The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation by Annie Fellows Johnston

IT was nearly noon when Lloyd wakened next morning. Her head ached, and / she wondered dully how anybody could feel lively enough to sing as Aunt / Cindy was doing, somewhere back in the servants' quarters. The sound of / a squeaking wheelbarrow had wakened her. Alec was trundling it around / the house, with the parrot perched on it. The parrot loved to ride, and / its silly laugh at every jolt of the squeaking barrow usually amused / Lloyd, but to-day its harsh chatter annoyed her.

"Oh, deah!" she groaned, sitting up in bed and yawning. "I feel as if I / could sleep for a week. I wouldn't get up at all if it wasn't for Katie / Mallard's pah'ty. I hate this day-aftah-Christmas feeling, as if the / bottom had dropped out of everything."

She dressed slowly and went down-stairs. "Where's mothah, Mom Beck?" she / asked, pausing in the dining-room door. The old coloured woman was / arranging flowers for the lunch-table.

"She's done gone ovah to Rollington, honey, with the old Cun'l. Walkah's / mothah is sick, and sent for 'em. I'm lookin' for 'em to come home any / minute now. Come right along in, honey. I've kep' yoah breakfus' good / and hot."

"I don't want anything to eat. I'm not hungry now. I'd rathah wait till / lunch. Where's Betty, Mom Beck?"

"Now listen to that!" ejaculated the old woman, sharply. "Don't you / remembah? She went off on the early train this mawning to that place you / all calls the Cuckoo's Nest. I packed her satchel befoah daylight."

"I had forgotten she was going," exclaimed Lloyd, turning to the window / with a discontented expression, which only the snowbirds on the lawn / could see. She had come down-stairs expecting to talk over all the / happenings of the previous day with Betty, and to find her gone gave her / a vague sense of injury. She knew the feeling was unreasonable, but she / could not shake it off.

The flash of the new ring gave her a momentary pleasure, but she was in / a mood that nothing could please her long. When she strolled into the / drawing-room, everything was in spotless order, and so quiet that the / stillness was oppressive. Even the fire burned with a steady, noiseless / glow, without the usual crackle, and the ashes fell on the hearth with / velvety softness.

Some of her new books lay on a side table. She picked them up and / glanced through them, catching at a paragraph here and there. But one / after another she laid them down. She was not in a mood for reading. / Then she took a candied date from the bonbon dish, but it seemed to lack / its usual flavour. After nibbling each end, she threw it into the fire. / Slipping her new opera-glass from its case, she went to the window and / turned the lens on the distant entrance gate. The road in each direction / seemed deserted. So she put the glass back in its case, and, after / strolling restlessly around the room, walked over to the harp and struck / a few chords.

"It's all out of tune!" she exclaimed, fretfully, thrumming the faulty / string with impatient fingers. "Everything seems out of tune this / mawning!"

As she spoke, the string broke with a sudden harsh twang that made her / jump. She was so startled that the tears came to her eyes, and so / nervous that she flung herself face downward on the pillows of the / long-Persian divan, and began sobbing hysterically. The strain of the / last few weeks had been too much for her. Miss Gilmer's prophecy had / come true. The ice had given away under the extra weight put upon it.

She was sobbing so hard that she did not hear the sound of carriage / wheels rolling softly up the avenue through the snow, and when the front / door banged shut she started again, and began trembling as she had done / when the harp-string broke. She was crying convulsively now, so hard / that she could not stop, although she clenched her fists and bit her / lips in a strong effort to regain self-control.

Mrs. Sherman, her face all aglow from the cold drive, and looking almost / girlishly fair in her big hat with the plumes, and her dark furs, / hurried in to the fire. The Colonel, throwing back his scarlet lined / cape, pushed aside the portiere for her to enter. He was the first to / catch sight of the shaking form on the divan.

"Why, Lloyd, child, what's the matter?" he demanded, anxiously. "What's / the matter with grandpa's little girl?"

Mrs. Sherman, with a frightened expression, hurried to her, and, bending / over her, tried to get a glimpse of the tear-swollen face buried so / persistently in the cushions.

"Nothing's happened! No, I'm not sick," came in smothered tones from the / depths of the pillows. "It's j-just crying itself, and I -- I -- I c-can't / stop-p-p!"

A long shiver passed over her, and Mrs. Sherman, stroking her forehead / with a soothing hand, waited for her to grow quiet before plying her / with questions. But the old Colonel paced impatiently back and forth.

"The child _must_ be sick," he declared. "She'll be coming down with a / fever or something if we don't take vigorous measures to prevent it. I / shall telephone for Dick Shelby this minute."

He started toward the hall, but a wild wail from Lloyd stopped him.

"I won't have the doctah! I'm not sick, and you sha'n't send for him! I / j-just cried because the harp-string b-broke so suddenly that it / s-scared me!"