s, you do," he contradicted, "and don't you be getting cross at
your Cousin Lorando Bean! You know I always loved to tease you; it made
your eyes snap--and it does now."

"How can you?" She looked reproachfully at him.

"And I tell you this, Cousin Jule: neither of those girls will ever get
up a color like that!"

She shook her head, but she was not displeased. He took out a fat
chocolate-colored cigar and fingered it wistfully.

"I suppose I mustn't smoke?" he queried.

Her quick answer surprised herself.

"I should hope you could, if that woman can!"

"Which one?"

"That Mrs. Ranger, the one near the samovar--that big brass thing.
Liz--Elise didn't introduce her to you. They don't introduce people the
way they do at home, Cousin Lorando--I hope you didn't mind. They think
it's awkward."

"Oh, Lord, no, I don't mind. I can spare her, anyway. She's checked up
too high for me. But she can look you through pretty thoroughly, can't
she?"

"She writes books," Miss Trueman returned, the finality of her tone
indicating that she had explained any possible idiosyncrasy of the lady
in question.

"Oh, I see. And the little red-haired one, does she write books, too?"

"No; she's an artist. She smokes too, though. Not cigars, like yours,
but cigarettes. She's supposed to be a very good painter, but she
doesn't make what Carrie--lyn makes. The girls have very good positions
in Miss Abrams' school."

"Um, what do they get, now?"

Miss Trueman mentioned the modest sum with pride.

"And then with my money and what we get from the rent of the place--the
girls and I each have a third, you know--we do very nicely."

"So you rented the place?"

"Yes, Cousin Lorando, though I hated to. But I wouldn't sell it, though
they wanted me to. I just couldn't."

"I know."

He lighted his cigar and puffed at it in meditative silence for a
moment, while the babble from the parlor floated in with the odor of the
Ceylon tea and cigarettes.

"That's what I came about, Cousin Jule--the old place. You may think
it's queer, for I never lived there but two years once, when father and
your Uncle Joe farmed it on shares; but those two years just made it
home to me. Of course Uncle Joe wasn't any real relation of mine, and
you-all weren't my real cousins, but it was the only family I ever had,
so to say, and I loved every one of you. Then we moved back into town;
but you know I came in every week or so, and Aunt Martha used to have my