"Sit down--here where you get the warmth," he ordered, his voice as
gruff as he could make it.

Lydia sat down obediently, her mittened hands clasping her knees. Kent
stood staring at his little chum. He took in the faded blue Tam, the
outgrown coat, the red mittens, so badly mended, the leggings with
patches on the knees. Then he eyed the heavy circles around her eyes
and the droop to the mouth that was meant to be merry.

"I'm sorriest for Lydia," his mother had said that morning. "No mother
could feel much worse than she does, and she's got no one to turn to
for comfort. I know Amos. He'll shut up like a clam. Just as soon as
they're out of quarantine, I'll go out there."

Kent was only a boy, but he was mature in spite of his heedless ways.
Staring at the tragedy in Lydia's ravished little face, a sympathy for
her pain as real as it was unwonted swept over him. Suddenly he
dropped down beside her on the log and threw his boyish arms about her.

"I'm so doggone sorry for you, Lydia!" he whispered.

Lydia lifted startled eyes to his. Never before had Kent shown her the
slightest affection. When she saw the sweetness and sympathy in his
brown gaze,

"Oh, Kent," she whispered, "why did God let it happen! Why did He?"
and she buried her face on his shoulder and began to sob. Softly at
first, then with a racking agony of tears.

Even a child is wise in the matter of grief. Kent's lips trembled, but