They saw less of John Levine during the late winter and early spring.  He was running for sheriff on the Republican ticket.  He was elected early in April by a comfortable majority and invited Amos and Lydia to a fine Sunday dinner in celebration at the best hotel in town.  Kent’s father in April was promoted from a minor position in the office of the plow factory to the secretaryship of the company.  The family immediately moved to a better house over on the lake shore and it seemed to Lydia that Kent moved too, out of her life.

She missed him less than might have been expected.  Her life was so different from that of any of the children that she knew, that growing into adolescence with the old bond of play disappearing, she fell back more and more on resources within herself.  This did not prevent her going faithfully once a month to call on Margery Marshall.  And these visits were rather pleasant than otherwise.  Margery was going through the paper doll fever.  Lydia always brought Florence Dombey with her and the two girls carried on an elaborate game of make-believe, the intricacies of which were entirely too much for Elviry Marshall, sitting within earshot.

Elviry Marshall had two consuming passions in life—­Margery and gossip.  The questions she asked always irritated Lydia vaguely.

“What wages is your Pa getting now, Lydia?”

“Just the same, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Don’t you pay Lizzie anything yet?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“How much is your grocery bill this month?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does your Pa ever talk about getting married again?”

“No, Ma’am!  Oh, no, Ma’am!”

Lizzie almost exploded with anger when Lydia retailed these questions, but Amos only laughed.

“Pshaw, you know Elviry!”

“Yes, I know Elviry!  She’s a snake in the grass.  Always was and always will be.”

“She’s a dandy housekeeper,” murmured Lydia.  “I wonder where she learned.  And she isn’t teaching Margery a thing.  I like Mr. Marshall.”

“Dave’s a miser.  He always was and he always will be,” snapped Lizzie.  “I despise the whole kit and biling of them, money or no money.  Dave never earned an honest cent in his life.”

“Lots of rich men haven’t,” replied Amos.

Amos’ garden was a thing of beauty.  Its trim rows of vegetables were bordered with sunflowers, whose yellow heads vied in height with the rustling ears of corn.  Amos had a general grudge toward life.  He had a vague, unexpressed belief that because he was a descendant of the founders of the country, the world owed him an easy living.  He had a general sense of superiority to his foreign born neighbors and to the workmen in the plow factory.

But in his garden, all his grudges disappeared.  Every evening until dark and every Sunday he worked away, whistling softly to himself.  He always felt nearer to his wife, in the garden.  She too had been bred on a New England farm.  He always felt as if the fine orderliness of the rows was for her.