"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.

"h.e.l.lo the house!" said a voice, and Lydia, peering through the piazza railing, saw a man on the gra.s.s 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 b.u.mp 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 b.u.mp" 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 b.u.mp 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 antic.i.p.ation. 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 gla.s.s 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 st.i.tches, 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.