Part 9 (2/2)

But Lydia had no desire to pay that visit.

For a long time, Father's favorite question was, ”Lydia, what color feet do you prefer?” But Lydia could never see anything funny in that joke.

She quite agreed, however, with Friend Morris, who said when she heard the story:

”I think the most sensible member of the party was Maggie Medicine, who took thee safely there and back.”

And to this Friend Lydia always nodded ”yes.”

CHAPTER IX-Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend My Shoe

”Lydia,” called Mrs. Blake one morning, from the lower porch where she sat sewing, ”what makes you walk on the side of your foot?”

Lydia was carrying the heavy watering-can round to her garden-bed. There had been no rain for weeks, and the leaves and the gra.s.s and the flowers all bore a coating of fine dust. Last night Lydia had forgotten to water her garden, and now she was hurrying to do it before the sun crept round the corner of the house.

But at the sound of her mother's voice, she set the can on the gravel path and sat herself down beside it.

”Because, Mother, there's a hole in my shoe, and the pebbles get in,”

she answered. ”Look,” and she lifted her foot so that Mother could see the sole of her little canvas shoe.

”Sure enough, I see it,” said Mrs. Blake. ”Go in and change your shoes, Lydia, and then run up to the shoemaker's, and see whether he can mend this old pair. But water your garden first, and be sure you put the can away.”

Lydia hurried through her task, and then, stealing softly behind Mrs.

Blake, put her arms about her mother's neck.

”Mother,” she whispered, ”may I wear my 'brown bettys'? I'll be so careful of them.”

”Brown bettys” was Lydia's affectionate name for her new bronze slippers, slippers worn only on Sunday or upon special occasions, and Mrs. Blake raised her eyebrows at this request.

”Your best slippers?” said she. ”Why should you wear them to the shoemaker's? No, Lydia, I couldn't consider it. It wouldn't be suitable.”

”It would suit me very much,” pouted Lydia. ”The shoemaker would like to see them, and maybe I'll meet the minister. I want to wear them. I do.”

And Lydia, with a frown on her face, stood kicking the piazza railing and scowling at her mother.

Mrs. Blake sewed for a moment without speaking. Then she looked down the path to the river.

”Here comes your father,” she said quietly. ”Don't let him see you with such a look on your face. Go in at once, and put on your black 'criss-cross' shoes, and when you come out I will tell you how to go to the shoemaker's.”

As Lydia disappeared, Mr. Blake came slowly up the path, and threw himself into a porch hammock.

”Hot work, painting a masterpiece,” said he, with a yawn, and before Lydia came out in her black ”criss-cross” shoes, as she called her strapped slippers, her father had fallen asleep.

Every morning, before the clock struck three, Mr. Blake was on his way up the river, and by the time the sun rose he was already hard at work upon his picture, for the subject of ”the masterpiece” was Dawn on the River, and must be painted at dawn and at no other time. Naps followed such early rising as a matter of course, and Lydia, after a peep, came tiptoeing out on the porch as softly as could be for fear of wakening him. Her ill-humor had vanished, and she listened to her mother's directions with not a cloud on her face.

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