"Not if you're careful," answered Amos. "By the way," he added, "that
cottage of John Levine's is right on the shore." He spoke with studied
carelessness. Lydia had a passion for the water.

She stared at him now, with the curiously pellucid gaze that belongs to
some blue eyed children and Amos had a vague sense of discomfort, as if
somehow, he were not playing the game quite fairly. He dug into his
coat pocket and brought up a handful of tobacco from which he
disinterred two pennies.

"Here," he said, "one for each of you. Don't be late for supper,
chickens."

He kissed the two children, picked up his dinner pail and was off.
Lydia, her red cheeks redder than usual, smiled at Lizzie, as she
dropped the pennies into the pocket of her blouse and stuffed a gray
and frowsy little handkerchief on top of them.

"Isn't he the best old Daddy!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," said Lizzie absentmindedly, as she poured out her third cup of
coffee. "Lydia, that dress of yours is real dirty. You get into
something else and I'll wash it out to-day."

"I haven't got much of anything else to get into, have I,
Lizzie?--except my Sunday dress."

"You are dreadful short of clothes, child, what with the way you grow
and the way you climb trees. I'm trying to save enough out of the
grocery money to get you a couple more of them galatea dresses for when