All during the afternoon, to the clink of myriad small stones against
the busy blade of his hoe, Jim thought about Lydia Orr. He could not
help seeing that it was to Lydia he owed the prospect of a much
needed suit of clothes. It would be Lydia who hung curtains, of
whatever sort, in their shabby best room. And no other than Lydia was
to furnish Mrs. Whittle's empty parlor. She had already given the
minister a new long-tailed coat, as Jim chose to characterize the
ministerial black. His cheeks burned under the slanting rays of the
afternoon sun with something deeper than an added coat of tan. Why
should Lydia Orr--that slip of a girl, with the eyes of a baby, or a
saint--do all this? Jim found himself unable to believe that she
really wanted the Bolton place. Why, the house was an uninhabitable
ruin! It would cost thousands of dollars to rebuild it.
He set his jaw savagely as he recalled his late conversation with
Deacon Whittle. "The cheating old skinflint," as he mentally termed
that worthy pillar of the church, had, he was sure, bamboozled the
girl into buying a well-nigh worthless property, at a scandalous
price. It was a shame! He, Jim Dodge, even now burned with the shame
of it. He pondered briefly the possibilities of taking from his
mother the check, which represented the _pro rata_ share of the Dodge
estate, and returning it to Lydia Orr. Reluctantly he abandoned this
quixotic scheme. The swindle--for as such he chose to view it--had
already been accomplished.
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