er
rebellious locks, "go crop-cut, if you insist. I can't help it."

Mrs. Kingdon smiled when the little girlish figure opened the door in
response to her knock.

"I felt sure that that outfit, which was left here by my fifteen-year-old
niece when she last visited us, would fit you, though Kurt insists that
you are twenty. You had a nice sleep, didn't you?"

"I think I never really slept before. Such a bed, and such heavenly quiet!
So different from street-car racket."

"My husband and the boys have been away all day, or there wouldn't have
been such quiet. Dinner is ready. Kurt didn't tell me your name."

"Penelope Lamont. My first name is always shortened to Pen or Penny."

Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr.
Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist.
Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and seven
years respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnly
and surveyingly while she was presented to their father.

"Can you skin a weasel?" asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned to
him.

"Mother said you were a young lady," said Billy. "You're just a little
girl like Doris was."

"And you've got on her clothes," declared Betty sagely.

"Now you surely should feel at home," declared Mrs. Kingdon.

"Margaret," commented her husband whimsically, "our children seem to be
quite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in their
remarks, don't you think?"

"We so seldom have visitors up here, you know," defended the mother,
smiling at Pen the while. "We will go into the dining room now."

Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a most
willing welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that the
vacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified by
Betty who asked with a pout:

"Why don't we wait for Uncle Kurt?"

"He dined an hour ago and rode away," explained Mrs. Kingdon. "He will be
back before your bedtime."

Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by one
or more of the children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive to
their advances.

"You've had your innings, Francis," the father finally declared. "That
will be the last from you."

"There's one thing more I want to know," he pleaded. "Miss Lamont, do
colored people ever have--what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamont
had, mother