A muscular brown hand shot up, boldly.  A thin white one timidly followed.

“Ah!” Mr. James’ face brightened.  “Miss Dudley, try it.”

Lydia clutched the back of the seat before her and began timidly.  Then the dignity and somewhat of the significance of the words touched her and her voice became rich and full.

“’We, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.’”

“Good.  Try it, Mr. Jackson.”

The young Indian rose and began.  “We, the people of the United States—­” He too was letter perfect.

After he was seated, the teacher, a gray-haired, stern-faced man, looked at the two attentively.

“Miss Dudley,” he said finally, “does the preamble mean anything to you?”

Lydia’s round childish eyes regarded him steadfastly.  “Two of my ancestors were delegates to the first Convention,” she said hesitatingly.  “One of ’em lived in a log farmhouse with loop holes in it.  They used to shoot Indians—­” she paused and looked at Charlie Jackson, then went on.  “I—­I like the sound of the words.”

The teacher nodded.  “And you, Jackson?”

The boy scowled.  “I know the words are lies as far as Indians are concerned.  And I know they needn’t have been if whites weren’t natural hogs.  Anyhow, I’m the only real American in the class.”

Lydia looked up at the brown face eagerly, questioningly.  Mr. James nodded.  “Quite right, Jackson.”

Young Hansen spoke up.  “We’re all Americans.  What’s he giving us?”

“Has your father been naturalized, Hansen?” asked the teacher.

The Norwegian boy shook his head, shamefacedly.

“And were you born in this country?”

“I was a baby when they came over.”

“Well then, are you an American, or aren’t you?  You don’t really know, do you?  And you haven’t enough interest in the country you’ve lived in fourteen years to find out—­or to know what was the impulse that gave birth to our laws, the thing that makes an American different from a Norwegian, for instance.  The two people in the class who needed the preamble least are the ones that have learned it.  I’m disappointed.  We’ll go on to the lesson.  Reisenweber, what is a demesne?”

Lydia sat looking from the teacher’s face to Charlie Jackson, and from Charlie to the blond faces of the other pupils.  Vague wonderments were stirring in her mind; the beginnings of thoughts she never had had before.  Tramping home that night through the snowy road she had a new set of thoughts.  What had made her stiffen and at the same time feel sorry and ashamed when Charlie Jackson had said the Preamble was a lie for Indians!  And could she, could she possibly in the two weeks before Miss Towne’s reception make herself a dress that would be presentable?