at his watch and whistled.

"Twenty minutes of seven!" he ejaculated. "This won't do. I guess I'd
better get my own breakfasts. If there's one thing a chap wants to do in
vacation it's sleep late."

He raised the shades and flung open the front windows. On the lilac
hedge a bird was poised singing his heart out. Wade watched him in
admiration and wondered what kind of a bird he was. To Wade a bird was a
bird as long as it was neither a buzzard nor a crow.

"You're not a buzzard," he told the songster, "nor a crow. You have a
gray breast and brown body and a black cap on your head. Wonder who you
are. Guess you're a sparrow. I believe I'll get a book telling about
birds. They're interesting little devils. Look at him put his head back!
Just as though he meant to crack things wide open. By Jove! I have it!
Your name's Zephania!"

A baker's cart ambled by beyond the hedge, the driver leaning around the
corner of the vehicle to regard the cottage curiously. Out on the common
a bay horse, his halter-rope dragging under his feet, cropped the lush
grass.

"You're happy," murmured Wade. "The bird's happy. Zephania's happy. This
must be a happy village." He pondered a moment, gazing contentedly about
the cosy sunlit room. Then, "And I'm happy myself," he added with
conviction. And to prove it he began to whistle merrily while he
finished dressing. Presently there was a knock on the dining-room door.

"Yes?" responded Wade.