“But you haven’t,” retorted Billy.  “Look at the way you’ve acted about this land matter.  And God knows, she deserves to be happy at any cost.  Good heavens, when I think of her, it seems to me that nothing could be too much for her.  I think of her trudging those miles in her patched old clothes to buy her school books—­what a thin, big-eyed kiddie she was.  Why, even as a cub, I used to appreciate her.  And then when she stood up before the hearing, the bravest man among us, and when she got sick trying to earn those silly Prom clothes——­ My God, Amos, if Lydia wants me, or the moon, or a town lot in South Africa, it’s up to you to give it to her.”

Amos did not reply for a moment.  Down through the years he was watching a thin little figure trudge with such patience and sweetness and determination as he seemed never before to have appreciated.  Slowly his hold loosened on Lydia’s shoulders and he looked into her face.

“Do you want to marry Billy?” he asked.

“Oh, Daddy, yes,” whispered Lydia.

Amos looked up at the young man, who stood returning his gaze.  “Take her, Billy, and heaven help you if you’re not good to her, for John Levine’s spirit will haunt you with a curse.”

Billy raised Lydia to her feet and the extraordinary smile was on his face.

“What do you think about it, Lizzie?” he asked.  Lizzie, who had been crying comfortably, wiped her eyes with the sock she was darning.

“I’m thinking that any one that can bring the look to Lydia’s face she’s been wearing for twenty-four hours, deserves her.  Rheumatism or no, down I get on my old knees to-night and give thanks—­just for the look in that child’s eyes.”

And now for a while, Lydia was content to live absolutely in the present, as was Billy.  Surely there never was such an April.  And surely no April ever melted so softly into so glorious a May.  Apple blossoms, lilac blooms, violets and wind flowers and through them, Lydia in her scholar’s gown, hanging to Billy’s arm, after the day’s work was done.

She seemed singularly uninterested in the preparations for Commencement, though she went through her final examinations with credit.  But the week before Commencement she came home one afternoon with blazing cheeks.  Billy was at the cottage for supper and when they had begun the meal, she exploded her bomb.

“Dad!  Billy!  Lizzie!  They’ve elected me a member of the Scholars’ Club!”

“For the love of heaven!” exclaimed Amos, dropping his fork.

“Why not?” asked Lizzie.

“Lydia, dear, but I’m proud of you,” breathed Billy.

“Professor Willis told me, this afternoon,” Lydia went on, “and I laughed at him at first.  I thought he was teasing me.  Why only high-brows belong to the Scholars’ Club!  Prexy belongs and the best of the professors and only a few of the post-graduate pupils.  But he says I was elected.  I told him lots of students had higher standings than I, and he only laughed and said he knew it.  And I’ve got to go to that banquet of theirs next week!”