Lydia laughed.  “It was nip and tuck between you and Adam, Lizzie.  Let’s get in away from the mosquitoes—­I’m so glad I had this talk with you, Mr. Levine.”

“Lydia should have been a boy,” said Amos; “she likes politics.”

“I’d rather be a girl than anything in the world,” protested Lydia, and the two men laughed.  If there was still a doubt in the back of Lydia’s mind regarding the reservation, for a time, at least, she succeeded in quieting it.  She dreaded meeting Charlie and was relieved to hear that Dr. Fulton had taken him East with him for a couple of weeks to attend a health convention.

One of the not unimportant results of the camping trip was that Lydia rediscovered the pine by the gate.  It was the same pine against which she had beaten her little fists, the night of Patience’s death.  She had often climbed into its lower branches, getting well gummed with fragrant pitch in the process.  But after her return from the reservation, the tall tree had a new significance to her.

She liked to sit on the steps and stare at it, dreaming and wondering.  Who had left it, when all the rest of the pines about it had been cleared off?  How did it feel, left alone among the alien oaks and with white people living their curious lives about it?  Did it mourn, in its endless murmuring, for the Indians—­the Indians of other days and not the poor decadents who shambled up and down the road?  For the Indians and the pines were now unalterably associated in Lydia’s mind.  The life of one depended on that of the other.  Strange thoughts and perhaps not altogether cheerful and wholesome thoughts for a girl of Lydia’s age.

So it was probably well that Margery about this time began to show Lydia a certain Margery-esque type of attention.  In her heart, in spite of her mother’s teachings, Margery had always shared her father’s admiration for Lydia.  In her childhood it had been a grudging, jealous admiration that seemed like actual dislike.  But as Margery developed as a social favorite and Lydia remained about the same quiet little dowd, the jealousy of the banker’s daughter gave way to liking.

Therefore several times a week, Margery appeared on her bicycle, her embroidery bag dangling from the handle bars.  The two girls would then establish themselves on cushions by the water, and sew and chatter.  Lizzie, from the kitchen or from the bedroom where she was resting, could catch the unceasing sound of voices, broken at regular intervals by giggles.

“Lydia’s reached the giggling age,” she would say to herself.  “Well, thank the Lord she’s got some one to giggle with, even if Margery is a silly coot.  There they go again!  What are they laughing at?”

Hysterical shrieks from the lawn, with the two girls rolling helplessly about on the cushions!  Overhearing the conversation would not have enlightened old Lizzie, for the girls’ talk was mostly reminiscent of the camp experiences or of their recollections of Kent’s little boyhood, of Charlie’s prowess at school, or of Gustus’ “sportiness” and his fascinating deviltry.  Lydia was enjoying the inalienable right of every girl of fifteen to giggle, and talk about the boys, the two seemingly having no causative relation, yet always existing together.