CHAPTER VII.

THE LAKE OF LILIES.

“SIX’M.”

Teddy laughed, for that was what Posy said one day when a lady asked how old she was.

A whole year had passed since the twins began to go to school, and nearly a year since Pollio was hurt. People had almost forgotten the time when he crept on all-fours; for he was as active as ever now, indeed, the “spryest” boy in town.

But his lameness had done him a little good. He was more careful to obey his mother, and he was more thoughtful of sick people. He did not whoop quite so loud now when aunt Ann had the headache; and he was very kind indeed to Hop-clover, who never, never, would be able to walk without limping.

Hop-clover’s mother, who _wasn’t_ her mother, had run away; and sometimes the man she called father didn’t come home all night, and poor Hop-clover had to go to the neighbors’ houses to sleep: but she was a happy child, for all that, and still said to Posy, with a smile, “God will take care o’ _me_!” Her own mother had told her so, and she always believed it.

“Pollio, my son,” said Judge Pitcher one morning. Pollio came hobbling along, with a mallet under his arm for a make-believe crutch. He and Posy were playing croquet.

“Will you run to the ‘little woman’s’ store for me?”

The children called Miss Rounds “the little woman,” because she was small, and had a hump on her back.

“Come, Posy,” said Pollio, rushing for his hat.

“Wait a bit, my son. What are you going for?”

Pollio looked a little ashamed; but he always _was_ in such a hurry! He and Posy came back for the errand, and saw that their father was holding out his beautiful cream-colored meerschaum, with a lady’s head carved on the bowl. He wanted some tobacco.

“O papa!” said Posy, looking grieved.

“Well, darling, you needn’t go with brother unless you choose. But why don’t you want papa to smoke?”

Posy blushed, but could not answer.

“Come here, my love, and whisper it in my ear,” said her mother.

“So his mouth’ll be sweet to kiss, like Nunky’s,” whispered the little girl, with another blush.

“Dear papa! I wish you’d cure him of smoking. Will you try?” whispered mamma.

Posy looked up to see if she were in earnest.

“Yes, mamma, I’ll try,” said she gravely, and ran to join Pollio.

“What were you whispering about?”

“Oh, you’ll see!” replied Posy, with an air of importance. “Let _me_ buy the tobacco.”

When they reached “the little woman’s” store, Posy walked up to the counter ahead of Pollio, and said with much decision, “If you please’m, we want the worst tobacco you’ve got.”

Miss Rounds stared.

“The _worst_!” exclaimed she, looking along the row of glass boxes, and then back again at solemn Miss Posy. “Did your papa say so?”

“No’m; but we want to cure him of smoking.”

The little woman laughed, and the next time she saw the judge she told him about it.

“Well, well,” said he thoughtfully, “if my little daughter is taking me in hand, it is high time I tried to do better.”

He knew Posy did not like his pipe, and he began to think that was why Nunky got more of her kisses than he did. Dainty little Posy! The touch of her sweet, pure lips was very precious to her father.

He tried her that night. He did not take out his meerschaum; and she remained sitting on his knee, looking very happy, instead of slipping off, and running to Nunky. She kissed him, too, a great many times.

“You do love papa; don’t you, darling?”

“Oh, dearly I do! But I wish your head wasn’t so bald,” said Posy, patting it mournfully. “I’m afraid you’ll be my grandpa ’fore I know it.”

The judge laughed.

“Well, poor papa can’t help growing bald. But do you think he’s nicer when he doesn’t smoke?”

“Oh, ever and _ever_ so nicer!”

“And how many sweet kisses will you give me every day I’m good and don’t smoke?”

“Five hundred million thousand!” cried Posy, clapping her hands.

Papa smiled, and said that was one too many; and then he looked sober, for he had a great mind to begin, for Posy’s sake, to stop smoking. Dr. Field said the pipe was making him sick, and had often scolded; but Posy’s kisses touched him much more than the scoldings.

From this time he really broke off the habit entirely; and it was his little daughter who cured him.

One day Posy was crying on the street, as she was walking with Pollio; and, before she could wipe her eyes, Dr. Field crossed over, and asked,—

“Ah, what’s the matter, Mrs. Thumb?”

“She’s crying about your whiskers,” spoke up Pollio, who needn’t have told. “I said I was going to have some just like ’em when I grow up, and then she cried.”

Dr. Field laughed, and said,—

“Well, well, Mrs. Thumb, I suppose he will; but don’t cry about ’em till they begin to grow.”

If he hadn’t called her Mrs. Thumb! and if he hadn’t laughed! Dr. Field was a wise man in every thing else, but he didn’t understand little folks.

He had really crossed the street to say something delightful, for a wonder. The sabbath school was to have a picnic next day, and he wanted to be the one to tell the good news; but, in laughing at Posy, he had forgotten it.

The children went home. Pollio led Posy into the parlor, and was affectionately drying her eyes with the lace curtain, when Mr. Lane, the new minister, called. Eliza went for Mrs. Pitcher; and Posy was going too, but her brother held her back. He thought they both ought to stay and entertain the stranger till mamma came down.

“Good-morning, my dears,” said Mr. Lane, with a smile very different from Dr. Field’s: “I suppose this is Judge Pitcher’s little daughter?”

“Yes, sir,” said Posy, blushing.

“Me, too,” cried Pollio, stepping up, and offering his little hand. He was tired of being told that he did not look like the rest of the family, and meant to explain matters at once. “Folks think I’m French or Latin, but I’m not. I’m my father’s youngest son.”

“Oh! I’m very glad to hear it. Pardon me for not knowing you at once,” laughed the minister. “So you are this dear little girl’s brother?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Pollio, much pleased to hear her called “a dear little girl.” “Oh, I tell you, she’s a jolly good sister! Sometimes I think she’s better than ME!”

The minister laughed again, but very pleasantly. He had a fair, sunny face, and kind manner; and children always opened their little hearts to him at once. He took Posy on his knee, and she sat there quietly; blushing, it is true, but more for Pollio’s speeches than for fear of Mr. Lane. It _was_ strange what things that boy would say sometimes. Posy being so very silent, he thought _he_ ought to keep up the conversation: so he leaned his elbow on the minister’s other knee, and asked the first question that came into his little head:—

“How many p’licemen s’pose you could lick?” For he thought Mr. Lane looked pretty strong. Posy blushed; and so did Mrs. Pitcher, who was just entering the room.

But Mr. Lane only smiled. He knew a good deal about children; for he had three little boys of his own, and _they_ did not always talk properly.

He could not stay very long. He had called to invite all the family to a sail to-morrow on the Lake of Lilies. The whole sabbath school was to go in the cars to a steamboat, and spend the day on the water.

On hearing this, Pollio shouted. The Lake of Lilies!—he knew no more about it than he did about the hanging-gardens of Babylon; but that was all the better, “Hurrah! Going to the Lake of Lilies!”

He was _so_ happy that his mother was obliged to send him out of the room. Of course she couldn’t let him turn somersets before an entire stranger. Posy was just as happy as he was, but she didn’t make so much noise about it.

“What dear little creatures!” thought Mr. Lane, as they both left the room. “The boy is slightly rough, but his love for his sister atones for every thing.”

Pollio hadn’t known so long a day since his lameness. Have you ever observed how long the day always seems when something pleasant is going to happen to-morrow?

“I think a picnic is perfectly splendid! I’ve forgot what you pick, though,” said Posy, looking puzzled.

“You pick people’s cupboards, _I_ should say,” replied Eliza, measuring out sugar. “I hate the very sound of a picnic! I thought I had all I could do before, but now here’s queen-cake”—

“Oh, that’s right, ’Liza! And some strawb’ry-jelly tarts, and cherry-turnovers, and peach-pie!” cried Pollio, turning a somerset in the middle of the floor. Eliza winked her eyelashes, and said something about children’s being seen, and not heard. Pollio thought they had a right to be heard, and so do I at proper times; but I must say these little Pitchers did trouble Jane and Eliza too much. Jane was a saint, and could sweep a floor with children under her broom; but Eliza couldn’t make cake unless the kitchen was clear, and said so much about “going crazy,” and “wanting to fly,” that Pollio really thought she wasn’t quite right in her mind.

“No: not strawb’ry-jelly tarts, but plum-jelly tarts, and ice-cream, and—oh, dear, Posy! _you_ say what else.—I want a basketful, ’Liza, and Posy wants a basketful, and Teddy wants a basketful, and Edy wants”—

Before Pollio could finish, he was on the other side of the kitchen-door, and the door was shut in his face.

Eliza was ashamed of her temper next minute, and sent Posy after him with a hot cream-cake.

“Won’t Eliza make a queer angel, though, when she dies?” said Pollio, as he broke the cake in two pieces, to divide with Posy. “If she acts like this, they won’t have her in the parlor with the rest of the angels, _you’d_ better believe.”

But he always forgave Eliza very sweetly; and her putting him out of the kitchen never made any difference about his going right back again to be as troublesome as ever.