Mr. Townsend finished his newspaper and his coffee at the same moment, and rose from the table. Although five minutes had elapsed since the elder of his two sons came into the room, no conversation had passed between them. Mr. Townsend’s glance dropped upon the young man, who, with his look of ill health, would have appeared to a stranger to have lived several more than the twenty-three years which were really his. "You’re not feeling well this morning, Murray?" "About as usual." "It’s not strange that you have no strength, when you take nothing substantial with your morning meal." "How can I, when I can’t bear the sight of anything but fruit?" "You don’t get out enough." "I suppose I don’t. There’s nothing to take me out." Mr. Townsend turned away. As he passed through the door, he met his daughter Olive, and greeted her. This very pretty, dark-skinned, dark-eyed girl of eighteen evidently had been keeping late hours on the previous evening. Her long lashes drooped sleepily over her eyes as she nodded to her brother. "Grapefruit any good?" she asked. "Fair, if it wasn’t sweetened like a bonbon." "I like mine sweet. Annie, tell Gretchen to put half a dozen maraschino cherries in my grapefruit and some crushed ice." "You must like the mess that will be," Murray observed. "I do--very much," replied his sister, decidedly. The two continued their breakfast in silence, which was presently interrupted by the advent of a fourth member of the family. Forrest Townsend, flinging into the room with a rush, dressed in riding clothes, and casting hat and crop upon a chair as he passed it, offered a picturesque contrast to the two dark-eyed young persons. Of a little more than medium height, strongly built, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he looked the young athlete that he was. "Hello!" was his morning greeting, as he dropped into a chair. He proceeded instantly to give his directions to the maid. No invalid order was his. "No--no grapefruit. I want my chop, and some bacon and eggs; tell Gretchen to brown the eggs better than she did yesterday. Muffins this morning? What? Oh bother! You know I hate toast, Annie! Oh, waffles--that’s better! Coffee, of course." "Sounds like an order you ’d give at a hotel," observed his sister, with scorn. "I wonder Gretchen does n’t make a fuss at having to cook a whole breakfast like that just for you. Nobody else wants such a heavy meal at this hour." "The bigger geese you all are then. If I picked at my breakfast the way the rest of you do, I ’d soon lose this good muscle and wind of mine." "I never heard that hot waffles and syrup were good for muscle and wind." Murray looked cynical under his dark eyebrows. "They would n’t be allowed at any training-table."