"I'll not try to change him," said Billy grimly. "I'll tell him what I think of him, though."
They paused by the gate. Billy looked down at Lydia with a puzzled frown.
"How about 'Ducit Amor Patriae' now, Lydia?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "Good night, Billy."
"Good-by, Lydia," said the young man heavily and he turned away, leaving her standing at the gate.
But though she had maintained a calm front with Billy, Lydia went over and over their conversation that night feverishly before she went to sleep. She tossed and turned and then long after the old livingroom clock had struck midnight, she slipped out of bed and crouched on her knees, her hands clasped across her pillow, her eyes on the quiet stars that glowed through the window.
"O God," she prayed, "O God, if You do exist, help me now! Don't let me lose Billy's respect for I don't know how I can get along without it. God! God! Make me believe in You, for I must have Some One to turn to! You have taken mother and little Patience and John Levine from me! Oh, let me keep Billy! Let me keep him, God, and make me strong enough to keep on accepting that three hundred and twenty acres. Amen."
Shivering, but somehow quieted, she crept into bed and fell asleep.