turned her pellucid gaze to his with such a look of mature
understanding, that he ended by nodding as if she had indeed been grown
up, and rising, said, "Perhaps you're right. Good-by, my dear. Come,
Margery."

Lydia stood with the baby clinging to her skirts. There were tears in
her eyes. Sometimes she looked on the world that other children lived
in, with the wonder and longing of a little beggar snub-nosed against
the window of a French pastry shop.

John Levine came home with Amos that night to supper. Amos felt safe
about an unexpected guest on Saturday nights for there was always a pot
of baked beans, at the baking of which Lizzie was a master hand, and
there were always biscuits. Lydia was expert at making these. She had
taken of late to practising with her mother's old cook book and Amos
felt as if he were getting a new lease of gastronomic life.

"Well," said Levine, after supper was finished, the baby was asleep and
Lydia was established with a copy of "The Water Babies" he had brought
her, "I had an interesting trip, this week."

Amos tossed the bag of tobacco to Levine. "Where?"

"I put in most of the week on horseback up on the reservation. Amos,
the pine land up in there is something to dream of. Why, there's
nothing like it left in the Mississippi Valley, nor hasn't been for
twenty years. Have you ever been up there?"

Amos shook his head. "I've just never had time. It's a God-awful
trip. No railroad, twenty-mile drive--"