“All right,” said Lydia nonchalantly.  And presently she was smoothing Kent’s hair, and he was holding her unoccupied hand.  It was the same crisp black hair Lydia had pulled in many a childish quarrel and Kent had held her hands many a time to keep her from slapping his face.  And yet there was a thrill about this!

Kent evidently called this flirting.  Flirting!  Lydia began going back over the conversation with Kent that the eavesdropping episode had crowded from her thoughts.  Kent didn’t respect girls that flirted and he told her he’d slap her if she flirted and yet, here he was!  Lydia went on smoothing the crisp hair, with the thin hand that had the callouses of hard work across the palm.

The others were singing one of Lydia’s favorite airs and she joined in.

  “The thirst that from the soul doth rise
  Doth ask a drink divine.”

She sang the words unthinkingly—­and stopped.  John Levine was helping her in her search for God, and robbing and betraying the Indians as he did so!  And here was Kent, warning her against doing that which he was persuading her to do.  What was the matter with men!  Was there no trusting them?  And yet, she liked to “spoon” with Kent!

“Oh,” she thought, “I wish I knew more about men.  I wish I could ask Mother.”

And memory, like a gentle alarm clock rang its warning.  “Lydia,” her father had said, “don’t do anything you’d be ashamed to have your mother know.”

Lydia yawned and gave Kent’s hair a little tweak.  “Get up, Kent, my foot’s asleep,” she said.

Kent sat up.  The others sang on and Lydia said, “I thought you didn’t want me to flirt.”

“I don’t, but with me it’s different!” replied Kent.

Lydia jumped to her feet.  “You make me sick, Kent Moulton!” she snapped.  “All men make me sick.  I’m going to bed.”  And she stalked off in her hunting boots, without a good night to any one.

Kent looked after her with an expression half sheepish, half admiring.

“What’s the matter with Lyd?” asked Olga.

“Doesn’t care about the spooning bee,” replied Kent.

“Proper is Lydia’s middle name,” commented Gustus.

“Lydia is absolutely O. K.,” said Charlie.

“Bet your life,” agreed Kent.  “Get your big head over, Gustus, and give me a piece of Margery’s knee.”

“Darn it,” said Charlie, “Lydia’s left the tent flap up.  We might as well go to bed.”

Which, after another song or two, they did.

CHAPTER XI

LYDIA GIGGLES

“Nature is neither cruel nor sad.  She is only purposeful, tending to an end we cannot see.”—­The Murmuring Pine.

The days flew lightly by, lightly for Lydia, too, in spite of the heavy secret she carried of Levine’s plotting.  Lightly, in spite of the fact that Lydia was undergoing some soul-changing experiences in this short holiday, experiences that were to direct her life’s course.