The next morning when Lydia woke, the bump on her head felt as big as a
hen's egg. She lay feeling it proudly, and wishing that Mary Ellen could
see it. Mary Ellen was always so interested in bumps, and cuts, and
bruises, but the children's summer home, Robin Hill, would not open
until next week, and Lydia could only hope the bump was a lasting one.
She hoped, too, it would be bright red or purple, but when she climbed
out of bed in search of a mirror, poor little Lydia fell on the floor in
a heap and screamed with pain.
"My ankle! My ankle!" was all she could say.
And when Father saw the badly swollen ankle, he said:
"This won't do. I'll have to send for Dr. Wolfe."
But at these words, Lydia clung to Mother and began to scream again.
"No, no!" she cried, "I won't, I won't, I won't have Dr. Wolfe!"
"Why not?" asked Father in astonishment. "What's the matter with Dr.
Wolfe?"
"I'm afraid!" sobbed Lydia. "It's Red Riding Hood's wolf. I'm afraid!"
"Lydia," said Father impatiently, "you are talking nonsense. Dr. Wolfe
is an old friend of Friend Morris. He is as kind as he can be, and very
fond of little girls."
"Yes, fond of eating them," thought Lydia.
She didn't say this aloud, but she buried her head in her pillow and
refused to listen to any pleasant things about Dr. Wolfe. He was Red
Riding Hood's wolf, and she wouldn't see him, and her ankle hurt, and
she was the most miserable little girl in the world.
So Mr. Blake, shaking his head, went away, and that was really the best
thing he could do. For when Lydia was left alone she stopped crying, and
by the time Mother appeared with a breakfast tray, she was able to sit
up and eat a whole bowl of oatmeal without stopping. Her ankle did not
hurt unless she moved it, so, propped up with pillows, and looking at a
picture-book, she felt quite like herself again.
"Hello the house!" said a voice, and Lydia, peering through the piazza
railing, saw a man on the grass below looking up at her. He was short
and plump, with a little white beard and glittering gold-bowed
spectacles. He smiled up at Lydia and called:
"Good-morning! Is anybody home?"
"Yes, I am," answered Lydia. "I don't know where Mother and Father are.
I haven't seen them for a long time."
"Isn't it rather late to be in bed?" asked the little old gentleman.
"I've been up a long time myself, and had a walk by the river too."
"But I'm sick," said Lydia importantly; "I've hurt my head and my ankle.
I can't get up."
"You don't say so," said the old gentleman, interested at once. "Well,
in that case, I'd better come up."
And in a twinkling he was up the steps and sitting at the side of
Lydia's bed.
"How did you get such a bump on your head?" said he. "It's as handsome a
one as ever I saw, and I've seen a good many."
"I fell downstairs last night," answered Lydia, feeling her "handsome
bump" with fresh pleasure, and glad to tell her story. "I hurt my head
and my ankle. I can't walk."
"Then I'm the very man for you," returned the old gentleman cheerfully,
"for I'm a tinker. I tinker people--their heads, and their arms, and
their legs. It's well I happened along this morning. And now that I've
seen the bump on your head, if you're willing I'll have a look at your
ankle, too."
Lydia sat very still while the jolly tinker carefully felt of the
injured ankle, and asked her a question or two. She screwed up her face
with pain now and then, but she didn't shed a single tear. At last the
tinker nodded as if satisfied, and sat down again on the side of the
bed.
"In tinker talk," said he, "it's a strain. But the truth is that
overnight you've been bewitched. Yes," said the tinker gravely, "you've
been turned into the Princess-Without-Legs. And I have a pretty good
idea who did the mischief. But my magic is stronger than his magic, and
the first thing you know, you will be as well as ever again."
Lydia was listening to all this with eyes and mouth wide open.
"Who did it?" said she in a whisper. She felt as if she had stepped
inside a fairy book, and that if she spoke aloud she would step outside
again.
"My cousin," answered the old gentleman in a low voice, "my wicked
cousin. Did you ever hear the story of Red Riding Hood?"
Lydia nodded and leaned farther forward.
"The wolf in that story is my wicked cousin," said the old gentleman
sadly. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief and blew his nose
violently.
"A wolf," thought Lydia, "for a cousin. Why, I know who he is.--You are
Dr. Wolfe!" cried she, her voice loud with surprise. "Are you Dr.
Wolfe?"
"That's what they call me," admitted the tinker, "but if you don't care
for the name you may call me anything you like. I can't help what my
cousin does, you know. It's very hard to have him in the family. And I'm
not one single bit like him. Can't you see that?"
"Yes, I can," said Lydia pityingly, the tinker seemed so downcast. "You
can't help it, and I don't mind calling you Dr. Wolfe one bit. I'm sorry
for you." And she reached out and took his hand in hers.
"Then you forgive me for having such a cousin?" asked the anxious Dr.
Wolfe.
"Yes, I do," returned Lydia earnestly. "I do."
"Good," said the Doctor, shaking her hand. "And now we must set our
magic to work and cure that ankle. First of all, the
Princess-Without-Legs must have a slave." And he clapped his hands
together one, two, three times.
Lydia's eyes sparkled in anticipation. A slave! She fixed her eyes on
the doorway, and was very much disappointed at the appearance of her own
mother in answer to the summons.
"Not you, not you, Mrs. Blake," said Dr. Wolfe, laughing. "That was
meant to call the slave of the Princess-Without-Legs."
"Who?" asked Mrs. Blake, opening her eyes as wide as Lydia's. "Princess
who?"
"It's me, Mother, it's me," Lydia called out. "I'm the
Princess-Without-Legs, and this is Dr. Wolfe, and I'm going to have a
slave."
"Well," said Mrs. Blake, smiling at the Princess, "you are? And where is
the slave?"
"I'll fetch him," said Dr. Wolfe briskly, disappearing into the bedroom,
where Lydia could hear him talking in a low voice.
Presently he reappeared followed by Mr. Blake, and in his arms Dr. Wolfe
carried a big brown furry rabbit with glittering yellow glass eyes.
"Your slave, Princess," said Dr. Wolfe, putting him on the bed beside
Lydia, who fell to stroking the soft fur. "He will take his head off for
you if needs be, he's that faithful. Try and see."
Lydia gently lifted off the rabbit's head and peeped inside. He was
filled with red and green and white candies.
"You may think these are candies, Princess," said Dr. Wolfe with a
twinkle in his eye, "but they are far more than that. They are magic
pellets, an offering of your devoted slave. The red pellets will make
you brave if your ankle gives you pain. The white ones will keep you
happy and cheerful so long as you have to lie still. And the green ones
are for good luck. They must be taken three times a day, one of each
kind after each meal, and you must take your after-breakfast dose now."
Lydia picked out a red and a green and a white pellet, and putting
bunny's head on again, popped the red one into her mouth. She saw Dr.
Wolfe unrolling a wide white bandage, and she thought just then she
needed the red one most of all. But with Father's arm about her, and
Mother's hand in both of hers, Lydia bore the pain without crying, and
smiled bravely at the slave, whose yellow eyes gleamed sympathetically
at her ankle nicely bound in its white bandage.
And in the week that followed, a week that might have been long and
tiresome for a little girl who was not used to keeping still, the slave
of the Princess-Without-Legs did his work well. As a soft, comfortable
bedfellow, he was second only to Lucy Locket. He listened patiently to
the long stories Lydia spun for him. And his manners with Miss Puss
Whitetoes were truly remarkable, and should have put that rude cat to
shame. For though Miss Puss in the country was much more independent
than Miss Puss in the city, and not only declined to be cuddled, but
often refused to keep company with Lydia when she was all alone, still
Miss Puss was jealous of the slave, and could scarcely bear to see him
in his place of favor at Lydia's side. She growled and hissed and arched
her back at the sight, and many a good laugh Lydia had at her silly
behavior.
And Lydia had great comfort in the slave's magic pellets. With a red
candy in her mouth, she took pride in not crying or wincing when her
ankle was bandaged. She tried to remember that the white candies meant,
"No grumbling, no complaining, Lydia. Squeeze out a smile, Lydia. Don't
be a snarley-yow, Lydia." And they helped her over many moments when she
wanted to be cross and disagreeable.
But the green candies that brought good luck! Lydia often counted over
on her fingers what they had done for her.
"There's the three picture-puzzles that Friend Morris gave me, that's
one," she would say. "And the little boy and girl cookies that Friend
Deborah makes for me, that's two. And the boat with the wooden sailor
that Alexander whittled, that's three. Then there's the afghan for Lucy
Locket that Mother showed me how to knit. And Father's postcard game. Is
that number five or six?"
And Lydia would begin all over again counting on her fingers.
Of all these pastimes, Lydia liked best the afghan, and the postcard
game. The afghan was a gay striped affair--Roman, Mother called it--pink
and blue and yellow and white and black. Before you were tired of
working on pink it was time to begin on blue, and so it was always
interesting. To be sure, at first, Mother had to be near at hand to pick
up dropped stitches, but after a little practice Lydia could knit nicely
by herself, with a mishap only now and then.
Mr. Blake's postcard game was the most fun. One day, in he came with a
package of picture postcards, showing the river, the church, the bridge,
the schoolhouse, Crook Mountain where the river turned--all the pretty
spots in the town of Hyatt. On every one of these he wrote Lydia's name
and address, and put them into an empty box, with a little book of
stamps.
"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 pushing
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 crushing
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."