BEING gratefully appreciative of a good bed after a night and a day in a narrow-gauge Pullman, Bromley slept late on the morning following his return to Denver; and when he put in an appearance in the cottage dining-room he found that the family had already breakfasted and Jean had gone to her work. Sixteen-year-old Mysie, housewifely and starry-eyed, was the only member of the household visible, and it was she who poured his coffee and made the toast. “Did I disturb you folks when I came in last night?” he asked. “Jeanie said she heard you; but nothing ever wakes me. I’m the sleepy-head of the family. Are your eggs cooked right?” “How could they be otherwise if you cooked them?” said the play-boy gallantly. He liked to make Mysie talk. More than either of her sisters she retained the soft Southern speech with its submerged “r’s” and lingering vowels. “Where is Mary Louise this fine morning?” “She and Mummie have gone marketing while it is cool. Shan’t I toast you another slice?” Bromley let his eyes rest for a moment upon the fresh, fair young face opposite. The elder of the two younger girls was a sharp contrast to Jean, whose dark hair and eyes and warm skin were inheritances from her far-away French ancestry. As an artist’s model Mysie Dabney might have posed for an idealized study of blushing innocence awakening, of sweet girlhood poising for the flight into womanhood. “You spoil me utterly,” he said, smiling into the wide-open, dewy eyes. Then: “I wonder if you are old enough to let me ask you a horribly improper question?” “Improper? Why, Uncle Harry, I don’t believe you could be improper if you should try ever so hard!” Bromley winced at the “Uncle Harry,” though both of the younger girls had called him that almost from the beginning. “I’m going to make a bargain with you,” he said lightly. “When is your birthday?” “Next Sunday.” “All right; there is a pretty birthday gift coming to you next Sunday if you will promise, after that day, to stop calling me ‘uncle.’” The wide-open eyes opened still wider. “Why--I thought you liked it!” “I do--from Mary Louise; from little girls generally. But when you say it, it makes me feel as though my teeth were coming loose and my hair falling out--old and decrepit, you know.” “I wish you’d listen!” she laughed. “What do you want me to call you--after next Sunday?--‘Misteh Bromley?’” “Oh, dear me, no; that is ever so much worse! Couldn’t you make it just plain ‘Harry,’ without the ‘uncle’?” He saw a faint wave of color rising to the fair neck and cheeks, and the down-dropped eyes were no longer those of a child. “I--I’ll try,” she promised; then, as one stepping lightly from ground tremulous to ground firm: “What is the improper question that isn’t going to be improper?” “It is about Jean, and if you don’t want to answer it you can just make a face at me and tell me it is none of my blessed business. Does Jean--do you think she cares especially about--er--Philip?”