Lydia's round childish eyes regarded him steadfastly. "Two of my ancestors were delegates to the first Convention," she said hesitatingly. "One of 'em lived in a log farmhouse with loop holes in it. They used to shoot Indians--" she paused and looked at Charlie Jackson, then went on. "I--I like the sound of the words." The teacher nodded. "And you, Jackson?" The boy scowled. "I know the words are lies as far as Indians are concerned. And I know they needn't have been if whites weren't natural hogs. Anyhow, I'm the only real American in the class." Lydia looked up at the brown face eagerly, questioningly. Mr. James nodded. "Quite right, Jackson." Young Hansen spoke up. "We're all Americans. What's he giving us?" "Has your father been naturalized, Hansen?" asked the teacher. The Norwegian boy shook his head, shamefacedly. "And were you born in this country?" "I was a baby when they came over." "Well then, are you an American, or aren't you? You don't really know, do you? And you haven't enough interest in the country you've lived in fourteen years to find out--or to know what was the impulse that gave birth to our laws, the thing that makes an American different from a Norwegian, for instance. The two people in the class who needed the preamble least are the ones that have learned it. I'm disappointed. We'll go on to the lesson. Reisenweber, what is a demesne?" Lydia sat looking from the teacher's face to Charlie Jackson, and from Charlie to the blond faces of the other pupils. Vague wonderments were stirring in her mind; the beginnings of thoughts she never had had before. Tramping home that night through the snowy road she had a new set of thoughts. What had made her stiffen and at the same time feel sorry and ashamed when Charlie Jackson had said the Preamble was a lie for Indians! And could she, could she possibly in the two weeks before Miss Towne's reception make herself a dress that would be presentable? Adam, slavering and slobbering, was waiting for her as usual by the front gate. His deep brown eyes always showed phosphorescent glimmers of excitement when Lydia came. He lunged up against her now with howls of delight and she knelt in the snow, as she always did, and hugged him. Then he seized her book strap and lugged her Algebra and English Composition up to the house. Lizzie was as excited as Lydia when she heard of the invitation. "There's that gray serge of your mother's," she said. "It's awful faded. And there's a piece of a light blue serge waist she had, Lydia, let's get 'em dyed red. Smitzky's will do it in a couple of days for us. They did lots of work for me in bygone days and I'll pay for it out of the grocery money." "Do you think we can fix it so it won't look made over?" asked Lydia, torn between hope and doubt. "Of course we can. You choose your pattern tomorrow and I'll get in to town in the morning with the goods, rheumatiz or no rheumatiz."