“Lydia,” he said, abruptly, “make the house over if you want to, my dear,” and he marched out to the kitchen to wash and take off his overalls.

It took Lydia several days to complete her task.  When it was done the cracks were still prominent and the oily finish was spotted.  But in Lydia’s eyes it was a work of art and she cut the old carpet into three parts with enthusiasm.  She sewed the fringe on the rugs, on the front porch.  Sitting so, she could see Margery when she appeared far down the road, could view the beauty of the Nortons’ wide fields, and could hear the quiet sighing of the pine by the gate.  On the afternoon on which she finished the last of the rugs, Charlie Jackson and not Margery appeared.  Lydia’s heart sank a little as he turned in the gate, though in his greeting he seemed his usual genial self.

He admired the rugs and the gleam of the shining floor through the doorway.  Then without preamble, he asked, “Did you talk to Levine, Lydia?”

“Yes,” she said.  “He—­he just doesn’t see it any way but his, Charlie!”

The young Indian’s face fell.  “I certainly thought you could influence him, Lydia.  Did you really try?”

“Of course I tried,” she exclaimed, indignantly.  “He insists that the only way to save you Indians is to make you work for a living.”

“He’s doing it all for our good, huh?” sneered Charlie.

“He doesn’t pretend.  He says he wants the land.  He’s paying for it though.”

“Paying for it!” cried the Indian.  “How’s he paying, do you know?”

“No, and I don’t want to know!  I’m tired of hearing things against Mr. Levine.”

“I don’t care if you are,” said Charlie, grimly.  “If you’re going to keep on being his friend, you’ve got to be it with your eyes open.  And you might as well decide right now whether you’re going to take him or me for your friend.  You can’t have us both.”

“I wouldn’t give up Mr. Levine for any one on earth.”  Lydia’s voice shook with her earnestness.  “And I don’t see why I have to be dragged into this business.  I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“You have too!  You’re white and it’s every white’s business to judge in this.  You’ll be taking some of the profits of the reservation if it’s thrown open, yourself.”

“I will not!” cried Lydia.  “I wouldn’t want an inch of that land.”  Then she caught her breath.  Something within her said, “Wouldn’t, eh—­not the vast acres of cathedral pines, you thought of as yours, at camp?” She flushed and repeated vehemently, “Not an inch!”

Charlie smiled cynically.  “Listen, Lydia, I’ll tell you how Levine pays for his Indian lands.”

CHAPTER XII

THE HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR

“Where the pine forest is destroyed, pines never come again.”—­The Murmuring Pine.

Lydia sighed helplessly and began to stitch again on the fringe, thrusting her needle in and out viciously.