“The man that can make best use of the land’s got first right to it,” insisted Amos.  “That’s what my ancestors believed two hundred and fifty years ago when they settled in New Hampshire and put loopholes under the eaves of their houses.  Our farmhouse had loopholes like that.  Snow used to sift in through ’em on my bed when I was a kid.”

Lydia, lying on her stomach on the couch, turning the leaves of “Tom Sawyer,” looked up with sudden interest.

“Daddy, let’s go back there to live.  I’d love to live in a house with loopholes.”

The two men laughed.  “You should have been a boy, Lydia,” said Amos.

“A boy,” sniffed Levine, “and who’d have mothered little Patience if she’d been a boy?”

“That’s right—­yet, look at that litter on the desk in the parlor.”

Both the men smiled while Lydia blushed.

“What are you going to do with that doll furniture, Lydia?” asked John Levine.

“I’m going to make a doll house for little Patience, for Christmas.”  Lydia gave an uncomfortable wriggle.  “Don’t talk about me so much.”

“You’re working a long way ahead,” commented Amos.  “That was your mother’s trait.  I wish I’d had it.  Though how I could look ahead on a dollar and a half a day—­Lydia, it’s bedtime.”

Lydia rose reluctantly, her book under her arm.

“Don’t read upstairs, child,” Amos went on; “go to bed and to sleep, directly.”

Lydia looked around for a safe place for the book and finally climbed up on a chair and laid it on the top shelf of the sideboard.  Then she came back to her father’s side and lifted her face for her good night kiss.

“Good night, my child,” said Amos.

“How about me,” asked Levine.  “Haven’t you one to spare for a lonely bachelor?”

He pulled Lydia to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.  “If you were ten years older and I were ten years younger—­”

“Then we’d travel,” said the child, with a happy giggle as she ran out of the room.

There was silence for a moment, then John Levine said, “Too bad old Lizzie is such a slob.”

“I know it,” replied Amos, “but she gets no wages, just stayed on after nursing my wife.  I can’t afford to pay for decent help.  And after all, she does the rough work, and she’s honest and fond of the children.”

“Still Lydia ought to have a better chance.  I wish you’d let me—­” he hesitated.

“Let you what?” asked Amos.

“Nothing.  She’d better work out things her own way.  She’ll be getting to notice things around the house as she grows older.”

“It is the devil’s own mess here,” admitted Amos.  “I’m going to move next month.  This place has got on my nerves.”

“No, Daddy, no!” exclaimed Lydia.

Both men started as the little girl appeared in the kitchen door.  “I came down to put Florence Dombey to bed,” she explained.  “Oh, Daddy, don’t let’s move again!  Why, we’ve only been here two years.”