"All day and all night it rained, and the next morning the sky was as gray and the rain came down as hard as ever. Gwen saw that the river was rising, and had overflowed its banks, and she hoped nothing would prevent Mother and Father from coming home that night. She was a little lonely, but not one bit frightened until, late in the afternoon, a narrow stream of water came under the door, and trickled slowly across the floor. Gwen ran to the window. There was water several inches deep all around the house, and she could see that it was rising every moment."

"Oh dear," said Polly, "what did she do?"

"This is what she did," said Friend Morris. "The only way to go upstairs was by the ladder on the outside of the house. Gwen wrapped Seaborn in a shawl, and splashing through the water, she carried him upstairs. Then down she ran for milk and a bowl of cold porridge, and by that time the water was so deep she was afraid to go downstairs again."

"I think she was a clever little girl to think and act so quickly," said Mrs. Blake, who was enjoying the story quite as well as the children.

"She was a brave little girl, too," went on Friend Morris. "She wrapped up warmly, and, lighting a candle, sat down in the doorway of the upper room to watch and wait. It grew darker and darker, and still the rain fell steadily. Seaborn was sound asleep, and Gwen was nodding, when suddenly she sat up with a jerk. A little boat was moving toward them over the water that covered the ground in front of the house, and to Gwen's delight it stopped at the foot of the stairway ladder.

"'Father,' called Gwen, 'Mother, has thee come home? Here we are, upstairs in the doorway.'

"But it was neither father nor mother who answered. A deep voice said, 'Ugh! Missy come, I take.' And Gwen looked down into the brown face of an Indian."

"In his war paint, with a tomahawk?" asked Sammy, his own feathers standing out with interest.

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Morris, "in peaceful attire. He had often traded with Gwen's father, and he knew the Quakers were having a Meeting over the river. So when he saw the light in the house, he came as a friend to help. He was called Lame Wolf, because he limped a little, and Gwen was very glad indeed to see him.

"'I take,' said Lame Wolf again, and held up his arm to beckon Gwen.

"Down the ladder she scrambled, with Seaborn in her arms, and off the canoe glided through the darkness. And that is the last sleepy little Gwen remembered until she woke the next morning with the sun shining in her face.

"She was lying in an Indian wigwam, with a fire burning in the middle of the floor, and beside it, crouching over the blaze, an old Indian squaw.

"'My brother!' cried Gwen, springing up; 'where is Seaborn?'

"The old woman seemed to understand, for she grunted and pointed outside. And there, hanging from the low branch of a big tree, in company with several Indian babies, swung Seaborn."

"Oh, didn't it hurt?" asked Lydia, with a little shudder. "Did they hang him by the neck?"

"No, Lydia, no," said Friend Morris, with a smile. "He was strapped in an Indian cradle, a flat board covered with skins and moss. And he seemed to like it, for he smiled and chuckled when he saw his sister.

"Gwen knew they must be in an Indian camp, for she saw many wigwams, and horses tethered about them. Already, groups of Indian squaws were at work, sc.r.a.ping animal skins and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g leggings and moccasins with bright-colored beads. Little girls were going to and fro, carrying wood and water. Little brown boys ran past, with bows and arrows in their hands, off for a day's play. Gwen was glad to see her friend, Lame Wolf, limping toward her. He said, 'Eat! Come!' and led the way back into the wigwam where the old squaw gave Gwen a bowl of soup.

"Then Lame Wolf lifted Seaborn down from the tree, and took them before the chief Big Bear. Big Bear listened to Lame Wolf's story. He looked kindly at Gwen, motioned Lame Wolf to hang Seaborn on a near-by tree, where his own papoose swung in the shade, and then called to his little girl, Winonah, peeping shyly round the wigwam. She took Gwen by the hand and led her off to see her dolls."

"Dolls?" said Polly and Lydia together. "Do little Indian girls have dolls?"

"Certainly they do. These dolls were made of deerskin, with painted face, beads for eyes, and one had a fine crop of horsehair and another one of feathers. Each doll had its cradle, too, and Gwen and the chief's little daughter played happily together.

"In the afternoon, Seaborn and Papoose, all the name the chief's little boy owned as yet, were taken from their cradles and put upon the ground to roll and tumble to their hearts' content. Gwen and Winonah were near by watching them. Suddenly little Papoose began to choke and cough. His eyes grew big and round and he gasped for breath. Winonah ran for her mother and left Gwen alone. And then in a flash, Gwen knew what she must do. Once Seaborn had swallowed a b.u.t.ton and it had lodged in his throat.

Little Papoose must have put something in his mouth that was choking him now. So Gwen did as she had seen her mother do for Seaborn. She bravely put her fingers down poor little Papoose's throat, grasped something, and drew it out. It was a smooth white pebble big enough to choke a dozen little Papooses!"

"She was as good as a Red Cross nurse," said Mary Ellen excitedly, her eyes shining. "Didn't Big Bear and little Papoose's mother praise her for saving his life?"

"Yes, indeed, Mary Ellen," answered Friend Morris. "They praised her, and they gave her presents when she went home the next day, and all her life they were her good friends. And that was really best of all."

"What were the presents?" asked the children in chorus.

"An Indian dress for herself, a cradle for Seaborn, a doll in its little cradle, and beautiful skins as a present for her mother. And that is all my story," ended Friend Morris, smiling down into the flushed faces gathered about her knee.

"Thank you, Friend Morris," said Lydia, giving her apple a last twirl.

"Gwen was a nice girl."

"It was a good story," said Sammy, with a nod of his feathered head, "even if there wasn't any fighting in it."

"Now, eat your apples, children," said Miss Martin. "Here's Alexander come to take us home, and somehow you must be turned back into boys and girls again before you can go out into the street."

It was hard to go back to checked ap.r.o.ns and blouses after ribbons and feathers and war paint, but at last it was done. And Mary Ellen said "Thank you" for all of them when she put her arms round Mrs. Blake's neck.

"Good-night," said Mary Ellen. "And please do ask us soon again."

CHAPTER VI-Daffodils and Daisies

"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 pa.s.sed, and the flower-beds in the near-by park were ma.s.ses 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"IT'S SPRING, LUCY LOCKET," CHATTERED LYDIA. "THAT'S WHY YOU HAVE A NEW HAT AND A NEW DRESS"_]

"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."