"Lydia," he said, abruptly, "make the house over if you want to, my dear," and he marched out to the kitchen to wash and take off his overalls.
It took Lydia several days to complete her task. When it was done the cracks were still prominent and the oily finish was spotted. But in Lydia's eyes it was a work of art and she cut the old carpet into three parts with enthusiasm. She sewed the fringe on the rugs, on the front porch. Sitting so, she could see Margery when she appeared far down the road, could view the beauty of the Nortons' wide fields, and could hear the quiet sighing of the pine by the gate. On the afternoon on which she finished the last of the rugs, Charlie Jackson and not Margery appeared. Lydia's heart sank a little as he turned in the gate, though in his greeting he seemed his usual genial self.
He admired the rugs and the gleam of the shining floor through the doorway. Then without preamble, he asked, "Did you talk to Levine, Lydia?"
"Yes," she said. "He—he just doesn't see it any way but his, Charlie!"
The young Indian's face fell. "I certainly thought you could influence him, Lydia. Did you really try?"
"Of course I tried," she exclaimed, indignantly. "He insists that the only way to save you Indians is to make you work for a living."
"He's doing it all for our good, huh?" sneered Charlie.
"He doesn't pretend. He says he wants the land. He's paying for it though."
"Paying for it!" cried the Indian. "How's he paying, do you know?"
"No, and I don't want to know! I'm tired of hearing things against Mr.
Levine."