"I'd know, never fear. You're growing up the way a girl ought to. I know all about it." Lydia sat, staring into the darkness, thinking this over. She was getting an amount of comfort out of the conversation that made her realize how sore a spot there had been within her. "But why do you flirt?" she asked finally. "Aw, boys are that way. You don't understand. A fellow can't help flirting with girls like Margery and Olga--or any other old girl, as far as that goes." "Kent," asked Lydia, suddenly, "what's a hussy?" "Huh!" exclaimed Kent. "What makes you ask that?" "What you said about flirting. Election night there were lots of women, flashily dressed, around, and father said they were hussies. And I saw Gustus flirting with one of them, and some of the Senior boys, too. And I saw some of the best dressed of the Indians with them." "You'd better ask your father," said Kent. "I did and he said I'd know when I got older." There was silence again. The wind sighed through the pines, the crickets chirped, the all-hallowing scent of the pine enveloped them as if blown from some heavenly incense burner. Kent was only seventeen. He sat staring with puzzled eyes into the darkness. He tried to picture Olga putting a question like this to him, and failed. A sudden realization of the loneliness of Lydia's unmothered girlhood, of her innocent faith in him, touched the best that was in him. His voice was a little husky but he answered coolly. "A hussy, Lyd, is a flirt who's gone to the bad. Those around Lake City chase after the students and the Indians who've got Government allowances, and get their money away from them." "Oh," said Lydia. "Oh!" Then thoughtfully, "Aren't men silly!" "Yes, they are," agreed Kent. "And, Lyd, whenever you want to know about such things, you ask me. It's a man's place to tell a girl the things she ought to know." "All right," replied Lydia, "and of course, you're just like a brother to me." "Oh, I don't feel so brotherly as--Gee, there's a fire, Lydia!" Faintly through the trees gleamed a distant blaze. The two jumped to their feet and, weariness forgotten, started hastily toward it. "It's the camp crowd, I guess," said Lydia. "No, it isn't, it's a bunch of men," corrected Kent. "Hold on a minute, Lydia. Let's see what we're getting into." He pulled her into the shelter of a giant pine trunk and the two peered at the group around the fire. "Some kind of an Indian pow-wow, half breeds, mostly," whispered Kent. Lydia shivered. "Don't they look fierce in the firelight," she murmured. "Let's get out of here, Kent." "Shucks! Be a sport, Lyd! We'll watch them a minute, then I'll brace up and speak to 'em." There were six half breeds in "store" clothes and moccasins squatting around the blaze. None of them was speaking. "They act as if they were waiting for some one," whispered Lydia, with some of the old thrill of pirate plays returning to her. "Kent, they've all got guns!"