and the habit was growing upon her to such an extent that she would
even lead her docile little gobblers down to visit Anthony Croft's
hens and share their corn.

Lyddy had caught her at it once, and was now pursuing her to that end
for the second time. She paused in front of the house, but there
were no turkeys to be seen. Could they have wandered up the hill
road--the discontented, "traipsing," exasperating things? She
started in that direction, when she heard a crash in the Croft
kitchen, and then the sound of a boy's voice coming from an inner
room--a weak and querulous voice, as if the child were ill.

She drew nearer, in spite of her dread of meeting people, or above
all of intruding, and saw Anthony Croft standing over the stove, with
an expression of utter helplessness on his usually placid face. She
had never really seen him before in the daylight, and there was
something about his appearance that startled her. The teakettle was
on the floor, and a sea of water was flooding the man's feet, yet he
seemed to be gazing into vacancy. Presently he stooped, and fumbled
gropingly for the kettle. It was too hot to be touched with
impunity, and he finally left it in a despairing sort of way, and
walked in the direction of a shelf, from under which a row of coats
was hanging. The boy called again in a louder and more insistent
tone, ending in a whimper of restless pain. This seemed to make the
man more nervous than ever. His hands went patiently over and over
the shelf, then paused at each separate nail.

"Bless the poor dear!" thought Lyddy. "Is he trying to find his hat,
or what is he trying to do? I wonder if he is music mad?" and she
drew still nearer the steps.