Lydia looked quickly up into Willis' face. "If you were I would you keep that property?"
The professor's eyes widened. "I? Oh! I don't know. It would be an awful temptation, I'm afraid."
"I'd rather be poor all my life," said Lydia. "I'm not afraid of poverty. I've lived with it always and I know it's a sheep in wolf's clothing."
"You mean you've got the courage to give the pine land up?" asked
Willis, quickly.
"It isn't courage. It's being afraid of my conscience. I—I feel as if I were finishing out John Levine's life for him—doing what he ought to have done."
"I wonder if you have any idea what you mean to me!" Willis suddenly burst forth. "You embody for me all the things my puritan grandmothers stood for. By Jove, if the New England men have failed, perhaps the Western women will renew their spirit."
Lydia flushed. "I—I wish you wouldn't talk that way," she protested. "I'm not really wise nor very good. I just feel my way along—and there's no one to advise me."
"That's the penalty of growing up, my dear," said Willis. "We no longer have any one to tell us what to do. Here comes your car. I'm afraid I let the umbrella drip on your cap."
"It doesn't matter," said Lydia, valiantly.
"Miss Dudley—" as he signaled the car, "I'm coming to see you, just as often as you'll let me, this winter," and he walked off before Lydia could reply. She sank into a car seat, her cheeks burning, her heart thudding.