Joseph went to open the parlor window and stood there, watching his daughter fall in love. Soon she was seated on the sofa with the dog beside her, panting with delight as she explored him with sensitive, gentle hands and laughing as he licked first one of her hands and then her face.
“Oh, Papa,” she cried, “look at me. And look at Horace.”
“Iamlooking, sweetheart,” he said.
He watched Miss Martin too as she sat beside his child, on the other side of the dog, petting him with her and telling Lizzie the story of how she had acquired him, embellishing it considerably so that it seemed much more comical than it had been in reality. It seemed to Joseph that she was entirely engrossed in her conversation with his daughter, that she had forgotten his presence. It was very easy to see how she had become a successful teacher and why he had sensed a happy atmosphere at her school.
“I remember your telling me,” Miss Martin said, “that all the stories you make up have a dog in them. Would you like to tell me one of those stories and have me write it down for you?”
“Now?” Lizzie asked, laughing as she drew back her head from another enthusiastic licking.
“Why not?” Miss Martin said. “Perhaps your papa will find paper and pen and ink for me.”
She looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he left the room without further ado. When he came back, they were both sitting on the floor, the dog between them on his back, having his stomach rubbed. Both Lizzie and Miss Martin were chuckling, their heads close together.
Something stirred deep inside Joseph.
And then Miss Martin sat at a small table writing while Lizzie told a lurid tale of witches and wizards practicing their evil arts deep in a forest where an unfortunate little girl got lost one day. As trees closed about her to imprison her and tree roots thrust upward to trip her and grew tentacles to wrap about her ankles to bring her down, and as thunder crashed overhead and other dire catastrophes loomed, her only hope of escape was her own intrepid heart and a stray dog that appeared suddenly and attacked everything except the thunder and finally, bleeding and exhausted, led the girl to the edge of the wood, from where she could hear her mother singing in her garden full of sweet-smelling flowers. It seemed the thunderstorm had not spread beyond the forest.
“There,” Miss Martin said, setting her pen down. “I have it all. Shall I read it back to you?”
She proceeded to do so. Lizzie clapped her hands and laughed when she had finished.
“That is my storyexactly,” she said. “Did you hear it, Papa?”
“I did,” he said.
“You will be able to read it to me,” she said.
“And so I will,” he agreed. “But not at bedtime, Lizzie. Perhapsyoucould sleep afterward, but I am sureIwould not. I am still shaking in my boots. I thought they would both perish.”
“Oh, Papa!” she said. “The main characters in stories always live happily ever after. You know that.”
His eyes met Miss Martin’s. Yes, in stories, perhaps. Real life was often different.
“Perhaps, Lizzie,” he said, “we could take Miss Martin out to the garden and you can name all the flowers for her. The dog can come too.”
She jumped to her feet and reached out an arm to him.
“Come with me to fetch my bonnet,” she said.
He took one step toward her and then stopped.
“Be my clever girl and go and fetch it without me,” he said. “Can you do it?”
“Of course I can.” Her face lit up. “Count to fifty, Papa, and I will be back. Not too fast, though, silly,” she added, laughing with glee as he began rattling off numbers.
“One…two…three,” he began again more slowly as she left the room. After a moment the dog scrambled to his feet and went after her.
“She really is capable of a great deal, is she not?” he said. “I have been remiss. I ought to have arranged something for her much sooner than this. It is just that she has been a very young child, and love and protection seemed enough.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Miss Martin said. “Love is worth more than any one other gift you could give her. And it is not too late. Eleven is a good age for her to discover that she has wings.”
“With which to fly away from me?” he said with a rueful smile.
“Yes,” she agreed, “and with which to fly back to you again.”
“Freedom,” he said. “Is it possible for her?”
