“Daffydowndilly has come up to town,

In a yellow petticoat and a green gown,”

sang little Friend Lydia, as she pushed the doll carriage up and down in the warm spring sunshine. From the window of each little house in Lydia’s street, bowls of bright daffodils or tulips nodded to her as she passed, and the flower-beds in the near-by park were masses of scarlet and yellow bloom.

“It’s spring, Lucy Locket,” chattered Lydia. “That’s why you have a new hat and a new dress. Sit up straight and don’t crush your flowers.” And Lydia sat Lucy up and straightened her gay rose-covered straw bonnet.

“There’s Father coming,” went on Lydia. “Hold on tight, and we’ll go meet him.” And Lydia ran the carriage over the stones so fast that poor Lucy slipped down under the blanket quite out of sight, hat and all.

“Father!” called Lydia. “There’s something the matter with Miss Puss. She wouldn’t come riding to-day, and she ran away from me down cellar. She’s hiding behind a barrel and she won’t come out.”

“She probably doesn’t feel well,” said Mr. Blake, waiting for Lydia at the foot of their own steps. “I should leave her alone, if I were you, until she is better. You know when a cat is sick she goes off by herself, and I shouldn’t be surprised if that is why Miss Puss hides down cellar. Perhaps she has spring fever.” And Mr. Blake smiled down into Lydia’s anxious face.

“Can’t you give her some medicine?” she asked. “You made me well when I had a pain.”

“She may need a change of air,” answered Father seriously. “Suppose we take her to the country?”

“For a whole day, with lunch?”—and Lydia beamed at the thought.

“No, for the whole summer,” said Father, pinching Lydia’s cheek. “Lock the front door here and go.”

“When?” demanded Lydia, her eyes shining—“to-morrow? I’m ready. I have a new hat, and so has Lucy. Come up here, you poor child, and we’ll go in and tell Mother.” And Lydia dragged the long-suffering Lucy, still smiling, from under her blanket, and darted into the house, leaving Father to follow with the carriage.

“Mother, we’re all going to the country!” cried Lydia, running into the studio, where Mother was setting the table for lunch. “Maybe we’ll go to-morrow. Shall I pack my bag right away?”

Mrs. Blake sat down to laugh.

“Well, now that Father has told you, the sooner we go the better, I’m sure,” said she. “Pack your bag, if you like, but I don’t think we can be ready to go before ten days at least.”

“Ten days?” And Lydia looked as disappointed as if Mother had said ten years.

“That isn’t long,” said Father encouragingly. “Come here, and I’ll show you how short it is.”

Mr. Blake was busy with paper and scissors. Snip, snip, snip, and ten little paper dolls holding hands in a row were unfolded before Lydia’s curious eyes.

“Here’s a doll for every day,” said Mr. Blake. “Tear off one each morning until there is only one left, and that is the day we go to the country.” And Father set Lydia on his shoulder and wheeled gayly about the room.

“Come to lunch, you ridiculous pair,” said Mother, laughing at them. “Lydia, you haven’t asked yet where you are going, and so I’ll tell you. You are going up to Hyatt, where the children have their summer home, and our little house is just over the way from Friend Morris’s big house. And you can see Mary Ellen and Sammy and all of them every day if you like, and Father’s going to paint his masterpiece, and we’ll have the nicest summer we’ve ever had in all our lives.”

And Mother, out of breath, with cheeks as pink as Lucy Locket’s rosy hat, joined her “ridiculous pair” in a second dance of joy down the room and back to the luncheon table again.

For the next ten days Lydia was as busy as a bumble-bee. She packed and unpacked her new little traveling-bag no less than a dozen times. She trotted about on errands until Father took to calling her “Little Fetch-and-Carry.” She spent a great deal of time instructing Lucy Locket how to behave on the train, and she tenderly cared for the invalid Miss Puss, who was slowly recovering her former high spirits.

Day after day she tore off the paper dolls and put them away in a box for “Lucy to play with on the train,” and when at last there was only one doll left, Lydia placed a kiss upon her tiny paper cheek.

“You are the nicest one of all,” she whispered, “because to-day we go.”

And go they did, Father carrying a heavy suitcase and Lydia’s little bag, Mother with Miss Puss in a wicker basket, and Lydia bearing the proud Lucy Locket, decked in her finest and on her very best behavior. Lydia waved good-bye to Tony, the iceman, and stopped to tell Joe, the one-legged newsboy, who had a paper-stand on the corner under the Elevated Road, that she would be away all summer. Then after a short ride underground she found herself on the train, really bound for the country.

It is to be hoped that Lucy Locket and Miss Puss behaved on that train ride as well as they ought, for Lydia, with her nose pressed against the window-pane, was so interested in all she saw that she quite forgot her charges, and could scarcely believe it when Father said, “There’s the river, Lydia. We get off station after next.”

But sure enough, at station after next there stood Alexander ready to lift her down the high steps of the train, and to drive them all home along the River Road behind Friend Morris’s fine gray horses, Owen and Griff. Friend Morris was already settled for the summer, and she was watching for them on the steps of her broad veranda, overlooking the river, as Alexander swung round the drive and up to the door in fine style.

Lydia leaned from the carriage for a peep at her own house just across the road. She saw a low, white cottage, whose tiny porch, with a bench at either end, she decided at once would make a good place to play dolls. The vines over the porch fluttered a welcome to her, the trees waved and beckoned her to come, and Lydia could scarcely wait to eat her supper at Friend Morris’s before running over and visiting every nook and corner of the little house. It was not very large inside, but what of that when two big porches, one upstairs and one down, ran across the back of the house that overlooked the river.

“The downstairs porch is where we spend our days,” said Mother, “and the upstairs porch is where we spend our nights.”

“Me, too?” asked Lydia, all excitement at the prospect.

“You, too, Lyddy Ann,” answered Father, “and Lucy Locket and Miss Puss likewise, unless she chooses to spend her nights in the catnip bed.”

For Miss Puss had scented the bed of catnip round the corner of the house, and was rolling and tumbling in it to her heart’s content. Mr. Blake and Lydia stood enjoying the sight, and Father pointed out a little garden bed that was to be Lydia’s very own.

“Will you plant flowers or vegetables?” asked he.

“Flowers, please,” said Lydia, her face aglow with pleasure. “Pink and red and blue and yellow ones I’d like.”

“To-morrow, then, we’ll spade it up,” said Father. “And now we had better be off to bed if we are going to do gardening in the morning.”

Out on the upper porch stood the three beds in a row. Lydia, in her long nightgown, hopped about, so excited it was hard to think of going to sleep.

But Mother tucked her under the warm blankets, and soon the sleeping-porch was as quiet as the soft, dark night all about it.

But Lydia was not asleep. She lay watching the twinkling stars and waving tree-tops, and suddenly the thought of Lucy Locket popped into her head. Lydia remembered just where she had left her, lying on the table in the hall below. Poor Lucy, missing her own white cradle, no doubt, to say nothing of her little mother’s care.

Softly Lydia crept out of bed and pattered across the sleeping-porch. She groped her way through the bedroom and started downstairs. And then, somehow, she tripped over her long nightgown, and down the stairs she crashed head first.

It seemed as if Father reached the foot of the stairs almost as soon as Lydia did. He picked her up carefully, and felt all over for broken bones, and then he carried the sobbing Lydia upstairs, and tenderly placed her in Mother’s arms.

“My head! My foot! Lucy Locket!” sobbed Lydia.

There was a big lump on her head, and out came the bottle of witch hazel to be used with soothing effect. The bruised ankle was gently rubbed with something that smelled like furniture polish.

And then Lydia was tucked in bed again, this time with Lucy Locket beside her.

But instead of going to sleep, Lydia began to cry. She was tired, and excited, and frightened by her fall. At first she cried so softly that only Lucy Locket knew it, but the sobs grew so loud that in a moment Father said, “Lydia, crying?”

A sniff was all Lydia’s answer, but it said, “Yes, Father, I’m crying,” as plainly as could be.

Mr. Blake put out his strong right arm and pulled Lydia’s little bed close beside his own.

“What’s the trouble, Lydia?” said he gently.

“I’m afraid,” said Lydia, with another sniff. “I’m afraid a big fish will come out of the river and get me.” And she really thought that was the reason she was crying.

Mr. Blake hunted for Lydia’s hand and found it.

“In the first place,” said he, “there isn’t any such fish. And in the second place, if he comes I won’t let him hurt you. Now will you try to go to sleep?”

“Yes,” said Lydia, “I will.”

So holding fast to Father with one hand, and to Lucy Locket with the other, Lydia at last fell asleep.