LITMIR.BIZ

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was much disturbed.

      "I've told you often and often, Lydia, never to endanger a child that can't swim. You and Kent should have had more sense."

      The quick tears sprang to the child's eyes. She was still much shaken.

      "Is this lesson enough for you, or must I forbid your playing in the water? I thought I could trust you absolutely."

      "Stop your scolding her, Amos Dudley," exclaimed old Lizzie. "I won't have it. She's too nervous a child."

      Amos was saved a reply by a ring at the doorbell. Lizzie let Margery's father in. He was a short, red-faced man with black hair and eyes. He was too much excited now to stand on ceremony, and he followed Lizzie into the dining-room.

      "This won't do, Dudley. These wild young ones of yours—"

      "Wait a minute, Marshall," interrupted Amos, with a dignity that he had brought with him from New England. "Margery is all right, so we can go over this thing calmly. Sit down and listen to Lydia's story. Tell him, Lydia."

      Lydia left her place and crowded up against her father's side. Old

       Lizzie was holding the baby.

      "It was like this," Lydia began. "Baby and me were going to play by ourselves under the willows. Then Kent, he came and he played pirates with us."

      "Why wasn't Kent out playing with the boys?" interrupted Marshall.

      Lydia's eyes widened. "Why, I'm as good as a boy to play with, any day! Mostly he does play with other boys, but when they aren't round, he and I play pirates. And then, right after we'd had our lunch, Margery she came along and Kent and I were mad—"

      The child paused uncomfortably and rubbed her curly yellow head with her thin little hand in an embarrassed way.

      "Why were you mad, Lydia?" In spite of himself, Marshall's voice was softening, as Amos had known it would. Lydia made a deep appeal somehow to the tenderness of men.

      "Tell Mr. Marshall all you told me, Lydia," said Amos.

      "Well—well, you see, it's like this. Margery's always so clean and she has lovely clothes and—and she—she looks down on us other kids so we won't generally let her play with us—and she's an awful 'fraid cat and—and a tattle-tale. But when we got to playing Robinson Crusoe, and were digging the cave she helped and got terrible dirty, just like us, and then she wanted to be Friday's father, and then—well—now—I guess the rest of it was Kent's and my fault. We forgot she couldn't swim and we forgot what a cry-baby she was. 'Cause you see, water's almost like land to Kent and me and we'd been swimming 'most all day, and Margery's the only kid around here that can't swim."

      "Why can't she swim?" demanded Marshall. "How'd all the rest of you learn? Don't you think you were mean not to let her learn?"

      Again Lydia's pellucid eyes widened. "Why her mother won't let her play with common kids like us! And us kids never learned. We've just played in the water ever since we was as big as baby. She'll be swimming by the time she's five," added Lydia, looking at the sleeping Patience and speaking with the curious note of richness in her voice.

      David Marshall scowled and stirred uncomfortably. He did not look at Amos, who sat with his arm about Lydia, his thin face a lesser replica of the old engraving of Daniel Webster hanging on the wall above.

      "Well, go on! How'd she come to fall overboard?"

      "She and I was sitting in the boat, and baby, she was tied to a tree by a long string and she began to cry to come too, and I jumped over to go quiet her. Kent he'd gone to get another boat. And Margery she jumped up and began to yell and wave her arms and fell overboard. Then I remembered she couldn't swim and I went back and got her and Kent came and pulled us in shore. It wasn't anything, but Margery's such a cry-baby. Lizzie, she's terrible uncomfortable."

      Lydia's attention had returned to little Patience. "I'll take her up to bed," she said, "it won't take but a few minutes."

      "I'll carry her," said Lizzie.

      The baby opened her eyes. "No, no one cally but Lyd."

      "Let Daddy carry you," begged Amos.

      Patience's little voice rose to a wail. "No one cally but Lyd."

      "You don't have to be so polite," sniffed Lydia, "I carry her all the time."

      She lifted the sleepy baby easily and Patience dropped her soft cheek against Lydia's and closed her eyes again. Lydia turned to Marshall. Her face was very serious.

      "I know I was awful bad, Mr. Marshall, and maybe you feel as if you ought to lick me."

      "Put your little sister to bed," said Marshall gravely, "and then we'll see."

      There was silence in the room for a moment after Lydia left it, then

       Amos said, "I'll be glad to do anything I can, Marshall."

      "Neither of you'll lay a finger on Lydia," interrupted Lizzie. "If you want to lick any one, go lick Elviry Marshall, the fool! Why, I knew her when she was my niece's hired girl and you, Dave Marshall, was selling cans of tomatoes over a counter. And she's bringing that young one up to be a silly little fool. Mark my words, she'll be the prey of the first fortune-hunter that comes along."

      To Amos's surprise, Marshall only scowled at Lizzie, who now began to remove the supper dishes, talking in a whisper to herself. She paused once in front of Marshall with the teapot in one hand and the milk pitcher in the other.

      "Coming and going with your nose in the air, Dave, I suppose you never notice Lydia, but you've had a good look at her to-night, and mind well what I mean when I say you know as well as I that children like Lydia are rare and that your young one ought to consider it a privilege to be pulled out of the water by her."

      Old Lizzie pounded out of the room and there was a clatter of dishes that ably expressed her frame of mind. Above the clatter and down from the children's bedroom floated Lydia's little contralto lilt:

      "Wreathe me no gaudy chaplet;

       Make it from simple flowers

       Plucked from the lowly valley

       After the summer showers."

      Neither Amos nor his caller spoke. In a few minutes Lydia's step sounded on the stairs. The last of the sunset glow caught her hair, and the fine set of her head on her square little shoulders was never more pronounced than as she walked slowly toward Dave Marshall.

      "I never had a licking," she said, "but I guess I deserve one and so you'd better do it and get it done, Mr. Marshall."

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      THE COTTAGE

      "The young pine knows the secrets of the ground. The old pine knows the stars."—The Murmuring Pine.

      Marshall cleared his throat and reaching out, took Lydia by the arm and pulled her toward him. He could feel her muscles stiffen under his touch. The bright red color left her cheeks.

      "I wouldn't think much of your father, my child," he said, huskily, "if he let me whip you, even if I wanted to."

      Lydia took a quick look up into his face. Then she gave a little gasping sigh, her lips quivered and she leaned against his knee.

      "Look here, Lydia," said Dave Marshall, "this is to be your punishment. I want you and Kent to teach Margery how to swim and how to get dirty, see? Let her play with you 'common kids,' will you?"

      "Will her mother let her?" asked Lydia.

      "Yes," answered Dave, grimly.

      "All right," said Lydia, with a little sigh.

      "I know it'll

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