"You'd better come in to supper with us, Lydia."

"No, thank you," answered the child. "Mr. Levine's coming to supper at
our house and I have to cook it."

"Hum! What does John Levine do at your house, so much?"

"Oh, he's going into politics," answered Lydia, innocently, "and Dad
advises him."

"Well, tell them you've done a fine job as a swimming teacher," Dave
spoke carelessly. "I don't see why Levine wants to get into politics.
He's doing well in real estate."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lydia, with a child's importance at having real news to
impart, "he's going into politics so's to get some Indian land."

"Like hell he is!" exclaimed Marshall.

"Oh, Daddy!" Margery's voice was exactly like her mother's.

They were turning into the Marshall driveway and Marshall's face was a
curious mixture of amusement and irritation. He kissed his little
daughter when he lifted her from the buggy and bade her run to the
house. Before he lifted Lydia down he paused and as he stood on the
ground and she sat in the surrey, she looked levelly into his black
eyes.

"I wish I had another little daughter like you, Lydia," he said. "I
don't see why--but God, you can't get swans from barnyard fowl." He