“Oh, I’ve had a _beautiful_ time!” said little Hop-clover with a sigh of joy; and then she sighed again, to think she was going away to her miserable home, and never, never, should be so happy again.
Mrs. Littlefield looked at her husband; and he came across the room, smiling, and put his arms around her and Hop-clover as they stood together.
“My wife and I haven’t any little girl,” said he. “How would thee like to come and live with us, Lucinda?”
Now think of that! Hop-clover could not speak for surprise and joy. Besides, she couldn’t believe they meant what they said: it was too good to be true.
“If thee would really like it, Lucinda, thee don’t know how glad we should be.”
“Oh, I’d rather live here than go to heaven!” cried little Hop-clover as soon as she could get her breath.
It pleased the dear old people very much to see her so glad; and they both kissed her at the same moment, while Pollio and Posy looked on in surprise.
“But, Liddy,” said Mr. Littlefield to his wife, “we can’t think of taking her unless her father is willing. I will go to see him when I get to Rosewood.”
“Oh! he isn’t my truly father: _he_ don’t care where I go,” said Hop-clover eagerly.
Mr. Littlefield thought, as she did, that he wasn’t likely to care. If he had not thought so, he would not have spoken to Hop-clover about this until after he had seen him.
“Well, if he says we can have thee, then thee can pack thy clothes, and come back with me to-morrow.”
It was droll to talk about packing Hop-clover’s “clothes.” Those she wore just now were very good, but all the others were fit for nothing but the rag-bag.
“Well, then, I sha’n’t need my chicken; and you may have it,” said she to Pollio, feeling like a crown-princess giving away a casket of jewels. I suppose you have no idea how very, very rich Hop-clover thought herself all in a minute.
“Well, Napoleon, thee can keep the chicken as a memento of this visit; and, next time thee comes, thee shall have something better,” said Mrs. Littlefield, smiling, as Pollio danced about with the box.
The ride home was as pleasant as a fairy-story; only Pollio couldn’t help looking at the thill that had been mended, and thinking,—
“Mr. Littlefield was a jolly good man to forgive me. Catch me meddling with any of _his_ things again!”