"Now you surely should feel at home," declared Mrs. Kingdon.

"Margaret," commented her husband whimsically, "our children seem to be quite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in their remarks, don't you think?"

"We so seldom have visitors up here, you know," defended the mother, smiling at Pen the while. "We will go into the dining room now."

Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a most willing welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that the vacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified by Betty who asked with a pout:

"Why don't we wait for Uncle Kurt?"

"He dined an hour ago and rode away," explained Mrs. Kingdon. "He will be back before your bedtime."

Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by one or more of the children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive to their advances.

"You've had your innings, Francis," the father finally declared. "That will be the last from you."

"There's one thing more I want to know," he pleaded. "Miss Lamont, do colored people ever have--what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamont had, mother?"

"Oh, Francis!" exclaimed his mother. "I said," looking at Pen, "that I feared you were anemic, and then I had to describe the word minutely."

"Are they ever that, Miss Lamont?" insisted the boy.

"I never thought of it before," answered Pen after a moment's reflection, "but I don't see why they couldn't be so, same as white people."

"Then how could they tell they had it. They wouldn't look white, would they?"

"Suppose," interceded Kingdon, "we try to find a less colorful topic. I move we adjourn to the library for coffee."

"We stay up an hour after dinner," said Billy, when they were gathered about the welcome open fire, "but when we have company, it's an hour and a half."

"I should think that rule would be reversed," replied Kingdon humorously.

"Then, aren't you glad I'm here?" Pen asked Billy.

"Sure!" came in hearty a.s.surance. "You can stay up a long time, can't you, because you slept all day?"

"Play with us," besought Betty.

"Yes; play rough," demanded Billy.

Mrs. Kingdon interposed. "She's too tired to do that," she admonished the children.

Betty came forward with a box of paper and a pair of scissors.

"You can cut me some paper dolls. That won't tire you."

"I don't want dolls!" scoffed Francis.

Pen was already using the articles Betty had furnished.

"Not if we call them circus ladies and I cut horses for them to ride on?"

she asked him.

"Can you do that?" he inquired unbelievingly.

"Certainly. Dashing horses that will stand up," she boasted, and in another moment a perfectly correct horse was laid before the delighted boys.

A few more rapid snips and a short-skirted lady was handed to Betty.

"Now, make a clown, a lion, a tiger, an elephant," came in quick, short orders which were readily filled.

"My dear young lady," exclaimed Kingdon. "You are really talented. It is so seldom an artist can do anything but draw."

"I can't draw. I am just a cutter," she corrected. "I can't do anything with a pencil."

They were all so absorbed in the paper products that Kurt's entrance pa.s.sed unnoted.

"Betty," he said imploringly, after waiting a moment without recognition, "you can't guess what's in my pocket?"

Pen looked up unbelievingly. The caressing, winning note had utterly disguised his voice. As he handed the delighted Betty a satisfactorily shaped parcel, his glance rested upon his prisoner, bringing a quick gleam of surprise to his eyes.

"I am taking out my first papers, you see," she announced, pointing to the miniature menagerie.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.

"A man showed me," she said noncommittally.

"What else can you cut?" demanded Francis.

"I can cut an airship."

"Cut me one."

"To-morrow," said Mrs. Kingdon. "The time limit is up."

"Did you ever go up in an airship?" asked Billy eagerly.

"No; but I know a man who flies," she boasted.

"Come upstairs and tell us about him," demanded Billy.

As his mother cordially seconded the invitation, Pen accompanied them to the nursery. When the last "good nights" had been said to the children, Mrs. Kingdon led the way to her room.

"The moon shouldn't seem so far away," declared Pen, looking out of the broad window. "We are up so high."

"I haven't yet ceased to wonder at these hills," rejoined Mrs. Kingdon.

"We bought this ranch merely for a vacation place, but three-fourths of our time is spent up here, as we have become so attached to it. Mr.

Kingdon is an artist, so he never tires of watching the hills and the sky.

Sometimes we feel selfish with so much happiness--when there isn't enough to go around."