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“We don’t think there is, Forster. My sister’s been crazy about the place since we got here–that’s eighteen months ago; and I’m crazy about it myself now!”

“Wait until you’ve slept out on the porch for a while,” said Miss Chisholm, “and wait until you’ve got used to a plunge in the pool before breakfast every morning. Alan, you must take him down to the pool to-morrow, and I’ll listen for his shrieks. Where are you going now–the power-house? No, thank you, I won’t go. I’m going out to find something special to cook you for your suppers.”

The something special was extremely delicious; Paul had a vague impression that there was fried chicken in it, and mushrooms, and cream, and sherry. Miss Chisholm served it from a handsome little copper blazer, and also brewed them her own particular tea, in a Canton tea-pot. Paul found it much pleasanter at this end of the table. To his surprise, no one resented this marked favoritism–Mrs. Tolley observing contentedly that her days of messing for men were over, and Mrs. Vorse remarking that she’d “orghter reely git out her chafing-dish and do some cooking” herself.

Paul found that Miss Chisholm possessed a leisurely gift of fun; she was droll, whether she quite meant to be or not. Everybody laughed. Mrs. Tolley became tearful with mirth.

“Now, this is the nicest part of the day,” said Patricia, when they three had carried their coffee out to the porch and were seated. “Did you ever watch the twilight come, sitting here, Mr. Forster?”

“It seems to me I have never done anything else,” said Paul. She gave him a keen glance over her lifted teaspoon; then she drank her coffee, set the cup down, and said:

“Well! How is that combination of vaudeville and railway station and zotrope that is known as New York?”

“Oh, the little old berg is all there,” said Paul, lightly. But his heart gave a sick throb. He hoped she would go on talking about it. But it was some time before any one spoke, and then it was Alan Chisholm, who took his pipe out of his mouth to say:

“Patricia hates New York.”

“I can’t imagine any one doing that,” Paul said emphatically.

“Well, there was a time when I thought I couldn’t live anywhere else,” said Alan, good-naturedly; “but there’s a lot of the pioneer in any fellow, if he gives it a chance.”

“Oh, I had a nice enough time in New York,” said Patricia, lazily, “but it just WEARS YOU OUT to live there; and what do you get out of it? Now, HERE–well, one’s equal to the situation here!”

“And then some,” Paul said; and the brother and sister laughed at his tone.

“But, honestly,” said Miss Chisholm, “you take a little place like Kirkwood, and you don’t need a Socialist party. We all eat the same; we all dress about the same; and certainly, if any one works hard here, it’s Alan, and not the mere hands. Why, last Christmas there wasn’t a person here who didn’t have a present–even Willy Chow Tong! Every one had all the turkey he could eat; every one a fire, and a warm bed, and a lighted house. Mrs. Tolley gets only fifty dollars a month, and Monk White gets fifty–doesn’t he, Alan? But money doesn’t make much difference here. You know how the boys adore Monk for his voice; and as for Mrs. Tolley, she’s queen of the place! Now, how much of that’s true of New York!”

“Oh, well, put it that way–” Paul said, in the tone of an offended child.

“Apropos of Mrs. Tolley’s being queen of the place,” said Alan to his sister, “it seems she’s rubbing it into poor little Mollie Peavy. Len brought Mollie and the baby down from the ranch a week ago, and nobody’s been near ’em.”

“Who said so?” flashed Miss Chisholm, reddening.

“Why, I saw Len to-night, sort of lurking round the power-house, and he told me he had ’em in that little cottage, across the creek, where the lumbermen used to live. Said Mollie was in agony because nobody came near her.”