“I did,” answered Lydia, not without pride.

“I thought so,” commented Elviry.  “How much was the goods a yard—­six cents?  I thought so.  Hum—­Margery’s every day shirtwaists were none of them less than thirty-nine cents a yard, in New York.  But of course that’s beyond you.  I don’t suppose your father’s had a raise, yet.  He ain’t that kind.  Does he pay Levine any rent for that cottage?”

“Of course, every month!” exclaimed Lydia, indignantly.

“Oh!  I just asked!  Your father’s been talking strong for him at the plow factory, they say, and we just wondered.  He’s old enough to be your father, but you’re getting to be a young lady now, Lydia, and it’s very bad for your reputation to be seen with him.  You haven’t any mother and I must speak.”

“I don’t see how John Levine’s reputation about Indians or pine lands can hurt me any,” protested Lydia, angrily, “and I just think you’re the impolitest person I know.”

Elviry snorted and started to speak but Margery interrupted.

“You are impolite, Mama!  It’s none of our business about Lydia—­if she wants to be common.”

Lydia rose, holding the paper parcel carefully in her arms.  “I am common, just common folks!  I always was and I always will be and I’m glad of it—­and I’m going home.”

The front door slammed as she spoke and Dave Marshall came in.

“Hello!  Well, Lydia, this is a sight for sore eyes.  Thought you’d forgotten us.  What’s in your bundle?”

Lydia spoke furiously, tearing the paper off the bundle as she did so.

“Well, since you’re all so curious, I’ll show you!” And Florence Dombey, with the hectic gaze unchanged, emerged.  “There!” said Lydia.  “I never shall be too old for Florence Dombey and I thought Margery wouldn’t be either—­but I was wrong.  I wrapped Florence Dombey up because I do look too big for dolls and I don’t want folks to laugh at her.”

“Of course you’re not too big for dolls,” said Dave.  “You and Margery go on and have your play.”

“Daddy!” cried Margery.  “Why, I wouldn’t touch a doll now.”

“There, you see!” said Lydia, laying Florence Dombey on a chair while she pulled on her coat—­made this year from one that Lizzie had grown too stout to wear—­“It’s no use for me to try to be friends any more with Margery.  She’s rich and I’m common and poor.  She has parties and beaux and clothes and I don’t.  I’ll be friends with you but I can’t be friends with her.”

Dave looked from his two women folks to Lydia.  “What’ve you two been saying now?” he asked gruffly.

Elviry tossed her head.  “Nothing at all.  I just showed a decent interest in Lydia, as I would in any motherless girl and she got mad.”

“Yes, I know your decent interest,” grunted Dave.  “You make me sick, Elviry.  Why I was ever such a fool as to let you spend a summer in New York, I don’t know.”