floors, and Lydia was now hard at work with a chisel and jackknife
hacking out two windows for each floor.

She stood, chisel in hand, her red coat sleeves rolled to her elbows,
her curly hair wind-tossed, staring at Marshall half proudly, half
defiantly.

Dave laughed delightedly. "Lydia, any time your father wants to sell
you, I'm in the market." He looked at the nails hammered in without a
crack or bruise in the wood, then laughed again.

"Get your and the baby's hats, Lydia. We stopped to take you for a
ride."

Lydia's eyes danced, then she shook her head. "I can't! The bread's
in baking and I'm watching it."

"Where's Lizzie?"

"She went in town to do the marketing! Darn it! Don't I have awful
luck?"

Lydia sighed and looked from baby Patience and Margery, walking up and
down the path, to Mrs. Marshall, holding the reins.

"Well, anyhow," she said, with sudden cheerfulness, "Mrs. Marshall'll
be glad I'm not coming, and some day, maybe you'll take me when she
isn't with you."

Dave started to protest, then the polite lie faded on his lips. Lydia