Levine did not answer for a moment, while his gaze followed Amos' out over the familiar outline of blue water and far green hills.

"Sometimes, Amos," he muttered, finally, "I feel as if my whole life had been wasted."

It was an extraordinarily pleasant supper. John and Amos, in their shirt sleeves, ate waffles till Lydia declared that both the batter and her strength were exhausted. Indians were not mentioned. Levine was in a reminiscent mood and told stories of his boyhood on a Northern Vermont farm and old Lizzie for the first time in Lydia's remembrance told of some of the beaux she had had when her father was the richest farmer round Lake City.

After the dishes were washed, Levine asked Lydia to stroll up the road with him while Amos did his evening ch.o.r.es. It was dusk when they turned out the gate to the road, Lydia clinging to John's arm. A June dusk, with the fresh smell of the lake mingling with the heavy scent of syringa and alder bloom, and of all the world of leaf.a.ge at the high tide of freshness. June dusk, with the steady croak of frogs from the meadows and the faint call of whippoorwills from the woods.

John put a long, hard hand over the small thin one on his arm. "Have you missed me, young Lydia?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, "especially as you never came near us after the hearing."

"How could I come?" asked the man, simply. "You had weighed me and found me wanting. There was nothing for me to do but to go ahead and finish my job, as I still saw the right of it. Have you forgiven me, Lydia?"

"It wasn't a matter between you and me," replied the girl, slowly. "It was between you and your conscience and if your conscience approves, what's the use of asking me to forgive you?"

"Because, I can't stand not having your approval," said Levine.

They strolled on in silence, while Lydia considered her reply. "No matter if the destroying of the Indians were right, that wouldn't exonerate the whites for having been cruel and crooked in doing it.

People will always remember it of us."

Levine gave a laugh that had no mirth in it. "Lord, who'll say the New England spirit is dead! You're as cold in judging me as one of your ancestors was when he sentenced a witch to be burned."

"Oh, no!" cried Lydia. "Dear John Levine, I couldn't be cold to you.

Nothing could make me love you less. And you yourself told me to be true to myself."

John sighed, then said abruptly, "Let's never discuss it again. What are you reading now, Lydia?"

"English essayists and Emerson. I'm crazy about Emerson. He seems so much more human than Leigh Hunt and De Quincey and the rest of them.

Maybe it's because he's an American, so I understand him better. I think I like Compensation and Friendship the best so far. I learned one thing from Friendship to quote to you. It's like you and me."

With both hands clasping his arm, her sweet face upturned to his in the dusk, and with the rich notes in her voice that were reminiscent of little Patience, she quoted:

"'Friendship--that select and sacred relationship that is a kind of absolute and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common so much is this purer; and nothing is so much divine.'"

John stopped and taking Lydia's face in both his hands, he exclaimed huskily. "Oh, my dear, this is my real welcome home! Oh, Lydia, Lydia, if you were ten years older and I were ten years younger--"

Lydia laughed. "Then we'd travel--to all the happy places of the world. We must turn back. Daddy'll be waiting."

Levine turned obediently, saying as he did so, "Just one thing more, then the year's absence will be spanned. How does the Great Search go on? Do you ever have bad dreams at night, now?"

"Sometimes," replied Lydia. "Just the other night I woke up with the old fear and then--it was very curious--I heard the lap-lapping of the lake, and the little murmur of the wind in the pine and the frogs cheeping and the steady chirp of the crickets, and, Mr. Levine, the queerest sense of comfort came to me. I can't put it into words.

Somehow it was as if Something behind all those little voices spoke to me and told me things were--were right."

"Lydia," said Levine, quickly, "you've struck the right trail. I'll follow it with you. What a long way you've come alone, little girl.

Give me your hand, dear. I like to feel it on my arm. Oh, Lydia!

Lydia!"

"What are you two mooning about," said Amos' voice, as he loomed on them through the dusk.

"Enterprises of great pith and moment," replied Levine. "Got any tobacco with you, Amos?"

"No! We'd better go in the house, anyhow. The mosquitoes will eat us up. Lydia, Margery's looking for you."

And as far as Lydia was concerned, the evening was ended.

Levine was very busy with the details of the Indian removal for the next week or two. The exodus was accomplished in a business-like manner. A steady line of busses brought the Indians from the reservation to the outskirts of Lake City, where rough barracks had been erected to care for the government wards while they were being concentrated. The state militia was on guard here, at intervals along the road and upon the reservation. There were some disturbances on the reservation, but for the most part, the Indians were dazed and unprotesting. Before the concentration began, the precaution was taken of sending Charlie Jackson under guard to the new reservation in the Southwest. Lydia had never seen him after her day at the hearing. She always was to carry in her memory, his handsome bronze face, too early marked with lines of despair, as she saw it while she uttered her protest to the commissioners. And it was a hauntingly sad memory to carry.

She went with Billy to see the embarking of the Indians in the special trains provided for them. The streets along the line of march were lined with whites, silent but triumphant. It was a beautiful day, clear and hot. Two by two, the Indians moved along the fine old elm-shadowed streets, old Wolf at the head, shambling and decrepit, but with his splendid old head held high. Two by two, in utter silence, their moccasined feet soundless, old Indians in buckskins, and young Indians in store clothes, then squaws, in calico "mother-hubbards,"

great bundles strapped to their backs, and children in their arms or clinging to their skirts. A long, slow moving line, in a silence that even the children did not break.

It took until well in the evening to get the pathetic exiles into the trains. Lydia did not stay after dark. Profoundly depressed, she made Billy take her home.

In the evening she sat with her Emerson open before her, but with her unseeing eyes fastened on the open door. 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.

Still Lydia made no sound though Amos held her firmly in the vain attempt to still her trembling.

"How'd it happen?" Amos' voice broke a little.

"That d.a.m.ned sister of Charlie Jackson and old Susie both took a shot at him, just as the last car-load was finished. The police and the militia got 'em right off. Shot 'em all to pieces. It looked as though there'd be a wholesale fight for a minute but the militia closed in and the last train got off."

"Where is John?" asked Amos.

"In Doc Fulton's office. They can't move him."

No one spoke again. Kent brought the automobile up with a bang before the doctor's house and Lydia, followed closely by the two men, ran up to the door, through the outer office to the inner, where a nurse and Doc Fulton stood beside a cot.

Levine lay with his face turned toward the door. When he saw Lydia he smiled faintly. She was quite calm, except for her trembling. She walked quickly to his side and took his hand.

"Looks like I was going to start traveling alone, young Lydia," he said feebly. "I just wanted to tell you--that Great Search--is ending all right--don't worry--"

"I won't," said Lydia.

"Only I hate to go alone--my mother--gimme something, Doc."

The doctor held a gla.s.s to his lips. After a moment, Levine said again, "My mother used to hold me--" his voice trailed off and Lydia said suddenly, "You mean you want me to comfort you like I used to comfort little Patience?"

"Yes! Yes!" whispered Levine. "It's going to sleep alone I---- Mother--"

Lydia knelt and sliding her arm under Levine's neck, she pulled his head over gently to rest on her shoulder. Then she began with infinite softness the little songs she had not uttered for so many years.