Part 14 (1/2)

”I'll come and see you to-morrow,” whispered Lydia, with a last warm hug. ”I promise.”

And with that bit of comfort, Lydia went 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, finis.h.i.+ng 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. ”h.e.l.lo,” 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,”