Mr. Blake came down the road to meet them, and in his hand he carried Lydia’s little traveling-bag.

“I’m going away,” thought Lydia. “Where am I going? And what will become of Roger?”

As Mr. Blake drew nearer he smiled and waved the bag in the air.

“You are going visiting, Lydia,” he called cheerfully. “But who is your new little friend?”

“Oh, Father, it’s Roger,” answered Lydia, forgetting her own affairs in her interest in the little boy who stood peeping shyly over her shoulder. “He wanted so to come with me, and Mr. Jolly didn’t know what to do, so I said you would fix it. And Mr. Jolly will come and see you to-night, and I was to tell you all about it.”

Mr. Blake sat down on the stone wall at the side of the road, and listened to the tale Lydia had to tell.

“Let me see your arm, son,” said he gently, when Lydia had finished. “So that is where the big boy pinched you, is it? Have you any more places like that?”

Roger nodded, and put his hand on his side and his back.

“He hit me with the harness,” said he, with trembling lip. “I want to stay with her. I won’t go back.” And Roger smeared away his tears with the back of a grimy little hand, while with the other he clutched his new friend Lydia.

“No, of course you won’t go back, son,” answered Mr. Blake, pursing up his lips as if to whistle. “We can do better by you than that. My little girl is going up to Robin Hill to make a visit, and you shall go along with her. Miss Martin will simply have two visitors instead of one.” And Mr. Blake smiled down into the serious little faces looking up into his.

“Mother’s head is worse, Lydia,” he explained, “and Dr. Wolfe isn’t sure what the trouble is. So you are to make a little visit at Robin Hill, and I will telephone every day, and come to see you when I can.”

“But won’t Mother want me to wait on her?” asked Lydia anxiously. “Is she very sick?”

“I hope not,” answered Father, in such a cheerful voice that Lydia felt better immediately. “Don’t fret. You will probably be home in a few days, and you know you will want to stay, anyway, until Roger feels at home. Here comes Alexander; he will take you up. And I packed your bag myself, Lydia. I think I put everything in. I know I packed your favorite brown slippers, and Lucy Locket is on top of everything.”

Mr. Blake was lifting the children into the cart as he spoke. He talked in a low voice to Alexander, and then with a kiss to Lydia, and a pat upon Roger’s black pate, he started back to the house, and off they drove.

“They are my ‘brown bettys’!” cried Lydia after him. “Tell Mother I’ll wear them only on Sunday.”

Maggie Medicine trotted bravely up the road and under the big oak trees that made the driveway at Robin Hill such a shady and comfortable place to play. There were no children in sight, but Miss Martin was watching for them on the broad veranda, and she came forward to help them out of the cart.

“So this is Roger,” said she, smiling and holding out her arms to the forlorn child, who willingly crept into their comfortable shelter. “Your father has just telephoned me, Lydia, so I know all about him. You will find the children in the barn, I think.” And Miss Martin carried Roger off for the bath and the nap that the tired, dusty little boy needed sorely.

Lydia gladly left her charge in such good hands, and with a hasty good-bye to Alexander, ran off to find her friends. She was glad to be visiting, and she thought Robin Hill beautiful, and indeed it was as pleasant a place to spend the summer as could be found anywhere. The living-rooms were spacious and cool, the bedrooms sunny and airy. A big attic, meant for play on rainy days, crowned the top of the house, and there each child had a place for the treasures that would otherwise have been strewn from one end to the other of Robin Hill, or have been banished altogether. Sticks, stones, weeds, cocoons, acorns, “Anything that can’t walk, swim, or fly,” was Miss Martin’s decree. “Live-stock must go into the barn.”

So out in the barn lived Snowball and Nig, the white and the black rabbits given Sammy by Dr. Wolfe. The first day, yes, the first hour of Sammy’s arrival at Robin Hill, in trying to climb the old apple-tree, down he came to the ground on his head, and four big stitches were set by the doctor in order to mend his broken crown. Sammy bore the pain like a hero, and not until it was all over and he was left alone with Miss Martin did he shed a few salt drops upon her friendly shoulder. But the sore head was soon forgotten, when that very afternoon had come the two rabbits to be Sammy’s special charge and delight throughout his summer stay. Friendly old Billy, the horse, and the two placid white cows, Brindle and Bossy, were quite accustomed to their many little visitors, and submitted with a good grace to be patted, and stroked, and fed hay and lumps of sugar.

Back of the house lay the garden, and there each child large enough to wield rake and hoe had his own little plot. During the first weeks of spring planting, Miss Martin was overwhelmed with promises of peas and beans and radishes for the Robin Hill table. Sammy and Polly and Mary Ellen had a scheme whereby, if their crops were as successful as they hoped, they would sell their produce to the village grocer, and with the proceeds make an interesting purchase.

“We’ll buy a piano,” said Polly.

“A gold chain for Miss Martin,” said Mary Ellen.

“A hand-organ,” said Sammy, in a burst of inspiration, “and travel all over, taking pennies in a hat. We’ll be rich.” And Sammy smacked his lips at the thought.

To-day, after dinner, at which Roger did not appear, Lydia, with arms about Mary Ellen and Polly, visited the pets, and listened to all the hopes and plans of her friends, not, however, without telling a few of her own.

Tom, growing brown and rosy and more boyish every day, led her to the swing lately put up in the woodshed, and gave her a swing in his finest style, running under and back in a manly fashion that he much admired. He seldom put his finger in his mouth now, and resorted to General Pershing, Jr., for comfort only on the rare occasions when in disgrace.

Sammy graciously permitted Lydia to feed Snowball and Nig with cabbage leaves, and her admiration of their wiggling pink noses so moved him that he offered to show his cut without asking a favor in return, quite contrary to his usual custom.

Lydia missed two of her old friends. Luley and Lena had gone away to a new home of their own, and Polly and Mary Ellen excitedly told of their call last week at Robin Hill.

“They came in an automobile,” said Polly, much impressed, “and their hair was done in curls, just alike, and they wore beautiful big pink hair-ribbons. And their new mother’s hat was just dripping with feathers. She doesn’t call them Luley and Lena any more at all. Their names are Eloise and Eleanore.” And Polly rolled up her eyes at the thought of her little friends’ grandeur.

“I shouldn’t think they would know who they are, changing their names that way,” said downright Mary Ellen. “And their clothes were so fine they didn’t dare play with us, either. I don’t believe they have any better times than we do.” And Mary Ellen surveyed with complete satisfaction her dark gingham dress and stout little shoes. The children no longer dressed alike in blue-and-white, and Mary Ellen was particularly proud of her blue-and-green Scotch plaid.

“Oh, I do,” said Polly, not at all influenced by this good sense. “I think it’s lovely to change your name. I’d give anything if mine was Edna Muriel. Don’t you think that’s a pretty name, Lydia?”

“Yes, lovely,” answered Lydia absently. She was thinking of her bronze slippers, and wondering what Mary Ellen would say to them. Perhaps she would scorn her for taking such pleasure in them. It was quite true that they were not meant for rough play.

But Nurse Norrie was calling them in to supper, and Lydia could only say in a low voice to Polly as they lagged behind Mary Ellen on their way to the house:

“I’ve a lovely pair of bronze slippers with me, and you shall try them on after supper.”

Polly nodded, her eyes dancing, and as they hurried out on the porch after washing face and hands, she pinched Lydia’s arm gently, by way of reminder of their secret, as she passed her on the way to her seat.

The table was set on the back veranda where it was cool and shady, and each boy and girl stood quietly behind his or her chair until grace was said and Miss Martin had taken her seat. To-night Miss Martin came leading little Roger whose long nap was only just over, and on her other side stood Tom, his heart in a flutter. It was his turn for the first time to say grace. Bravely he started off, but to his great surprise he heard himself saying:

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray, Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.”

He heard Sammy snicker, he felt the little girl beside him shake with laughter, so Tom stopped short.

“No, that isn’t right,” said he aloud.

He thought for a moment, but not a word of the little grace so carefully taught him came back to help him out. Suddenly, his Bible verse of last Sunday flashed upon his mind.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” repeated little Tom boldly, and then he turned to pull out Miss Martin’s chair as a sign that his part was done.

“Was that all right?” he whispered audibly; “I forgot the other one.”

There was a strange look about Miss Martin’s mouth, and she passed her handkerchief over her face before answering.

“Very nice, Tom, to think of another verse so quickly, since you forgot the grace.” She spoke so that the whole table could hear, and her eyes were fixed on Sammy, whose face was red and who was making queer noises. “I wish I felt sure we all could do that,” she added pointedly.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sammy, choking back his laugh. “I mean, no, ma’am, I don’t think I could.” And Sammy fell to work upon the bowl of oatmeal before him, glad to escape the gaze of so many eyes.

Roger looked slowly round the long table laden with plates of brown and white bread, pitchers of foamy milk, bowls of apple-sauce. His eyes traveled down one side of the table, past his friend Lydia, to Sammy, intent now upon his supper; flyaway Cora, never still a minute; big Joe, little Joe, Josephine, and Joey; freckled little Freddy; and rested upon Mary Ellen presiding sedately over the foot of the table. Up the other side he came, looking at little English Alfie; spectacled John; Louise and Minette, the tiny, black-eyed French refugees; honest American William, with round blue eyes and snub nose; fat little Gus, whose pranks and hairbreadth escapes already rivaled those of Sammy; baby Celia; Polly, smiling and nodding mysteriously at Lydia; and lastly at Tom, who, duty done, was thoroughly enjoying his well-earned meal. Eighteen hearty and happy little boys and girls they were, kindly and well disposed toward him, too, for they smiled and nodded at the newcomer, and attentively saw that all his wants were supplied.

“Aren’t they nice?” asked Lydia, following Roger’s gaze. “I knew you would like the boys. They won’t hurt you. And the girls are fun, too.” And Lydia beamed proudly round at her friends, old and new.

“I’ll take you out to see my rabbits after supper, if you like,” offered Sammy, extra polite because of his recent behavior.

“And I’ll give you a swing,” volunteered Tom bashfully.

The boys were nice, Roger thought, and when, after supper, Lydia whispered hastily, “You go with the boys now, Roger, and I’ll come in a minute; I only want to show something to Polly,” he trotted off contentedly, and was soon engrossed in the bunnies, who obligingly devoured cabbage leaves, with seemingly no limit to their appetite.

Lydia and Polly hastened upstairs and into the room where Lydia was to sleep that night with two other little girls. Her bag had been unpacked, and her clothes neatly disposed in one of the small cupboards that lined the wall. On the window-sill lay Lucy Locket, and beside her only one of the bronze slippers.

“Why, I don’t see it anywhere, Polly,” said Lydia, after a third search of the cupboard for the missing shoe. “You help me look.”

The girls made a careful search, but no bronze slipper was to be found.

“I know I brought them both,” said Lydia at last, her face puckering. “Father said so, and I looked in the bag myself.”

“Perhaps some one has taken it,” was all Polly, her eyes big and round, could suggest.

“I know who did it!” exclaimed Lydia, her head in a whirl at her loss. “It’s that Mary Ellen. She took my slipper because she didn’t like them, and I’m going to tell Miss Martin.”

And in a twinkling, Lydia was running down the hall calling:

“Miss Martin! Miss Martin! One of my ‘brown bettys’ is gone, and Mary Ellen took it! Mary Ellen has taken one of my ‘brown bettys’!”