What was that behind his mother's chair? Could it be?- Yes, it's my elephant! Woodie you little devil, you know you aren't supposed to play in here, and everything must go back into your toy box before you go up to bed; that's a flat rule. The toy animal was small (about six inches high), made of stuffed cloth, and gray with much handling; Lazarus felt resentment that such a treasure-his!-was entrusted to a young child...then managed to laugh at himself even though the emotion persisted. He felt tempted to steal the toy. "Excuse me. You were saying, Mr. Johnson?"

"I said I was temporarily delegated in loco parentis; my son-in-law has gone to Plattsburg and-" Lazarus lost the rest of the remark; Mrs. Smith returned in a soft rustle of satin petticoats, carrying a loaded tray. Lazarus jumped to relieve her of it; she smiled and let him.

By golly, that was the Haviland china he had not been allowed to touch until after he got his first long pants! And the "company" coffee service-solid silver serving pot, cream pitcher, sugar bowl and tongs, the Columbian Exposition souvenir spoons. Linen doilies, matching tea napkins, thin slices of pound cake, a silver dish of mints-how did you do this in three minutes or less? You're certainly doing the prodigal proud! No, don't be a fool, Lazarus; she's doing her father proud, entertaining his guest-you are a faceless stranger.

"Children all in bed?" inquired Mr. Johnson.

"All but Nancy," Mrs. Smith answered, serving them. "She and her young man went to the Isis and should be home soon."

"Show was over half an hour ago."

"Is there any harm in their stopping for a sundae? The ice-cream parlor is on a brightly lighted corner right where they catch their streetcar."

"A young girl shouldn't be out after dark without a chaperon."

"Father, this is 1917, not 1890. He's a fine boy...and I can't expect them to miss an episode of their serial-Pearl White and very exciting; Nancy tells me all about it. With a William S. Hart feature tonight, I understand; I would have enjoyed seeing that myself."

"Well, I've still got my shotgun."

"Father."

Lazarus concentrated on remembering to eat cake with a fork.

"She's trying to bring me up," Gramp said grumpily. "Won't work."

"I'm sure Mr. Bronson is not interested in our family problems," Mrs. Smith said quietly. "If they were problems. Which they are not. May I warm your coffee, Mr. Bronson?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"That's right, he isn't. But Nancy should be told soon. Maureen, take a close look at Ted. Ever seen him before?"

His mother looked over her cup at Lazarus, put it down and said, "Mr. Bronson, when you came in, I had the oddest feeling. At church, was it not?"

Lazarus admitted that such could have been the case. Gramp's brows shot up. "So? I must warn the parson. But even if you did meet there-"

"We did not meet at church, Father. What with herding my zoo I barely have time to speak to Reverend and Mrs. Draper. But now that I think about it, I'm sure I saw Mr. Bronson there last Sunday. One does notice a new face among old familiar ones."

"Daughter, as may be, that wasn't what I meant. Who does Ted look like? No, never mind-doesn't he look like your Uncle Ned?"

His mother again looked at Lazarus. "Yes, I see a resemblance. But he looks even more like you, Father."

"No, Ted's from Springfield. All my sins were farther north."

"Father."

"Daughter, quit worrying about me rattling the family skeleton. It's possible that- Ted, may I tell it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Johnson. As you said, it's nothing to be ashamed of-and I'm not."

"Ted is an orphan, Maureen, a foundling. If Ned weren't warming his toes in hell, I'd ask him some searching questions. The time and place is right, and Ted certainly looks like our kin."

"Father, I think you are embarrassing our guest."

"I don't. And don't you be so hoity-toity, young lady. You're a grown woman, with children; you can stand plain talk."

"Mrs. Smith, I am not embarrassed. Whoever my parents were, I am proud of them. They gave me a strong, healthy body and a brain that serves my needs-"

"Well spoken, young man!"

"-and while I would be proud to claim your father as my uncle-and you as my cousin-if it were so-it seems more likely that my parents were taken by a typhoid epidemic down that way; the dates match well enough."

Mr. Johnson frowned. "How old are you, Ted?"

Lazarus though fast and decided to be his mother's age. "I'm thirty-five."

"Why, that just my age!"

"Really, Mrs. Smith? If you hadn't made clear that you have a daughter old enough to go to the picture show with a young man, I would have thought you were about eighteen."

"Oh, go along with you! I have eight children."

"Impossible!"

"Maureen doesn't look her age," agreed her father. "Hasn't changed since she was a bride. Runs in the family; her mother doesn't have a gray hair today." (Where is Grandma?-oh, yes, so don't ask.) "But, Ted, you don't look thirty-five either. I would have guessed middle twenties."

"Well, I don't know exactly how old I am. But I can't be younger than that. I might be a bit older." (Quite a bit, Gramp!) "But it's close enough that when I'm asked I just put down the Fourth of July, 1882."

"Why that's my birthday!"

(Yes, Mama, I know.) "Really, Mrs. Smith? I didn't mean to steal your birthday. I'll move over a few days-say the first of July. Since I'm not certain anyhow."

"Oh, don't do that! Father-you must bring Mr. Bronson home for dinner on our joint birthday."

"Do you think Brian would like that?"

"Certainly he would! I'll write to him about it. He'll be home long before then in any case. You know Brian always says, 'The more, the merrier!' We'll be expecting you, Mr. Bronson."

"Mrs. Smith. that's most kind of you, but I expect to leave on a long business trip on the first of July."

"I think you have let Father scare you off. Or is it the prospect of eating dinner with eight noisy children? Never mind: my husband will invite you himself-and then we will see what you say."

"In the meantime, Maureen, stop crowding him; you've got him flustered. Let me see something. You two stand up, side by side. Go ahead, Ted; she won't bite you."

"Mrs. Smith?"

She shrugged and dimpled, then accepted his hand to get up out of her rocking chair. "Father always wants to 'see something.'"

Lazarus stood by her, facing his grandfather, and tried to ignore her fragrance-a touch of toilet water, but mostly the light, warm, delicious scent of sweet and healthy woman. Lazarus was afraid to think about it, was careful not to let it show in his face. But it hit him like a heavy blow.

"Mrrrph. Both, of you step up to the mantel and look at yourselves, in the glass. Ted, there was no typhoid epidemic down that way in 'eighty-two. Nor 'eighty-three."

"Really, sir? Of course I can't remember." (And I shouldn't have tossed in that flourish! Sorry, Gramp. Would you believe the truth? You might...out of all the men I've ever known. Don't risk it, Bub, forget it!)

"Nope. Just the usual number of dumb fools too lazy to build their, privies a proper distance from their wells. Which I feel certain could not describe your parents. Can't guess about your mother, but I think your father died with his hand on the throttle, still trying to gain control. Maureen?"

Mrs. Smith stared at her reflection and that of their guest. She said slowly, "Father...Mr. Bronson and I look enough alike to be brother and sister."

"No. First cousins. Although with Ned gone there's no way to prove it. I think-"

Mr. Johnson was interrupted by a yell from the front staircase landing: "Mama! Gramp! I want to be buttoned up!"

Ira Johnson answered, "Woodie, you rapscallion, get back upstairs!"