“I’ve just got to train old Lizzie,” she said, “so that she won’t leave her old carpet slippers and her apron in the middle of the kitchen every time she goes out.  And Dad just must quit leaving his pipe on the dining-room table.  I do wish we had Mission furniture instead of this everlasting old mahogany.  I just guess there’s got to be some reforming in this house, this summer.  If I’ve got to leave off slang, Dad and Lizzie can leave off a few of their bad habits.”

She carried the suitcase on into her bedroom and Lizzie, coming in, hot and bundle-laden an hour later, found the living-room in immaculate order and Lydia, in an old dress, blacking the kitchen stove.

“For the land’s sake, child,” said Lizzie as Lydia kissed her and took her bundles from her, “how tanned you are!  And you shouldn’t have begun work the minute you got home.”

“I had to.  I couldn’t stand the dirt,” answered Lydia, briskly.  “Is Daddy all right?  You’ll find your slippers where they belong, Lizzie.”

The old lady, in her rusty black alpaca which she always wore to town, gave Lydia a look that was at once reproachful and timid.  Lydia had shown signs lately of having reached the “bringing up the family” stage of her development and Lizzie dreaded its progress.

Amos came in the gate shortly after six.  Lydia was waiting for him at the front door.  He looked suddenly shabby and old to Lydia and she kissed him very tenderly.  It required all the supper hour and all the remainder of the evening to tell the story of the camp and to answer Lizzie’s and Amos’ questions.  There were several episodes Lydia did not describe; that of the half breed council in the wood, for example, nor the “spooning” with Kent.

It was ten o’clock when Amos rose with a sigh.  “Well, you had a good time, little girl, and I’m glad.  But I swan, I don’t want you ever to go off again without me and Liz and Adam.  Adam howled himself to sleep every night and I’d ‘a’ liked to.  I’m going out to see if the chickens are all right.”

“I got everything that belongs to you mended up, Lydia,” said Lizzie, following into the kitchen bedroom.

Lydia looked from the gnarled old hands to the neat rolls of stockings on the bureau.  She had been wishing that Lizzie was a neat maid with a white apron!  A sense of shame overwhelmed her and she threw her arms about her kind old friend.

“Lizzie, you’re a lot too good to me,” she whispered.

Lydia was sitting on the front steps, the next afternoon, with a book in her lap and Adam at her feet, when Billy Norton called.  He stopped for a chat in the garden with her father, before coming up to greet Lydia.

“He is awful homely.  A regular old farmer,” she thought, comparing him with the elegant Gustus and with Kent’s careless grace.

Billy was in his shirtsleeves.  His blond hair was cropped unbecomingly close.  Lydia did not see that the head this disclosed was more finely shaped than either of her friends.  He was grinning as he came toward Lydia, showing his white teeth.