Jim stopped suddenly. "Say."

"What?"

"Why, it will be an awful piece of work to pack off all those
contraptions, and it strikes me it is pretty hard on the
missionaries. There's a gravel pit down back of the Bolton place, and
if you buy it--"

"What?"

"Well, bury the fair there."

Lydia stopped short, and laughed till she cried. "You don't suppose
they would ever find out?"

"Trust me. You just have the whole lot moved into the house, and
we'll fix it up."

"Oh, I can't tell you how thankful I am to you," said Lydia
fervently. "I felt like a nightmare with all those things. Some of
them can be used of course, but some--oh, those picture throws, and
those postage stamp plates!"

"They are funny, but sort of pitiful, too," said Jim. "Women are sort
of pitiful, lots of them. I'm glad I am a man."

"I should think you would be," said the girl. She looked up in his
face with an expression which he did not see. He was regarding women
in the abstract; she was suddenly regarding men in the individual.