed Lydia. “Do just what I do.”But at last Roger tired of her corrections.“You have more spots at your place than I have,” he retorted between mouthfuls of mush. “And I didn’t cry when I took my medicine, and you did. And I wasn’t put to bed yesterday like you.” And with a flourish of his spoon, Roger placidly finished his supper, while the crestfallen Lydia slipped away to console herself with Lucy Locket, who never “answered back.”“It is good for her, I suppose,” said Mrs. Blake, who, with Mr. Blake, was an amused spectator of this scene. “I am afraid we were making her selfish. It isn’t well for a child to grow up alone. And they love each other dearly. Roger follows Lydia about like her shadow.”And so it was settled that Roger was to stay “forever” as he said.“He’s stopped visiting!” cried the delighted Lydia, flying over to Friend Morris with the news. “He’s stopped visiting, and he’s going to be my brother. Isn’t it nice?”Friend Morris nodded.“He setteth the solitary in families, little Friend Lydia,” was her reply.“Yes, Friend Morris,” answered Lydia politely, though she didn’t understand in the least what Friend Morris meant. “And I think we are all going home soon. Father’s ‘masterpiece’ is finished, and Miss Puss is so fat she can scarcely walk. It’s high time we went home, Mother says.”But before the last day came, Mr. Blake planned a farewell ride, a ride back in the country to see the famous waterfalls that people traveled from far and wide to view.Friend Morris was invited, and Deborah and Alexander, and all Robin Hill, too. So, early on a bright, crisp autumn afternoon they started, three carriage loads—in deference to Friend Morris, who did not like automobiles—full of happy, chattering children, and grown folks, happy, too, if in a quieter way.Deborah drove one carriage, with Mrs. Blake, on the back seat, watching over the safety of her special little flock. Alexander carefully drove Friend Morris, who had the quietest, best-behaved children placed in her charge, reliable children like Mary Ellen and Tom, wise, spectacled John and stolid English Alfie. The more harum-scarum boys and girls rode with Miss Martin and Mr. Blake, who took good care that Gus was placed next Miss Martin, and that Sammy sat beside him on the front seat.“Are we going to see a real Indian woman, Mr. Blake?” asked Sammy, bouncing with excitement. “Lydia said you said so.”“She will be at the toll-gate where we hitch the horses,” answered Mr. Blake. “At least, she has been there for years, and I suppose she is here this summer, too. In fact, I think she lives near by all the year round.”Sammy possessed his soul in such patience as he could summon, and strained his eyes up the road for the interesting figure long before it was possible for her to be in sight.Yes, the Indian woman was standing at the toll-gate, but Sammy was distinctly disappointed when he saw her. Neither did she improve upon closer inspection.She was merely a swarthy-skinned, black-haired woman, dressed in a checked gingham dress and blue gingham apron, neither particularly clean, and she answered to the name of Mrs. Jones. Fancy an Indian named Jones! Sammy could scarcely conceal his indignation, and stared at the unconscious Mrs. Jones with such resentment in his eye that Miss Martin hurried him swiftly through the toll-gate, and past the cabin where Indian souvenirs were displayed for sale.The party wandered along over the damp, mossy ground, and proceeded to survey the waterfalls, all of which were fortunately within easy walking distance.“I choose High Falls,” remarked little Tom, as they wended their way back toward the gate. “It’s so big and high, and dashes down so hard.”Most of the children had been greatly impressed by the huge, foaming cataract, that continually dashed its white length downward with a dull, booming roar. But Mary Ellen and Polly cast their vote for the delicate Bridal Veil; while Lydia, echoed by Roger, thought Silver Thread Falls the most beautiful of all.Near the gate were rough wooden tables and benches, and, once seated, Sammy thought somewhat better of Mrs. Jones when she served them with birch beer or sarsaparilla in thick mugs with handles.“Now,” said Mr. Blake, when the mugs were empty, “each one must choose an Indian souvenir, in memory of the day.”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.“Father,” said Lydia, nestling close to him, “do you like the name that Friend Morris and Roger call me? Would you want to be called Friend Lydia?”“I think it is a beautiful name,” answered Mr. Blake, looking tenderly down at the little face gazing up into his. “And no matter how long you live, or wherever you go, I shall always hope that somebody in the world will call you little Friend Lydia.”[image]The Riverside PressCAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTSU. S. A.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FRIEND LYDIA ***

“Mother, how long was I away?” asked Lydia that night after supper.

The evenings grew cool now, and Mrs. Blake and Lydia were sitting indoors, while Mr. Blake walked up and down the gravel path, finishing his cigar. Lydia, on the window-seat, watched the red spark moving to and fro, while Mrs. Blake, with cheeks as pale as her soft white shawl, sat in the lamplight with a book on her lap.

“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.

Lydia was able now to make ready for bed by herself. When she was in her nightgown, she would call her mother, and Mrs. Blake would go upstairs to braid Lydia’s curls into two little pigtails, hear her evening prayers, and tuck her in bed with a good-night kiss. But this evening Lydia was putting off her bedtime as late as she could.

“I’ll just go say good-night to Father, then,” she murmured gently, slipping down from the window-seat. She meant to take at least five minutes doing this, but the telephone rang and spoiled her plan.

Mr. Blake answered it. “Hello,” said his voice from the hall. “Yes, Miss Martin. What’s that? Roger? No, he isn’t here. I’ll come up and help you.”

Mr. Blake stepped into the doorway, hat in hand.

“Miss Martin has telephoned that Roger has run away, and she thought he might possibly have found his way here. The rascal slipped out of bed, and they are pretty sure that he is not anywhere in the house. I’m going up to help her look for him. Perhaps I had better take Alexander with me, too,” he added.

“Take me, Father, oh, take me!” cried Lydia, who had been listening with open eyes and ears. “I can find Roger, I know I can. Oh, take me with you!” And she rushed forward and clasped Mr. Blake about the knees.

“Take you, little magnet,” said Mr. Blake, laughing; “I think Mother had better take you to bed.” And he was gone, leaving Lydia so wide-awake she never wanted to go to bed again, she told her mother.

“You may wait until half-past eight,” said indulgent Mrs. Blake, “if there is no news by that time you must go to bed. But after that, as soon as I hear anything, I will come and tell you, if you are awake.”

Lydia stationed herself in the window to watch. It was not much fun staring out into the black night, but anything was better than going to bed. And any moment Father might come home with news of Roger. Oh, how she wished the little clock would stop or Mother would fall asleep. But nothing happened, and at half-past eight she started upstairs, dragging one foot slowly after the other.

Ten minutes later, Lydia was downstairs again in her nightgown, brush and comb in hand.

“I thought you would like to braid my hair down here to-night, Mother,” said she, placing the cricket at Mrs. Blake’s feet, and seating herself in view of the front door.

Mrs. Blake smiled at this new thoughtfulness. But she understood Lydia’s feelings, and in her sympathy she brushed and braided as slowly as she could. She herself wished Mr. Blake would return with news of the missing child. There were too many horses and automobiles, even at night, to make the roads safe for a “Wee Willie Winkie” to

“Run through the town,Upstairs and downstairs,In his nightgown.”

“Run through the town,

Upstairs and downstairs,

In his nightgown.”

So they both were watching and listening when Mr. Blake’s step sounded on the porch. Lydia twitched the braid from her mother’s hands, and flew into the hall.

In came Mr. Blake with the runaway in his arms. He placed him in Mrs. Blake’s lap where, winking and blinking his dark eyes in the lamplight, in his dew-stained night-clothes, he lay looking about him like a little white bird. He wore his new red felt slippers, now covered with dust, and he carried in his hand a tiny horse given him by one of the children at Robin Hill. He smiled when he saw his friend Lydia kneeling at his feet, and waved his red slippers at her in greeting. It was plain to be seen that he was well pleased with his evening’s work.

“I found him marching down the road halfway between here and Robin Hill,” said Father, answering the question in Mrs. Blake’s eyes. “Alexander has gone on to tell Miss Martin. Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?” he went on. “Running away seems to be your specialty. Do you mean to stay here with us for a while, or will you get me up in the middle of the night to bring you back from another trip down the road?” And Mr. Blake smiled down at the contented little figure cuddled in Mrs. Blake’s lap.

“You won’t run away again, will you, Roger?” asked Lydia coaxingly. “You want to stay here with me, don’t you?”

Roger nodded solemnly.

“Yes,” said he, “I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you forever.”

And then he sneezed one, two, three times.

“Mercy me!” said Mother. “Off to bed, both of you.”

And, bundled in the white shawl, the triumphant Roger was borne upstairs, Lydia hopping alongside, delighted with this unexpected turn of affairs.

“Roger is visiting us, Mother says,” explained Lydia the next morning, as she and Roger paid an early morning call upon Friend Deborah in her spotless kitchen, “but Roger says he has come to stay.”

The little boy, his eyes fixed upon a bowl of peaches, nodded.

“I like it here,” he said gravely. “I like Lydia. I like my new mother and father. I like peaches, too.”

“You mustn’t say that!” cried Lydia, scandalized. “It isn’t polite. You mustn’t ask, ever.”

“I didn’t ask,” returned Roger stoutly. “I only said I liked.”

But Lydia sighed, as if she had all the cares of a large family upon her shoulders. Roger must be taught so many lessons in politeness, and his table manners needed constant attention.

“Just watch me, Roger,” instructed Lydia. “Do just what I do.”

But at last Roger tired of her corrections.

“You have more spots at your place than I have,” he retorted between mouthfuls of mush. “And I didn’t cry when I took my medicine, and you did. And I wasn’t put to bed yesterday like you.” And with a flourish of his spoon, Roger placidly finished his supper, while the crestfallen Lydia slipped away to console herself with Lucy Locket, who never “answered back.”

“It is good for her, I suppose,” said Mrs. Blake, who, with Mr. Blake, was an amused spectator of this scene. “I am afraid we were making her selfish. It isn’t well for a child to grow up alone. And they love each other dearly. Roger follows Lydia about like her shadow.”

And so it was settled that Roger was to stay “forever” as he said.

“He’s stopped visiting!” cried the delighted Lydia, flying over to Friend Morris with the news. “He’s stopped visiting, and he’s going to be my brother. Isn’t it nice?”

Friend Morris nodded.

“He setteth the solitary in families, little Friend Lydia,” was her reply.

“Yes, Friend Morris,” answered Lydia politely, though she didn’t understand in the least what Friend Morris meant. “And I think we are all going home soon. Father’s ‘masterpiece’ is finished, and Miss Puss is so fat she can scarcely walk. It’s high time we went home, Mother says.”

But before the last day came, Mr. Blake planned a farewell ride, a ride back in the country to see the famous waterfalls that people traveled from far and wide to view.

Friend Morris was invited, and Deborah and Alexander, and all Robin Hill, too. So, early on a bright, crisp autumn afternoon they started, three carriage loads—in deference to Friend Morris, who did not like automobiles—full of happy, chattering children, and grown folks, happy, too, if in a quieter way.

Deborah drove one carriage, with Mrs. Blake, on the back seat, watching over the safety of her special little flock. Alexander carefully drove Friend Morris, who had the quietest, best-behaved children placed in her charge, reliable children like Mary Ellen and Tom, wise, spectacled John and stolid English Alfie. The more harum-scarum boys and girls rode with Miss Martin and Mr. Blake, who took good care that Gus was placed next Miss Martin, and that Sammy sat beside him on the front seat.

“Are we going to see a real Indian woman, Mr. Blake?” asked Sammy, bouncing with excitement. “Lydia said you said so.”

“She will be at the toll-gate where we hitch the horses,” answered Mr. Blake. “At least, she has been there for years, and I suppose she is here this summer, too. In fact, I think she lives near by all the year round.”

Sammy possessed his soul in such patience as he could summon, and strained his eyes up the road for the interesting figure long before it was possible for her to be in sight.

Yes, the Indian woman was standing at the toll-gate, but Sammy was distinctly disappointed when he saw her. Neither did she improve upon closer inspection.

She was merely a swarthy-skinned, black-haired woman, dressed in a checked gingham dress and blue gingham apron, neither particularly clean, and she answered to the name of Mrs. Jones. Fancy an Indian named Jones! Sammy could scarcely conceal his indignation, and stared at the unconscious Mrs. Jones with such resentment in his eye that Miss Martin hurried him swiftly through the toll-gate, and past the cabin where Indian souvenirs were displayed for sale.

The party wandered along over the damp, mossy ground, and proceeded to survey the waterfalls, all of which were fortunately within easy walking distance.

“I choose High Falls,” remarked little Tom, as they wended their way back toward the gate. “It’s so big and high, and dashes down so hard.”

Most of the children had been greatly impressed by the huge, foaming cataract, that continually dashed its white length downward with a dull, booming roar. But Mary Ellen and Polly cast their vote for the delicate Bridal Veil; while Lydia, echoed by Roger, thought Silver Thread Falls the most beautiful of all.

Near the gate were rough wooden tables and benches, and, once seated, Sammy thought somewhat better of Mrs. Jones when she served them with birch beer or sarsaparilla in thick mugs with handles.

“Now,” said Mr. Blake, when the mugs were empty, “each one must choose an Indian souvenir, in memory of the day.”

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.

“Father,” said Lydia, nestling close to him, “do you like the name that Friend Morris and Roger call me? Would you want to be called Friend Lydia?”

“I think it is a beautiful name,” answered Mr. Blake, looking tenderly down at the little face gazing up into his. “And no matter how long you live, or wherever you go, I shall always hope that somebody in the world will call you little Friend Lydia.”

[image]

The Riverside PressCAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTSU. S. A.

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

U. S. A.

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FRIEND LYDIA ***

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