"Out with it, young Lydia," he said.
"Do you suppose," she asked, "that God is something like ether—or like electricity—in the air, everywhere, something that sort of holds us together, you know?"
"Well," replied John, slowly, "I wouldn't want to believe that. I want to find a God we can know and understand. A God that's tender and—and human, by Jove."
Lydia looked up at him quickly in the starlight. "After what you said about Indians to-night, you can't believe God could be tender and—and let that happen!"
Levine returned her look and smiled. "You score there, honey. Lydia, you're growing up. Your head's above my shoulder now."
The young girl nodded carelessly. "But I wanted to talk to you about taking the reservation, not about me."
"I guess we'd better do that another time. I don't dare to have you walk further with me. This is a lonesome road back for you. And besides, I don't want you to scold me."
"Scold you!" Lydia paused in her astonishment. "Why, I love you as much as I do anybody in the world. How could I scold you?"
Levine looked down into the shadowy, childish eyes. "Couldn't you? Well, you're a dear, anyhow. Now scoot and I'll watch till you reach the gate."
Lydia hesitated. She felt a change in John's manner and wondered if she had hurt his feelings. "Kiss me good night, then," she said. "You don't do it as regularly as you used to. If I don't watch you, you'll be finding some one else to travel with you."