"Who are willing to live like--like negroes."

"You can make them what you please."

Christie raised her eyes. There was a certain cynical ring in her
father's voice that was unlike his usual hesitating abstraction. It both
puzzled and pained her.

"I mean," he said hastily, "that you have the same opportunity to direct
the lives of these young men into more regular, disciplined channels
that I have to regulate and correct their foolish waste of industry and
material here. It would at least beguile the time for you."

Fortunately for Mr. Carr's escape and Christie's uneasiness, Jessie, who
had been examining the details of the living-room, broke in upon this
conversation.

"I'm sure it will be as good as a perpetual picnic. George Kearney says
we can have a cooking-stove under the tree outside at the back, and as
there will be no rain for three months we can do the cooking there,
and that will give us more room for--for the piano when it comes;
and there's an old squaw to do the cleaning and washing-up any
day--and--and--it will be real fun."

She stopped breathlessly, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes--a
charming picture of youth and trustfulness. Mr. Carr had seized the
opportunity to escape.

"Really, now, Christie," said Jessie confidentially, when they were
alone, and Christie had begun to unpack her trunk, and to mechanically