Shepherd’s old room! It was a commodious chamber, handsomely furnished. The bath was a luxurious affair. As he drew off his coat Bruce’s mind turned back to his little room in the old frame house in Laconia; the snowy window draperies his mother always provided, and the other little tributes of her love, fashioned by her own hands, that adorned the room in which he had dreamed the long, long dreams of youth. Through the dormer windows he had heard the first bird song in the spring, and on stormy nights in winter had sunk to sleep to the north wind’s hoarse shout through the elms and maples in the yard. “My son’s room!” Franklin Mills had said carelessly as he turned away. The phrase still rang in Bruce’s ears. Mills could not know; he could not even suspect! No man would be callous enough to make such a remark if he believed he was uttering it to an unrecognized child of his own blood. Bruce laved his face and brushed his hair and went down the hall to the library where Mills had taken him on the memorable night they met in the storm. The portrait which had so disturbed Mills still hung in its place. Bruce turned his back on it and took up the evening newspapers. A maid appeared to say that Mr. Mills was answering a long-distance call, but would be free in a moment; and a little later the butler came in with a tray and began concocting a cocktail. While this was in preparation a low whistle from the door caused Bruce to glance round. Leila was peering at him, her head alone being visible. “I thought you were a burglar!” she whispered. Bruce pointed to the servant, who was solemnly manipulating the shaker, and beckoned her to enter. “Briggs! You lied to me again!” she said severely as she swept into the room. “You told me there wasn’t a drop in the house!” “It was the truth, Miss Leila, when I told you,” the man replied gravely. “A friend of Mr. Mills left this at the door this morning.” “I don’t believe it! It was more likely a friend of mine. I say, little one, how do I look?” “Queenly,” Bruce replied. “If you were more beautiful my eyes couldn’t bear it.” “Cut it! Am I really all right?” “I’d be ashamed if I didn’t know it!” “Good boy! You have a taste!” She was charming indeed in her evening gown, which he praised in ignorant terms that she might correct him. She remained standing, drawing on her gloves, and explaining that she was dining at the Tarletons and wasn’t highly edified at the prospect. Her going was a concession to her father. The Tarletons had a young guest whose grandfather had once been a business associate of her Grandfather Mills; hence she must sacrifice herself. “Dad’s keen about the old family stuff. Just look at those grand old relics up there.” She indicated the line of family portraits with a disdainful gesture. “I come in and make faces at them when I feel naughty. I can’t tell my grandfathers apart, and don’t want to!”