There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method. Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man. Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist; knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles. Dilly learned to sew a little as well. But early industry was not held in as high esteem as in the Eastern Colonies. There was plenty of spinning and knitting. Fashions did not change much in the way of dress, so you could go on with your clothes until they were worn out. The nicest goods were imported, but there was a kind of flannelly cloth for winter wear, that was dyed various colors, mostly blue and copperas, which made a kind of yellow. So the winter went on, and in February there came a great thaw. Oh, how the river swelled, and rushed on to the Ohio. It was very warm. And one day Daffodil sat on the great stone doorstep, holding the cat, and munching a piece of cake. Judy ate a few crumbs, but she did not care much for it. "There's a peddler," said Dilly to Judy. "He has a big pack on his back, and he walks with a cane, as if he was tired. And there's something hanging to his waist, and a queer cap. He seems looking--why, he's coming here. Gran'mere wants some thread, but he isn't our----Mother," she called. He was thin, and pale, and travel-stained, and had not the brisk, jaunty air of the peddlar. But he came up the little path, and looked at her so sharply she jumped up, hugging Judy tightly. "Some one, mother," she said, half frightened. Mrs. Carrick stepped to the door, and glanced. Then, with a cry, she went to her husband's arms. They both almost fell on the doorstep. "Oh," she cried, "you are tired to death! And----" "Never mind; I'm home. And I have all my limbs, and have never been ill. It has been a desperate struggle, but it's ending grandly. And everybody----" "They are all alive and well. Oh, we've been watching, and hoping--it doesn't matter now, you are here;" and she leaned down on his shoulder and cried. "Three years and four months. I couldn't get word very well, and thought I'd rather come on. You see, my horse gave out, and I've had a ten-mile walk. And--the baby?" "Oh, she's a big girl. She was sitting here----" "Not that child!" in surprise. "Daffodil," called her mother. The child came shyly, hesitatingly. "Dilly, it's father. We've talked of him so much, you know. And you have watched out for him many a time." Somehow he didn't seem the father of her imagination. He took her in his arms, and dragged her over in his lap.