Lydia looked quickly up into Willis’ face.  “If you were I would you keep that property?”

The professor’s eyes widened.  “I?  Oh!  I don’t know.  It would be an awful temptation, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather be poor all my life,” said Lydia.  “I’m not afraid of poverty.  I’ve lived with it always and I know it’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

“You mean you’ve got the courage to give the pine land up?” asked Willis, quickly.

“It isn’t courage.  It’s being afraid of my conscience.  I—­I feel as if I were finishing out John Levine’s life for him—­doing what he ought to have done.”

“I wonder if you have any idea what you mean to me!” Willis suddenly burst forth.  “You embody for me all the things my puritan grandmothers stood for.  By Jove, if the New England men have failed, perhaps the Western women will renew their spirit.”

Lydia flushed.  “I—­I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” she protested.  “I’m not really wise nor very good.  I just feel my way along—­and there’s no one to advise me.”

“That’s the penalty of growing up, my dear,” said Willis.  “We no longer have any one to tell us what to do.  Here comes your car.  I’m afraid I let the umbrella drip on your cap.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lydia, valiantly.

“Miss Dudley—­” as he signaled the car, “I’m coming to see you, just as often as you’ll let me, this winter,” and he walked off before Lydia could reply.  She sank into a car seat, her cheeks burning, her heart thudding.

Early in December, the settlement of the Levine estate was completed.  John’s method of “shoestringing” his property was disastrous as far as the size of Lydia’s heritage went.  Her father tried to make her understand the statement of the Second National Bank, which was acting as executor.  And as nearly as Lydia could understand, one portion of the estate was used to pay up the indebtedness of another portion, until all that was left was the cottage, with a mortgage on it, and three hundred and twenty acres of land on the reservation.

The three hundred and twenty acres on the reservation was under a cloud.  Part of it was land he had gotten from Charlie’s sister.  All of it he had obtained from alleged full bloods.

“Then,” said Lydia, in a relieved manner, “I really haven’t any Indian lands at all!”

“Oh, yes, you have,” replied Amos.  “The court will take the oath of a number of people that the land was obtained from mixed bloods.  Dave Marshall has fixed that up.”

“Dave Marshall!” gasped Lydia.

Amos nodded.  “He’s strong with the Whiskey Trust.  And the Whiskey Trust is extra strong wherever there’s a reservation.”

“Oh, Daddy!” cried Lydia, “we can’t take it?  Don’t you see we can’t?”

It was just after supper and they were in the familiar old living-room.  Adam was snoring with his head under the base burner, and Lizzie was clattering the dishes in the kitchen.  Amos stood by the table, filling his pipe, and Lydia with her pile of text books had prepared for her evening of study.  Amos’ work-blunted fingers trembled as he tamped the tobacco into the bowl and Lydia knew that the long dreaded battle was on.