"Oh, he's going into politics," answered Lydia, innocently, "and Dad advises him." "Well, tell them you've done a fine job as a swimming teacher," Dave spoke carelessly. "I don't see why Levine wants to get into politics. He's doing well in real estate." "Oh!" exclaimed Lydia, with a child's importance at having real news to impart, "he's going into politics so's to get some Indian land." "Like hell he is!" exclaimed Marshall. "Oh, Daddy!" Margery's voice was exactly like her mother's. They were turning into the Marshall driveway and Marshall's face was a curious mixture of amusement and irritation. He kissed his little daughter when he lifted her from the buggy and bade her run to the house. Before he lifted Lydia down he paused and as he stood on the ground and she sat in the surrey, she looked levelly into his black eyes. "I wish I had another little daughter like you, Lydia," he said. "I don't see why--but God, you can't get swans from barnyard fowl." He continued to study Lydia's face. "Some day, my child, you'll make some man's heart break, or lift him up to heaven." Lydia squirmed. "Well, Margery's taught now," she said hastily, "so I don't have to be punished any more, do I?" Marshall scowled slightly. "What do you mean? Don't you want Margery to play with you?" "Oh, sure, she can play, if she wants to, but I mean I don't have to go get her and bring her into our games." "No," said Dave slowly, "but I think it would be nice of you to sort of keep an eye on her and get her dirty once in a while. There! Run home, child, you're shivering." With puzzled eyes, Lydia obeyed. The most important result, as far as Lydia was interested, of the talk between her father and Levine that night was that Amos decided definitely to move the following week. Lydia cried a little over it, reproached God in her prayers and then with a child's resignation to the inevitability of grown up decision, she began to say good-by to the neighborhood children and to help old Lizzie to pack. Lydia did not see the new home until she rode out with the first dray-load of furniture. She sat in the high seat beside the driver, baby Patience in her lap, her thin, long little legs dangling, her cheeks scarlet with excitement and the warmth of a hot September morning. The cottage was a mile from the old home. They drove along the maple shaded street for the first half of the distance, then turned into a dirt road that led toward the lake shore. The dirt road emerged on the shore a half mile above the Willows and wound along a high embankment, crowned with oaks. "Whoa!" shouted the driver. "Oh, isn't it pretty!" exclaimed Lydia.