“Can’t you get him back to his work with the doctor?” he asked Kent.

Kent shook his head.  “The only way to keep an Indian from reverting is to put him where he never can see his people or the reservation.  Charlie’s given up.  He’s drinking a little.”

“And still you folks will keep on, stealing the reservation!” exclaimed Billy.

Kent gave Billy a grin, half irritated, half whimsical.  “I know it’s Sunday, old man, but don’t let’s have a sermon.  You’re a farmer, Bill, anyhow, no matter what else you try to be.”

“Thank God for that,” laughed Billy.

“My word!” ejaculated Willis.  “What a country!  You spout the classics on week days and on holidays you steal from the aborigines!”

“Oh, here, draw it mild, Professor!” growled Kent.

“Well, but it’s true,” exclaimed Lydia.  “Where’s our old New England sense of fairness?”

“That’s good too,” said Kent.  “Who was brisker than our forefathers at killing redskins?”

“Altogether a different case,” returned the Harvard man.  “Our forefathers killed in self-defense.  You folks are killing out of wanton greed.”

“That’s the point, exactly,” said Billy.

Kent gave his cheerful grin.  “Call it what you please,” he laughed.  “As long as the whites will have the land, I’m going to get my share.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.  Lydia looked from Billy to Kent, and back again.  Kent was by far the handsomer of the two.  He had kept the brilliant color and the charming glow in his eyes that had belonged to his boyhood.  He dressed well, and sat now, knees crossed, hands clasped behind his head, with easy grace.  Billy was a six-footer, larger than Kent and inclined to be raw-boned.  His mouth was humorous and sensitive, his gray eyes were searching.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Lydia said.  “Let’s go out in the kitchen and pop corn and make candy.”  This with a little questioning glance at the professor of Shakespeare.  He, however, rose with alacrity, and the rest of the afternoon passed without friction.  Willis developed a positive passion for making popcorn balls and he left with Kent at dusk proudly bearing off a bag of the results of his labors.

Billy stayed after the rest and helped Lydia to clean up the dishes.  Kent would never have thought of this, Lydia said to herself with a vague pang.  When they had finished Billy gravely took Lydia’s coat from the hook and said, “Come, woman, and walk in the gloaming with your humble servant.”

Lydia giggled and obeyed.  There was still snow, in the hollows but the road was clear and frozen hard.  They walked briskly till a rise in the road gave them a view of the lake and a scarlet rift in the sky where the sun had sunk in a bank of clouds.

“Now, Lydia,” said Billy, “answer my question.  Are you for or against Indian graft?”

“I just won’t take sides,” announced Lydia, obstinately.