Dave started to protest, then the polite lie faded on his lips. Lydia turned her pellucid gaze to his with such a look of mature understanding, that he ended by nodding as if she had indeed been grown up, and rising, said, "Perhaps you're right. Good-by, my dear. Come, Margery." Lydia stood with the baby clinging to her skirts. There were tears in her eyes. Sometimes she looked on the world that other children lived in, with the wonder and longing of a little beggar snub-nosed against the window of a French pastry shop. John Levine came home with Amos that night to supper. Amos felt safe about an unexpected guest on Saturday nights for there was always a pot of baked beans, at the baking of which Lizzie was a master hand, and there were always biscuits. Lydia was expert at making these. She had taken of late to practising with her mother's old cook book and Amos felt as if he were getting a new lease of gastronomic life. "Well," said Levine, after supper was finished, the baby was asleep and Lydia was established with a copy of "The Water Babies" he had brought her, "I had an interesting trip, this week." Amos tossed the bag of tobacco to Levine. "Where?" "I put in most of the week on horseback up on the reservation. Amos, the pine land up in there is something to dream of. Why, there's nothing like it left in the Mississippi Valley, nor hasn't been for twenty years. Have you ever been up there?" Amos shook his head. "I've just never had time. It's a God-awful trip. No railroad, twenty-mile drive--" Levine nodded. "The Indians are in awful bad shape up there. Agent's in it for what he can get, I guess. Don't know as I blame him. The sooner the Indians are gone the better it'll be for us and all concerned." "What's the matter with 'em?" asked Lydia. "Consumption--some kind of eye disease--starvation--" The child shivered and her eyes widened. "You'd better go on with the 'Water Babies,'" said John. "Has Tom fallen into the river yet?" "No, he's just seen himself in the mirror," answered Lydia, burying her nose in the delectable tale again. "It's a wonderful story," said Levine, his black eyes reminiscent. "'Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; * * * * * * Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.' It has some unforgettable verse in it. Well, as I was saying, Amos, that timber isn't going to stay up there and rot--_because, I'm going to get it out of there_!" "How?" asked Amos. "Act of Congress, maybe. Maybe a railroad will get a permit to go through, eh? There are several ways. We'll die rich, yet, Amos." Amos pulled at his pipe and shook his head. "You will but I won't. It isn't in our blood." "Shucks, Amos. Where's your nerve?" Amos looked at Levine silently for a moment. Then he said huskily, "My nerve is gone with Patience. And if she isn't in heaven, there isn't one, that's all."