"The humans I have known lack root hold. Perhaps that is why they die and leave no trace."— The Murmuring Pine .

There was no clear-cut trail between the camp and the settlement. The settlement lay four miles northeast and there were little-used, needle-covered roads to be found that led here, there and everywhere, over which the initiated could find the way to the store.

But Lydia and Kent did not want to use the roads. It was with the old familiar sense of make believe adventure that they started on what they called a Bee-line southwest. And it was mid-afternoon before, hungry and leg weary, they reached the store that backed up against the Indian school!

They bought sardines, crackers and cheese and ate them perched on a dry goods box near the hitching rack.

"There! I feel happier," said Kent as he threw away the empty sardine cans. "How are you, old lady?"

Lydia swung her feet contentedly. "Fine! Let's start back. We'll be there by supper time, I'm sure we know the way now."

Kent nodded, offered Lydia a stick of gum, took one himself, put a huge supply in his pocket and they were off.

But alas for the vanity of amateur woods-craftsmen! The late June dusk found them still threading the endless aisles of pine, their sense of direction completely obscured by the sinking of the sun.

"Scared, Lyd?" inquired Kent as they paused for a moment's rest on a log.

"No, but I'm awful hungry and I've chewed gum till I'll scream if I see another piece. We ought to come on another wick-i-up soon."

"We've come on a dozen of them," grumbled Kent. "If we could make the Indians understand where the camp is, it would be all right. And I don't know what Charlie's Indian name is, so that doesn't help."

Lydia drew a trifle closer on the log to Kent. "Supposing we have to stay out here all night!" She shivered a little.

"Well, I'd light a fire," said Kent in a matter of fact manner that
Lydia suspected was assumed, "and fix you up on a bed of pine needles.
Then I'd stand guard all night, like a little tin hero."

"No, we'd guard in turns," corrected Lydia. "Kent, what's the use of starting on until the moon comes up?"

"None at all," returned the boy. "It's due about nine, isn't it! I hope the folks won't worry about us. In the meantime, you and I can have a good old talk, like the old days. Remember?"

It was entirely dark now in the woods. Fireflies darted about. Crickets shrilled and an occasional owl hooted. Lydia moved still closer to Kent, until his shoulder touched hers.

"I remember! Kent, are you afraid?"

"I should say not! I like the woods at night. Don't the fern and the needles smell fine? Lyd, what're you going to do after you finish High School?"

"Go on to the University. Aren't you?"

"Dad wants me to, but I guess I'll go to work. Why waste four years learning a lot of stuff that'll never earn me a cent?"

"But you could take engineering, or law."

"All lawyers are crooks and I've no head for figures. I'm going into the real estate business. There's real money in that, particularly if Levine gets his bill through. What do you want to go to the University for?"

"Kent, I promised Mother I'd go. And I want to anyhow. We're so poor, that I'll never be anything but a scrub woman if I don't get educated. And all our folks back East were college people, even if they were farmers—all but Dad. He thought he was too smart to go to college."

Kent stirred uncomfortably. "I don't think I'm too smart, but I want to make money, quick."

"I don't see what the hurry is. Is it Olga?"

"Of course it isn't Olga! She's all right to flirt with and a peachy looker, but you don't suppose a fellow wants to marry every girl he gets crazy about!"

"I didn't know," said Lydia, meekly. "Nobody was ever crazy about me."

"You aren't that kind, thank heaven. If I ever catch you running round flirting, I'll slap your face."

There was nothing humorous in Kent's tone, nevertheless Lydia giggled.
"Lots you'd know about it when you don't see me for months at a time."

"I'd know, never fear. You're growing up the way a girl ought to. I know all about it."

Lydia sat, staring into the darkness, thinking this over. She was getting an amount of comfort out of the conversation that made her realize how sore a spot there had been within her.

"But why do you flirt?" she asked finally.

"Aw, boys are that way. You don't understand. A fellow can't help flirting with girls like Margery and Olga—or any other old girl, as far as that goes."

"Kent," asked Lydia, suddenly, "what's a hussy?"

"Huh!" exclaimed Kent. "What makes you ask that?"

"What you said about flirting. Election night there were lots of women, flashily dressed, around, and father said they were hussies. And I saw Gustus flirting with one of them, and some of the Senior boys, too. And I saw some of the best dressed of the Indians with them."

"You'd better ask your father," said Kent.

"I did and he said I'd know when I got older."

There was silence again. The wind sighed through the pines, the crickets chirped, the all-hallowing scent of the pine enveloped them as if blown from some heavenly incense burner. Kent was only seventeen. He sat staring with puzzled eyes into the darkness. He tried to picture Olga putting a question like this to him, and failed. A sudden realization of the loneliness of Lydia's unmothered girlhood, of her innocent faith in him, touched the best that was in him. His voice was a little husky but he answered coolly.

"A hussy, Lyd, is a flirt who's gone to the bad. Those around Lake City chase after the students and the Indians who've got Government allowances, and get their money away from them."

"Oh," said Lydia. "Oh!" Then thoughtfully, "Aren't men silly!"

"Yes, they are," agreed Kent. "And, Lyd, whenever you want to know about such things, you ask me. It's a man's place to tell a girl the things she ought to know."

"All right," replied Lydia, "and of course, you're just like a brother to me."

"Oh, I don't feel so brotherly as—Gee, there's a fire, Lydia!"

Faintly through the trees gleamed a distant blaze. The two jumped to their feet and, weariness forgotten, started hastily toward it.

"It's the camp crowd, I guess," said Lydia.

"No, it isn't, it's a bunch of men," corrected Kent. "Hold on a minute, Lydia. Let's see what we're getting into."

He pulled her into the shelter of a giant pine trunk and the two peered at the group around the fire.

"Some kind of an Indian pow-wow, half breeds, mostly," whispered Kent.

Lydia shivered. "Don't they look fierce in the firelight," she murmured. "Let's get out of here, Kent."

"Shucks! Be a sport, Lyd! We'll watch them a minute, then I'll brace up and speak to 'em."

There were six half breeds in "store" clothes and moccasins squatting around the blaze. None of them was speaking.

"They act as if they were waiting for some one," whispered Lydia, with some of the old thrill of pirate plays returning to her. "Kent, they've all got guns!"

"Hush! There comes some one else. For the love of cats!"

John Levine emerged from the darkness of the forest into the fire glow.

"How!" he grunted, slipping into an empty space, opposite the two eavesdroppers.

"How," returned the Indians.

Silence in the woods, except for the crackling fire.

"Kent, let's go! I don't want to listen, I don't want to know." The cold sweat was standing on Lydia's forehead.

Kent seized her arm. "You've got to stay. It's your business to know," he whispered sharply.

"Where's Eagle's Feather?" asked Levine.

"Sick," replied an Indian.

John nodded. "I got back from Washington today. Big fight there. Marshall and his crowd, they'll make a big fight. I may have to compromise. I may make my bill read, only mixed bloods can sell their lands, not full bloods."

"Good!" said an Indian. "Full blood don't want to sell, anyhow."

"Better for you mixed bloods," agreed Levine, "because you'll get higher prices for your land, but worse for us whites, for there'll be less land, unless—you mixed bloods should happen to swear the full bloods are mixed too."

No one spoke for a minute, then a fat, yellow-faced half-breed laughed. "I'll swear old Chief Dawn had a white great-grandmother. I'll get even with him, for throwing me out of the council."

"Exactly," said Levine. "It'll be a good way for all of you to pay up old debts. Any of Marshall's men been up here lately?"

After a pause, one of the younger Indians said, "Some young fellows been going through the woods measuring out a road and they acted like they was just out for a vacation when any one was around. A year ago I see one of the fellows riding out with Marshall."

Levine grunted. Lydia's heart was pounding so hard that it really pained her. She stared at John unbelievably. Yet it was the same familiar, sallow face, with the gaunt look about the cheeks. Only the eyes were strange. Lydia had never seen them so hard, so searching before. Kent was breathing deep and he did not loose his hold on her arm.

"Well," said Levine, "is that all you folks have got to report, after six months? What do you think I'm paying you for?"

An old mixed blood, almost as dark as a full blood, removed his pipe from his mouth. "All the shoes we buy this year made out of paper, cost four dollars, melt when they get wet. Woman at Last Chance tell me Injun Agent tell her he gets those shoes from Marshall."

"The hog!" grunted Levine. "Anything more?"

What more might have come Lydia did not know for an old squaw came tottering into the fire glow. She was gray headed and emaciated.

"Oh, that's our old squaw, Kent, remember?" whispered Lydia.

"Shut up!" murmured Kent.

The squaw made her way up to John. There was something sinister in the look of her and he rose.

"What you do now, white man," she snarled. "Steal! Steal more, eh?"

Levine looked down on her and his voice was pitying. "Why, you poor old devil, you look half starved." He dug into his pocket and brought out a silver dollar. "Go get some grub," he said.

The old woman stared from the dollar to Levine's face and her voice rose to a shriek.

"Steal! Steal! Make our young men drunk! Make our young girls have babies that grow like these snakes," she pointed a trembling, scrawny finger at the scowling mixed bloods. "White man—dirty fool—dirty thief," and she spat at Levine, at the same time striking the dollar from his hand. It rolled out onto the needles and lay shining in the firelight.

John stiffened and the mixed bloods watched him curiously. But the squaw suddenly burst into the feeble yet deep drawn sobs of the old, and tottering over to the silver she picked it up. "Hungry!" she sobbed. "All the time much hungry." And she started slowly away from the fire in the direction of Kent and Lydia's hiding-place.

"Quick!" whispered Kent, and noiselessly the two ran back into the darkness of the woods, through which, however, a silver light was beginning to filter. "There's the moon," he said in a low voice. "Now I can find the lake."

He took Lydia's hand and they hastened in silence toward the rising moon. In less than half a mile they found the lake and far around its curving shore, the gleam of their own camp fire.

"Holy Mike! What do you think of that!" demanded Kent as they headed for the fire. "Isn't Levine a wonder!"

"Oh, Kent!" gasped Lydia. "What shall we do!"

"Do!" cried Kent. "Why keep our mouths shut and see what happens. Lord, what an adventure! Lyd, I wouldn't have missed this day for a hundred dollars!"

Lydia scarcely heard him. "John Levine!" she murmured. "My best friend! Oh, I can't believe it."

"Shucks! Why, that's life! Gee, what rich pickings! Me for the real estate business!"

"Kent, it's stealing, just as my squaw said. And it's just the meanest, dirtiest kind of stealing!"

"It's nothing of the kind. The whites have got to have that land and if a lot of sentimental grannies won't let us get it openly, we've got to get it quietly."

They were nearing the camp now and Kent stopped and in the moonlight took Lydia by the shoulders. "Look here, Lyd, don't you tell a soul about what we saw. Promise me!"

"I'll do nothing of the kind," snapped Lydia.

The two stood staring at each other. The lad, tall and broad, his dark face tense; the girl, slender, her fair hair shimmering, her eyes clear in the moonlight.

"Promise!" repeated Kent.

"I will not!" returned Lydia.

Kent's hold on her shoulders tightened. He wanted to box her ears and yet, as he gazed at the wistful, sensitive lips, he felt a sudden desire to kiss her.

"Well, promise me, you'll say nothing while we're in camp, anyhow."

Lydia hesitated. After all, she thought, to whom could she tell the story and what could any one do! "All right, I'll promise that," she agreed, slowly.

Kent took his hands from her shoulders. "Come on then, old lady. Gee, this beats hanging poor old Florence Dombey under the willows. Give me your hand and I'll tow you along."

It was scarcely nine o'clock, after all, when they trudged into the camp. Charlie and Gustus came in a moment later, having heard Miss Towne's call.

"Oh, Lydia! Lydia! I've worried myself sick." And the cruel Miss Towne, the grouchy Miss Towne, threw her arms about Lydia, with a little murmur that was curiously like a sob.

"We were just going to the settlement for help," said Charlie, "though we were pretty sure nothing serious could have happened."

"Of course nothing serious!" protested Kent. "We were too smart to follow the roads and got lost going and coming. We waited for the moon to come up and we haven't had anything to eat but chewing gum."

"We saved your supper," said Margery. "Come on, Gustus, we'll heat it for 'em."

"Margery'd be a real human being, if she'd stay away from her mother," observed Kent. "For the love of Mike, let me sit down!"

"Here, get in the hammock and let me fix the cushions for you!" cried
Olga, who had been eying Lydia closely.

"Thanks, I prefer the dining-room bench, right now," returned Kent.
"Come on, Lyd. Food!"

Lydia was tired the next day and elected to stay in camp with Miss Towne while the others, including even Margery and Gustus, went on an all day strawberry hunt.

Lydia lay in a hammock with a book all the morning, but the greater part of the time, Miss Towne observed, her eyes were fastened broodingly on the lake and not on the printed page. The two went bathing alone, at noon, and afterward lay on the grassy shore, drying their hair.

"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.

"Lydia has few loves, but they're strong," he said. "I'm her foster father. My name's John Levine."

Lydia disengaged herself. "And this is Miss Towne," she said, "my dearest teacher."

"I've heard your praises sung for a long time," said Levine.

"And I've heard Lydia sing yours," returned Miss Towne.

"And no one else, I'll bet," laughed John.

"Sit down," said the chaperone, with what dignity she could muster with her hair down her back, "while Lydia and I finish dressing."

"You'll have lunch with us?" called Lydia as she retreated toward the tent.

"Yes, but I can't stay longer. Must be back in Lake City for supper," replied Levine, tying up his horse.

The luncheon was a success. Lydia was delighted to put her hand to cooking again, and while Miss Towne set the table, John chatted with both of them of his Washington experiences. He rode away immediately after he had finished eating. Miss Towne wiped the dishes thoughtfully.

"It's hard to realize that he's the scandalous John Levine," she said.
"He's simply charming!"

Lydia flared, flushed and subsided. Never again, she realized, could she contradict aspersions cast on Levine's character. And yet, how like a bad dream the episode of last night seemed. If only it had been a dream!

"You're not resentful still about my criticism of your slang using, are you, Lydia?" asked Miss Towne, anxiously.

"No," muttered Lydia, "I deserved it."

Miss Towne's face cleared. "Well, then, tell me all about your friend.
He interests me."

Nothing could have soothed Lydia more in her half guilty feeling of having spied unfairly on John than to spend the rest of the afternoon in a history of his relationship to her family.

Side by side in the hammock the two lay during the rest of the sunny summer afternoon, gazing up into the pines and talking of the curious personality that was making history for Lake City. In after years, whenever she thought of Levine, Miss Towne's memory brought her two pictures—one of the tall, sardonic faced man clasping the golden haired girl in his arms. The other was of pine boughs, murmuring sadly and persistently above the gentle flow of Lydia's young voice.

That night the young people sat alone around the camp fire. The
chaperone complained of a headache and went to bed soon after supper.
When she had disappeared, and the tent flap had dropped behind her,
Gustus chanted softly,

"School's closed!
Teacher's dead!
Hooray!"

and deliberately put his arm about Margery and kissed her. Margery gave a little shriek but blushed and looked pleased and Gustus settled down with his head in her lap. Margery sat looking into the fire, and smoothing Gustus' hair.

Olga, who was sitting with Charlie on the opposite side of the blaze, her back against a log, arranged her skirts. "Come on, Charlie," she said, with a glance at Kent. And Charlie ensconced himself comfortably with his head on Olga's knee.

Lydia, who was sitting with Kent, eyed this grouping with interest, and mingled with a little sense of shock and disapproval was just the least little feeling of regret that the boys didn't feel "crazy" about her. She was sitting bolt upright, with her cheeks flaming a little when she felt Kent's arm stealing round her. She did not resist when he pulled her softly against him. She was utterly surprised at the pleasurable sensation she experienced at having Kent's arm about her. The others were singing but for once Lydia's throaty contralto did not join in.

So this was spooning! Of course, she wouldn't let anybody but Kent do this. And what did it amount to, anyhow! If this was all there was to spooning, why did people think it was wrong?

Under cover of the singing, Kent giving her a little squeeze said, "Didn't think you were such a flirt, Lydia! Let me put my head in your lap, will you?"

"All right," said Lydia nonchalantly. And presently she was smoothing Kent's hair, and he was holding her unoccupied hand. It was the same crisp black hair Lydia had pulled in many a childish quarrel and Kent had held her hands many a time to keep her from slapping his face. And yet there was a thrill about this!

Kent evidently called this flirting. Flirting! Lydia began going back over the conversation with Kent that the eavesdropping episode had crowded from her thoughts. Kent didn't respect girls that flirted and he told her he'd slap her if she flirted and yet, here he was! Lydia went on smoothing the crisp hair, with the thin hand that had the callouses of hard work across the palm.

The others were singing one of Lydia's favorite airs and she joined in.

"The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine."

She sang the words unthinkingly—and stopped. John Levine was helping her in her search for God, and robbing and betraying the Indians as he did so! And here was Kent, warning her against doing that which he was persuading her to do. What was the matter with men! Was there no trusting them? And yet, she liked to "spoon" with Kent!

"Oh," she thought, "I wish I knew more about men. I wish I could ask
Mother."

And memory, like a gentle alarm clock rang its warning. "Lydia," her father had said, "don't do anything you'd be ashamed to have your mother know."

Lydia yawned and gave Kent's hair a little tweak. "Get up, Kent, my foot's asleep," she said.

Kent sat up. The others sang on and Lydia said, "I thought you didn't want me to flirt."

"I don't, but with me it's different!" replied Kent.

Lydia jumped to her feet. "You make me sick, Kent Moulton!" she snapped. "All men make me sick. I'm going to bed." And she stalked off in her hunting boots, without a good night to any one.

Kent looked after her with an expression half sheepish, half admiring.

"What's the matter with Lyd?" asked Olga.

"Doesn't care about the spooning bee," replied Kent.

"Proper is Lydia's middle name," commented Gustus.

"Lydia is absolutely O. K.," said Charlie.

"Bet your life," agreed Kent. "Get your big head over, Gustus, and give me a piece of Margery's knee."

"Darn it," said Charlie, "Lydia's left the tent flap up. We might as well go to bed."

Which, after another song or two, they did. A4rLcB3ghxpNB2bAztTXLFiiSnwzu8pepHLJ7xuikUPTaF51wT1Ilm0pW1kxoaw/