"A grand cook," Echo and I would answer. Jim had roughed it for several years and knew a little of the ways of the road. He had worked when a boy in his father's factory and as some of the workmen felt they were not being paid properly--the son joined in with the workmen and went out on a strike against his father. In the excitement of the strike the father had spoken to the son about his joining in with the strikers. It seemed to the father like disloyalty--ingratitude. But as for the son, he couldn't analyze his own psychological state of mind sufficiently to explain why his sympathy had been with the strikers, but feeling himself no longer welcome at the old home, he started to roam. Seven years had passed since he had written to the old folks. Once or twice he had heard indirectly of his father's search for him, but he could not even bring himself to write, much less to return. He had been with us nearly a month when finally, one evening, as he saw the other boys writing letters to their homes he decided he himself would write a letter to his married sister in Pennsylvania. When it was written and mailed, he half regretted what he had done. Wasn't he a wanderer--a young hobo if you like--and why should he think of home after all these years, even if the kindly sympathy to be found at the Colony did recall to him those better days? But the letter was already on its way.... He wondered what his sister might think, how she might act.... She had always cared for him. The bean soup which he was preparing for supper burned while he was deep in thought, and he blamed himself for his absent-mindedness. "The boys will have to eat burnt soup just because I got to feeling sentimental," he said to himself. * * * * * Then a word came that a nicely gowned young lady was coming up the driveway. There are many visitors at the Tea Room of the Colony House so it need have caused no excitement. But some one whispered "Look at Jim!" He had glanced out at the approaching stranger, and he was pale and trembling. He said to me in a faint voice, "It's my sister. Tell her I left this morning.... Tell her I got a position." And then the bell rang and he said: "Wait--I will see her." So brushing his hair and arranging his tie he went in to meet his sister. The homeless outcast lad faced his aristocratic sweet-faced sister! As the boys saw them they did not know which one to pity the more, although the sympathy seemed to be pretty largely with Jim. "Is every one well?" the brother asked, trying to relieve the strain of the situation. "Yes," she answered, "but why have you never written all these years? I got your letter this morning and left in an hour to get to you for fear I might lose you again. Father has hunted for you everywhere. He thinks he was harsh with you when you struck that day with the men--for you were only a child.