Little by little, the stars were blotted out by a thin film of clouds. Sitting under the willows with the murmur of the brook and the fragrance of marsh grass enveloping them, the two young people did not talk much. "Billy, were you scared?" asked Lydia. "I don't know. I only know I went crazy when I saw you were hurt. God, Lydia--I couldn't stand that!" "Billy," whispered Lydia, "you're so good to me and I was so horrid to you once." Billy felt her fingers on his knee and instantly the thin little hand was enveloped in his warm fist. "Do you take it all back, Lydia?" "Well, the horrid part of it, I do," she hedged. "That's all right," returned the young man. "I'm willing to fight for the rest of it. Don't try to pull your hand away, because I intend to hold it till the folks come. You can't help yourself, so you have no responsibility in the matter." So for an hour longer they sat, watching the summer night and waiting. And sometimes it seemed to Lydia that they were a pioneer man and woman sitting in their prairie schooner watching for the Indians. And sometimes it seemed to her that they were the last white man and woman, that civilization had died and the hordes were coming down upon them. Finally two dim figures approached. "All right, Lydia?" asked Amos. "Oh, yes! Yes!" she cried. "Are either of you hurt?" "No," replied Levine, "but we stayed till I'd got my half-breeds distributed about to watch that none of the full bloods got out of the meadow." "Was any one hurt?" asked Billy. "Oh, two or three broken heads among both Indians and whites. We got hold of Charlie Jackson about eleven and locked him up, then we felt secure." "You aren't going to hurt Charlie!" cried Lydia. "No, but we'll shut him up for a week or so," said Amos. "Move over, Lizzie." "Goodness," exclaimed Lizzie, "I must have dozed off for a minute!" In the laughter that followed, Levine started the car homeward. During the trip, the story was told of Lydia's mishap, Billy and Lydia interpolating each other in the telling. Amos shook hands with Billy silently when they had finished and Levine turned round from the wheel to say, "I'll not forget this night's work, Bill." They reached home at daylight. The Celebration made table talk and newspaper space for several days. No real attempt was made to punish the Indians. For once, the whites, moved by a sense of tardy and inadequate justice, withheld their hands. Kent never ceased to mourn that he had missed the affair. He confided the fact to Lydia one Sunday that he had told Levine of their eavesdropping on him in the woods. "What did he say?" asked Lydia, flushing. "Gave me this nice fat job," replied Kent. Lydia stared, then she sighed. "Well, I don't understand men at all!" And Kent laughed.