"
And this is the way that Lyddy Butterfield came into her kingdom, a
little lone brown house on the river's brim. She had seen it only
once before when she had drives, out from Portland, years ago, with
her aunt. Mrs. Butterfield lived in Portland, but spent her summers
in Edgewood on account of her chickens. She always explained that
the country was dreadful dull for her, but good for the hens; they
always laid so much better in the winter time.
Lyddy liked the place all the better for its loneliness. She had
never had enough of solitude, and this quiet home, with the song of
the river for company, if one needed more company than chickens and a
cat, satisfied all her desires, particularly as it was accompanied by
a snug little income of two hundred dollars a year, a meagre sum that
seemed to open up mysterious avenues of joy to her starved, impatient
heart.
When she was a mere infant, her brother was holding her on his knee
before the great old-fashioned fireplace heaped with burning logs. A
sudden noise startled him, and the crowing, restless baby gave an
unexpected lurch, and slipped, face downward, into the glowing
embers. It was a full minute before the horror-stricken boy could
extricate the little creature from the cruel flame that had already
done its fatal work. The baby escaped with her life, but was
disfigured for ever. As she grew older, the gentle hand of time
could not entirely efface the terrible scars. One cheek was wrinkled
and crimson, while one eye and the mouth were drawn down
pathetically.
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