“No more terrible than the way they live and die on the reservation.  My dear child, don’t develop any sentiment for the Indian.  He’s as doomed as the buffalo.  It’s fate or life or evolution working out—­whatever your fancy names it.  No sickly gush will stop it.  As long as the Indian has a pine or a pelt, we’ll exploit him.  When he has none, we’ll kick him out, like the dead dog he is.”

Lydia, her eyes round, her lips parted, did not reply.  For a moment she saw the Levine that the world saw, cold, logical, merciless.  John interpreted her expression instantly and smiled.  “Don’t look at me so, young Lydia.  I’m just being honest.  The rest talk about ’freeing the Indian.’  I say damn the Indian, enrich the whites.”

“It—­it makes me feel sort of sick at my stomach,” replied Lydia, slowly.  “I suppose you’re right, but I can’t help feeling sorry for Charlie Jackson and my old squaw.”

Levine nodded understandingly and turned to Amos.  “What’s the talk in the factory?” he asked.

During the half hour that followed, Lydia did not speak again nor did she hear any of the conversation.  New voices were beginning to whisper to her.  Try as she would to hush them with her faith in her father and John, they continued to query:  How about the Indians?  Whose is the land?  What do you yourself believe?

When Levine rose at nine to leave, she followed him to the door.  “Adam and I’ll walk a way with you,” she said, “while Dad puts his chickens to bed.”

“Fine!” exclaimed John.  “My wheel is out of commission so I have to walk to the trolley.”

He glanced at Lydia a trifle curiously however.  This was a new venture on her part.  It was a clear, cold, starlit night.  Lydia trudged along for a few moments in silence.  Then Levine pulled her hand through his arm.

“Out with it, young Lydia,” he said.

“Do you suppose,” she asked, “that God is something like ether—­or like electricity—­in the air, everywhere, something that sort of holds us together, you know?”

“Well,” replied John, slowly, “I wouldn’t want to believe that.  I want to find a God we can know and understand.  A God that’s tender and—­and human, by Jove.”

Lydia looked up at him quickly in the starlight.  “After what you said about Indians to-night, you can’t believe God could be tender and—­and let that happen!”

Levine returned her look and smiled.  “You score there, honey.  Lydia, you’re growing up.  Your head’s above my shoulder now.”

The young girl nodded carelessly.  “But I wanted to talk to you about taking the reservation, not about me.”

“I guess we’d better do that another time.  I don’t dare to have you walk further with me.  This is a lonesome road back for you.  And besides, I don’t want you to scold me.”

“Scold you!” Lydia paused in her astonishment.  “Why, I love you as much as I do anybody in the world.  How could I scold you?”