Billy rose with dignity, and without a word strode down the path to the gate and thence up the road.  Lydia stared after him indignantly.  “That old farmer!” she said to Adam, who wriggled and slobbered, sympathetically.

She was still indignant when John Levine arrived and found her toasting herself and the waffles for supper, indiscriminately.  Perhaps it was this sense of indignation that made her less patient than usual with what she was growing to consider the foibles of the male sex.  At any rate, she precipitated her carefully planned conversation with Levine, when the four of them were seated on the back steps, after supper, fighting mosquitoes, and watching the exquisite orange of the afterglow change to lavender.

The others were listening to Lydia’s account of her investigating tour with Charlie.

“I shouldn’t say it was the best idea in the world for you to be wandering through the woods with that young Indian,” was Levine’s comment when Lydia had finished.

“I don’t see how you can speak so,” cried Lydia, passionately, “when this minute you’re taking his pine wood.”

“Lydia!” said Amos, sharply.

“Let her alone, Amos,” Levine spoke quietly.  “What are you talking about, Lydia?”

For a moment, Lydia sat looking at her friend, uncertain how much or how little to say.  She had idealized him so long, had clung so long to her faith in his perfection, that a deep feeling of indignation toward him for not living up to her belief in him drove her to saying what she never had dreamed she could have said to John Levine.

“The Indians are people, just like us,” she cried, “and you’re treating them as if they were beasts.  You’re robbing them and letting them starve!  Oh, I saw them!  Charlie showed the poor things to me—­all sore eyes, and coughing and eating dirt.  And you’re making money out of them!  Maybe the very money you paid our note with was made out of a starved squaw.  Oh, I can’t stand it to think it of you!”

Lydia paused with a half sob and for a moment only the gentle ripple of the waves on the shore and the crickets were to be heard Levine, elbow on knee, chin in hand, looked through the dusk at the shadowy sweetness of Lydia’s face, his own face calm and thoughtful.

“You’re so good and kind to me,” Lydia began again, “how can you be so hard on the Indians?  Are you stealing Charlie’s logs? Are you, Mr. Levine?”

“I bought his pine,” replied Levine, quietly.

“He doesn’t believe it.  He thinks you’re stealing.  And he’s so afraid of you.  He says if he makes a fuss, you’ll shoot him.  Why does he feel that way, Mr. Levine?”

Lydia’s thin hands were shaking, but she stood before the Congressman like a small accusing conscience, unafraid, not easily to be stilled.

“Lydia!  What’re you saying!” exclaimed Amos.