Because of Stephen (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill

mood was already exorcised. The soft rustle of hidden silk, made by her garments as she moved, created a new world in the rough place. She stood by the old desk, loosening the hat-pin and taking off her hat; he could see the grace of every movement. And this beautiful girl had cared for him enough to look at his picture once in a while when he was just a boy! He half wished he had known it then; it might have made some things in his life different. His voice was husky as he said, "You don't mean you ever thought of me then, and called me your brother!"

      "Yes, surely," she said, looking at him with a bright smile as she ran her fingers through the soft hair over her forehead, and settled it as if by magic into a fitting frame for her sweet face. "O, you don't know how I idealized you! I used to put myself asleep at night with stories about you, of how brave and good and true you were, and how you did all sorts of great things for me—I'll tell you them all someday. But now, do you know you haven't welcomed me home yet? "You're sure you're going to be glad I came?"

      She looked up anxiously, a sweet pleading in her lovely eyes as she came over to him, and held up her face. Stephen bent over her awkwardly, and kissed her forehead, and then turned away in embarrassment, knocking down the tin basin from the bench as he moved; but Margaret felt she had her welcome, and set herself to win this brother.

      Philip would have liked to escape to the barn in the confusion of the first few minutes, but had been drawn back to the door for very shame at deserting his partner in time of embarrassment, and had heard the little dialogue.

      He turned silently away from the door, and slipped back to the horses thoughtfully. He had never seen that look on Stephen's face before, nor heard his voice so huskily tender. Perhaps, after all, there was something in a sister.

      Margaret Halstead folded her wisp of a veil as carefully and precisely as if she had just come home from a concert in the East, instead of being dropped down in this land that knew her not; but all the while she was taking mental note of the place, its desolation, its need of her, its paucity of material with which to work, and wondering how these two men had lived and been comfortable.

      "And now you are hungry," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, just as if her brother were the guest and she the hostess, "and what can we get for supper?"

      Stephen had returned from a chase after the tin washbasin, which had chosen, after the manner of inanimate articles, to take a rattling excursion under the stove. He was looking helplessly about the room. He did not know what he ought to do next.

      "There isn't much but bacon and beans, the same old stuff. We have it morning, noon, and night."

      Margaret came over to the table and began to gather the dishes together. It was a strange assortment, and she felt like laughing as she extracted the hammer from under the paper of cheese and looked about for a place to lay it; but she kept her face as sober as if that were the proper place for hammers and cheese, and said thoughtfully:

      "Haven't you any eggs? I think you mentioned poultry in one of your letters."

      "O yes, there are eggs. There are always eggs and bacon. They would be good if they weren't always the same."

      "How would you like an omelet? Do you ever make them?"

      "Yes, we've tried, but they lie around in little weary heaps, and won't 'om' for us," said Stephen, laughing at last. "I'll go out and get some eggs if you think you could make one."

      "Yes, indeed!" said Margaret with alacrity. "Just show me how this stove works first, and fill the tea-kettle. I always use boiling water for my omelets; it makes them fluffier than milk. Where is your egg-beater kept?"

      "Egg-beater!"said Stephen with a shrug of his shoulders. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know one if I met him on the street. Can't you make an omelet without an egg-beater?" he added anxiously.

      "O yes," said Margaret, laughing; "a fork is slower, but it will do. Bring me the eggs now. I will have them ready by the time the kettle boils and the frying-pan is hot."

      Margaret worked rapidly while he was gone, and managed to clear the table and wash three plates and cups before he returned. Then she went to her bag that Philip had put just inside the door, and after a little search brought forth four large clean handkerchiefs, a supply of which she usually took with her on a journey. These she spread, one under each plate and one in the centre. At least, it would not seem quite so uncivilized as did that bare table.

      An examination into her lunch-box showed a glass of jelly still untouched and half a dozen sugary doughnuts, the farewell contribution of an old neighbor of her aunt's. These she arranged on the table with a plate of bread cut in thin slices, and was just searching for possible coffee when she heard the voices of the two young men.

      Stephen went whistling out to the barn for the eggs. "Christopher Columbus, Phil! She knows how to make an omelet! Hustle there, and help me get a lot of eggs. We'll have something worth eating again if it takes every egg on the place."

      Philip had been wondering whether he might not be excused from going back to the house that night at all. But at the appetizing sound he went to work with a will.

      They stopped in astonishment at the door, and gazed at the table as if it had been enchanted, and then gazed anew at the cook. They had left her there a fashionably attired young woman of a world that was theirs now no longer. They found her now a busy woman, with frock daintily tucked up and a white towel pinned about her waist apron-fashion, her sleeves rolled up, revealing white, rounded arms, and her cheeks pink with interest over her work.

      "That lamp smokes horribly," she remarked, looking up at it vindictively; and there was something so true and human about her voice and words that both young men laughed.

      The stiffness was broken, and did not return; but the relations were established and the guest was commander-in-chief. She told her hosts what to do, and they did it. She took the eggs and deftly broke them, the whites into one dish, the yolks into another; and, giving Stephen one dish with a fork to beat them, she took the other herself, meanwhile commanding Philip to find the coffee and make it.

      They enjoyed it as much as three children at play, and their appetites were keen, when a few minutes later, having watched the puffy omelet swell and billow and take on a lovely brown coat, they drew up to the table to supper.

      Margaret told little incidents of her journey, and described the people who had been her fellow travelers, showing a rare talent for mimicry, which entertained her audience exceedingly.

      It was late when the meal was finally concluded and the room put into what Margaret thought was a poor apology for order. The problem of the night was now to be faced, and Margaret wondered what was to become of her. She suddenly realized how very weary she was, and that her nerves, long overstrained by new experiences, were ready to give way in tears.

      Stephen knew that something must be done about sleeping now; but he had no idea what they were going to do with the new sister, any more than if she had been an orphan baby left upon his door-step. He turned helplessly to Philip. Philip always knew what to do in emergencies, though Stephen did not like to admit that he depended upon him.

      Philip had done some thinking while he stood by the horses in the moonlight. There was a little log lean-to opening off this large one-roomed cottage of theirs. It was divided by a board partition into two fair-sized rooms. One of these had been Philip's room and the other Stephen's. There was little furniture in them besides a bunk with heavy blankets. Blankets were the only bed clothing the house possessed, and with them beds were easily made. Philip turned toward the door of his room now, and in the dark went about the walls, hastily gathering an armful of clothing from the nails driven into the logs, which he threw out the window. Then he struck a match, and picked up a few things thrown here and there in confusion, and decided that was the best he could do toward clearing up.

      He explained to Stephen in a low tone that he was to give his sister that room, and he himself would sleep in the hay. Then, saving goodnight, he went out.

      Margaret almost laughed aloud when she looked about her primitive bedroom a few minutes later, and by the light of the blinking lamp took an inventory of her surroundings. Then her eye caught a photograph pinned