Lydia’s method of teaching was one employed by most of the children of Lake City when a new child moved into the town.  She forced Margery to float face downward in the water, again and again, while she counted ten.  After one afternoon of this, the banker’s daughter had forever lost her fear of the water and the rest was easy.

In spite of the relationship Dave Marshall had established between the two children, Margery and Lydia did not like each other.  One Saturday afternoon, after banking hours, Marshall was seated on his front porch, with Elviry and Margery, when Lydia appeared.  She stood on the steps in her bathing suit, her bare feet in a pair of ragged “sneakers.”  Her face and hands and ankles were dirty but her eyes and the pink of her cheeks were clear.

“Come on, Marg,” said Lydia, “and, Mr. Marshall, please, won’t you come too and see how well she does it?”

“Run and get into your bathing suit, daughter,” said Marshall.  “Elviry, want to come?”

“No,” snapped Elviry.  “Lydia, how do you manage to get so dirty, when to my positive knowledge, you’re in the water an hour every day?”

Lydia blushed and tried to hide one ankle behind the other.  “I think you’re terrible impolite,” she murmured.

Dave roared with laughter.  “Right you are, Lydia!  I guess I’ll have to hitch up and drive us all over.”

They drove to the Willows and Margery went through her paces, while her father watched and applauded from the shore.  When they had finished and had run up and down to warm up and dry off and were driving home, Dave said,

“You’d better come in to supper with us, Lydia.”

“No, thank you,” answered the child.  “Mr. Levine’s coming to supper at our house and I have to cook it.”

“Hum!  What does John Levine do at your house, so much?”

“Oh, he’s going into politics,” answered Lydia, innocently, “and Dad advises him.”

“Well, tell them you’ve done a fine job as a swimming teacher,” Dave spoke carelessly.  “I don’t see why Levine wants to get into politics.  He’s doing well in real estate.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lydia, with a child’s importance at having real news to impart, “he’s going into politics so’s to get some Indian land.”

“Like hell he is!” exclaimed Marshall.

“Oh, Daddy!” Margery’s voice was exactly like her mother’s.

They were turning into the Marshall driveway and Marshall’s face was a curious mixture of amusement and irritation.  He kissed his little daughter when he lifted her from the buggy and bade her run to the house.  Before he lifted Lydia down he paused and as he stood on the ground and she sat in the surrey, she looked levelly into his black eyes.

“I wish I had another little daughter like you, Lydia,” he said.  “I don’t see why—­but God, you can’t get swans from barnyard fowl.”  He continued to study Lydia’s face.  “Some day, my child, you’ll make some man’s heart break, or lift him up to heaven.”