and always happy.

Before June was half over it got to be a common occurrence for Walker
to ride up to the gate on the Colonel's horse. The excuse was always to
have a passing word with Mom Beck. But before he rode away, the Little
Colonel was generally mounted in front of him. It was not long before
she felt almost as much at home at Locust as she did at the cottage.

The neighbours began to comment on it after awhile. "He will surely make
up with Elizabeth at this rate," they said. But at the end of the summer
the father and daughter had not even had a passing glimpse of each
other. One day, late in September, as the Little Colonel clattered up
and down the hall with her grandfather's spur buckled on her tiny foot,
she called back over her shoulder: "Papa Jack's comin' home to-morrow."

The Colonel paid no attention.

"I say," she repeated, "Papa Jack's comin' home to-morrow."

"Well," was the gruff response. "Why couldn't he stay where he was? I
suppose you won't want to come here any more after he gets back."

"No, I 'pose not," she answered, so carelessly that he was conscious of
a very jealous feeling.

"Chilluns always like to stay with their fathahs when they's nice as my
Papa Jack is."

The old man growled something behind his newspaper that she did not
hear. He would have been glad to choke this man who had come between him
and his only child, and he hated him worse than ever when he realized
what a large place he held in Lloyd's little heart.

She did not go back to Locust the next day, nor for weeks after that.

She was up almost as soon as Mom Beck next morning, thoroughly enjoying
the bustle of preparation.

She had a finger in everything, from polishing the silver to turning the
ice-cream freezer.

Even Fritz was scrubbed till he came out of his bath with his curls all
white and shining. He was proud of himself, from his silky bangs to the
tip of his tasselled tail.

Just before train time, the Little Colonel stuck his collar full of late
pink roses, and stood back to admire the effect. Her mother came to the
door, dressed for the evening. She wore an airy-looking dress of the
palest, softest blue. There was a white rosebud caught in her dark hair.
A bright colour, as fresh as Lloyd's own, tinged her cheeks, and the
glad light in her brown eyes made them unusually brilliant.

Lloyd jumped up and threw her arms about her. "Oh, mothah," she cried,
"you an' Fritz is so bu'ful!"

The engine