Lydia of the Pines | Page 4

of her teeth. He began to peel off a pair of brown overalls.
"What's for supper?" he asked.
"Round steak," said Lydia.
"For heaven's sake, don't let Liz touch it."
"I won't," said the child, piling up dishes deftly. "I'm going to give baby
her cup of milk, and then I'll fix it in my patent way."
Amos nodded. "You're a natural cook, like your mother." He paused,
one leg of his overalls off, disclosing his shiny black trousers. Lydia
carried the cup of milk toward the dining-room. From where he sat he
could see her kneel before little Patience, and hold the cup, while the
baby drank thirstily. Little motes of the sunset light danced on the two
curly golden heads. He looked from the children toward the dusty
kitchen table.

"What a hell of a mess Liz does keep going," he muttered. "Patience
would break her heart, if she knew. Oh! Patience, Patience!--"
Lydia came back with the empty cup. "Now for the steak," she
exclaimed. "Gosh, what a fire--"
She attacked the greasy stove with enthusiasm and in a short time a
savory smell of steak filled the house. Amos went into the dining-room
and sat in a rocking chair with little Patience and the balloon in his lap.
Old Lizzie hummed as she finished setting the table and Lydia whistled
as she seasoned the potatoes Lizzie had set to frying.
"Where'd she get the balloon?" asked Amos as Lydia brought in the
platter of meat.
"Margery gave it to her," answered the child. "Supper's ready."
"Got it at the circus, I suppose. I wish I could 'a' let you go, Lydia, but
at a dollar and a half a day, I swan I--"
"I didn't want to go," returned Lydia, sitting the baby in her high chair.
"I'm getting too big for circuses."
"Too big for a circus!" Her father looked at her with understanding
eyes. "I guess heaven is paved with lies like yours, Lydia. John Levine
will be over to-night. Get some of the mess dug out of the parlor, will
you, Lizzie?"
"Sure," said Lizzie, good-naturedly. Lydia sat opposite her father and
poured tea. The ancient maid of all work sat beside Patience and
dispensed the currant sauce and the cake.
The baby was half asleep before the meal was ended. "She didn't finish
her nap this afternoon," said Lydia. "I'll take her up to bed now and
finish my cake afterward."
She tugged the baby out of the high chair that was becoming too close a
fit and toiled with her up the narrow stairs that led from the entry.

The little sisters slept together in a slant-ceilinged bedroom. Here again
was dust and disorder, the floor covered with clothing and toys, the bed
unmade, the old fashioned mahogany bureau piled high with books,
brushes, and soiled teacups that had held the baby's milk.
There was still light enough to see by. Lydia stood Patience on the bed
and got her into her nightdress after gently persuading the baby to let
her fasten the balloon to the foot of the bed. Then she carried her to the
little rocker by the window and with a look that was the very essence of
motherhood began to rock the two year old to sleep. Presently there
floated down to Amos, smoking his pipe on the front step, Lydia's
childish, throaty contralto:
"I've reached the land of corn and wine With all its riches surely mine,
I've reached that beauteous shining shore, My heaven, my home, for
ever more."
A little pause, during which crickets shrilled, then, in a softer voice:
"Blow him again to me While my little one, while my pretty one
sleeps."
Another pause--and still more softly:
"Wreathe me no gaudy chaplet; Make it from simple flowers Plucked
from the lowly valley After the summer showers."
The coolness of the August wind touched Amos' face, "Oh! Patience,
Patience--" he murmured.
Lydia sat for a moment or two with the sleeping baby in her arms,
looking down on her with a curious gentle intentness. Then she rose
carefully, and as carefully deposited little Patience on the bed. This
done, she untied the balloon and carried it out with her to the little
landing. There was a window here into which the August moon was
beginning to shine. Lydia sat down with the balloon and felt of it
carefully.

"Aren't balloons the most wonderful things, almost as wonderful as
bubbles," she murmured. "I love the smell of them. Think what they
can do, how they can float, better than birds! How you want to squeeze
them but you don't dast! I'd rather have gone to the circus than to
heaven."
In a moment she heard steps and greetings and her father leading his
friend into the house.