"If you are, he has gone for a run. I dearly love to see him get up early and run, he enjoys it so. To give pleasure to others is one of my constant aims. That is why I learned to sing." "I have been baking a cake," said Helen, displaying the traces of her occupation upon hands, arms, and apron, while Fresno, at sight of the blue apron tied at her throat and waist, felt that he himself was as dough in her hands. "I had a dreadful time to make it rise." "Early rising is always unpopular." "How clever you are this morning." "If I were a cake I would rise at your lightest word." "The cook said it wouldn't be fit to eat," declared Helen. "Jealousy! She hadn't been up long." "And I _did_ leave a lot of dishes to wash after I had finished," Miss Blake admitted. "I should love to eat your cooking." "Once in a while, perhaps, but not every day." "Every day--always and always. You know what I-mean, Miss Blake-- Helen!" The young man bent a lover's gaze upon his companion until he detected her eyes fastened with startled inquiry upon his toilet. Remembering, he buttoned his coat, but ran on. "This is the first chance I've had to see you alone since Speed arrived. There's something I want to ask you." "I--I know what it is," stammered Helen. "You want me to let you sing again. Please do. I love morning music--and your voice is so tender." "Life," said Berkeley, "is one sweet--" "What is going on here?" demanded a voice behind them, and Mrs. Keap came out upon the porch, eying the pair suspiciously. It was evident that she, like Fresno, had dressed hurriedly. "Mr. Fresno is going to sing to us," explained the younger girl, quickly. "Really?" "I am like the bird that greets the morn with song," laughed the tenor, awkwardly. "What are you going to sing?" demanded the chaperon, still suspiciously. "_Dearie_." "Don't you know any other song?" "Oh yes, but they are all sad." "I'm getting a trifle tired of _Dearie_, let's have one of the others." Mrs. Keap turned her eyes anxiously toward the training-quarters, and it was patent that she had not counted upon this encounter. Noting her lack of ease, Fresno said hopefully: "If you are going for a walk, I'll sing for you at some other time." "Is Mr. Speed up yet?" "Up and gone. He'll be back soon." Then Mrs. Keap sank into the hammock, and with something like resignation, said: "Proceed with the song." Along the road toward the ranch buildings plodded two dusty pedestrians, one a blond youth bundled thickly in sweaters, the other a fat man who rolled heavily, and paused now and then to mop his purple face. Both were dripping as if from an immersion, while the air about the latter vibrated with heat waves. They both stumbled as they walked, and it was only by the strongest effort of will that they propelled themselves. As they neared the corner of the big, low-lying ranch-house, already reflecting the hot glare of the morning sun, a man's clear tenor voice came to them.