"Lydia, wasn't Kent nice to you, yesterday?" asked the chaperone, abruptly.
Lydia turned a startled, sunburned face toward the questioner. "Nice!
Why, of course! Kent's like my brother."
"No man but a brother can be like a brother, my dear. Always remember that. What happened yesterday to worry you?"
"Nothing that had anything to do with Kent. Gosh! I should say not!"
"Lydia!" cried Miss Towne. "Please don't use such dreadful language! If you knew how coarse it sounds! Oh, my dear, I'm not trying to hurt your feelings," as she watched the scarlet face and quivering lips. "It's just that you are so fine, I can't bear to have you do anything that isn't fine. I've been planning to talk to you for a long time about your slang. Leave that sort of thing to Olga and the rest. Use only the purest Anglo-Saxon. Be a credit to your fine Puritan stock in speech. You already are, in character."
Lydia said nothing. She sat struggling to keep back the tears when a horse's hoof beats sounded under the trees and Levine rode into the camp.
Lydia had been wondering how, when she saw him in town, she was going to meet him, what she was going to say to him. But now, her only thought was that here was the devoted friend who had understood her since babyhood.
As he dismounted, she jumped to her feet. "Oh, my dear Mr. Levine! My dear! My dear!" she cried and hair flying, she ran to him and threw her arms about his neck, burying her face against his rough corduroy coat.
John threw a long arm about her, and held her to him closely, while with his free hand he smoothed back the glory of her hair. And Miss Towne, watching, saw his long saturnine face transformed.
"Why, Lydia, my little sweetheart! I didn't realize you'd missed me so." He held her silently for a moment, then, catching Miss Towne's gaze, he smiled.