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"I'm going to give up John Levine's claim on it, and enter on it as a homesteader." "But what an undertaking!" exclaimed Willis. "I'll not go alone," said Lydia gently. "Billy Norton will go with me." Willis turned white, and laid down his salad fork. Lydia turned her head away, then looked back, her eyes a little tear dimmed. "I'm sorry," she said. "Don't be," he answered, after a moment.
It was a little after nine when the chug-chug of Kent's car stopped at the gate and in a moment Kent, white faced, appeared in the door. "John Levine's been shot. He wants Lydia!" Without a sound Lydia started after Kent down the path, Amos following. Kent packed them into the little car and started back toward town at breakneck speed. "How bad off is he?" asked Amos. "Can't live," answered Kent.
Charlie Jackson had spent the evening with Kent. As the monotony of Levine's convalescence came on, gossip and conjecture lost interest in him. John himself would not speak of the shooting. It was after Christmas before John was able to sit up in Amos' arm chair and once more take a serious interest in the world about him.
"But if I had a son I'd beat understanding of it into him with a hickory club." Lydia's jaw dropped. "But but wouldn't you beat it into your daughter?" "What's the use of trying to teach patriotism to anything female?" There was a contemptuous note in Levine's voice that touched Lydia's temper. "Well, there's plenty of use, I'd have you know!" she cried.
At eight o'clock the automobile was at the door. John drove the car himself and ordered Lydia in beside him. The rest packed into the tonneau with the baskets. It seemed as if all Lake City were headed for the reservation, for Levine's automobile was one of a huge line of vehicles of every type moving north as rapidly as the muddy road and the character of the motive power would permit.
And all these beautiful woods are full of half-starved Indians! Charlie, I can't stand it!" And Lydia bowed her head on her arm and leaned against a tree trunk. "Good Lord, Lydia!" exclaimed Charlie, "I didn't want you to feel that bad! I just wanted you to see, because you're Levine's friend and because I like you so much. Please, don't cry!"
"I wish I could. Except for a French Canadian great-grandfather, Mr. Levine's a New Englander too." "New Englander! Pshaw! Outside of Lake Shore Avenue and the college there are no New Englanders here. They are hollow mockeries, unless," he stared at Lydia through his gold-rimmed glass, "unless you are a reversion to type, yourself." Lizzie spoke from the dining-room.
We are Jews for the love of God, not to be saved from consumption bacilli. But I won't use it to-morrow; we have Miss Cissy Levine's tale. It's not half bad. What a pity she has the expenses of her books paid! If she had to achieve publication by merit, her style might be less slipshod." "I wish some rich Jew would pay the expenses of my opera tour," said little Sampson, ruefully.
"You're out of order, Miss Dudley," he exclaimed, sharply. Lydia had forgotten to be embarrassed. "I can't help it if I am," she insisted, "I won't have Charlie Jackson picturing Mr. Levine as a fiend, while I have a tongue to speak with. I know how bad the Indian matters are. Nobody's worried about it more than I have. But Mr. Levine's not a murderer. He couldn't be."
"This is a legal holiday and you and I at least agree on Lydia. Let's stop war for the day, eh?" Levine's sallow face hardened, then he caught Lydia's blue gaze on him as she stood beside Marshall. It was such a transparent, trusting gaze, so full of affection, so obviously appealing to him to "be nice," that in spite of himself he grinned and took a cigar.
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