He came—did Jim—highly recommended by two fellows who live by their wits—one, Lakewood Joe and the other, Corduroy Tom. They are my friends, for they have told me they were. One of them always comes to me in the Winter anxious to get work on a farm; the other with a few broken umbrellas and a railroad spike for a hammer, starts out with the Springtime on the quest of “anything to mend.”

Umbrella mending was once a reputable calling, but it has fallen into disrepute since the introduction of the cheap umbrella. But that pathetic part of the story should be left for Lakewood Joe to tell, for it gets him—a humble mechanic—many a hot cup of coffee, many a dime.

The recommendation by my two friends was sufficiently strong to nearly cause me to refuse admission to young Jim. But his manner pleased me and our reception committee—made up of members of the Family—assured me that we had no need to fear poor Jim. Anyway he who has nothing can safely make friends with whomever he chooses.

Jim told us that years ago he had been a “cookie”—please note the “ie”—in a lumber camp in an Eastern State. So when a vacancy occurred in the culinary department of our home Jim was selected for the place.

He proved an excellent assistant and worked for the house—as the phrase goes—he made the coffee so weak, he made the potato soup go so far, that I, economical from habit and from necessity, would blush whenever one of the boys said that he enjoyed the good dinner.

I need have had no fear for it was Jim’s smile that made us all content with the simple fare.

“A grand cook,” the boys would say.

“A grand cook,” Echo and I would answer.

Jim had roughed it for several years and knew a little of the ways of the road. He had worked when a boy in his father’s factory and as some of the workmen felt they were not being paid properly—the son joined in with the workmen and went out on a strike against his father.

In the excitement of the strike the father had spoken to the son about his joining in with the strikers. It seemed to the father like disloyalty—ingratitude. But as for the son, he couldn’t analyze his own psychological state of mind sufficiently to explain why his sympathy had been with the strikers, but feeling himself no longer welcome at the old home, he started to roam.

Seven years had passed since he had written to the old folks. Once or twice he had heard indirectly of his father’s search for him, but he could not even bring himself to write, much less to return.

He had been with us nearly a month when finally, one evening, as he saw the other boys writing letters to their homes he decided he himself would write a letter to his married sister in Pennsylvania. When it was written and mailed, he half regretted what he had done.

Wasn’t he a wanderer—a young hobo if you like—and why should he think of home after all these years, even if the kindly sympathy to be found at the Colony did recall to him those better days?

But the letter was already on its way.... He wondered what his sister might think, how she might act.... She had always cared for him.

The bean soup which he was preparing for supper burned while he was deep in thought, and he blamed himself for his absent-mindedness.

“The boys will have to eat burnt soup just because I got to feeling sentimental,” he said to himself.

Then a word came that a nicely gowned young lady was coming up the driveway. There are many visitors at the Tea Room of the Colony House so it need have caused no excitement. But some one whispered “Look at Jim!”

He had glanced out at the approaching stranger, and he was pale and trembling. He said to me in a faint voice, “It’s my sister. Tell her I left this morning.... Tell her I got a position.”

And then the bell rang and he said:

“Wait—I will see her.”

So brushing his hair and arranging his tie he went in to meet his sister.

The homeless outcast lad faced his aristocratic sweet-faced sister! As the boys saw them they did not know which one to pity the more, although the sympathy seemed to be pretty largely with Jim.

“Is every one well?” the brother asked, trying to relieve the strain of the situation.

“Yes,” she answered, "but why have you never written all these years? I got your letter this morning and left in an hour to get to you for fear I might lose you again. Father has hunted for you everywhere. He thinks he was harsh with you when you struck that day with the men—for you were only a child.

“I thought I might get you to come home with me,” she continued, “my husband and I have a splendid home. You are always welcome.... Or why don’t you go back to your old job with Father. He needs you. He is getting older.”

“You think he would take me back?”

“Gladly. What are you doing here?”

“I am cook for the boys,” he said.

“You, a cook?” she smiled. "Why, you wouldn’t wash a dish at home for me when we were children. You can’t be very much of a cook.... But never mind. I have found you."

“Confound it! I have let those beans burn again.” And he excused himself for a moment.

When he returned he said, “I will write you if I can decide to go back home. It comes a little suddenly you know. I have been a prodigal too long to turn into a father’s white-haired boy on the instant.”

Then after a moment he asked: “Do you know what Mother used to put into the beans when she burned them to take out the smoky taste?”

“Jim, Mother wasn’t that kind of a cook.”

As the sister was going out to step into the carriage she said, “Promise me you will not leave here without writing me. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“I promise,” he said.

That night the boys ate their supper in silence. Each one was deep in thought.

“Too bad the beans are burned,” Jim said.

“I like them that way,” replied one of the boys. “It makes them taste different.”

That night after supper no one wrote any letters, which was unusual, and one of the boys jokingly asked another near him, “Why don’t you write a letter home to your sister?”

“I am afraid,” replied the lad, “she might answer it in person like Jim’s sister did.”

Jim has taken a job on a farm and is saving his money. He has nearly enough to return to his old home; he refuses to accept any aid from his father or sister.

“I will go back as I came away—independently.”