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,” 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.”