Part 8 (1/2)

”Every day you must choose a card to send to yourself,” said he, ”and I will mail it for you.”

So at once, Lydia chose a picture of Friend Morris's house, and the next morning she was listening for the postman's whistle, when round the house he came on his bicycle and handed in the postcard. But what do you think sly Father had done? On the back of the card he had drawn a picture, a picture that made Lydia, and the friendly postman, and Mother, and every one who saw it laugh. For there was Lydia, after her fall, being helped up the stairs again by Lucy Locket, while round the top of the stairs peeped the head of the faithful slave. And Lydia's own head and ankle were wrapped round and round in yards and yards of bandage.

”Just like the soldiers at the war,” said the delighted Lydia.

So every morning she had a visit from the postman, who enjoyed the pictures quite as well as any one else. And they were funny. For once it was Lydia running away from a wolf straight into the open arms of the real Dr. Wolfe, and as he and Lydia were now the best of friends you may be sure they both enjoyed the joke. And again it was Miss Puss pus.h.i.+ng Lydia in the doll carriage as a return for past favors, or Lydia in a mad ride on the back of her slave, her hair blown in the wind, while tiny rabbit slaves cheered them on their way.

So the days slipped quickly by, and now Lydia could be carried about the house by Father, her ”second slave,” as he sometimes called himself in fun.

”Come, Lyddy Ann,” said he one morning, ”you are going to have a long trip to-day, over to Friend Morris's. She has some medicine for you.”

”Medicine?” said Lydia, making a wry face. ”I don't want any medicine, Father, I don't.”

”Yes, you do,” said Mr. Blake, picking her up; ”you want this kind. Its name is Maggie.”

”Maggie?” said Lydia, patting the top of Mr. Blake's head and crus.h.i.+ng his hat over one eye. ”Maggie Medicine, Maggie Medicine. I never heard of that kind before. Hurry, please, Father, take me quick, so I can see Maggie Medicine.”

CHAPTER VIII-Maggie Medicine

Friend Morris and Mrs. Blake sat rocking on the broad veranda as Mr.

Blake carried Lydia, waving and blowing kisses, across the road.

”Oh, Mother, what is Maggie Medicine?” called Lydia. ”Friend Morris, do you know?”

The ladies laughed and nodded, and Father said, ”Listen, Lydia.”

There was a sound of crunching gravel and the roll of wheels, and then round the corner of the house stepped a little dark-brown pony, drawing a light wicker basket wagon after him, and led by Alexander, who tried in vain to repress a proud smile.

”This is thy medicine, Friend Lydia,” said Friend Morris, coming forward to the veranda steps, ”a medicine that will bring back rosy cheeks to thee, I hope. Every day thee is to go for a ride-”

But Friend Morris got no farther, for Lydia lurched forward in Father's arms and caught her round the neck.

”I love thee, Friend Morris,” she whispered, ”and I love thy medicine.

And I will lend thee Lucy Locket for a whole day, and give thee three green candies for good luck beside.”

”I thank thee, little Quaker,” answered Friend Morris with a laugh, straightening her cap and patting Lydia's cheek. ”Now, Alexander has a lump of sugar for thee to give Maggie, and then he will take thee for a ride.”

So Lydia rather timidly fed Maggie a lump of sugar, and then Alexander drove her in triumph down the River Road as far as the village, where he bought a little whip with a red ribbon to be stuck in the front of Maggie's cart, but never to be used on her, at Lydia's earnest request.

And every pleasant day after that, Lydia went for a drive with Mother or Father or Alexander. One day Friend Deborah drove Lydia far up a shady back country road in search of a woman who wove rag rugs. Friend Morris wanted to order two blue-and-white rugs for the upper hall. The rug woman stood at her gate as she bargained with Friend Deborah, and Lydia could only stare at her in amazement, for the woman's hands were bright blue! She could scarcely wait until Maggie was trotting homeward to ask Friend Deborah if she had seen them, too.

Friend Deborah laughed.

”It's because she dyes, Lydia,” said she.

”Dies?” said Lydia, more puzzled than before.

”Yes, dyes the rags different colors, the rags that she uses for her rugs,” explained Friend Deborah, slapping the reins on Maggie's back.