"Tell Mr. Marshall all you told me, Lydia," said Amos.

"Well--well, you see, it's like this. Margery's always so _clean_ and
she has lovely clothes and--and she--she looks down on us other kids so
we won't generally let her play with us--and she's an awful 'fraid cat
and--and a tattle-tale. But when we got to playing Robinson Crusoe,
and were digging the cave she helped and got terrible dirty, just like
us, and then she wanted to be Friday's father, and then--well--now--I
guess the rest of it was Kent's and my fault. We forgot she couldn't
swim and we forgot what a cry-baby she was. 'Cause you see, water's
almost like land to Kent and me and we'd been swimming 'most all day,
and Margery's the only kid around here that can't swim."

"Why can't she swim?" demanded Marshall. "How'd all the rest of you
learn? Don't you think you were mean not to let her learn?"

Again Lydia's pellucid eyes widened. "Why her mother won't let her
play with common kids like us! And us kids never learned. We've just
played in the water ever since we was as big as baby. She'll be
swimming by the time she's five," added Lydia, looking at the sleeping
Patience and speaking with the curious note of richness in her voice.

David Marshall scowled and stirred uncomfortably. He did not look at
Amos, who sat with his arm about Lydia, his thin face a lesser replica
of the old engraving of Daniel Webster hanging on the wall above.

"Well, go on! How'd she come to fall overboard?"

"She and I was sitting in the boat, and baby, she was tied to a tree by