And Dave must have received his extra money, for after the Christmas holidays, Margery tearfully departed for the Eastern finishing school.  The night after her departure, Kent made his first call on Lydia in many months.  The two withdrew to the kitchen to make candy and there Lydia’s surprise and pleasure gave way to suspicion.  Kent seemed to want to talk for the most part about Margery!

“Hasn’t she grown to be a beauty,” he said, beating the fudge briskly.

“She always was beautiful,” replied Lydia, who was cracking walnuts.  “Didn’t we use to hate her though!  Well, she was the whiniest little snip!”

“Oh, that was her mother’s fault!  The only good thing about this boarding-school deal is that it gets her away from Elviry Marshall.  Put more nuts in here, Lyd.  You like her now, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Lydia, honestly, “though she’s an awful silly.  She never reads anything, and she flunked all her Thanksgiving examinations.”

“Anybody as pretty as Margery doesn’t need to be brilliant,” said Kent.

“And she spoons, and you don’t think much of girls that spoon.”  Lydia’s cheeks were a deeper pink than usual.

“Shucks, don’t be catty, Lydia!” growled Kent.

Lydia suddenly chuckled, though tears were very near the surface.  “Well, when I’m an old maid here in the cottage, you and Margery can come out and call in your automobile.”

“Who’s talking about marrying or you being an old maid?” asked Kent, disgustedly.  “Gee, you girls make me sick!”

Lydia’s jaw dropped.  Then she gave a laugh that ended abruptly.  “Heavens, how clothes do count in life,” she sighed.  “Come on in and give Dad and Lizzie some fudge, Kent.”

Kent called several times during the winter, but he never asked Lydia to go to a party nor did any of the other boy friends she saw daily in school—­boys with whom she chummed over lessons, who told her their secrets, who treated her as a mental equal, yet never asked to call, or slipped boxes of candy into her desk or asked her into a drugstore for a sundae or a hot chocolate.

Nobody resented this state of affairs more than old Lizzie.  After Kent’s third or fourth call, she said to Lydia, closing the door behind him, “Yes, Kent’ll come out here and see you, but I notice he don’t take you anywhere.  If you had fine party clothes and lived on Lake Shore Avenue, he’d be bowing and scraping fast enough.”

Lydia tossed her head.  “I don’t care about going to parties.”

“You do, too,” insisted the old lady.  “You’re eating your heart out.  I know.  I was young once.”

Amos looked up from his paper.  “Lydia’s too young to go if they did ask her.  But why don’t they ask?”

“It’s because I’m too poor and I live so far out and I don’t spoon,” answered Lydia.  “I don’t care, I tell you.”  And just to prove that she didn’t care, Lydia bowed her face in her hands and began to cry.