Lydia of the Pines. Honoré Morrow

Table of Contents

      THE RAVISHED NEST

      "The young pine bends to the storm. The old pine breaks."—The Murmuring Pine.

      It would be difficult to say which enjoyed the doll house more, Lydia or Patience. It would be difficult to say which one was the more touched, Lizzie or Amos by the package each found on the breakfast table. Amos unwrapped his to find therein a pipe tray fashioned from cigar box wood and stained with Lydia's walnut dye. Lizzie's gift was a flat black pin-cushion, with "Lizzie, with love from Lydia," embroidered crazily on it in red. Florence Dombey showed no emotion over her gift, a string of red beads that had a curious resemblance to asparagus seed-pods, but she wore them gracefully and stared round-eyed at all the festivities. Lydia and Patience each wore pinned to her dress a cotton handkerchief, Lizzie's gift.

      John Levine appeared at noon, laden like a pack horse. This was his great opportunity during the year to do things for the Dudley children and he took full advantage of the moment. Books for Lydia, little toys for the baby, a pipe for Amos, a woolen dress pattern for Lizzie, a blue sailor suit for Lydia, a fur hood for Patience.

      John's thin, sallow face glowed, his black eyes gleamed as he watched the children unwrap the packages. In the midst of the excitement, Lydia shrieked.

      "My ducks! My ducks!" and bolted for the kitchen.

      "The pie!" cried Lizzie, panting after her.

      "Don't tell me they're spoiled!" groaned Amos, as with John and the baby, he followed into the kitchen.

      "Safe!" shouted Lydia, on her knees before the oven. "Just the pope's nose is scorched! The pie is perfect."

      "Let's eat before anything else happens," said Amos, nervously.

      "Lord!" said John Levine, "who'd miss spending Christmas where there are children? I'd a gotten out here to-day if I'd had to come barefooted."

      The dinner was eaten and pronounced perfect. The gifts were re-examined and re-admired. John Levine, with Lydia and Florence Dombey on his lap, Amos with the drowsy little Patience in his arms, and Lizzie, her tired hands folded across her comfortable stomach, sat round the base burner while the wind rose outside and the boom of the ice-locked lake filled the room from time to time.

      "Fearful cold when the ice cracks that way," said Amos.

      "'The owl, for all his feathers was a-cold,'" murmured Lydia.

      "Where'd you get that and what's the rest of it?" asked Levine.

      "Selected Gems," replied Lydia. "It's a book at school.

      "'St. Agnes Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

       The owl for all his feathers was a-cold;

       The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass

       And silent was the flock in woolly fold.'

      I forget the rest."

      The grown-ups glanced at each other over the children's heads.

      "Say your pretty Christmas poem you spoke at school, Lydia," suggested old Lizzie.

      Lydia rested her head back comfortably on John's shoulder and rambled on in her childish contralto.

      "Sing low, indeed: and softly bleat,

       You lambing ewes about her feet,

       Lest you should wake the child from sleep!

       No other hour so still and sweet

       Shall fall for Mary's heart to keep

       Until her death hour on her creep,

       Sing soft, the Eve of Mary."

      There was silence for a moment.

      "Why did you choose that one, young Lydia?" asked Levine.

      "I don't know. I seemed to like it," answered Lydia. "It's a girl's poem. Gosh, I've been happy to-day! Daddy, you thought we'd have an awful poor Christmas, didn't you? Poor old Daddy! Why, I've just felt all day as if my heart was on tip-toes."

      It had indeed been a high day for the child. Perhaps she remembered it for years after as one of her perfect days, because of the heart breaking days that followed.

      For little Patience for the first time in her tiny life was taken ill. For three or four days after Christmas she was feverish and cross with a hoarse cold. When Amos came home the fourth night, he thought she had the croup and sent Lydia pelting through the darkness for the dairy farmer's wife. Mrs. Norton, the mother of Billy, was not long in coming to a decision.

      "'Tain't regular croup. You go after the doctor, Mr. Dudley."

      Patience, frightened by her difficult breathing, would let no one but Lydia touch her. Under Mrs. Norton's supervision, she packed the baby in hot water bottles while Lizzie heated water and stoked the fires till the stove doors glowed red.

      Amos came back with the doctor about nine o'clock. Patience was in a stupor. The doctor sent Lydia away while he made his examination. The child clenched her fists and walked up and down the livingroom, cheeks scarlet, eyes blazing. Suddenly she dropped on her knees by the window and lifted her clasped hands to the stars.

      "God! God, up there!" she called. "If you let her die, I'll never pray to you again! Never! I warned You when You let mother die!"

      She remained a moment on her knees, staring at the stars while fragments of Sunday School lore flashed through her mind. "Our Father who art in heaven," she said. "No, that won't do. Suffer little children to come unto me. Oh, no, no."

      The door opened and Lizzie came out, tears-running down her cheeks.

       Lydia flew to her.

      "They say I got to tell you. Diphtheritic croup—her lungs is full—no hope."

      Lydia struck the kind old hand from her shoulder and dashed out of the house. She ran through the snow to a giant pine by the gate and beat her fists against it for how long she did not know. Pain in her bruised hands and the intense cold finally brought her to her senses. A self-control that was partly inherent and partly the result of too early knowledge of grief and of responsibility came to her rescue. With a long sigh, she walked steadily into the house and into the room where the baby sister lay in a stupor, breathing stertorously.

      The doctor and Amos were there. Mrs. Norton was now soothing Lizzie in the kitchen, now obeying the doctor's orders. Amos did not stir from his chair by the bed, nor speak a word, all that night. The doctor was in his shirt sleeves, prepared to fight as best he could.

      "Go out, Lydia," said Dr. Fulton, quietly.

      "She'll want me," replied the child.

      The doctor looked at Lydia keenly. He knew her well. He had ushered her as well as Patience into the world. He pulled her to him, with one hand, not relinquishing his hold on the baby's pulse with the other.

      "She's in a stupor and won't miss you, Lydia. She is not suffering at all. Now, I want you to go to bed like a good girl."

      "I won't," said Lydia, quietly.

      "Lydia," the doctor went on, as if he were talking to a grown person, "all your life you will be grateful to me, if I make you obey me now. I know those wild nerves of yours, too much and too early controlled. Lydia, go to bed!"

      Not because she feared him but because some knowledge beyond her years told her of his wisdom, Lydia turned, found Florence Dombey in the living-room and with her and a blanket, crept under her father's bed, into the farthest corner where she lay wide-eyed until dawn. Some one closed the door into the room then, and shortly, she fell asleep.

      In three days, the like of which are the longest, the shortest days of life, the house had returned to the remnant of its old routine. The place had been fumigated. Lydia had