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{\LARGE\strut{Jane Lends A Hand}}
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the \hyperlink{project-gutenberg-license}{Project Gutenberg License}
included with this eBook or online at
{https://www.gutenberg.org/license}.
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Title: Jane Lends A Hand
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Author: Shirley Watkins
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Release Date: March 17, 2011 {[}EBook \#35593{]}
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Language: English
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Character set encoding: UTF-8
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE LENDS A HAND ***
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at {http://www.pgdp.net}.
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BY
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{\itshape{Author of “Nancy of Paradise Cottage,”}}
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{\itshape{and “Georgina Finds Herself”}}
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The GOLDSMITH Publishing Co.
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CHICAGO ILL.
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MADE IN USA
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{\scshape{George W. Jacobs \& Company}}
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Contents}

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\hyperlink{chapter-iaffairs-of-the-lambert-family}{CHAPTER I—AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-iibusybody-jane}{CHAPTER II—BUSYBODY JANE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-iiicivic-interest}{CHAPTER III—CIVIC INTEREST}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-ivthe-appearance-of-paul}{CHAPTER IV—THE APPEARANCE OF PAUL}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-vpaul-hesitates}{CHAPTER V—PAUL HESITATES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-via-rebel-in-the-house}{CHAPTER VI—A REBEL IN THE HOUSE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-viigirls}{CHAPTER VII—GIRLS}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-viiijane-lends-a-hand}{CHAPTER VIII—JANE LENDS A HAND}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-ixthe-best-laid-plans}{CHAPTER IX—“THE BEST LAID PLANS—”}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xpaul-and-carl}{CHAPTER X—PAUL AND CARL}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xicarl-squares-his-debt}{CHAPTER XI—CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xiijeff-roberts}{CHAPTER XII—JEFF ROBERTS}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xiiidisaster}{CHAPTER XIII—DISASTER}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xivthe-crossroads}{CHAPTER XIV—THE CROSSROADS}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xvan-unsuspected-hero}{CHAPTER XV—AN UNSUSPECTED HERO}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xvia-family-matter}{CHAPTER XVI—A FAMILY MATTER}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xviian-honor-to-the-family}{CHAPTER XVII—AN HONOR TO THE FAMILY}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{chapter-xviiithe-wanderer-comes-home}{CHAPTER XVIII—THE WANDERER COMES HOME}\par
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CHAPTER I—AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY}

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{\noindent}
At six o’clock Jane had awakened, and, lifting
her tousled head from her pillow, sniffed the
frosty air.\par

The red sunlight of an October morning was
sending its first ruddy beams into the bare little
room, but notwithstanding this sign that the morning
was advancing, and the fact that all the children
had had their first summons to get up and
dress, Jane, this lazy Jane, merely burrowed down
deeper into her warm nest, and buried her round
nose in the patchwork quilt.\par

She had a strong disinclination to leaving her
cosy bed, and braving the penetrating chill of an
autumn morning. Owing to Mr. Lambert’s
Spartan ideas on the up-bringing of children, the
little bed-rooms under the irregular roof of the
old house were never heated until the bitterest days
of mid-winter. {\itshape{His}} children were not, said he, to
be softened and rendered unfit to endure the various
hardships of life by pampering. His wife, the
jolly comfort-loving Gertrude, sometimes confided
privately to Grandmother Winkler that she thought
it was too hard on the children to have to leave
their warm beds, and dress in rooms where the ice
formed a film in the water pitchers, and in which
they could see their breath; but when anyone in the
Lambert household had ideas contrary to those of
the master, they did not advertise them publicly.\par

Among Mr. Lambert’s pet aversions were Unpunctuality
and Laziness, and no one had better
reason to know this than Jane. Nevertheless, she
infringed upon the iron-bound rules of the household
every day of her life, and cheerfully paid her
penalties with a sort of serene stoicism. She had
inherited from her placid, happy-tempered mother
a vigorous dislike of physical discomfort, and a
calm way of doing what she wanted, and then
good-naturedly paying the piper as circumstances
demanded.\par

In the adjoining room, the twins, Wilhelmine
(or Minie) and Lottie could be heard chattering
and laughing in their fresh, sweet voices. Shivering,
but rosy and wide-awake, the two little girls
were dressed in their warm woolen frocks inside
of ten minutes. Since they were six years old, Mr.
Lambert had permitted no one to help them but
themselves; and so, with their little cold red
fingers they buttoned each other’s dress and plaited
each other’s smooth, shining yellow hair; then set
to work making up their wooden beds, sweeping,
dusting, and putting their room to rights.\par

% File: 006.png-----------------------------------------------------

At half-past six came the summons to breakfast,
which had already been announced by appetizing
odors of porridge and frying bacon.\par

Little Minie, running past her sister’s door,
glanced in, and stood transfixed with horror at the
sight of Jane rolled up like a dormouse, and still
dozing peacefully.\par

“Oh, {\itshape{Ja-ane}}!”\par

A head covered with curly, reddish hair rose
above the mountain of bed-clothes; a pair of
sleepy eyes blinked at the little girl.\par

“Um.” A yawn. “What time is it?”\par

“It’s {\itshape{half-past thix}}, and breakfath’s all ready,
and you’ll be late {\itshape{again}}, Jane. Whatever will
Papa thay!” This was Lottie, who never failed
to join her twin on any occasion of grave importance.
The two plump, rosy-cheeked little girls,
with their stiffly starched white pinafores, and
with their yellow pig-tails sticking out at the sides
of their heads, were as much alike as a pair of
Dresden ornaments. They stood now, hand-in-hand,
their china-blue eyes round with reproof
and dismay, gazing at lazy Jane.\par

“I’ve got a—a headache,” announced Jane unblushingly,
“I don’t think I’ll go to school to-day.”\par

“O-oh, Jane!” remonstrated the twins in chorus.\par

“Well, I haven’t exactly got one {\itshape{now}},” said
Jane, “but I would have if I got up too suddenly.
I’ve been studying too hard. That’s what.”\par

“Ooooh, Jane!” The twins covered their rosy
mouths with their hands, and tittered.\par

% File: 007.png-----------------------------------------------------

“You don’t know anything about it,” said Jane,
tartly. She reflected for a moment. On second
thought the plea of a headache seemed weak;
furthermore, if it were accepted the chances that
Mr. Lambert would recommend a bitter dose and
a dull day in the house had to be considered; for
the stern parent had a certain grim humour of his
own, and was not easily to be imposed on even by
Jane’s fertile invention.\par

“Well, then put down the windows, Minie—like
a good little darling, and I’ll be down-stairs in
three minutes. The day after to-morrow’s Saturday
anyhow.” And encouraged by this cheerful
thought, Jane at length prepared to rise.\par

Her idea of “three minutes” was astonishingly
inaccurate. She dawdled into her clothes, interrupted
by fits of abstraction, during which, with
one foot on the chair, and the button-hook thrust
through the button-holes of her sturdy shoes, she
stared out of the uncurtained window.\par

The old house, a rambling two storey building,
half-wood, half-brick, abounding in gables and
dormer windows which gave it its quaintly picturesque
outline, fronted on the busiest street of the
industrious but placid little town.\par

For more than a hundred years the Winkler
family had held there a certain calm, unassailable
position; rightly theirs as the unfailing reward of
industry, honesty, and the other simple, respectable
virtues of conscientious, self-respecting citizens
and tradesfolk.\par

% File: 008.png-----------------------------------------------------

One hundred and thirty years ago, to be exact,
old Johann Winkler had settled there, and had
founded what deserves the name of an Institution.
Certainly, it was the most wonderful bakeshop in
the world.\par

Now, no one but a true Winkler had ever been
intrusted with the precious recipes for those spiced
fruit cookies, or those rich snow-cakes, those
golden breakfast-rolls, or those plum-puddings
which have immortalized the name. And in view
of the importance which such a family must have
in the eyes of all who respect supremely excellent
baking, a short history of its affairs may be admitted
here.\par

It is hardly necessary to say that it prospered
for no Winkler had ever been born lacking the
virtue of wise thriftiness, or the ability to make
small savings bring in generous increase. At the
same time, the shop was never moved from the
spot where it had first been opened, nor was any
attempt ever made to give it a more pretentious
appearance.\par

The corner stone which old Johann Winkler
had laid himself with so much pride bore the date,
“A.D. 1789.”\par

A good many generations of little Winklers had
grown up in the shelter of the quaint old house;
and a good many generations of little townspeople
had stuffed their round stomachs with those incomparable
spice-cakes and ginger-nuts, had loitered
hungrily around the tempting show-window,
and had scrawled caricatures on the walls and the
worn stone steps.\par

The business had been inherited in a direct line
from father to son; until the day when Uncle
Franz Winkler had gone to sea, and left his
domestic patrimony in the hands of his sister.\par

This sister was no other than the jolly Gertrude,
once the prettiest, most blooming maiden in
Frederickstown; who, in the course of time married
one Peter Carl Lambert, a grave, practical-minded
young man; and this grave, practical-minded
young man (who, as the years went on
became more and more grave, not to say, severe,
and more and more practical) was no other
than the father of all the young Lamberts, a portion
of whose history is going to be the subject of
this story.\par

Mr. Lambert was, himself, the owner of a moderately
prosperous business, dealing in the whole-sale
and retail distribution of hay and grain; but
at the some time he had no inclination to allow his
wife’s inheritance to decline, and while he managed
his own affairs, Gertrude and Grandmother Winkler
continued in charge of the bakery, which under
his shrewd supervision became more flourishing
than ever.\par

On one point and only one did husband and wife
find cause for dissension. It had become a tradition
in the family, as has already been said, that
no one but a Winkler had ever possessed the magical
recipes for those cakes and pies which had no
rivals. Now, since the outrageous and even impious
conduct of Uncle Franz, the question had
risen, who should be regarded as the heir to the
business and the name? For there were no more
Winklers. Gertrude wanted her only son, Carl, to
be her heir, although he was a Lambert. But Mr.
Lambert had other ideas for the youth, and the
hope that his son would, by becoming a professional
man, take a step up in the world, was dear
to his heart. Furthermore, Carl himself, a calm,
phlegmatic and determined boy, shared his father’s
views. He had announced his intention of becoming
a lawyer.\par

So matters stood. There seemed to be no solution
to the problem. But these family difficulties
had no place in Jane’s mind as she took her time
to wash and dress on that October morning.
What engrossed {\itshape{her}} thoughts was the concocting
of a feasible plan to avoid the distasteful prospect
of going to school.\par

The sun had fully risen now, and already the
frosty air had been softened by its genial warmth.
She opened her window again, and leaned out,
looking critically from east to west with the gaze
of an old seaman, calculating the possibilities of
the weather.\par

There was not a cloud in the sky. Never before,
it seemed to her, had the heavens displayed
such a vast expanse of deep, untroubled blue. A
light, fresh wind rustled through the hazel-nut
tree whose boughs touched her window; and sent a
few of the ruddy, copper-colored leaves drifting
lazily down to the uneven brick pavement below.\par

Across the square, she could see the broad,
open door of Mr. Lambert’s warehouse, where already
two men in blue shirts were at work tossing
a fresh wagon-load of corn husks into the well-filled
loft. Early to bed and early to rise was the
motto of the industrious folk of Frederickstown,
one and all. Wagons covered with white canvas
hoods, and filled with tobacco, others, overflowing
with pumpkins, celery, apples and cranberries—all
the rich autumn produce of the fertile farming
country beyond the town—were rumbling over the
cobblestones in a picturesque procession, on their
way to the market-place. And the well-known
smell of the rimy vegetables was to the adventuresome
Jane an almost irresistible call to the open.\par

Her meditations were soon cut short by a final
summons—and this in the firm cold tones of Mr.
Lambert himself—to breakfast.\par

“Jane! Coming? Or must I fetch you?”\par

“Jiminy!” said Jane, and banging down the
window she fled, clattering down the old wooden
staircase like a whirlwind.\par

In the large, sunny room, which served nearly
all purposes, the family had gathered for breakfast;
Granny Winkler at one end of the table—a
miniature old lady with a frilled cap,—Mr. Lambert
at the other end, Carl at his right and flaxen
haired Elise at his left, Mrs. Lambert with one
twin beside her and another facing her. Jane’s
chair, between Elise and Lottie was still conspicuously
empty.\par

A door at the right of the dining room opened
into the bakeshop, and a second door at the back
led to the kitchen, from which the exquisite odors
of the day’s outlay of fresh cakes and bread were
already issuing. The big, bright room, with its
casement windows opening onto the small garden
hemmed in by high brick walls, with its pots of
geraniums, and Chinese lilies,—which were Elise’s
special care—its immaculately dusted cupboards on
whose shelves gleamed rows of solid old German
pewter ware, was the scene in which the Lambert’s,
great and small, carried on a large part
of their daily affairs. In one corner stood Mr.
Lambert’s squat, business-like desk, where every
evening, from nine to ten, he went over his accounts.
At the round table in the center, the family
ate their meals, and at night, the children prepared
their lessons, while Grandmother Winkler,
seated in her padded rocking chair, read her Bible,
or nodded over her knitting.\par

When Jane made her unceremonious entry, the
family was seated, and, with their heads bent
reverently over their plates of steaming porridge,
were reciting grace in unison.\par

Mrs. Lambert, glancing up, made her a sign to
take her place as inconspicuously as possible; and
accordingly just before Mr. Lambert raised his
head, she slipped into her chair.\par

Her father eyed her for a moment with uncertainty and
displeasure; but this morning he had
another matter on his mind of greater importance
than that of reprimanding incorrigible Jane.
Moreover, he had made it a rule, always, if possible,
to avoid unpleasantness at meals, owing to
the unfavorable effects upon the digestion. Consequently,
after a brief, cold stare at his daughter,
whose shining morning face was as bland as if her
conscience were completely innocent of guilt, he
said, solemnly,\par

“Good morning, Jane.”\par

And Jane said, beaming at him, “Good morning,
Papa,” and rose to kiss his cheek, and then to
give her mother a hug that left the plump, smiling,
dimpling Gertrude quite breathless.\par

“Sit down now, you bad child,” whispered Mrs.
Lambert, patting Jane’s ruddy cheek, “and don’t
talk. Your father is going to.”\par

The family sat silent and expectant, while Mr.
Lambert gravely salted his porridge, then fumbled
for his steel-rimmed spectacles in the pocket of his
coat, fitted them on his high-bridged nose, and at
length cleared his throat.\par

By this time Jane, whose curiosity was of the
most irrepressible variety, had all but broken her
neck by craning and wriggling in her chair to see
the letter which lay beside her father’s plate. It
bore a foreign stamp, and she guessed, and guessed
rightly that it had some bearing on Mr. Lambert’s
gravity of demeanor. Finally, unable to endure
her father’s pompous preparations for speech any
longer she pointed to the envelope, and inquired
timidly,\par

“Who’s that from, Papa?”\par

“That is none of your affair, Jane,” said Carl,
with perfect truth, but in his unfortunately superior
and reproving way, “and you are very ill-mannered.”\par

He spoke with his characteristically priggish air,
with a pomposity ludicrously like his father’s, and
doubly ludicrous in a lad of barely sixteen.\par

Carl, who was Mr. Lambert’s darling, was at
that time a tall, thin, delicate looking boy, with a
long pale face, straight brown hair, which was cut
in a bang across his forehead, and a pair of nearsighted,
light grey eyes, that blinked owlishly behind
the thick lenses of his spectacles.\par

It is true that his character was as nearly faultless
as it is possible for any youth’s character to
be; he was quiet, studious, and dutiful. At school
he shone as by far the best of all the pupils, and
at home he was never known to disobey a single
rule of the household. Intelligent beyond the average,
with a precocious love of accuracy; astonishingly,
even irritatingly self-controlled, and with a
dry judicial quickness and keenness already strongly
developed, he was an unusually promising boy, in
whom one already saw the successful, complacent,
cool-tempered man. But at the same time he
neither cared for, nor could boast of great popularity.
His mother felt more awe than affection for
him; in all of his sisters but Jane, he inspired only
a sort of timid admiration and respect; and his
school-companions summed him up tersely as a
“muff” and a “grind.” For, while he walked away
with the highest honors at the close of every session,
he was, if the truth must be told, something
of a coward. He had moods of sulkiness, and
moods of maddening superiority. His brain was
nimble enough, but he had never been known to
accept any challenge to match his physical strength
and courage with theirs. He professed a deep
contempt for their primitive and barbaric methods
of settling difficulties, and adroitly evaded the outcome
of any schoolboy’s discussion that seemed
likely to end in mortal combat, by yielding his
point with a self-contained, contemptuous politeness,
and a premature diplomacy which mystified
and enraged his companions.\par

Jane only was not to be dominated by his assumption
of patronizing authority; and at his unsolicited
correction, she promptly bristled up. It
rarely took much to rouse the fiery, impulsive Jane.\par

“Mind your {\itshape{own}} business!”\par

“{\itshape{Jane}}!” Mr. Lambert turned to her, his spectacles
glistening warningly. There was a moment’s
silence.\par

“Do you wish to leave the table?”\par

“No, Papa, but—”\par

“Very well, then. Have the goodness to be
quiet.”\par

“Yes, Papa. But—”\par

“Silence, ma’am! Your brother was quite right.
He is older than you, and he had good reason to
reprimand you.”\par

Jane meekly subsided; but when her father had
withdrawn his gaze, she refreshed herself by making
a most hideous grimace at her brother, who,
more complacent than ever, retaliated with a look
of icy and withering scorn.\par

By this time, Mr. Lambert had almost finished
a second reading of the letter, while his wife
scanned his face anxiously, not daring to urge him
to share its news with her. It covered three or
four pages of cheap paper, and was written in a
great, sprawling script that consumed one sheet in
six or seven lines.\par

“It looks as if it were written by a {\itshape{sailor}},”
murmured Jane, without lifting her eyes, and
seemingly speaking to herself; and in the same
dreamy undertone, she explained this singular observation,
“Everything about a sailor is sort of
loose and blowy; they’ve got blowy coats, and
blowy neckties, and blowy trousers—”\par

“You’ve never seen a sailor,” said Carl also in
a low tone, “so you don’t know what you’re talking
about.”\par

“I {\itshape{do}} know what I’m talking about,” returned
Jane, “I wrote a story about a sailor once, and I
could see him inside of my head just as plainly as
anything. He had red hair, and a fuzzy wart on
his cheek, like a caterpillar, and his name was
Moses Thomson—”\par

“Well, wife, after all there is no choice left us,”
said Mr. Lambert laying down the letter. “Without
a doubt, this will be a burden, a heavy responsibility;
but I hope I am not deficient in generosity.
I think no one can accuse me of that. I am prepared
to do my duty in this matter as in all others.”\par

“But—but what does the letter say, Peter?”
asked Mrs. Lambert timidly. “I haven’t seen it.”\par

“This letter is from your brother—”\par

“Yes. From Franz. I recognized his hand
after all these years—”\par

“Your poor brother. Far be it from me to
judge him. I have nothing to say about him. A
shiftless idler, a hair-brained, irresponsible ne’er-do-well
comes to no good end, and leaves better
folk to take up his burdens. But it is not for {\itshape{us}}
to judge. I have nothing to say about him—”\par

“Peter! My poor brother—my poor Franz!”
cried Mrs. Lambert, greatly agitated, “what are
you saying?” She stretched out her hand to take
the letter, and, in her concern, half-rose from her
chair.\par

“I will read you his letter, my dear,” said Mr.
Lambert. “Try to control yourself.” He looked
at her calmly and firmly, and she sat down again,
with tears welling up in her soft, beautiful eyes.\par

Mr. Lambert cleared his throat, and read:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Dear brother and Honored Sir; I hope this finds
you and my good, dear mother, and my dear sister,
Gertrude, and all your dear little ones in good health.
I am not in good health. I am thinking that my time
is about up although not an old man, just forty-two
which is the Prime of life. The doctor, who is a good
fellow, thinks it is about up with me but I have got a lot
out of life and have no complaints to make. But I
would ask you a favor, and hope that you will see
your way to granting me this, seeing that I am a dying
man and have no one to turn to and being in a
forran country. My son, Paul, will soon be left
alone, I fear, which is a bad thing for a young lad and
I am hoping that perhaps being kinsfolk and he being
a likely young fellow, good hearted though a bit unlicked,
you may find your way to giving him a home
until he can shift for himself. I haven’t done all I
should have done by the lad, perhaps, living a kind
of touch and go life, and I am hoping that you may find
your way to letting him get some education which I
think a valuable thing for a man, though having no
great love of letters myself. This is a great favor I
am asking I know but I trust you may find it in your
heart to do me this favor and the boy will not forget
it. The boy will work for you also and do as
you say. He is sixteen years old now, and an orphan
my wife being dead these ten years or so.\par

“My dear brother, I beg you to forget me and my
failings, which have been many and show your kindness
to my poor boy. And now I will close with respectful
regards to yourself and give my love to my
dear old mother and to my dear sister and all her
sweet children who must be big youngsters now.\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}

{\raggedleft
“Respectfully your brother,
\endgraf}
\par}
{\vl 
{\raggedleft
“Franz Winkler.
\endgraf}
\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“P. S. Am not letting on to the boy what the doctor
says as he will take it hard and I can’t bear that. Have
just told him that I am sending him back to America
with a friend, Mr. Morse, and that I will join him
as soon as I am in better shape, and have told him
how to find you.”\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
A silence followed the reading of this letter, and
the emotions that it had roused among the members
of the little family, were plainly to be seen
in their faces. The twins who had not been able
to understand it but who felt that it had brought
some grave news, looked first at their father and
then at their mother. Carl watched Mr. Lambert,
and Elise’s plump, rosy face was solemn; but Jane,
as if she were pierced by an understanding of the
pathos that was magnified by the very clumsy illiterateness
of the letter, sat perfectly still; her
vivid face contracted with a look of genuine
pain.\par

Mrs. Lambert was weeping. Then, suddenly,
old Grandmother Winkler, who had not said a
word, got up, took her son’s letter out of Mr.
Lambert’s hand, and leaning on her cane, went out
of the room.\par

The astonishment and awkwardness depicted in
Mr. Lambert’s face showed that he had not guessed
that the letter would produce such an effect.\par

After a moment or two, he cleared his throat,
and said in a gentle but somewhat unctuous tone
to his wife:\par

“My dear, we must not be impatient under our
afflictions. This is very sad; but it is the will of
heaven, and we should learn to endure our sorrows—er—uncomplainingly.
Furthermore, Providence
has seen fit to soften this blow by—er—that
is after all, you have not seen Franz in ten years or
more.”\par

“Yes, Peter. Of course,” answered Mrs. Lambert,
meekly wiping her eyes on her napkin. “But
when I think of poor Franz—all alone—and the
boy—that poor child—”\par

“Of course my dear, your brother may have
deceived himself. Come, he may be on the road to
health at this moment. Let us hope for the best.
Let us prepare to welcome our nephew, and perhaps,—who
knows, Franz himself may be spared
to us.”\par

Mrs. Lambert’s face brightened. She was naturally
optimistic, and eagerly grasped this ray of
hope. Moreover, while she had been very fond of
her brother, in years of absence his features had
somewhat faded from her memory. She was not
fond of sorrow or melancholy, and was ready to
exchange grief for hope, and tears for sanguine
smiles the moment she saw a possibility of the
future setting her fears at nothing.\par

“Yes, yes. What you say is quite true, Peter.
After all Franz may recover completely.”\par

“Certainly,” said Mr. Lambert, briskly. “And
now my dear, let us consider.”\par

“Is Paul our cousin, Papa?” asked Jane.\par

Mr. Lambert ignored her question.\par

“I feel great sympathy for the boy,” he said to
his wife. “It is hard indeed to lose a father at his
tender age. For after all, to whom can one turn
for such disinterested guidance? Who will have
his welfare more deeply at heart? I hope my son,
that in comparing {\itshape{your}} lot,” he turned to Carl,
“with that of this unfortunate young man, you
will realize your blessings. And I hope, nay, I
believe that in me, this orphaned youth will find
one who in every way will strive to fill in his life
a place worthy of the revered name of ‘father.’”\par

“Then,” continued Jane, who had been following
up her own train of thought, “then Paul is a
Winkler. And so he can go into the business when
he is a man.”\par

This simple observation, which had not yet
occurred to anyone, called forth looks of surprise.\par

“That is quite true!” exclaimed Mr. Lambert.\par

“But of course!” cried his wife.\par

“I see the beneficent hand of Providence in this,”
said Mr. Lambert, who was fond of thinking that
Heaven had his domestic affairs very much in
mind. “Yes, we must prepare to welcome our
nephew. I hope, my dear, that he will not prove
difficult to manage. I hope that he is not lacking
in a grateful heart.”\par

“Poor child. No father or mother, and so
young,” murmured Mrs. Lambert, her eyes again
filling with tears. “And I never even knew that
Franz had a child. I had forgotten even that he
had married.”\par

“Yon can put a cot in Carl’s room,” suggested
Mr. Lambert; “I presume that the boy will arrive
in a day or two. And now, children, it is a quarter
past seven.”\par

Everyone rose from the table, and the day’s
routine began again in its accustomed groove. Mr.
Lambert departed for the warehouse. Elise helped
the fat young servant girl to clear away the dishes;
Carl went out to bring in wood for the stove; even
the twins had their household tasks which had to
be finished before they started to school at eight
o’clock.\par

But Jane went off to find her Grandmother.
Behind the counter, in the bakeshop, the old woman
was sitting, weeping quietly; and the slow tears of
age were trickling down her wrinkled, brown face,
while she strained her eyes to read the crooked awkward
lines of her son’s letter.\par

“He was a good boy,” she said, taking Jane’s
little hand in her gnarled old one. “I understood
him, never fear. He was a brave, fine boy—and
he always loved his old mother. I know that.
Didn’t he send me this pretty shawl—”\par

“But Granny, darling, he may get well. Don’t
cry, Granny. Don’t you cry.” She kissed the old
woman, and patted her, feeling awed and oppressed
by this aged sorrow that she could not share.\par

After a minute, she quietly left Grandmother
Winkler, and in an unusually silent, and subdued
mood, went away to help the twins.\par

% File: 023.png-----------------------------------------------------

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\label{chapter-iibusybody-jane}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iibusybody-jane}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER II—BUSYBODY JANE}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
At half past eight, Elise had seen that the two
little girls had their books and their packages of
sandwiches, and started them off to school, Carl
and Jane marching behind.\par

“Oh, and Janey!” she called, hastening back to
the doorway. “Will you remember to give those
patterns back to Lily Deacon for me. I’m going
to be {\itshape{so}} busy. Any time this afternoon will do.
I put them in your school bag.”\par

“All right,” said Jane, and Elise, always busy,
always placid and gentle, went back to her work.\par

“Well, what do {\itshape{you}} think about it?” Jane asked,
presently. She had quite forgotten her recent
friction with Carl, for quick tempered as she was,
she rarely remembered a quarrel ten minutes after
it occurred.\par

“Think about what?” said Carl, gruffly.\par

“About Paul’s coming, of course. It’s awfully
sad about Uncle Franz—but it {\itshape{is}} sort of exciting
having a new cousin to stay with us, I think.”\par

“You wouldn’t think it so awfully exciting if
{\itshape{you}} had to share your room with someone you
never saw in your life,” returned Carl, sulkily. “I
don’t see why one of the store-rooms couldn’t be
cleared out for him. All I know is that I won’t
stand for it a second if he tries to sling my things
around, or scatter his all over the place.”\par

Carl was never very enthusiastic about sharing
anything with anyone (though in this instance one
might sympathize with his annoyance) and his
fussy love of neatness reached a degree that one
would far sooner expect to find in a crabbed old
maid than in a boy of sixteen years.\par

Jane did not reply to this indignant objection.\par

“What do you think he’ll be like?” she asked
next, scuffling through the piles of ruddy brown
leaves that lay thick on the uneven brick walk.\par

“I think he’ll be a big, roistering bully. That’s
what I think,” answered Carl savagely; his lips
set in a stubborn line, and the lenses of his spectacles
glinted so angrily, that Jane decided to drop
the subject.\par

For several minutes they walked along in silence:
the twins marching ahead, chattering like little magpies,
their yellow pigtails bobbing under their round
brown felt hats. Each clutched her spelling book
and reader, and her package of sandwiches and
cookies; each wore a bright blue dress, a bright red
sweater, and a snow white pinafore.\par

It was fully a mile to the school, but as a rule
the brisk young Lamberts walked it in twenty
minutes. This morning, however, Jane dawdled
shamelessly.\par

“I don’t feel like school to-day a bit,” she remarked,
looking up through the trees.\par

% File: 025.png-----------------------------------------------------

“You never do,” returned Carl, dryly, “but
you’ve got to go all the same. I bet you don’t
play hookey again in a hurry.”\par

“H’m?” said Jane, “why not?”\par

“Why not?” the first really mirthful grin that
Carl had shown that day spread slowly over his
serious features. “Didn’t you catch it hot enough
last time? You’re such an idiot anyway. If you’d
only do your work conscientiously you wouldn’t
mind school. I’d hate it too if I were as big a
dunce as you.”\par

“Oh,—you would, would you, Goody-goody?”
retorted Jane with spirit. “I’m not a dunce. I’m
the brightest girl in my class.”\par

“Whoo-ee!” whooped Carl, staggered by
this cool conceit. “Well! If you haven’t got
cheek!”\par

“’Tisn’t cheek,” said Jane, calmly, “I am. I
heard Dr. Andrews say so to Miss Trowbridge.”\par

“Well—he must have been talking through his
hat, then,” observed Carl. “He was {\itshape{probably}} talking
about someone else.”\par

“No, he wasn’t. They were standing outside
the school-room door, at lunch-hour, and I was in
there, and I heard Dr. Andrews say, ‘That little
Jane Lambert has brains. She’s one of the brightest
children—’”\par

“That’s the trouble with you!” broke in Carl,
thoroughly exasperated. “You’ve got such a
swell-head that you won’t work at all. And I
don’t see how anyone could say that you were
clever when you get about one problem right out
of a dozen.”\par

“I don’t see how either,” said Jane placidly; “but
he did. Oh, look—Miss Clementina has got a new
canary!”\par

There was no event that occurred in Frederickstown
which did not excite Jane’s interest. She
stopped to peer into the front window of a small
brick house, where amid a perfect jungle of banana
plants and ferns, a brightly gilded cage hung between
two much befrilled net curtains.\par

“Poor old lady, I’m glad she got her bird. He
has a black spot on his head just like her old one.
I daresay her cat will eat him too. I wonder what
she has named him. Her old one was named
William.” Jane giggled.\par

“What an idiotic name for a bird!” said Carl.
Like his father, he was never amused by anything
that seemed to him fantastic. “You’d better hurry
up and stop peeking into everyone’s window. Come
on.”\par

Jane reluctantly obeyed.\par

“William is a queer name for a bird,” she agreed
amicably, “but it’s no queerer than calling her cat
Alfred, and that awful little monkey of hers, Howard.
She told me that she named her pets for all
her old sweethearts.”\par

“Her old sweethearts!” echoed Carl derisively.\par

“Yes. She said that she had dozens. And you
know what? I believe it’s true. Anyhow, she has
lots of pictures of beautiful gentlemen, with black
moustaches and curly side-whiskers. I’ve seen the
whole collection. She said she never could bear
fair men.”\par

“Humph!” said Carl.\par

“She said that she was dreadfully heartless when
she was a girl. An awful flirt. Professor Dodge
still calls on her every Sunday afternoon—all
dressed up with a flower in his button-hole, and
kid gloves, and a little bouquet wrapped up in wet
paper. And she plays the piano for him, and sings
‘Alice Ben Bolt’ and ‘The Mocking Bird’ and
‘Coming Thro’ the Rye.’”\par

“What a busybody you are. Always prying into
other people’s affairs. It wouldn’t hurt you to
mind your own business for a while, I must say.”\par

“I don’t pry into other people’s affairs,” said
Jane, quite unruffled. “Most of ’em seem to like
to talk, and I just listen—that’s all.”\par

“There’s the bell, now! Hang it, we’re late.
Why can’t you—” but here Carl set off in a race
for the school-house, outstripping the two squealing,
panting twins. And in another moment, Jane, too,
was scampering across the square as fast as her
legs would carry her.\par

That was, in truth, not destined to be a very
successful day for Jane. To begin with, she was
marked “tardy” for the third time that month.
The first classes went off passably; but she came to
grief as she was congratulating herself on the fact
that she had managed to scrape along fairly well.\par

With all her quickness and curiosity, Jane had
small love for hard study; but her aptness in gathering
the general sense of a lesson at almost a glance
stood her in good stead, and with very little trouble
on her part she succeeded in shining quite brilliantly
in history, general science, and geography. When
it came to mathematics however, she met her Waterloo.\par

This class was presided over by Miss Farrel, a
vague old lady, with near-sighted, reproachful blue
eyes, and an almost inaudible voice, who taught a
dry subject in the dryest possible manner.\par

For some reason, Jane found it more difficult
than ever to keep her mind on square roots and unknown
quantities that morning. Her eyes wandered
longingly to the window. It was open, for the day
had grown warmer toward noon, and in the quiet
square an old man was raking up the fallen leaves
into a row of small bonfires, and lifting them in
bundles into a little wheeled cart. Patiently he
limped back and forth, stopping every now and
then to push his old felt hat back on his head and
mop his forehead with a colored handkerchief,
which in between times waved jauntily from his
hip pocket. The pungent smell of leaf smoke
drifted in through the window. The golden and
ruddy foliage of the elm-trees and lindens made
a fretted canopy over the drowsy green, through
which sifted the mellow light of an Indian summer
sun.\par

Fat Lulu Pierson’s thick, glossy pig-tails next
engrossed Jane’s attention. She took one gently in
her fingers; the evenly clipped end of it reminded
her of the brush that Sam Lung, the Chinese laundry-man
used when he wrote out his receipts. She
dipped it in the ink, and began to make hieroglyphics
on her scratch-tablet. Then Lulu gave an impatient
jerk, and the wet pig-tail just missed causing
general disaster. Jane carefully took it again, dried
it on her blotter, and made a serious effort to concentrate
her attention by fixing her gaze gravely on
Miss Farrel’s wrinkled face. But she soon found
that she was merely wondering why that prim old
dame took the trouble to wear a little bunch of false
curls across her forehead—such a remarkable cluster,
as smooth and crisp as spun glass, pinned with
a little bow of black taffeta ribbon. And so
honestly false—certainly they could not have been
selected with the intention of deceiving, for not
even Miss Farrel, near-sighted as she was, could
have imagined for a moment that they matched the
diminutive nubbin into which her own grey locks
were twisted every morning.\par

“Why doesn’t she wear a wig? Though after
all that auburn is rather nice. I don’t see why
she doesn’t change ’em around sometimes—”\par

“Well, Jane, perhaps you can tell us,” Miss
Farrel’s soft voice broke in upon these reflections,
and Jane started as if she had been awakened from
a sound sleep. She gasped, and then quickly recovering
herself, said blandly,\par

“Yes, Miss Farrel.”\par

There was a dead silence. Jane looked about
her in surprise, to find every eye in the room fixed
on her.\par

“Well?” prompted Miss Farrel.\par

Jane swallowed. She had not the remotest idea
what the question was. Nevertheless she made a
bold attempt to conceal this fact, and with an aplomb
admirable under the circumstances, said,\par

“I didn’t exactly understand the question, Miss
Farrel.”\par

A faint tinge of color appeared upon each of
Miss Farrel’s cheekbones, and her almost invisible
eyebrows went up.\par

“And what didn’t you understand about it? I
am sure I don’t see how it could be expressed in
any clearer terms. Will you repeat it to me?
Then we can soon find out just where my words
confused you.” The old lady felt that she was
being exceedingly cunning.\par

Jane winked her eyes rapidly, opened her mouth,
shut it, and moistened her lower lip with the tip of
her tongue. She knew she was cornered.\par

“Yes, Jane. And stand up please when you recite,”
said Miss Farrel in ominously gentle tones.
“And don’t fidget, Jane. Put that eraser down.
We are waiting, Jane.”\par

“Well, what I didn’t understand was—was—I
didn’t understand—I didn’t understand the question.”\par

Another silence.\par

“Did you {\itshape{hear}} the question?”\par

“No, Miss Farrel.”\par

% File: 031.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Oh. And what, pray, have you been doing?”\par

“Why—just thinking.”\par

“Ah. How interesting. And what were you
thinking of?”\par

Jane tried to keep her face straight, and looked
down to hide the laughter in her eyes.\par

“Nothing, Miss Farrel.”\par

Silence again. Miss Farrel opened her little
black record book, and slowly and deliberately registered
Jane’s crime.\par

“Sit down, Jane. And will you please wait for
me here after school. At three o’clock. Well,
Isabel, will {\itshape{you}} give me the formula for finding the
area of a circle.”\par

Jane took her seat.\par

“What a goose I am, anyway,” she thought, and
accepted her punishment with her usual calmness.\par

At three o’clock, when the other girls, chattering
and laughing gathered their books and left the
school-room singly and in groups, she sat at her
desk waiting for Miss Farrel. The cleaning
woman came in, with her mop and bucket, and began
to splash the dusty wooden floor. She was a
talkative, good-natured old thing, and one of Jane’s
numerous intimates.\par

“Well, now, what are they keepin’ you here for,
this fine afternoon, Miss Janey?” she said sympathetically.\par

“Oh, I don’t mind much. How’s Amelia, Mrs.
Tinker?”\par

“Fine. Fine, miss, thank yer.”\par

% File: 032.png-----------------------------------------------------

“And how’s Henry Clay?”\par

“He’s fine, too, I thank yer.”\par

“Is Mr. Tinker out of the hospital yet?”\par

“Not yet, I thank yer,” said Mrs. Tinker, cheerfully.
“They think as how he’ll have to be there
another six weeks or so. Well, I’m not one to
complain against what the Lord thinks best, and
I says to Henry Clay, ‘Don’t complain, Henry.
You let well enough alone,’ says I.”\par

“Is Henry Clay the one that’s going to be an
undertaker?”\par

“That’s right, miss. The boy’s always had his
heart set on it, and as I says to Mr. Tinker, ‘Don’t
oppose him.’ And Henry shows wonderful talent
for it, miss. Wonderful.”\par

Jane was going to ask how a precocious talent
for undertaking manifested itself, when Miss Farrel
appeared.\par

“Perhaps, Mrs. Tinker, you might work just now
in one of the other rooms,” she suggested with
dignity. “You may return in an hour.”\par

And then she turned her attention to Jane.\par

The old lady began by a plaintive little discourse
on Jane’s shortcomings, and on the future disasters
that they would most certainly lead to. She tried
to sound severe and cold, but now and then she
said “my dear,” and once she laid her small, old
hand on Janey’s. It was so difficult to be severe
with Jane.\par

“And now, Jane, we must review all last week’s
work. You see how much time you lose?”\par

% File: 033.png-----------------------------------------------------

The lesson began; but it turned out that Jane
was able to answer very nearly every question that
Miss Farrel asked.\par

“Now, you see? Oh, if you would only put
your mind on your work, my dear, it would really
be a pleasure to teach you. My dear old teacher
used to say—”\par

And here, veering away from the discussion of
altitudes and bases, the good dame began to prattle
in the friendliest way about her own girlhood, and
about the little school she used to go to, way up in
the country, where half the tuition was paid in salt
pork and other provisions, and about her father and
brothers. Everybody seemed to drift into talking
about their own affairs to Jane, and Jane remembered
everything they told her. There was hardly
a soul in Frederickstown whose general history she
was not familiar with; very simple histories for
the most part, for the inhabitants of Frederickstown
were simple souls, yet each had its measure of
comedy and tragedy, and each had its mysterious
relationship to the character of its confiding narrator.\par

So now Miss Farrel told her about her sister,
Miss Elizabeth, who was, she said, so much the
cleverer and better in every way—the last of her
whole family, and crippled with inflammatory
rheumatism; and about her wonderful cat, Amaryllis,
and so on, and so on.\par

It was nearly half-past four when the old lady
suddenly realized how little of the time she had
given to the lesson. Then she made a last attempt
to assume her dignity.\par

“Well, now, my dear. Let me see. I think that
if only you will train yourself—so much depends
on our own selves, you know, my dear.” And then
after a second little discourse, delivered no doubt
principally to assure herself that everything she had
been saying had had some bearing on Jane’s particular
case, she picked up her inevitable knitting-bag,
and took her departure.\par

Jane, remembering her promise to Elise, to return
Lily’s patterns, set out toward the Deacon’s
house.\par

It stood just at the top of Sheridan Lane, a
sleepy, prim old street, regarded as being rather
fashionable and aristocratic, principally because at
the lower end of it stood the deserted Sheridan
mansion, which, notwithstanding the fact that its
owners had not deigned to pay any attention to it
in fifteen years, was still one of the prides of Frederickstown.\par

The quiet street was paved with cobblestones as
it descended the hill from Frederickstown itself, as
far as the ancient rusty fountain, in whose basin
the leaves collected in the autumn, and the birds
bathed in the spring; but on the opposite side,
where the hill began its rise, the street became
simply a white dusty road, leading on through sweet
smelling fields, over wooden bridges, where a
meadow stream doubled back on itself in loops,
past the Sheridan mansion, which marked the
limits of Frederickstown proper, and on to the open
country.\par

The branches of the elm trees arched over Janey’s
head, and now and then, shaken by a drowsy breeze,
the yellowed leaves fell noiselessly.\par

Through the open window of the Deacon’s little
parlour, came the sound of chords struck on a tinkling
square piano, followed by scales and arpeggios
sung in a sweet, if rather timid and unsubstantial,
feminine voice.\par

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Chord. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.”
Chord. And so on, patiently
up the scale. Miss Deacon was practising.
It was a part of her daily program, and never would
it have entered Lily’s head to deviate from that
daily program, mapped out by her excellent but
strong-minded and dictatorial mamma. Singing
was a very genteel accomplishment for a young
lady, and Mrs. Deacon desired above all things that
Lily should be elegant.\par

Jane leaned on the window sill, and listened
to the scales for a little while, watching Miss
Lily’s slender throat swell and quiver like a
bird’s.\par

“How pretty she is. If I were as pretty as that,
I think I’d be perfectly happy; but she always looks
sort of sad. Maybe it’s because she’s always being
fussed at.”\par

There was indeed no girl in Frederickstown who
could claim to be quite as pretty as Lily Deacon.
Slender and small, with a little tip-tilted nose, which
gave the most unexpected and charming spice of
coquetry to her delicate face, with large serious
blue eyes, and glossy black hair so neatly coiled on
the nape of her neck, with beautifully drawn eyebrows,
and a tiny mole at the corner of her under
lip, accentuating the whiteness of her skin, she would
have drawn her tributes of admiration from any
pair of eyes that rested on her—and would have
been perfectly blind to them. Lily’s mother would
not have allowed her for a moment to imagine that
she was pretty, and Lily never thought of disobeying
mamma. Prettiness, according to Mrs. Deacon’s
severe judgement, counted for nothing; as she
had once observed, “It was only as deep as the epidermis.”
Elegance alone was desirable. You
should never say that you were “hot”—a lady
spoke of being “warm.” And the word “scared”
was abominable; you should speak of being “startled”
or “alarmed.” Lily was almost perfectly elegant.
She wore a silk dress, and her pink nails
were polished, and even when she sat at the piano,
she was so afraid of not having her feet demurely
crossed, that she did not dare to use the pedals.\par

“But, Miss Lily, don’t you ever sing anything but
scales?” demanded Jane presently. Miss Deacon
jumped, put her hand to her throat, and then slowly
turned her head.\par

“Oh—Janey! How you sc-alarmed me!”\par

“I’m sorry,” said Jane, “Elise told me to give
you these patterns. Here they are in my bag.
No—I don’t believe she put ’em in at all. Well,
then it’s her fault this time—no, here they are.”\par

“Thank you so much. How thoughtful of you.
Won’t you come in?”\par

“Well, you’re practising, aren’t you?”\par

Lily shook her head.\par

“It’s nearly five. And I’m tired.”\par

“What a lovely day it is,” she got up, and came
to the window, where she stood, looking up the
street, one hand resting on the frame above her
head. The wind ruffled her hair a little, and blew
the end of her lacy kerchief against her cheek,
shaking free a faint scent of sachet.\par

She sighed gently, and a momentary frown ruffled
her smooth forehead.\par

“I wish—” she began impetuously, and then
abruptly checked herself.\par

“What?” prompted Jane, curiously. For some
reason, she really wanted very much to know what
Miss Lily wished. But Lily shook her head, smiling
a little awkwardly as if she regretted even having
said so much; or as if she wasn’t sure herself
what she did wish. Every now and again, one
caught that quick, vanishing expression in her large
blue eyes, which seemed to say, “I wish—” and
never got any farther.\par

“Oh, I don’t know what I was going to say.
Something foolish, no doubt,” and then to change
the subject, she said hastily,\par

“I suppose you have heard the news about the
Sheridan house?”\par

“No! What? It isn’t sold, is it? If they tear
it down, and build a horrid old factory there, I
don’t know what I’ll do.”\par

“Oh, no—not that. But some member of the
family is going to live there again, and is already
moving in.”\par

“Why, that’s nice,” said Jane. What a lot of
events were taking place in Frederickstown! “Do
you know who it is? Man, woman or child? Any
people of my age? Anybody {\itshape{interesting}}?”\par

Lily blushed slightly.\par

“Why, I’m not sure. I think there’s only one—a
Mr. Sheridan, I suppose.”\par

“Young, old or middle-aged?” inquired Jane,
who had already rather lost interest.\par

“Why, he seemed rather youngish,” said Lily,
blushing again, “but I couldn’t tell very well.”\par

“When did you see him?”\par

“Why, I didn’t exactly see him. I heard mamma
talking about it last night, and then this morning I
just happened to see a carriage drive past—in my
mirror, while I was doing my hair, so of course, I
couldn’t be sure—but, anyhow, someone was sitting
in it leaning back, with a stick—but it seemed to be
fairly young—though I couldn’t tell,” Lily explained
confusedly. It seemed to her to be a little
indelicate perhaps to look at a fairly young
man in a mirror, while you were doing your
hair.\par

“Um,” said Jane. “Well, I suppose it’s too late
to go and investigate now. But I think I’ll go to-morrow.”\par

% File: 039.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Oh, Jane! You couldn’t do that!” said Lily,
in a shocked tone.\par

“Why not? How else’ll I find out.”\par

“Why, I don’t know.”\par

“Very well then. Somebody’s got to know
something about strangers when they come here.”\par

“Yes—that’s true,” said Lily.\par

“Of course,” said Jane. “It’s what you call
civic interest.”\par

“Oh,” said Lily,—she had been taught to call
“it” curiosity; but then mamma’s vocabulary was
not like other peoples’.\par

“I have a tremendous amount of civic interest,”
said Jane, complacently, “I ought to be able to do
this town a lot of good.”\par

And with a jaunty wave of her hand, she took
her leave. As she turned out of Sheridan Lane,
she once more heard the light, pure tones of Lily’s
voice, but now they sounded a little gayer, a little
warmer and sweeter than they had before, and
what was more, instead of the monotonous scales,
Lily was singing a pert song, which mamma, had
she heard it, would probably not have thought elegant
at all.\par

% File: 040.png-----------------------------------------------------

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\label{chapter-iiicivic-interest}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iiicivic-interest}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER III—CIVIC INTEREST}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Young Mr. Sheridan might perhaps have grudgingly
admitted that the morning was beautiful. It
would have been hard even for a young man who
had definitely made up his mind to be no longer
pleased with anything, to deny that there was something
almost pleasant in a day as soft and quiet as
that June itself could bring, in a garden all enmeshed
in net of stirring shadows, and in a free
outlook toward hills that glowed with autumn
colors.\par

The old “home place” wasn’t so bad; rather
overgrown with weeds and vines and somewhat
dilapidated; the roof leaked on the third floor front,
and the wooden steps at the back had broken down
completely; but this crumbling and tumbling state
harmonized with the state of young Mr. Sheridan’s
mind. He accepted it with a sort of gloomy satisfaction.
This general poetic decay seemed to him
quite touchingly suitable to the mood which he fully
believed was to color the declining years of his
short and blasted life. Mr. Sheridan had convinced
himself that he had received a crushing
blow; a blow that no self-respecting gentleman
{\itshape{ought}} to survive for very long. He had convinced
himself that he neither could nor should be happy
again. He had quite made up his mind that the
world was a dreary waste, and all human beings,
rascals and base deceivers, whose society a wise
man would shun. This unfriendly humor was
directed to mankind in general and to the feminine
element in particular.\par

He had awakened that morning—his first in the
old mansion—in a gigantic mahogany bed. Peterson,
his servant, was kindling a fire to drive
the lingering dampness out of the long unused
room.\par

“Good morning, Mr. Tim, sir,” said Peterson
with objectionable cheerfulness, “I hope sir, ye had
a good night?”\par

Mr. Sheridan eyed the old man with melancholy
suspicion. He was loath to class Peterson in with
the rest of the miserable human race; nevertheless, it
was wiser to trust no one absolutely—not even
Peterson.\par

“Oh, well, I suppose I slept as well as I could expect,
Peterson. An owl or something woke me up
at about one o’clock, and I couldn’t get to sleep
for hours. But still—”\par

As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan had slept as
soundly as a baby, but having been entirely unconscious
while he did so, he certainly could not
have {\itshape{known}} whether he was asleep or awake. But
his latest fancy was that he suffered from insomnia.
Insomnia was the traditional affliction of all broken-hearted
lovers, and there was no ailment common
to the broken hearted that Mr. Sheridan would
allow himself to forego.\par

“Any letters, Peterson?”\par

Of course there were no letters. In the first
place, who knew or cared that he had buried himself
away in this forsaken corner of the earth, and
in the second place, what did letters mean to him,
who with all the contempt that they deserved had
severed his relations with his fellow beings—especially
the feminine ones—forever. He must
remember not to ask Peterson again if there were
any letters. Peterson might imagine that he was
so weak as to hope that Miss Abbot had repented
of her cruel and barbarous treatment, and under no
circumstances was Peterson to imagine anything of
the sort. Why, on the contrary, if Mary, that is
to say, Miss Abbot—were to come to him and beg
his pardon on her knees, and tell him that she knew
she was a wicked coquette, and unworthy of his
slightest notice, he would say to her,\par

“No, Mary—or, No, Madam, what you ask now
is no longer in my power to give. My forgiveness
is yours—gladly, but neither you nor I can revive—or,
but never again, I fear, can that sweet emotion—”
or anyhow, something to the effect that
while he forgave her gladly—he wouldn’t forgive
her at all. But magnanimously. He would be
very magnanimous. Nothing could be more crushing
than a lofty and unapproachable kindness. He
would let her know the extent of the damage she
had wrought, but she should also be made to feel
that he was capable of supporting it without bitterness—to
the end.\par

So engrossed was he in the composition of that
final speech of forgiveness and farewell—which he
had composed at least a dozen times already—that
he absent-mindedly tucked away every morsel of
Peterson’s generously provided breakfast, comprising
fruit and coffee, poached eggs, bacon, marmalade,
and half a dozen of the most exquisite rolls
he had ever eaten.\par

“Those rolls, Peterson—they are rather nice,” he
remarked, with a touch of enthusiasm that he
quickly suppressed.\par

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tim. I’m glad to
have found something as pleases you, sir,” said
Peterson, with a perfectly grave face.\par

“Yes. My appetite hasn’t been very good lately.”\par

“No, Mr. Tim,” agreed Peterson, tactfully.\par

After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,\par

“Where did you get them?”\par

“Up in the town, sir. There’s a Bakery there
sir as I never see the like of, Mr. Tim. Why,
what with the cakes and rolls and puddin’s and
what-not, I fairly lost me eyes, sir! You should
stroll up to the town, like, Mr. Tim. It’s a neat
little place, sure enough—”\par

His young master checked him gently, reminding
him with a little wave of his hand, that he could
not be expected to be interested in all that.\par

“But the rolls, Peterson. You might see that I
have them for breakfast every morning.” So saying,
he lit a cigarette, and walked out through the
open window into his garden to meditate; leaving
Peterson to meditate in his turn on this absolutely
novel way of acting that Mr. Tim had adopted.
Why, he could hardly believe that this formal and
taciturn gentleman was Mr. Tim at all, and the old
man who remembered the days, not long since,
when he had connived in all sorts of pranks and
waggery; when he had, many’s the time, been called
in as judge and counsel as to how his young master
should get himself out of this and that “scrape,”
when in fact, Mr. Tim never dreamed of doing
anything without Peterson’s opinion—remembering
those jolly days when he had been honored with
Mr. Tim’s perfect confidence, Peterson felt wounded.
Then he glanced through the window. Mr. Tim,
who had been promenading back and forth, leaning
on a stick, in keeping with his extraordinary notion
that blighted love always left one a semi-invalid,
had now allowed himself to sink wearily onto a
stone bench. On second thought, Peterson did
not feel wounded; he felt rather like shaking dear
Mr. Tim.\par

“Say what you like, that’s no way to go on, now.
Life’s too easy for him, and that’s the truth, though
I don’t say I wouldn’t hate to see it hard for him.
But to take on so, just because a young lady was
pleased to make up her mind not to have him!
’Tisn’t every young feller has the leisure to sit and
mope himself into the vapors over a chip in his
heart, that’ll be whole again in three months.”
Then Peterson grinned. After all, such absurdities
had not been entirely absent from his own youth;
and he could not find it in his heart to censure Mr.
Tim severely for any of his eccentricities. In his
opinion this young man whom he had systematically
spoiled since his childhood was not to be
judged by common standards. Things that one
might call faults in other young gentlemen, became
merely “peculiarities” in the case of Mr. Tim.
And it was not Peterson alone who inclined to
shameless leniency with young Mr. Sheridan. His
friends always managed to explain why it was perfectly
all right for Tim to do things he oughtn’t to
do, and leave undone all the things he ought to do;
at college his teachers were forever giving him one
more chance, and at home his grumpy uncle scolded
him and pampered him, and feebly allowed his
usually sharp old wits to be completely fuddled
by Tim’s airy arguments.\par

“Somehow or other you’ll manage to persuade
all your devoted friends and wellwishers to help
you to the dogs,” Major Sheridan had once remarked
acidly; and as proof of the truth of this,
as the Major himself pointed out, the old man, notwithstanding
many threats of disinheritance, had
left every sou of his fortune to his nephew, simply
because, while his common sense told him that the
best thing in the world for the young man would be
to leave him nothing at all, like Peterson he couldn’t
quite bear the thought of Tim’s lacking anything.\par

% File: 046.png-----------------------------------------------------

At the age of twenty-seven, then, Timothy Sheridan
possessed of an honorable name, health,
wealth, good looks, and a very fair measure of
intelligence, could consider himself sufficiently unencumbered
by duties and responsibilities to indulge
in the luxury of doing nothing whatever.
But somebody has said that no one can be thoroughly
happy without finding something to be
unhappy about; and the truth of the matter is that
Mr. Sheridan was exceedingly gratified to discover
that his heart was broken; though it need hardly
be said that this was the last thing in the world he
would ever have admitted. It was such a refreshingly
new experience. His only fear was that he
was not getting out of it all that some people
claimed to feel. He checked up all his symptoms
to make sure that he had the real disease. Sleeplessness,
loss of appetite, a longing for solitude—yes,
he was quite sure that he had all these symptoms,
and the satisfactory conclusion was that his
heart was broken. He might really consider the
matter settled. Now, what is the next thing to
be done? Under the circumstances one should
make no effort. One simply shunned society,
amused oneself with solitary walks perhaps,
looked on sceptically from afar at the insipid lives
of other human beings, and made sweet melancholy
a constant companion. But how long did
one keep this up? The very fact that he could ask
himself such a crudely practical question, made
him feel rather uncomfortable; how could he even
imagine the possibility of {\itshape{wanting}} to do anything
else?\par

He leaned back, and looked about him with an
indifferent eye. From where he sat, he could see
beyond the wall that enclosed the garden—a wall
seven or eight feet high, its cracked plaster laced
together by the strong black tendrils of the ivy-vine.
If he turned his head he could see the whole length
of Sheridan Lane. All the trees on Sheridan Lane
had turned yellow, and the leaves strewing its
cobblestones, looked like golden coins—the generous
largess scattered in the progress of jovial
King Autumn. Above the mass of frost-nipped
foliage rose the rounded belfry of the old church,
and underneath lay the double rows of pretty gardens
all glowing with their asters and chrysanthemums.\par

Then, if he looked in front of him he saw those
wine-tinted hills, rising beyond the gentle basin of
the valley meadows, where the sun was melting the
early morning frost, and scattering the light mists.
Two men with leggins laced up to their sturdy
knees, and carrying guns and game bags, were
striding across the field, followed by their dogs.
A glint of interest sparkled up in Mr. Sheridan’s
listless eyes.\par

“By Jove, I’ll bet there’s shooting here. I
wonder if Peterson had the sense to pack my guns.
I’ll wire Phil to-night—” then he checked himself
hastily. Such diversions were premature to say
the least. But as he resumed his seat on the bench,
his attention was attracted by another object. On
the wall was something which had not been there
when he had last looked in the direction of Sheridan
Lane. Calmly planted on its broad flat top, with
a pair of slender black-stockinged legs swinging,
calmly polishing off a monstrous scarlet apple on
the front of a bright green sweater, sat a perfectly
strange specimen of the condemned human race;
and, what was more, it was unmistakably {\itshape{feminine}}.
It was, in short, a girl of about fourteen years of
age, though apparently not very tall for her years,
with a dense mop of curly, reddish hair, a pair of
uncommonly bright, and observant eyes, and the
beaming hospitable smile of one who has the rare
faculty of making herself thoroughly at home in
any circumstances. Even Mr. Sheridan’s cold and
unmistakably hostile stare did not seem to make
her feel that she was not welcome, or that she ought
to offer any explanation for her presence. She
looked at her apple, polished it some more, and at
length fastened her sharp little teeth in its red
cheek, biting off what seemed to be at least one
half of the entire fruit.\par

After a pause, Mr. Sheridan said, with freezing
courtesy,\par

“Is there anything I can do for you?”\par

“Oh, no,” said Jane, kindly. “Nothing at all.”
And until she had finished her apple, and flung the
core with admirable markmanship against a tree at
the other side of the road, silence reigned—the
silence of indignation and helplessness on Mr.
Sheridan’s part, of serene composure on Jane’s.\par

“I am just looking around,” she condescended
to explain at last.\par

“I see,” said Mr. Sheridan politely. “Do you
know that you are trespassing?”\par

“Oh, yes. But that’s all right. I’m always trespassing.
I can’t help it. Out there—” she jerked
her head in the direction of the fields, “there are
signs everywhere you go, ‘No trespassing.’ But
by the time I come to ’em I’ve already been trespassing
for miles, so I might as well go on. Besides,
I’ve often done it purposely just to see what
would happen, but nothing ever does.” And having
said this in a most reassuring tone, she fished
a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater
and began to polish it as she had the first. To his
horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that those green
pockets were bulging.\par

“You’ll make yourself ill,” he remarked.\par

“Oh, no. I never make myself ill,” said Jane.\par

“Are you going to eat {\itshape{all}} those?” he demanded,
pointing with his stick at her crammed pockets.\par

“Well, I could, easily,” said Jane, “but you can
have as many as you like. Catch.” And she
pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He
caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even
to pretend that he wanted it, he laid it down beside
him on the bench.\par

“Try it,” said Jane, “it’s a good one. It’s still
wet, because I just picked it up. Mr. Webster has
millions, and he {\itshape{said}} I could take all I wanted.
Here, I’ll dry it for you if you don’t want to get
your handkerchief all wet.”\par

“Thank you,” said Mr. Sheridan, “I don’t believe
I care for it just now.”\par

Another silence. Then as if the idea had just
occurred to her, Jane said almost with alarm,\par

“{\itshape{You}} don’t mind my trespassing, do you, Mr.
Sheridan?”\par

“How did you know my name?” he asked in
surprise, and at the same time, feeling a trifle flattered.
Like most people he was vain enough to
be pleased when anyone seemed to know who he
was without being told.\par

“Oh, I recognized you.”\par

“Recognized me? When did you—”\par

“By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a
stick, and that you were youngish.”\par

“Oh.” A brief pause, during which Mr. Sheridan
did not look displeased. Jane, who never
missed a change of expression, felt that she had hit
upon a happy thread of conversation, and she
ventured to commence another apple.\par

“Who is Miss Lily?” inquired Mr. Sheridan,
forgetting that he was not in the least interested
in hearing about his fellow creatures—especially
the feminine ones.\par

“Why, Miss Lily Deacon. She lives up there,”
Jane jerked her head casually in the direction, “in
the first house on the left hand side just as you
turn into Sheridan Lane. The one with iron deers
on each side of the gate. She’s {\itshape{very}} pretty. Mrs.
Deacon is very fat, but she certainly is what you’d
called impressive looking, and she does a lot of
good. I mean she’s on committees and things, and
{\itshape{always}} president.”\par

“Um,” said Mr. Sheridan. Then, boring the
end of his cane through a dead leaf, he asked carelessly,\par

“But when did Miss Lily see me? I’ve never
been here before.”\par

“Yesterday morning she said. She said she
couldn’t tell exactly what you were like, because
she only saw you in her handmirror while she was
brushing her hair, but {\itshape{I}} think she got a pretty good
idea.”\par

Poor Miss Lily. If she had ever dreamed that
Jane would be placidly repeating her indiscreet
little confidences, she would have died of mortification.
But Jane, who, in her own peculiar way,
was immeasurably more astute than Miss Lily, saw
very plainly that Mr. Sheridan was trying to suppress
a complacent smile.\par

“And how did {\itshape{she}} know who I was?”\par

“Why, in the first place, she’d heard that one of
the family was going to live in this house again,
and then she saw you drive in here, so she just
used her common sense, I suppose.”\par

“Ah—of course.”\par

After a moment, he said, with the most engaging
friendliness,\par

“I think you might tell me {\itshape{your}} name.”\par

“My name? Jane.”\par

% File: 052.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Jane what?”\par

“Lambert. Are you going to live here a long
time?”\par

Mr. Sheridan sighed.\par

“I think so.”\par

“What are you going to do?”\par

“Do? Well,—that would be a little difficult to
explain. I came here primarily for—solitude.”
The melancholy tone of his voice prompted a dozen
inquisitive questions to the tip of Jane’s tongue.\par

“Oh. Are you sick?”\par

“There are different kinds of illness,” said Mr.
Sheridan gloomily and mysteriously. Jane’s grave
eyes considered him attentively. Perhaps he was
suffering from a guilty conscience. He might have
embezzled money from a bank. He might even
have killed someone. She felt very sorry for him.\par

“Don’t you ever want to see anybody? I can’t
understand that.”\par

“My dear child,” said Mr. Sheridan in a patronizing
tone, “there are probably several things that
you don’t understand yet. How old are you, may
I ask?”\par

“Fourteen. Fifteen really. My birthday comes
next month. But don’t you remember that it says
in the Bible that it isn’t good for people to be alone.
That was the text just last Sunday, and I remember
thinking that that was why we are all crowded together
into this town, instead of scattering out over
there—” she waved in the direction of the country,
“where it seems much nicer.”\par

% File: 053.png-----------------------------------------------------

Mr. Sheridan made no reply, for a moment.
Then as Jane made a motion to depart, he said
hastily,\par

“What do {\itshape{you}} do?”\par

“Oh, {\itshape{I}} go to school, and help mother, and go
on adventures—”\par

“Go on adventures?”\par

“Yes. Long, long walks. Sometimes with the
twins, and sometimes with Carl, though he never
wants to go where I want to go, and often by myself.
I take a package of bread and cheese because
I get hungry very easily, or sometimes some
Raisin Delights, and I pretend that I’m going out
into the world to seek my fortune. And I walk
and walk, sometimes taking this road and sometimes
that—until it’s time to turn around and
come home.”\par

“Don’t you ever get lost?”\par

“Oh, often. That makes it more exciting than
ever.”\par

“What are Raisin Delights?”\par

“Oh, just sort of cookies, with raisins and cinnamon
and orange peel. No one knows how to
make them but mother, because you see, she’s the
only real Winkler—except Granny, and Granny’s
too old to do much in the Bakery any more. When
Paul comes of course he’ll learn how, because he’s
a real Winkler too.”\par

“Who is Paul?”\par

Jane, at this, launched into the complete history
of her family, charmed to find her listener who was
far more interested than he himself was aware of
being.\par

“And—and is this Miss Lily a cousin or something
of yours?” inquired Mr. Sheridan, artfully
bringing the topic around to the subject that for
some reason he found particularly agreeable.\par

“No. She’s just Elise’s best friend.”\par

“And what does {\itshape{she}} do?”\par

“Oh, she practises on the piano, and sings, and
embroiders, and goes to committees with her
mother—though I don’t think she likes that much.
And then she makes up bundles of things to send
to people in China, and goes to see sick people.”\par

“Does she like that?”\par

“I guess so. She takes things to poor people—there
are a whole lot of them who live along the
creek, and she’s awfully good to them.”\par

“I see,” said Mr. Sheridan. He could not think
of anything more to say just then, and after a
pause, Jane began to think that she ought to be
going.\par

“Well, good-bye. I hope you’ll feel better
after a while,” she said, catching hold of a low
hanging branch, preparatory to swinging herself
down to earth.\par

“Thank you.” Mr. Sheridan did not understand
why he felt just a trifle foolish. “I hope you
will pay me another visit.”\par

“Oh, but I thought you wanted to be alone,”
said Jane, innocently.\par

Mr. Sheridan hesitated.\par

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“People in general are terrible nuisances,” he
said, at length. “I came here to avoid the boredom—that
is, at present I am very little in the
mood for being bothered by the curiosity of a host
of friends and acquaintances. But on the other
hand, it would be a pleasure to chat with you now
and then.”\par

Jane was tremendously flattered.\par

“Oh, I can understand that perfectly,” she said,
nodding her curly head with a great air of wisdom.
“Well, I’ll come and see you again. Aren’t you
really going to eat that apple?”\par

Mr. Sheridan laughed, and tossed it back to her.\par

“There you are, Eve. Like Adam, I’d be much
better without it.”\par

With the agility of a monkey, Jane, holding the
apple between her teeth, swung herself lightly and
easily to the ground. A little later Mr. Sheridan
saw the curly auburn head and the green sweater
moving up the hill, and with the feeling that he
would very much like to be going in the same direction,
toward that busy little town—yes, in the very
same direction of that human society which he had
resolved to shun—he turned away.\par

He had already begun to doubt his wisdom in
allowing this slight infringement of the iron rule
of seclusion he had resolved to follow. Already
he felt very little inclined to spend the rest of the
morning going over the battalions of musty volumes
in the Major’s library, as he had planned,—his
idea had been to bury his sorrows in grave
bookishness. Already he found himself possessed
by a desire to venture out beyond the security of
his garden. And if he had followed Janey up the
hill, if he had seen her stop for a few moments, at
the gate of the house on the left hand side, to report
to a demure and shocked and vastly interested
young lady on various features of her late venture,
he would have felt that all his doubts on the wisdom
of allowing anything feminine within thirty
yards of him, were more than justified.\par

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CHAPTER IV—THE APPEARANCE OF PAUL}

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Jane lay on her stomach, stretched out comfortably
on the window-seat in Granny’s room, her
elbows propped on a cushion, her chin in her hands
and a book open on another cushion. The light
was already waning, for the days were growing
perceptibly shorter, and furthermore the afternoon
had been dark and stormy. A driving autumn
rain pattered steadily against the window,
drummed on the roof, gushed from the drain
pipes, and angrily stripped the branches of the
trees of their gaudy foliage. Now, only the stark
black boughs creaked in the wind; here and there
one stubborn brown leaf still clung to a twig, but
you could see the whole lead grey sky clearly, and
the irregular outlines of glistening roofs.\par

But Granny’s room, always cosy, was cosiest
when the outside world was bleakest. A coal fire
glowed brightly in the old fashioned open stove,
reflecting in the window panes, on the elaborately
carved head-board of the great four-poster bed,
and in the plump, bulging surfaces of the well-polished
pewter jugs which stood in a row along
the shelf—treasured heirlooms, glistening self-complacently,
as if they knew that they had outlived four generations
of human beings. Granny’s
room, was in fact, a regular museum; a big, speckled
sea shell served as the door prop; chunks of
rock sparkling with mica lay on each side of the
stove; a stuffed owl, with only one glass eye stared
down from the lintel of the door. Wherever you
looked you saw some singular object which interested
you simply because you could not imagine
what it was for, why it had been treasured, or how
it had ever got into Granny’s room in the first
place. But there was not an article that Granny
would not have missed sadly if it had been removed.
Each curiosity had its particular association
which made it valuable to her; each was linked
to some memory, and she could not have parted
with one without parting with the thing it stood for.\par

The atmosphere, warm almost to the point of
suffocation, was permeated with a peculiar, and far
from unpleasant odor, of apples, spices, and camphor,
emanating from the gigantic chest on one
side of the room. Like all good Winklers, Granny
had a sweet tooth, which was one reason why the
young Lamberts found her society so desirable.
To be sure, some people might not care much for
the flavor of camphor or cedar in their candied
orange peel, or Smyrna figs, but it was inseparable
from Granny’s tid-bits, and her grandchildren had
cultivated an especial taste for it.\par

The twins sat on the floor in front of the fire,
playing with their paper dolls, while Granny nodded
over the many-coloured quilt she was knitting, happily
unconscious of the fact that Phyllis, her maltese
cat, had playfully carried the ball of red wool off
to a far corner, and was gleefully tangling it around
the legs of the dressing table. Every now and then
a burst of fresh laughter from one of the flaxen
haired twins roused her, and she smiled sympathetically,
and for a little while listened to their chatter;
then her head drooped again, her steel-rimmed spectacles
slid down on her nose, and lulled by the heat
of the fire, the drumming of the rain, and the sound
of their soft, happy voices, she dozed off peacefully.\par

Lottie, looking up, and seeing that Jane was no
longer engrossed in “John Halifax,” ventured to
suggest timidly,\par

“Will you play with uth, Janey?”\par

Occasionally, Jane condescended to forget her
fifteen years, and to take part in their infantile
games.\par

“All right.” She rolled herself off the window
seat. “Want to play ‘French Revolution’?”
Jane had little taste for the domestic character of
the twin’s doll games.\par

“How do you play that?” asked Minie.\par

“Why, first of all you get me some books out of
my room,” ordered Jane, and Minie obediently
trotted off to return grunting under the burden of
“stage properties.”\par

“Now, you see, build a prison out of ’em,” went
on Jane; “this is the Conciergerie, and it has to be
full of prisoners; princesses and duchesses, and of
course Marie Antoinette. Now, we’ll make a
guillotine, and chop all their heads off. Don’t you
think that’ll be fun?”\par

The twins were enchanted. Lottie piled the
hooks into a “scaffold,” while Minie sat by, clashing
the scissors, eagerly. And presently, one by
one, the poor paper prisoners were marched to their
doom, Jane directing the carnage, describing the
history of each victim, like a Greek chorus, and
delivering their last speeches, while Minie, hypnotized
into passive obedience, snipped off the paper
heads of her innocent, and dearly treasured dolls.\par

Suddenly Jane jumped up.\par

“I think this is an {\itshape{awful}} game!” she exclaimed.\par

“Oh, Jane, aren’t you going to play any more?”
cried Lottie in dismay. Jane shook her head.\par

“And all my poor dollies are dead!” wailed Minie,
suddenly realizing the extent of the disaster. Jane
looked really guilty.\par

“We can make some more,” she said hastily;
“there are lots of old magazines in mother’s room.”\par

“But you can’t make Isabel again,” wept Minie.\par

“Well, {\itshape{you}} cut her head off,” said Jane.\par

“But {\itshape{you}} told her to,” cried Lottie, taking up her
twin’s cause.\par

“Well, you asked me to play with you, didn’t
you?” But Minie’s tears went to Jane’s heart.
“I’m sorry, Minie, darling. Please don’t cry. I’ll
tell you a story if you like.”\par

Minie’s chubby, tearful face brightened.\par

“A fairy story?”\par

“Yes. About a prince and princess.”\par

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“And you won’t have it end up badly?”\par

“No. I promise.” So Jane, whose mind was a
perfect storehouse of stories and legends, had soon
charmed the twins into forgetfulness of their late
bereavement while she launched forth upon her
tale of giants and enchanted princes.\par

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On this very afternoon, and in fact, at exactly
the time that Jane had staged her disastrous
amusement, a boy was tramping stolidly with his
head bent against the rain, along one of the country
roads a good three miles from Frederickstown.
He was a big, raw-boned boy, whose shabby
clothes originally much too loose for his lean
frame, and now soaked through, gave him an almost
grotesque appearance. A faded dark blue
cap, with a patent leather visor, such as sea-captains
wear, and the upturned collar of his coat,
almost concealed his long brown face, in which the
most striking features were a pair of black eyes, set
rather close together, and a big handsome Roman
nose. With a bundle slung over his shoulder on
the end of a stick, he looked like any one of the
foreign immigrants who were frequently seen seeking
for work as laborers on the neighboring farms.\par

He did not raise his head until he reached a
cross-roads. Then he stopped, pushed back his
cap from his face, which was flushed and hot from
his long walk, and looked up at the signs. On the
left, the white board, roughly carved into the
semblance of a pointing finger, read, “Frederickstown,
2-½ Miles.” The name on the right-hand
sign-post was too badly damaged by weather to
be intelligible to a stranger’s eyes; only the distance,
“30 miles” was legible.\par

There was no reason why the boy should have
hesitated for a moment; his destination was Frederickstown,
the second direction did not concern
him in the least; and yet, perhaps because the
vagueness of the destination of the second road
appealed to his imagination; perhaps because the
greater distance lent it greater charm, and the
very impossibility of walking thirty miles that day
made it seem the more desirable, at any rate there
he stood, looking uncertainly to the right, then to
the left, and back to the right again. A gust of
wind, flapping the skirts of his coat rudely, seemed
to shove him forward, as if impatient of his indecision,
but he planted his feet firmly, and continued
to gape uncertainly up at the sign posts.
“I’ll make up my own mind, thank you, and I’m
not to be hurried,” was the reply which his determined
attitude made to the impatience of the wind.\par

There was little difference in the features of the
country traversed by the two roads; all that he
could see through the blur of the rain, were bleak
fields, muddy furrows, here and there a clump of
leafless trees, the skeleton of a forest, or, down in
a hollow the sheds and barns of a little farm. A
cheerless prospect for a hungry and footsore
Wanderer.\par

Behind him he heard the weary splashing of a
horse’s feet, and the creaking of wheels. He
turned around. A covered wagon, drawn by a
tired, steaming horse was approaching.\par

“Hey!” he hailed the driver, who pulled in the
horse to a stand-still, and thrust out a grizzled face
from under the canvas.\par

“Where does that road go to?” asked the boy,
pointing to the right.\par

The driver tilted his hat, scratched his head, and
straightened his hat again before replying, thus
gaining time to cast a shrewd eye over the appearance
of the questioner. He was one of those excellent
back-country farmers who regard every
stranger with suspicion, and do not like to be hurried
into speech.\par

“That road,” he said at length, “goes to the
City—thirty miles. Going to walk it, stranger?”\par

“Which way are you going?”\par

The farmer jerked his head in the direction of
Frederickstown.\par

“Will you let me go with you?” asked the boy,
feeling nervously in his pocket. “I cannot pay you
much, but I will gladly give you what I can.” He
pulled the last coin out of his pocket, and looked at
it uncertainly as if he were not at all sure how much
it was. “I will give you twenty-five cents.”\par

“That’s all right. Keep your money, young
feller, and get in if you want to. I’ll be glad of
yer company.”\par

The boy looked surprised and grateful, and without
wasting any more words, clambered up to the
hard wooden seat, and settled himself beside the
farmer.\par

The road was rough, the wheels were rimmed
with iron, and the board seat joggled unmercifully,
so that the boy found it hard to answer his neighbor’s
endless questions without biting his tongue in two;
moreover, now that he was sitting down, after
walking almost steadily since early morning, he
found himself almost too tired to think; but he tried
to be civil, since it seemed that if his companion
was kind enough to refuse payment, the least he
could do was to gratify his curiosity.\par

“Where might you be goin’, now?”\par

“My uncle lives in Frederickstown. His name
is Lambert. Mr. Peter Lambert.”\par

“That so? I know Mr. Lambert. Well, I took
you for a furriner.”\par

“I am not a foreigner.”\par

“Not but that you don’t talk good English, only
sort of care-ful like. Like it wasn’t yer natural
langwidge. What part of the country might yer
be from, now?”\par

“I have never been in this country before. My
father, who—who was Mr. Lambert’s brother-in-law,
was a sailor, captain, also a trader. I don’t belong
to any country. I have come back to work with
my uncle, because my father is dead, and I have no
other relatives.” The boy explained this in a dry,
precise way, as if it were an answer that he had
already had to make many times.\par

“Well! I’ll be!” exclaimed the farmer, much
interested. “And what might yer name be, young
feller?”\par

“Paul Winkler.”\par

After a short pause, during which Paul fervently
hoped that the catechism was over, his companion
asked again.\par

“And why was you askin’ me where that other
road went to?”\par

The boy smiled, and shook his head.\par

“I don’t know.”\par

“Jes’ for curiosity?”\par

“Yes.”\par

“Hum. How old might you be?”\par

“Seventeen.”\par

“Yer a well grown lad for yer years. I should
have taken yer to be older.”\par

This time Paul broke the silence that followed.\par

“What is the City like?”\par

“Like? Why like any other city. Lots of
houses, lots of streets, lots of people, lots of
noise. I’m a countryman myself, and don’t have
much hankerin’ for the big towns. Though there’s
my son now, my second boy, he can’t stand the
farm. No, he has to be off to the city. I suppose
that’s the way all you youngsters are feeling nowadays.
What you’re after is always somewhere different
from where the Lord put you. Opportunity—that’s
what my boy’s forever chatterin’
about—you got to get where you have opportunities.
I says to him, ‘Well, Tom, what is it ye’re
after?’ ‘Independence, Dad,’ says he, ‘Like
George Washington.’ ‘A good thing,’ says I.
‘And what do ye call independence?’ Well, sir,
we argue away for hours, and for the life of me I
can’t see that he ain’t just about the most {\itshape{de}}pendant
feller I know. No sir, when ye live the
sort of life I live ye get plenty time to think, and I
tell ye when ye sift down to rock bottom just what
ye {\itshape{do}} want, and don’t dress it up in a lot of fine
words, ye find that there’s precious little as really
matters to ye, that ye can’t get without having to
trot all over the country after it.”\par

Notwithstanding his companion’s challenging
tone, and evident eagerness for further discussion,
Paul made no reply to this speech.\par

They had now gained the top of a hill; and at
last the comfortable lights of Frederickstown
shone through the dusk.\par

“There ye are,” said the farmer pointing ahead
with his whip, “and I’ve no doubt it’s a glad sight
to ye, youngster. Have ye walked far?”\par

“Fifteen miles, I think.”\par

“Fifteen miles! Pretty hungry, eh?”\par

“Yes.”\par

“Did ye come across the water alone?”\par

“No. There was a friend of my father’s travelling
to this country also. I left him last night.”\par

Now the wagon was jolting over the cobblestones,
jarring every bone in Paul’s weary body.
And, he was so hungry! All at once he caught the
odor of spices, of fresh ginger-bread—such a
friendly smell, such a homey, domestic smell,
that made you think of a warm hearth, and familiar
faces—\par

The horse stopped.\par

“Well, young man, I guess we part now.”\par

Paul felt as if he were asleep. He climbed stiffly
out of the cart, shook the friendly, horny paw
that his erstwhile companion thrust out, and tried
to mutter his thanks. The wagon rumbled away
up the street—and here he was.\par

He stood in the shelter of the quaint wooden
balcony which extended from the second story of
the Lambert’s dwelling out over the pavement. In
front of him the light shone cheerily through the
bakeshop window. Somehow, he rather dreaded to
go up and knock at the door. Suppose that after
all it was the wrong place? Suppose that no one
knew that he was coming? Or, suppose that they
wouldn’t believe he was Paul Winkler?\par

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“So the prince took his knife and cut the third
of the golden apples in half, and to his astonishment—”\par

“Janey, {\itshape{who}} is that talking to your father?”
demanded Granny, opening her eyes suddenly.\par

Jane stopped and listened. Granny’s room was
directly over the dining room, and sounds carried
easily through the thin walls of the old house.\par

“I don’t know, Granny,” said Jane. “Nobody in
particular, I guess.”\par

But the old lady felt nervously for her stick.\par

“Heavens! It {\itshape{couldn’t}} be—Janey, just run to
the head of the stairs and see. Minie, darling, do
you see Granny’s stick? Run, Janey—just peep
over.”\par

But the door of the dining room was half closed,
and Janey, hanging over the bannister, had to wait
several moments before she caught a glimpse of
the stranger, whose low voice occasionally interrupted
her father’s eloquent talk.\par

“My dear boy, we will go into this at length,
later this evening. I see that you are tired now.
You say you {\itshape{walked}} from Allenboro?”\par

“It was necessary. I did not discover that my
money had been stolen until after I left the ship.”\par

“Did Mr. Morse know of your misfortune?”\par

“No. I did not tell him.”\par

Then Jane caught her first glimpse of the speaker,
as he took a step back toward the fireplace, and
into her line of vision through the half opened door.\par

“It’s {\itshape{Paul}}!” The thought flashed across her
mind instantly. Her first impression of her new
cousin was disappointing. Though such matters
rarely counted for much with Jane, she was really
shocked by the shabbiness of his appearance; for
covered as he was with mud, his ill-fitting, outworn
clothes made him look like a veritable ragamuffin.
But it was not this so much as his whole bearing
and expression that displeased her. There was
something both sullen and stubborn in his face,
which, combined with lines of weariness and
hunger, made him seem much older than he really
was, and decidedly unattractive. And she had been
so sure that she was going to like her new cousin;
she had pictured him as a jolly, ruddy, lively boy
who would probably enter heart and soul into her
enjoyments; someone with whom you could make
friends in five minutes; whereas unsociability was
stamped on every feature of {\itshape{this}} boy’s sallow, unsmiling
face.\par

Just then the sharp tapping of Granny’s cane
resounded through the corridor. The old lady’s
singular impatience to know who the stranger was,
had not allowed her to wait for Jane’s tardy report.
With her cap askew, she appeared at the
head of the stairs.\par

“Who is it? Who is it?” she demanded, almost
breathlessly. “Stand aside, child.” And without
waiting for a reply, she descended the stairs with
wonderful rapidity, marched to the dining room
door, and flung it open.\par

“Peter! Gertrude!” she blinked nervously into
the room, where only the firelight illumined the
two figures in the dusk. Then she stared into
Paul’s face. It was only a moment before her uncertainty
disappeared.\par

“I knew it! I knew it!” she cried. “Peter
Lambert, why didn’t you tell me? Ah, heaven’s!
My dear boy, {\itshape{I}} am your old Granny!” And weeping
from sheer joy, she unhesitatingly flung her
arms around his neck and kissed him.\par

A few moments later the entire family had collected
to welcome the newcomer. The twins with
their round blue eyes fastened on him gravely,
clung to their mother, who kissed him warmly,
exclaimed over his size, and at once began to
worry affectionately about his wet clothes. Elise
greeted him with her usual gentle, modest smile,
Carl with a patronizing, “How do you do,
cousin?” and a keen glance, as if he were “sizing
up” an opponent of some sort.\par

During these proceedings Paul looked utterly
bewildered, and exceedingly awkward, as if he
could not believe that all these good people who
were smiling at him, shaking hands with him, and
asking him if he were tired, were really his family.
All that interested him was the fact that he smelt
supper cooking.\par

Last of all to welcome him was Jane, who had
stood aside, watching him intently; and it was he
who turned to her, and with the polite smile that he
had forced for the occasion, held out his hand.\par

“How do you do, cousin?”\par

“How do you do, cousin Paul?” repeated Jane
decorously.\par

Jane was not over impulsive, and she had not
yet made up her mind as to the degree of liking
she felt for this tall, reticent youth, this sober,
chilly, self-assured boy, whom Destiny had now
placed at the head of the House of Winkler.\par

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CHAPTER V—PAUL HESITATES}

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“Poor child, you are dripping wet! You’ll catch
your death of cold!” cried Mrs. Lambert, noticing
Paul’s state for the first time. “What can I be
thinking of! You must have a hot bath and some
dry things at once. Carl, take Paul up to your
room, dear, and see that he makes himself {\itshape{very}}
comfortable. I must see to supper. You must be
starving, too!”\par

Accordingly, Carl undertook his duties as host
as hospitably as he could, and Paul followed him
upstairs.\par

In a moment or two Carl returned, wearing the
prim expression of one who would like to express
his opinion, and is merely waiting to be asked, and
at length, one by one, the family began, naturally
enough, to discuss the impression that the newcomer
had made on them, severally. The criticisms
were very kindly, but at the same time, it soon became
clear that so far no one felt any great enthusiasm
for the stranger. His curt manner had hurt
his aunt and his grandmother, who had been so
eager in their welcome to the fatherless boy, and
had irritated Mr. Lambert. The short, brusque
answers he had given to the endless kindly questions
with which he had been plied, had discouraged the
well-meant, and very natural curiosity of his relatives,
and had made them feel rather uncomfortable.\par

Grandmother Winkler and Mrs. Lambert
staunchly insisted that the poor boy was only lonely
and unhappy; but down in their hearts they had
been sadly disappointed in Franz’s son. Elise also
ranged herself in his defense, feeling that any disapproval,
expressed or unexpressed, of the new head
of the clan, was a form of treason.\par

“Think how you would feel, Carl,” she said, “if
you had lost your father, and had landed in a
strange country among strangers—for after all we
{\itshape{are}} strangers to Paul.”\par

“That’s all right,” returned Carl, “I could understand
it if he were just gloomy. But I don’t see
any reason why he has to be downright disagreeable.”\par

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be disagreeable,
my dear,” said Mrs. Lambert.\par

“Well, we mustn’t lose any time in getting the
boy settled down to his work,” said Mr. Lambert.
“That will take his mind off his own troubles. I
shall have a talk with him after supper.”\par

“I shook hands with him, and said I was glad
to see him, and he just stared at me as if I were
a—a fish,” went on Carl, still dwelling on his own
grievances. “I know he’s here to stay, and I’ll try
to get on with him, though I’ll tell you right now,
it’s not going to be an easy job. And I hope to
goodness I won’t have to room with him permanently,
mother. Can’t you find somewhere to put
him? Can’t you—” Carl broke off abruptly, reddening,
for at that moment Paul entered the
room. He was scrubbed and brushed, and, dressed
in Mr. Lambert’s summer suit, looked vastly
better than the young tramp who had entered their
midst an hour before. Unfortunately he had overheard
Carl’s remark, and his expression had
changed from one that was almost friendly to the
stony, immobile look that absolutely altered the
whole character of his face. The cozy family
scene in the dining room, where now the table had
been set, and the lamp lighted, and where the firelight
shone upon the faces of three generations,
from Granny to little Minie, had done much to
make Paul feel that he would be happy after all
among these simple, happy people—until his quick
ears caught Carl’s unkind remark.\par

Only Jane had seen the look that showed he had
overheard; but everyone felt that he had, and an
awkward little silence followed his entrance, during
which Elise glanced at her brother in distress,
and Mrs. Lambert struggled to think of something
to say that would mend matters a little. But Carl
met his cousin’s eyes defiantly, and from that moment
the tacit hostility of the two boys was sealed.\par

So Paul, who had been on the verge of thawing
a little, had frozen up again. He concluded immediately
that {\itshape{everyone}} disliked him, and like
many sensitive people, instead of attempting to
overcome this imagined dislike, he carefully hid all
that was winning in his nature, under his cold, unsympathetic
manner. He even fancied that his
aunt’s affectionate little attentions were only assumed
to hide her real feelings. Poor Aunt
Gertrude! No one in the world was less capable
of insincerity than she, and her gentle heart ached
over the forlorn, taciturn youth.\par

Supper was a decidedly uncomfortable meal;
and Paul, who had felt that he could have eaten
the proverbial fatted calf, found it difficult to
swallow a mouthful. During the journey there
had been too much to occupy him, too many difficulties
and strange events for him to think much
about the abrupt change that had taken place in
his life; but now, as he sat with his eyes on his
plate, in the midst of these strange faces, he felt
as if the bottom had dropped out of everything.
A perfect wave of depression engulfed him, and
all he wished for was to get off by himself.\par

“Well, my boy, are you too tired to have a little
talk?” asked Mr. Lambert, at length pushing back
his chair.\par

“No, sir,” muttered Paul, curtly, thinking to
himself, “I don’t suppose that they want to have
me on their hands any longer than is necessary.”\par

“Children, you may prepare your lessons in your
own rooms to-night. Well, Paul, suppose you and
I get over here into my corner,” suggested Mr.
Lambert, walking across to his desk. “Sit down.”\par

Paul sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and
fixed his eyes attentively on the window. The rain
still rattled on the glass panes, and the wind banged
the shutters, and moaned through the leafless
trees.\par

“I am only going to acquaint you with the wishes
which your father—my poor brother—expressed
in a recent letter,” began Mr. Lambert, rummaging
through his orderly pigeon-holes. “It might be best
for you to read it for yourself.” But Paul declined
the letter with a gesture.\par

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Lambert, replacing the
poor, blotted sheets in the envelope, “I don’t want
to pain you, my dear boy, and I would not touch
on the subject at all, if I did not feel that it were
best for you to find something to occupy your
thoughts at this time.” He paused, but as Paul did
not seem to think it necessary to make any reply,
he continued:\par

“You must understand how deeply I am interested
in your affairs. Er—how old are you?”\par

“Seventeen, sir.”\par

“Seventeen? I should have thought you were
older. But seventeen is not an age of childhood,
and in any event I feel that you are fully capable of
assuming the responsibilities which must fall upon
you as the only—living—male descendant—of—the
Winkler Family.” Mr. Lambert uttered these
last words with an impressiveness that cannot be
described. Paul looked up, suddenly interested,
and with a wary, defensive expression.\par

“No doubt your father acquainted you with his
wishes?”\par

% File: 076.png-----------------------------------------------------

“My father told me to come to you, and that
you would help me,” said Paul.\par

“Help you? Indeed I will help you. I would
help you in any event because you are my nephew,
and blood runs thicker than water, my boy. Always
remember that. But believe me, it is not
family duty alone that impels me to give you all
the assistance I can,—I feel that you are a young
man who is {\itshape{worthy}}—worthy to enter upon the
duties of your position.”\par

Paul was puzzled. He could not understand
these allusions to his “position,” and his “responsibilities.”\par

“Never hesitate to come to me for any advice.
Do not allow little discouragements to overwhelm
you,” continued Mr. Lambert. “Your aunt, of
course, will be your real teacher—”\par

“My {\itshape{aunt}}?” echoed Paul, completely bewildered.
“I don’t understand—”\par

“Ah,” said Mr. Lambert, smiling, “perhaps you
are not familiar with the traditions of your family.
Then, I will tell you; your great-great-grandfather,
on your father’s side, Johann Winkler, was,
as you surely know, the founder of this Bakery.
He was, moreover, the inventor of certain delicacies
which have made it famous, and which cannot
possibly be made by any other baker in this
country—in the world, I may say. It was his wish
that the fruits of his labors should be the heritage
of his descendants, and that only those who bore
the name of Winkler, should learn the secret
recipes by which those cakes are mixed. A moment’s
thought will make it clear to you that you
are the next in line to be initiated into these secrets,
which are sealed from me, and my children. In a
word, you are the only living heir to this business.
Your aunt, of course, is the present proprietor, and
she and she alone can instruct you in the work in
which you must follow her.”\par

Paul was speechless, and Mr. Lambert, mistaking
his astonished silence, for a calm acceptance of
what he had said, now drew forth a large parchment
from a drawer of his desk, and spread it out
with a pompous air.\par

“This, my boy, is the family tree of the Winklers,
which establishes your claim to your inheritance.
Here, you see—” his broad forefinger began
to trace the branches, “Johann Winkler had
two sons, Frederick and Samuel. Frederick, the
elder had two sons, also Samuel and Johann. In
this case, the younger became the Baker, and Samuel
became a hardware merchant in Missouri.
Thus, Johann was the father of your Aunt Gertrude,
and {\itshape{your}} father, who also relinquished his
inheritance, like Esau—”\par

“But what of Samuel’s children?” stammered
Paul. “Maybe he has a son or a grandson—”\par

“However that may be they have forfeited their
claims,” replied Mr. Lambert. “No, you need
have no fears of any disputes, my boy. Surely,
your father must have acquainted you with all
these matters which relate to you so closely.”\par

% File: 078.png-----------------------------------------------------

“My father never even mentioned anything of
the sort!” exclaimed Paul, pushing back his chair,
as if he were thinking of sudden flight.\par

“I need hardly tell you that you are doubly welcome,
my dear boy,” continued Mr. Lambert
placidly, totally misunderstanding Paul’s astonishment.\par

“But, sir! One moment! I don’t understand!
You surely can’t mean that you think I am going to
learn how to {\itshape{bake bread}}, and make {\itshape{pies}}!” burst
out Paul at last. “Great heavens! My father
couldn’t have dreamed—{\itshape{I}}! Making biscuits!”\par

“And why not, pray?” demanded Mr. Lambert,
sharply. “Am I to understand that you consider
yourself too good for a profession that the great
Johann Winkler thought worthy of his genius?
Is it that you do not consider it {\itshape{manly}}? Surely,
you do not mean me to understand this?” Mr.
Lambert’s face hardened a little; the expression of
bland benevolence left his eyes, which now grew
cold and piercing. He had not expected rebellion,
but recovering quickly from his surprise he prepared
to cope with it as only he could.\par

“Of course I don’t mean that, sir!” exclaimed
Paul. “But don’t you see—I can’t—I’m not fitted
for such work. I couldn’t learn how to bake a pie
in a life time. I—”\par

“Oh, I am sure you underrate your intelligence,
my boy. Don’t give way to discouragement so
soon. A little patience, a little industry—”\par

Paul began to laugh, almost hysterically. Even
in the midst of his serious anxiety, the idea of
himself demurely kneading dough was too much
for his gravity.\par

“But I’d poison everyone in town in twenty-four
hours! Bake bread! Rolls! Tarts! Sir, I could
far more easily learn how to trim hats!”\par

“I don’t doubt it. Any silly schoolgirl can learn
that. I freely admit that the art of a great baker
is not readily acquired. I admit that in some measure
it requires an inborn gift, and a gift that is by
no means a common one. Great cooks are far
rarer, believe me, than great orators, or great
artists, although the world in general does not
rank them as it should. There was a time when a
fine pastry or a sauce composed with genius called
forth the applause of kings, and when eminent
bakers were honored by the noblest in the land.
But to-day, through the ignorance and indifference
of the world, the profession is fallen in value, because,
forsooth, it is fancied that it caters to the
less noble tastes of mankind. My dear boy, it is
for you, in whose veins flows the blood of the King
of Bakers, to maintain the fame and dignity of
your profession. Do not imagine that you lack the
gift. It has lain idle, but a little practice will soon
prove that it is in your possession.”\par

Paul, feeling that he had come up against a wall
of adamant, got up and began to pace the floor.
Here he was with exactly twenty-five cents in his
pocket, without even a suit of clothes that deserved
the name, without a friend within three thousand
miles, nor the faintest idea of where he could go,
if he rashly broke away from the family roof-tree.\par

“It seems that you had other ideas,” remarked
Mr. Lambert in a politely interested tone, which
said, “I don’t mind {\itshape{listening}} to any of your fantastic
notions.” Paul hesitated. He most certainly
{\itshape{had}} had other ideas, and, what was more, he did
not have the slightest intention of relinquishing
them. The question was, could he lay them
simply before his uncle? One glance at Mr. Lambert’s
smooth, practical face was sufficient to make
him feel that anything of the sort was not to be
considered; certainly not at this time, in any case.
Mr. Lambert had fixed his mind on one idea, and
tenacity was his most striking characteristic. It
was his boast that he never changed his mind, and
the truth of this statement was recognized by
everyone who had any dealings with him.\par

“I should like to think over all that you have
said, Uncle Peter,” Paul at length said warily.
“All this has been very unexpected, and I don’t
know just what to say.”\par

“You mean that you are still doubtful as to
whether you will accept or reject the position, to
which Providence has called you, and which it is
plainly your Duty to accept?” inquired Mr. Lambert,
raising his eyebrows. He was surprised and
annoyed by his nephew’s resistance, but knowing
the boy’s circumstances he had no fear that Paul
would decide against his own wishes.\par

Paul was quick to perceive this underlying
cocksureness, and his whole soul rose in rebellion.\par

“I don’t see that either Providence or Duty has
anything to do with the case,” he retorted, instantly
firing up.\par

Mr. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.\par

“You do not feel that you are under obligations
to your Family? I don’t like to believe that you
have so slight a sense of your responsibilities. No,
I am sure that a few moments reflection will convince
you to the contrary. By all means consider
the matter. I should, however, like to have your
answer to-night, if it is convenient for you. I
have several letters to write, and shall be here
when you have reached your decision.” And with
a curt nod, he swung around to his desk, and took
up the old-fashioned goose-quill pen, which he was
in the habit of using under the impression that it
lent him an air of business solidity.\par

Paul, lost in thought, went up to Carl’s room
for the “few moments of reflection” that his uncle
had advised.\par

His cousin, wearing a brown dressing gown,
with a hideous pattern of yellow fleurs-de-lis, was
sitting at the table, with a book in his hands, and
a greenshade over his nearsighted eyes, engrossed
in his studies. The two boys glanced at each other,
and nodded brusquely without speaking.\par

Paul threw himself across the bed.\par

“Duty! Providence!” All he could see in the
matter was that he had got into a pretty kettle of
fish. “And uncle thinks that just because I’m
broke, I’ll knuckle under without a murmur.”\par

Obligations! That was a nice thing to preach
to him.\par

“Would you mind not kicking the bed?” said
Carl’s thin, querulous voice. “It makes it rather
hard to concentrate.” This petition, uttered in a
studiedly polite tone, was accompanied by a dark
look, which this time, however, Paul failed to see.\par

“Sorry,” said Paul, gruffly, and got up.\par

Now he began to walk the floor; but at length
stopped at the window, pressing his face to the
glass so that he could see something besides the reflection
of his cousin’s mouse-colored head, and
monotonous rocking in his chair.\par

He peered out over the roofs of the town, up
the street, all sleek and shining with the rain, in
the direction of the cross-roads at which he had
stood, less than four hours ago. Why hadn’t he
taken the Other One, anyway? He had been perfectly
free to choose—no one had been preaching
Duty and all the rest of it to him then. He
hadn’t taken it, because he had been tired and
hungry, and almost penniless—and lonely, too,
and the farmer had turned up. Perhaps he had
been a coward. It had led to the City, where, even
if he were penniless, he would at least have been
his own master, free to work according to his own
ideas, and not Uncle Peter’s.\par

“Would you mind not whistling!” snapped
Carl. “It’s the most maddening sound. Hang it!
I’m trying to study.”\par

% File: 083.png-----------------------------------------------------

Paul’s mournful whistling stopped.\par

Baking pies! So that was to be his future, was
it? Well, he still had something to say. It wasn’t
too late to take the other road yet. He’d walk a
{\itshape{thousand}} miles before he would let himself be
trussed up in a canvas apron, and put to kneading
dough for the rest of his days.\par

He glanced around for his cast off clothes, and
saw them hanging, still dismally wet over a chair.
But not even the cheerless prospect of a clammy
shirt dampened his resolution. He began to fling
off his dry clothing, sending collar, necktie, socks
and shoes flying in all directions.\par

Presently Carl, aroused by the commotion, put
down his book. Then he stared in astonishment,
at the sight of his cousin rapidly climbing into the
soaking, muddy garments. But he felt that it was
not in keeping with the dignity he had assumed,
to inquire into the reasons for this strange proceeding.
All he said was,\par

“Would you mind not shaking that mud over
my things?”\par

Without replying, Paul shouldered his ridiculous
bundle, felt in his pocket to make sure that his
quarter was still there, and marched out of the
room, down the stairs, and to the door.\par

Then it occurred to him that this abrupt departure,
without a word of farewell to anyone was
rather a shabby way of returning the hospitality
he had received, and he hesitated.\par

“Well, if I don’t get out now, it’ll mean a lot
of argument and explanation. I could write a
note.” But he had no paper, and he did not want
to go back to Carl’s room. So there he stood uneasily
enough, wriggling in his damp clothes, and
glancing uncertainly toward the closed door of the
dining room behind which his uncle sat waiting for
his decision. Overhead, he heard the low murmur
of his aunt’s voice, and the thudding of the twins’
little bare feet as they romped and squealed in a
pillow fight. Paul felt his resolution waver, and
then anger at his own weakness steadied his determination.
He opened the door, strode out, and
pulled it to quietly behind him.\par

A wild gust of wind nearly robbed him of his
breath, and made him stagger. The rain had
gathered up its forces, and now came down in a
solid sheet, swept this way and that by the wind.\par

“Whew!” Paul bent his head, and ploughed his
way against it, without looking to the right or to
the left. The branches groaned and tossed, creaking
as if they were being torn from the trunks of
the swaying trees.\par

Then all at once, with a crash a dead bough fell
in front of him, missing him by not more than
fifteen inches. Paul stopped. The very elements
seemed opposed to his unmannerly flight, and again
he hesitated, looked back, and saw the friendly,
ruddy windows of the Bakery. Thirty miles in
this tempest! He smiled sheepishly, and then
frowned. His impetuousness had put him in a
very ridiculous position. His pride rebelled at the
idea of returning, and with the thought of Carl’s
smothered amusement, came the memory of his
cousin’s inhospitable speech. On the other hand,
he saw that it was no less absurd to follow up
his plan of flight, and the streak of common sense
underlying his hasty, high-handed nature told him
that it was less foolish to go back and undertake
the immediate problem that had been thrust upon
him, than to plunge himself into the serious difficulties
that his adventure would entail. And at
length, inwardly raging at his own folly, he retraced
his steps.\par

As the dining room door opened, Mr. Lambert
looked up, started to remove his spectacles, and
then with a start, adjusted them more accurately.
Paul, who had left his cap and bundle in the hall
tried to stand in the shadow so that his clothes
would not be noticed. After a short silence, Mr.
Lambert preferring to observe nothing extraordinary
in his nephew’s appearance, folded up his
spectacles, put them in the breast pocket of his
frock coat and said, pleasantly,\par

“Well? What have you decided?”\par

Paul cleared his throat.\par

“I have decided—I have decided—” he finished
by spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders.\par

“To undertake your—er—responsibilities?”
prompted Mr. Lambert, as if he were administering
an oath.\par

“To learn how to bake pies,” said Paul, feebly,
and then mumbling some vague excuse he backed
out of the room, leaving Mr. Lambert to indulge
in a short chuckle.\par

Paul hid himself in the bakeshop until he felt
reasonably sure that his cousin had gone to bed,
and then, boots in hand tiptoed shamefacedly up
to the bedroom, and began to undress in the dark.
But Carl was not asleep, and after listening to
Paul’s smothered exclamations as he struggled
with wet button holes and laces, could not resist
a polite jibe.\par

“Oh,” came in interested tones from the bed,
“where did you go, cousin?”\par

“For a walk,” replied Paul, laconically, and a
certain note in his voice warned Carl that it would
be wiser not to refer to the delicate subject again.\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VI—A REBEL IN THE HOUSE}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
“You take a tablespoonful of butter, a pound of
sugar, half a teaspoonful each of cinnamon and
all-spice, a pound of raisins, and a cupful of molasses,”
said Aunt Gertrude timidly, reading from
the yellowed pages of the century-old book of
recipes, in which were traced in brown ink, and in
the quaint, tremulous handwriting of old Johann
Winkler himself, the secret formulas of the “King
of Bakers.” Then she closed the book.\par

“And now, my dear, I have to show you the
rest.”\par

Paul submitted to his instructions meekly
enough but nevertheless his aunt felt singularly at
a loss with this strange pupil on her hands, and
she had her own grave doubts as to whether the
culinary genius of the Winklers really lay dormant
in him at all.\par

On that bright, windy afternoon, aunt and
nephew were closeted in the room off the kitchen,
which was called the Mixing Room. It was
here that the book of recipes was kept, and here
that the bread and cakes were mixed, according
to the time-honored tradition of secrecy. No
one had the right of entry without Mrs. Lambert’s
permission, and that permission was never given
while she was engaged in preparing her doughs
and batters. It was a cheerful little room, snug
and warm, lined with the old, well polished cupboards
in which the tins of spices and dried fruits
and crocks of mysterious, delicious mixtures were
kept safely locked. Seated at the table, was
plump, rosy, beautiful Aunt Gertrude, full of the
importance of her business, but a trifle uncertain
of her six-foot disciple, who, shrouded in a great
white apron, and with his sleeves rolled up on his
muscular, brown arms, stood soberly measuring
out flour and sugar with hands that looked better
fitted for a lumber camp.\par

But little by little, as the lessons progressed,
Paul became less austere; and as he unbent, Aunt
Gertrude regained her natural jollity; until she
actually dared to tease him.\par

“What a frown! You will frighten all my customers
away,” she said, gaily, peeping up into his
swarthy face. “You must practice how to look
very cheerful.”\par

“Must I? Well, how is this?” And Paul
promptly expanded his mouth into the empty grin
of a comic mask. “Only I can’t remember to grin
while I count out spoonfuls of cinnamon. It’s like
trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at
the same time.”\par

“In a little while you won’t have to think so
hard while you are measuring your ingredients.
I do it by instinct,” said Aunt Gertrude, proudly.
And Paul smiled at her air of naive vanity.\par

% File: 089.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Oh, {\itshape{you}} are a very remarkable person, Aunt
Gertrude,” he said gravely.\par

“Tut! You mustn’t laugh at me, you impudent
boy,” said Mrs. Lambert, shaking her
head, and pretending to be severe. “You must be
{\itshape{very}} respectful.” But she was tremendously
pleased with herself for having discovered a vein
of gaiety in her unsociable nephew. His slight
smile, the first spontaneous expression she had
seen on his face, was like a light thrown across his
harsh, aquiline features, giving the first glimpse
that anyone of the family had seen, into the gentler
traits of his character; and Aunt Gertrude felt
that she had been right in attributing his abrupt,
ungracious manner to loneliness and depression.\par

“Now,” she said briskly, “{\itshape{I}} shall finish this first
batch, just to show you how it is done, and then
you must do one all by yourself. How nice it is
to have you to help me! You can’t think how I
dislike being shut up in this room for hours every
day without anyone to talk to.” Indeed, there was
nothing that Aunt Gertrude disliked more heartily
than solitude and silence. Like Jane, she
adored people in general, she loved chat and
gossip, she loved to hear all that was going on,
and could never escape too quickly to the shop,
where all day long the townspeople were running
in and out, always stopping for a short chat with
the lively, inquisitive merry proprietress.\par

“You see, now, you have to knead this dough
{\itshape{quite}} vigorously,” was her next instruction, and
turning her sleeves back from her strong, white
arms, she proceeded to give a demonstration, while
Paul sat by, with his elbow on the table, resting
his head on one hand, and smiling at her {\itshape{very}}
vigorous treatment of the meek, flabby dough.\par

“You’re certainly giving that poor stuff an
awful trouncing, Aunt Gertrude. Don’t you think
you ought to let up a bit?”\par

“Not at all,” returned Mrs. Lambert, seriously,
“I never let up, once I begin.”\par

“What a terrible character you are, Aunt Gertrude!
Here, do you want me to take a hand
at it?”\par

“No, no,” panted Aunt Gertrude. “Now don’t
interfere. Just {\itshape{watch}} me.” And again she began
her pummelling with redoubled energy. The exercise
brought a deep flush to her smooth cheeks;
a lock of brown hair barely tinged with grey kept
falling over her forehead, and she kept tucking
it back with the patience of absent-mindedness.\par

“You can’t imagine how good these cakes are,
my dear. They are my very favorites, though I
know I shouldn’t eat so many myself. I’m afraid
I’m going to be a very fat old lady.”\par

“Then we’ll put you in the window as an advertisement.”\par

Aunt Gertrude thought this a huge joke.\par

“But what will people think when they see you,
my dear? We’ll have to get you fatter, too.
Then people will say, ‘Do you see that fine, stout,
rosy, cheerful man? Well, once he was as thin
as a poker. Winkler’s Pastry gave him that lovely
figure.’”\par

At the end of twenty minutes she had finished
kneading and rolling the dough, and with a sigh
of relief, turned to Paul.\par

“There now, you see exactly how it is done,
don’t you?”\par

But Paul did not answer. With a stub of charcoal
which he had fished from his pocket, the
future baker was sketching busily on the smooth
round top of a flour barrel. Aunt Gertrude’s
mouth opened in speechless indignation.\par

“Tut! what are you doing?”\par

Paul looked up. Then, seeing Mrs. Lambert’s
face, he began to laugh.\par

“Well, you told me to watch you, Aunt Gertrude.
I’ve been watching you. Why are you cross?”\par

“But is that any way to do?” demanded Mrs.
Lambert, clasping her hands with a gesture of indignant
reproach. “Here I’ve been working and
working, and there you sit, you bad boy—what
are you drawing?”\par

Here her curiosity got the better of her annoyance,
and she peered over his shoulder. The hasty
sketch, which had been executed with a skill that
Aunt Gertrude could not fully appreciate, showed
a woman with her arms in a basin of dough—Aunt
Gertrude herself, in fact. In arrangement, and
in the freedom and vigor of every line, the rough
picture gave evidence of really exceptional talent.
Aunt Gertrude tried to look like a connoisseur.\par

% File: 092.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Now, that is very clever. Where did you
learn to make pictures?”\par

Paul shrugged his shoulders.\par

“I don’t know.”\par

Then Aunt Gertrude, suddenly remembering
the business in hand, put on a severe expression.\par

“That is all very well; but what have you
learned to-day from me? Nothing! I have
wasted my time! Oh, you are—”\par

“There, Aunt Gertrude,—I know all about
those old cakes. Please just let me—”\par

“Old cakes, indeed!”\par

“Beautiful, wo-onderful cakes, then. Please
just let me finish this, like a nice good aunt. And
then, I’ll tell you what—I’ll finish it in colors, and
I’ll give it to you. You haven’t any idea how
lovely you are to draw, Aunt Gertrude—you’re so
nice and round.”\par

Aunt Gertrude tried not to simper; she was as
susceptible to flattery as a girl of sixteen, and
found it impossible to resist even when she knew
perfectly that she was being cozened.\par

“What nonsense!” But nonetheless she resumed
her position at the bowl of dough again,
and Paul chatted artfully, to distract her thoughts
from his lesson in cooking, while he hastily completed
the sketch.\par

From that afternoon on, there was no longer
the slightest shadow of constraint between aunt
and nephew. But Paul was very slow to drop his
aloof curt manner with the rest of the family,
and except for Mrs. Lambert and Granny none
of them had penetrated his shell.\par

Carl had by no means lost his dislike of his
cousin, and indeed he was not entirely to blame.
To begin with he inspired Paul with an uncontrollable
desire to annoy him, and when he felt like
it, Paul had a perfect genius for irritating people.
He had found all the joints in Carl’s armour, and
he took a thoroughly infuriating delight in probing
him in every unguarded spot. Every now and
again, Carl would adopt a peculiar, affected accent
in his speech, and would use very grand language;
then Paul would mimic him perfectly gravely, until
Carl was fairly writhing with suppressed rage.
Again, Carl was rather given to boasting about himself
in an indirect way, and Paul would promptly
cap these little bursts of vanity with some outrageous
story about {\itshape{himself}}, making himself out
the hero of some high-flown adventure, and
modestly describing his own feats of strength
until Carl, who could not decide whether his
cousin was serious or slyly making fun of him,
came at length to the opinion that Paul was the
most insufferable braggart that ever lived. He
was particularly vulnerable on this point, because
he had, secretly, a great admiration of physical
strength and courage, and Paul’s superiority to him
in these qualities had much to do with his dislike.\par

As the weeks went on, the twins were next to
lose their timidity with their strange cousin. He
teased them fearfully, and tweaked their yellow
pig-tails, and told them they looked like a pair of
little butter balls; but on Saturday nights, while
Elise read “Ivanhoe” aloud, and the family gathered
around the big fireplace in the dining room,
he used to make them the most wonderful paper
dolls, beautifully drawn and colored, and in the
greatest variety; mediæval ladies and knights,
brigands, Italian and Rumanian peasants, and
hosts of comic ones; until Minie and Lottie finally
came to regard him as quite the most enchanting
and remarkable member of the family.\par

Jane, however, was still neutral; she neither
liked nor disliked him, and was perfectly indifferent
as to whether he liked or disliked her.\par

And meanwhile, under Aunt Gertrude’s guidance,
he struggled, more manfully than successfully
with the difficult art of baking cakes and
bread. It cannot be said that he showed the
slightest signs of the gift which Mr. Lambert believed
that Johann Winkler had bequeathed to all
his descendants; and so far not one of his attempts
had been fit to go into the shop. His bread was as
heavy as lead, his rolls were like sticks of dynamite,
his cakes invariably scorched, or had too
much baking soda in them.\par

Notwithstanding the fact that he really tried
hard to learn, as much to please his aunt as for
any other reason, and cheerfully rose before daylight
on those wintry mornings to knead his dough,
and see that the ovens were properly heated, Mr.
Lambert chose to believe that his nephew was
deliberately trying {\itshape{not}} to be successful; and seeing
in Paul’s repeated failures a sly rebellion against
his plans, he became more and more out of
humour with the boy.\par

“See here, young man, how long is this business
going to go on?” he demanded at length, losing
patience altogether. “All of us have got to earn
our own salt. I’m not a rich man, and I simply
can’t afford to provide for a big, strapping boy
who can’t even learn a simple trade—”\par

“‘A little patience, Uncle—’” quoted Paul
serenely. Mr. Lambert flushed.\par

“You are impudent. Patience, indeed. I have
been patient. But I feel that it is high time that
you proved yourself in earnest, or at least told
me frankly whether you intend to make yourself
of some use or not.”\par

Paul thought for a moment, then he said slowly,\par

“Uncle, I {\itshape{am}} trying to learn this confounded
business. There is no use in getting angry with
me—it isn’t my fault if I don’t succeed. Ask Aunt
Gertrude whether I’ve worked hard or not. But
I don’t want to be a burden to you—you’ve been
very kind, and I should hate to feel that you think
I’m simply sponging on you. If you aren’t satisfied
with me, please just say so.”\par

“Oh, come now, my boy, there’s nothing to take
offense about,” said Mr. Lambert hastily, changing
his tactics immediately. “It merely occurred
to me that {\itshape{you}} were not satisfied, and to urge you,
if that is the case, to speak out frankly.”\par

% File: 096.png-----------------------------------------------------

Paul hesitated. During the last three or four
weeks he had been repeatedly on the point of coming
to an understanding with his uncle, and had
put it off, certain that it would not be an “understanding”
at all, but simply a good old-fashioned
row. There was not one chance in a hundred that
Mr. Lambert could be made to understand his
ideas or sympathize with them in the least, and
Paul, financially, as well as in other ways, was too
helpless to struggle just then. At the same time,
it had occurred to him, that from one point of
view, he was not acting fairly. He was ashamed
of accepting Mr. Lambert’s hospitality when,
plainly, it was extended to him only on the condition
that he conformed with Mr. Lambert’s
wishes, and when he had not the slightest intention
of fulfilling his uncle’s desires.\par

“It’s a pretty shabby trick, and cowardly too, to
live here until I get ready to do what I want, when
all of them are depending on my being a fixture.
It would be better to put the whole business up to
uncle, and stand my ground openly. Then, if he
wants to kick me out, he can.”\par

Paul reached this decision in the pause that followed
Mr. Lambert’s last remark, during which
his uncle eyed him narrowly.\par

“I see that you are deliberating,” said Mr. Lambert,
coldly. “Again let me urge you to be frank.”\par

“Very well, sir. I will!” declared Paul impetuously.
“I’ll be telling you very little more than
I told you when I first came. I can never learn to
be a baker. You can see that for yourself. And
what’s more, it isn’t as if I hadn’t tried. I don’t
want charity, and I thought that if for a while I
could be of some help to Aunt Gertrude, it might
be one way of paying for my board and lodging.
And that’s why—whatever you may think—I’ve
done my best to learn how to make all this stuff.
But it’s no use. I never can be a baker, and {\itshape{I
don’t want to be a baker}}!”\par

“Ah!” said Mr. Lambert, leaning back in his
chair. “I thought that was how the land lay.”
He was silent for a moment, and then, carefully
plucking a thread from the buttonhole in his
lapel, he inquired.\par

“And what {\itshape{do}} you want to be?”\par

“I want to be—” (“Here’s where the music
starts,” thought Paul), “I want to be a painter.”\par

Mr. Lambert looked as if a cannon had suddenly
been discharged in his ear. For fully thirty
seconds he was quite speechless; then pulling himself
together, he articulated,\par

“A {\itshape{what}}?”\par

“A painter,” Paul repeated.\par

“Do you mean a house-painter, or—” here Mr.
Lambert raised his eyes to the ceiling as if invoking
the mercy of the gods upon this benighted
youth, “or an {\itshape{artist}}?”\par

“I’m afraid I mean an artist, sir.”\par

“A person who,” Mr. Lambert went through
a tragic pantomime of painting in the air, “who
paints {\itshape{pictures}}?”\par

% File: 098.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Yes,” said Paul briefly.\par

There was a long pause while Mr. Lambert
struggled to assimilate this preposterous idea. At
last a tolerant, half-pitying smile spread over his
features.\par

“My dear boy, we all have foolish notions in our
youth. You will get over this nonsense. Meanwhile,
be so good as never to mention it to me again.”
And without another word, he left the room.\par

“Well!” said Paul aloud, “I certainly didn’t
accomplish much. Where do I stand, anyhow?”
Again the picture of the cross-roads rose in his
mind, again the thought of the city.\par

“Here I am, just because I didn’t have the {\itshape{nerve}}
to make a break for the other direction,” he
thought bitterly, recalling his ignominious attempt
at flight, “because I was afraid of being cold and
hungry, and now, I’m in a worse fix than I was
before.” For while he cared very little about his
uncle’s opinions, he had grown to love his aunt,
and the thought of disappointing her hopes
troubled him deeply.\par

Well, at least his uncle knew his intentions. If
he did not choose to regard them seriously, that
was his own affair. Paul decided to let matters
take their own course for a while.\par

Now, as a matter of fact, Mr. Lambert considered
his nephew’s declaration a great deal more
seriously than he appeared to. He knew just
enough about people to realize quite clearly that
there was a good likelihood of Paul’s {\itshape{not}} getting
over his absurd notions; but he was quite determined
that they should be suppressed with a firm
hand. He made no reference whatever to their
conversation, and continued to act as if Paul’s
expostulation had never been uttered, but at the
same time he was keenly alert to note any further
symptoms that Paul still harbored his outlandish,
preposterous, ridiculous, and treasonable idea.\par

It was not long before he discovered that these
symptoms were very alarming indeed.\par

One Sunday afternoon early in December, he
returned from a two days’ trip to Allenboro to
find his family gathered in the dining room, indulging
in a general spirit of gaiety, which in Mr.
Lambert’s opinion was exceedingly out of place on
the Sabbath. He was strongly persuaded in favor
of the most rigid observation of Sunday, not as a
day of rest, but of strenuous inactivity. All out of
door games were forbidden, any books not of the
most serious character were sternly prohibited, and
laughter was frowned upon by the worthy old
merchant, who ruled his household with a rod of
iron. Furthermore, he had not accomplished all
that he had wished at Allenboro, and he was in no
very genial humour to begin with. What were his
feelings, therefore, when, appearing in the doorway,
tall and formidable in his burly overcoat, and
wide-brimmed black felt hat, he discovered his
family enjoying themselves in defiance of every
rule of Sabbath decorum and solemnity.\par

The twins were popping corn over the fire,
Granny was {\itshape{knitting}}! While over by the window,
Elise, Jane and Aunt Gertrude were grouped
around Paul, all talking at once, and apparently in
great excitement. What they were talking about,
and exclaiming over, Mr. Lambert did not know.
The window shade was run up as far as it would
go, admitting the wintry twilight, and under the
window, propped against the back of a chair was
an object which looked like the top of a flour barrel.
Paul, evidently in a most unfamiliarly happy and
animated frame of mind, was talking vivaciously.\par

“You see, if I only had some decent colors! But
it’s not so bad, either. What it needs, now—”
here he broke off abruptly, as Mr. Lambert, with
a loud, and threatening “Ha-hum!” announced his
presence.\par

Everyone turned around with as much consternation,
as if they had been caught conspiring to rob
a bank, and blank, guilty silence fell over the room.\par

“Ah!” said Mr. Lambert. He allowed his displeasure
to show very plainly in his face, through
the chilly smile with which he received his wife’s
timid kiss.\par

“Elise, will you take my coat?”\par

“You are cold, Peter. Do get warm, while I
see about supper,” said Aunt Gertrude hastily.\par

“But I am anxious to see what it is that interests
you all so much,” said Mr. Lambert, walking over
to the window. Paul, with a rather defiant expression,
stepped aside to allow his uncle a full
view of the picture.\par

% File: 101.png-----------------------------------------------------

“You have been painting? My dear boy, you
must know that I cannot allow you to indulge in
such frivolous pastimes on this day of the week,”
said Mr. Lambert calmly. “Gertrude, I am surprised
that you allowed this infringement of our
rules.” Poor Aunt Gertrude blushed red under
this reproof, and stammered like a school-girl.\par

“But, Peter, I didn’t know—you never said—”\par

Mr. Lambert checked her with a slight gesture;
then adjusting his glasses, leant forward to inspect
the painting, while Paul, with his hand on his hip,
looked dreamily out of the window. Granny, who
was rather deaf, had been very little disturbed, and
went on brazenly with her knitting. Elise had
hastened out to the kitchen to help her mother;
but Jane, intensely interested in the proceedings,
stood her ground, looking keenly from Paul’s face
to her father’s.\par

“You have been painting your aunt, I see,” remarked
Mr. Lambert, presently. “It seems to me
that an occupation more suitable to the Sabbath
could have been found.” He looked at the picture
closely. Ignorant as he was of anything concerning
the fine arts, he felt that the painting was
far from being merely a school-boyish production;
and, in fact, the very skill it revealed increased his
determination to put an end to his nephew’s efforts
once and for all. He did not overlook the fact
that in lieu of proper materials Paul had made a
surprisingly successful use of a piece of raw wood,
and a few mediocre oil paints—a rather bad sign,
in Mr. Lambert’s opinion, showing as it did, a
dangerous tendency to surmount difficulties.
Moreover, it seemed to him that the whole thing
showed a stubborn, deliberate disobedience to his
orders. He was very angry, too angry to act with
tact and good judgment.\par

Straightening up, with a flush showing on his
cheekbones, he said abruptly,\par

“I thought I had expressed myself clearly to
you before; but evidently I did not make myself
understood. I cannot and I will not have you
wasting your time on this tom-foolery. While you
are in my house, you must obey my orders implicitly,
do you understand?”\par

“You only told me not to—”\par

“Don’t argue with me, sir! I will not tolerate
your disrespect! Let it be enough for you that
I forbid—I {\itshape{forbid}} your idling over this useless
and childish nonsense.”\par

Without a word, Paul began to gather together
his few brushes and tubes of paint, but when he
started to leave the room with his picture, Mr.
Lambert stopped him peremptorily.\par

“Leave those things just where they were,
please.” Paul did as he was told.\par

“You’ll throw them out, uncle?”\par

“Kindly learn to obey without asking questions!”\par

All that day, Jane had seen her cousin gay, full
of good spirits, utterly unlike the moody, disagreeable
boy that he had been for so long; but now the
old, hard, obdurate expression came into his face.\par

% File: 103.png-----------------------------------------------------

“These things are mine, uncle,” he said, quietly.\par

“Indeed? The top of that flour barrel?” inquired
Mr. Lambert, pointing to the picture.
Paul hesitated for a moment, and then with a
slight shrug, put it down again on the chair.\par

“No, that is yours,” he said, and walked out of
the room.\par

Mr. Lambert took the picture, looked at it for
a moment or two, as if uncertain whether it too,
were guilty of some heinous crime against his
rule; then, he took it; but instead of breaking it
in two, placed it quite carefully behind his desk.\par

Paul did not appear at supper; but Mr. Lambert
preferred not to notice his absence. Everyone
was aware that civil war was brewing in the
household, and with varying degrees of curiosity
or anxiety, made their private conjectures as to
what the future would develop in the way of open
hostilities or amicable compromise between uncle
and nephew.\par

It was at about half-past ten that night, that
Jane, who was rarely in bed at the prescribed time,
happened to remember that Elise had left “Ivanhoe”
on the dining room mantel piece; she felt
also, that an apple or two was just what she
wanted to subdue a certain mild emptiness. The
household was perfectly still, and so, taking off
her slippers, she stole down-stairs in her stocking
feet, to get her book, and rummage in the larder.\par

There was still a faint glow of firelight in the
dining room.\par

% File: 104.png-----------------------------------------------------

Half-way to the kitchen door she stopped, arrested
by a movement in the room, and with her
heart beating violently, peered about her. Then
she saw that someone was sitting in Granny’s
chair. For a moment, she could not move a muscle,
then, mustering up her courage, she quavered,\par

“Who—who is that?”\par

The figure in the chair gave a violent start,
then with a little laugh Paul’s voice said,\par

“Is that you, Jane?”\par

“Oh, {\itshape{Paul}}!” Jane gave a great sigh of relief.\par

“Did I frighten you?” Paul asked, getting up.\par

“Well, you {\itshape{startled}} me,” said Jane, who had
always maintained that she was not afraid of
ghosts or burglars—never having met a sample of
either. “What are you doing?”\par

“Nothing,” said Paul. “What are {\itshape{you}} doing?”\par

“I want some food,” said Jane, succinctly.
“Do you?”\par

“I’m not very hungry. What are you going
to get?”\par

“Well, if there’s enough wood there to fix up
the fire a little, I could make some cocoa. It’s
awfully cold in here.”\par

Paul picked up a stout log and flung it onto the
smouldering ashes, and in a few moments, a bright
flame crackled up, sending its ruddy light into
every corner of the room.\par

Everyone is familiar with the exquisite feeling
of sympathy, which food, produced at just the
right moment, can excite between the most hostile
natures, and over their cups of cocoa, Jane and
Paul, who had never been really hostile, began to
see each other in a new light. For the first time
they talked with unguarded friendliness, and
gradually Paul became more confiding, and Jane
listened with her usual eager interest.\par

At first he talked about his life with his father,
his wanderings, and strange adventures, without
however, the least exaggeration or the braggadocio
with which he had teased and disgusted
Carl. It was not strange that Jane, who had
never seen any part of the world save the few
square miles of earth, bounded by the hills of
Frederickstown, listened to his stories of foreign
seas and foreign lands as if she were bewitched.\par

Never before had Paul talked to any of them
about himself or his past life; loquaciousness on
any subject was not one of his characteristics and
concerning his own affairs he had been particularly
reticent; but now it was as if he could no
longer smother down all that was pent up within
him. In the presence of his sympathetic listener,
his words now fairly tumbled over each other,
and his face grew tight and weird with earnestness
and enthusiasm.\par

At length Jane asked him,\par

“You don’t want to live here and take over the
business after all, do you?”\par

“Ah, Janey, what kind of a baker would I
make?” responded Paul, smiling half-sadly.\par

“You want to be an artist?”\par

% File: 106.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Yes. Don’t think that I expected to have
everything just as I wanted it. Naturally I knew
that I would have to work here. I have no
money. You don’t imagine that I expected
Uncle to plant me comfortably in some art school,
and support me while I went through years of
study? I planned, do you see, to work at anything
that I could make enough to repay Uncle
for boarding me, and to save a little so that in five
or six years even, I could manage to study. I
hadn’t any idea of looking for help to anyone but
myself, and as a matter of fact, I very nearly went
on to the city to look for work instead of plumping
myself on uncle. But I didn’t.—I {\itshape{did}} happen
to be ‘broke,’ and the city was thirty miles away,
and then I hoped that uncle would advise me. I
had no one else to turn to, and it seemed natural
to come to him. Then, when I got here, I found
that everything had been arranged for me. What
I was to do was all mapped out—for my whole
life—and I hadn’t a word to say about it. And
what was more, Uncle won’t let me mention having
plans of my own. And to-day—well, you were
here—he forbade my even playing with paints,
‘As long as I am in his house.’ Don’t think that
I am criticizing him, Janey. No doubt he is doing
exactly what he thinks is best—but what am I to
do? Will you tell me that? I’ve been sitting here
thinking and thinking, and the only answer seems
to be for me to get up and go.”\par

Jane was silent.\par

% File: 107.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Oh, I {\itshape{do}} understand uncle’s point of view perfectly.
I was awfully angry to-day, but I’ve tried
to look at it reasonably, and I can see why it seems
like rot to him. Thousands of boys of my age
have crazy ideas about what they think they want
to do, and thousands of them think differently as
soon as they’ve got some sense. And Uncle thinks,
I guess, that I’ll do the same. If I could only {\itshape{show}}
him how much it means to me! If I could only
show him that I’ve got something in me besides a
lot of high-falutin notions! I {\itshape{have}} tried to learn
how to bake cakes. But I’ll never learn in this
world. Even Aunt Gertrude has given up on me,
and she knows that I haven’t loafed on the job,
either. I’ve been pummelling dough every day at
five in the morning for the last six weeks, and still
not a single roll has turned out decently.\par

“But Uncle won’t hear of my getting any other
job, all because of this idiotic tradition about the
Winklers. I never heard of—” he broke off and
began to pace up and down the room, while Jane
sat silently nibbling her thumb-nail.\par

“Well, what shall I do?” he demanded presently—“{\itshape{You}}
suggest something Janey, you’re a
wise little worm.” This sincere, if rather inelegant
tribute brought a pleased smile to Jane’s face.
“What would you do if you were in my boots?”\par

Jane meditated a moment; then she said,\par

“Well, I wouldn’t get up and go—yet. I’d
wait and see.”\par

“Wait and see what?” Paul rapped out a little
impatiently, and frowning as if this piece of advice
were not exactly to his taste. But Jane was
unmoved.\par

“I’d wait and see—lots of things. First of all,
you {\itshape{might}} find that you don’t care as much about
painting pictures as you think you do.” This observation
surprised and angered Paul, and his face
showed it. His startled, resentful look said plainly,
“I thought that {\itshape{you}} understood me!” But Jane
neither retracted nor explained. “And then,” she
went on, calmly, “Daddy {\itshape{might}} change his mind a
little, if you took good care not to make him angry
about unimportant things—especially about
squabbling with Carl. And last of all, it’s just
barely possible that another Winkler {\itshape{might}} turn
up—you never {\itshape{can}} tell.”\par

Paul stared at her for fully thirty seconds in
absolute silence. Then he honored these sage
remarks with a contemptuous grunt.\par

“Well, that helps a lot I must say,” he said, sarcastically.
“If I waited for any one of those things
to happen, I’d be pounding dough until doomsday!
Thanks!” and with that he turned away and resumed
his restless promenade around the room.
Jane shrugged her shoulders. A rather long and
chilly pause followed. Paul was disappointed in
her; but his silent indignation seemed to trouble
her very little, and after a while, he threw a cold
glance at her. But she was sitting with her back
toward him, and so he felt the need of rousing
her attention in another way.\par

% File: 109.png-----------------------------------------------------

“You think, I may not care about painting as
much as I think I do?”\par

“Maybe, maybe not. I said, {\itshape{I’d}} wait and see,”
returned Jane placidly.\par

“Humph. And you think Uncle might change
his mind?”\par

“He might.”\par

“And what chance is there of another Winkler
showing up, I’d like to know? One in ten thousand!”\par

“It {\itshape{might}} be better than that.” Paul sat down on
the edge of the table, and glowered at the back of
her head. Then gradually a slow, unwilling grin
broke over his face.\par

“You’re a nice one to preach patience!”\par

“Oh, I’m quite patient {\itshape{sometimes}}.”\par

“Well, look here—I’ll wait and see, then. But
I’ll tell you one thing—if things don’t begin to get
different pretty soon, I’m off!”\par

“All right,” said Jane, getting up. Paul stood
up, too. Then suddenly he held out his hand.\par

“Listen, Janey—please don’t mind me when I get
rough and short. You’ve got more sense than I
have, and I need someone to talk to like the
dickens.”\par

“{\itshape{I’ve}} got more sense than {\itshape{you}} have, Paul!” repeated
Jane, sincerely amazed. “How can you say
that? Why, you’re the most—the most clever person
I ever knew in my life!”\par

Nothing cements friendship like mutual admiration;
but Jane felt something warmer and better
than mere admiration, as she put her hand into
Paul’s big paw; she felt that rare, happy pleasure
that is stirred in a responsive young soul when it
is first called upon to give sympathy and help; and
their firm handclasp sealed a friendship that was to
last to the end of their lives.\par

% File: 111.png-----------------------------------------------------

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VII—GIRLS}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Half a dozen feminine tongues babbled cheerfully.
For once the Deacon’s chilly parlor, with
its slippery, horse-hair furniture, its stiff-featured
portraits, and its big, black square piano, had lost
a little of its funereal aspect, and a great deal of
its oppressive neatness. Over the chairs, over the
Brussels carpet, over the bow-legged table were
scattered pieces of bright sateen, blue, red, orange
and black, scraps of lace and gold tinsel, spangles
and feathers. A coal fire glowed amiably in the
grate, adding a deeper color to six blooming faces,
and flashing on the bright needles that were so industriously
plied. Outside, the first heavy snow
of the winter was falling, in big, lazy flakes, which
had already covered streets and roofs, and
weighted the twigs and branches of the trees.\par

“Well, I’ve got every one of my Christmas
presents ready,” remarked one young lady with a
comfortable sigh of relief. “I start making them
in June, but somehow I never get done until the
{\itshape{last}} minute.”\par

“I just never try to make mine,” said another,
“I take a day, and buy all of them in the city, when
I go to visit Cousin Mary. It saves time and
trouble, and {\itshape{I}} think it’s really more economical.”\par

“Oh, but then they don’t have the personal
touch,” said a third, a tall, thin anæmic-looking
girl, with large, soulful eyes, and a tiny mouth.
“And that is what counts. It’s what makes
Christmas presents mean something. I always
say that I never think of the gift, but of the
thought of the giver.”\par

“But you make such clever things, Amelia,”
said the one who bought her Christmas presents,
feeling ashamed of her lack of sentiment.\par

“Very simple things, Dolly,” said Amelia,
rinsing off her watercolor brush, and then dabbing
it in a square of holly-red paint. “But I think
that just a little card, with a tasteful design, and
an appropriate verse is a very suitable way of
expressing the spirit of Christmas.”\par

“And quite right, my dear,” boomed in Mrs.
Deacon, appearing in the doorway. “But then
you have such a charming gift of poesy. Not all
of us are blessed with {\itshape{your}} magniloquence.” She
lifted one of Amelia’s cards, and inspected it,
through a pair of lorgnettes, which she held about
six inches from her eyes, spreading out her little
finger. “{\itshape{How}} charming! How effete with taste!
Lily, my dear, you too should try to emulate
Amelia’s Christmastide mementos. You are not
entirely devoid of poetic genius. Why, I have
many little emblems of your youthful flights of
fancy—where is that album, my dear?”\par

% File: 113.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Oh, mamma!” cried Lily, blushing crimson.
“Those silly poems of mine!”\par

“Indeed they are not silly,” said Mrs. Deacon,
rummaging in the drawer of the table. “No, the
album is not here. Lily, my dear, when will you
remember that everything has its proper place?
Now, I did want to read Amelia that delightful
little Bandeau of yours on the Pine-Tree. She
would be interested, I’m sure. And the Album
is not here. Perhaps though, I put it away
myself.”\par

“Oh, mamma, don’t get it now,” begged Lily,
overcome with embarrassment, adding, desperately,
“Do look at the lovely thing Elise is making.”\par

Mrs. Deacon, huge and majestic in her rustling
black silk, turned her lorgnette on Elise’s exquisite
embroidery.\par

“Charming. Absolutely charming. Do not rise,
my dear. Well, I see that you are all happily occupied.
What are these gay colors?” she asked
presently, indicating the pieces of sateen.\par

“Oh, I brought some things that I thought might
do for costumes, Mrs. Deacon,” said Annie Lee
Webster. “For our party you know, on New
Year’s Eve.”\par

“Ah! A Masquerade? How charming.”\par

“What are you going as, Amelia?” asked the
fourth girl, the lively, apple-cheeked Dolly Webster.
The poetess looked up dreamily.\par

“As Sappho,” she replied. Mrs. Deacon looked
astonished, and interested.\par

% File: 114.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Sappho, my dear? How will you do that?
Sappho was a race-horse!”\par

There was an irrepressible chuckle from the window
embrasure, where, concealed by the long, dark-red
curtains, Jane was curled, with a book, and a
half-sucked orange.\par

Mrs. Deacon turned swiftly, her lorgnette levelled
on the younger Miss Lambert like a microscope.\par

“Ah, Jane!” she observed a little coldly. Jane
stood up respectfully, concealing her vulgar orange
under her pinafore. “What are you laughing at,
my dear?” asked Mrs. Deacon suspiciously.\par

“I thought it would be funny for Amelia to go as
a race-horse,” replied Jane, simply, quite at her ease
under Mrs. Deacon’s prolonged stare. Amelia, who
took herself very seriously, and hated to appear in a
ridiculous light even for a moment, said rather indignantly,\par

“A race-horse! Sappho was a poetess.”\par

“Ah, of course!” said Mrs. Deacon hastily,
“that will be charming. And {\itshape{so}} well chosen.
How will you signify yourself?”\par

“I am going to wear a simple Grecian robe of
white muslin, with laurel leaves in my hair. And
I shall carry a lyre,” replied Amelia. “I thought
I would let my hair hang loose.”\par

“Ravishing! Simply ravishing!” cried Mrs. Deacon
in perfect raptures. “So simple. And after
all, is there anything like simplicity?”\par

“How will you get a lyre?” asked the practical
Annie Lee.\par

% File: 115.png-----------------------------------------------------

“I shall try to make one out of card-board and
gold paper.”\par

“Or you could borrow old Mr. Poindexter’s
banjo,” suggested Jane, gravely. “That would
really be better, because you {\itshape{could}} twang on it.”\par

Amelia did not deign to reply to this remark.\par

“What are you going to wear, Lily?” Elise put
in hurriedly, throwing a reproving look at Jane.\par

Lily glanced at her mother.\par

“I wish I could go as—as a Spanish dancer!”
she said timidly.\par

“A Spanish dancer, Lily!” cried Mrs. Deacon.
“Indeed I could not permit anything of the sort!
No. But it seems to me that it would be very delightful
if you should affect a character very similar
to Amelia’s. Why would it not be sweet for you
to go together as the Two Muses, the one fair, the
other brunette, representing, as it were, the poetical
talent of Frederickstown? I would suggest, too,
that each of you recite some little poem of her own
composition. Lily, I must find that album.” And
with this, Mrs. Deacon hastened from the room.\par

Lily looked distressed. She was terribly shy,
and the thought of having her poor little verses
publicly read and appraised, dyed her smooth
face, with one of her frequent blushes.\par

“I {\itshape{would}} like to go as a Spanish Dancer,
though,” she said, presently, biting off a thread
with her little white teeth, “I don’t know why, but
I do. I’d like to wear a comb in my hair, and a
black fan, and {\itshape{scarlet heels}}!”\par

% File: 116.png-----------------------------------------------------

“You’d look lovely. I’m sure if you beg hard,
your mother would let you,” wheedled Annie Lee.
Lily shook her head.\par

“I don’t think so. And I’m afraid mamma
thinks its awfully bold of me even to think of such
a thing.”\par

“There’s nothing bold about a Spanish dancer.
Just dashing,” said Dolly.\par

“But Lily isn’t at all dashing,” remarked Amelia.\par

“I want to be, though,” said Lily suddenly. “I’d
like to be very, very dashing just for once in my
life. I want to know what it feels like. I’m sick of
being demure and lady-like. Yes, I am! And I want
to wear a comb in my hair and scarlet heels.” The
color rose in her cheeks, and her blue eyes shone
with a rebellious light. “I—I want to—to {\itshape{flirt}}!”\par

“Lily!” cried Amelia, in pained astonishment,
“why, whatever is the matter with you? You want
to {\itshape{flirt}}? Why, I never heard of such a thing.
You, of all people! Why, flirting is beneath you!”\par

“Oh, no, it’s not!” returned Lily, audaciously.
“Do you think it’s beneath {\itshape{you}}?”\par

“Of course it’s beneath Amelia,” interrupted
Dolly, whose brown eyes were twinkling, “Amelia’s
too intellectual to care about anything like
that, aren’t you?”\par

Amelia hesitated.\par

“I think that flirting is very trivial,” she said at
length, in her superior way, “and no flirt ever wins
a man’s solid respect. My brother-in-law says that
every man really cares more about good sense, even
though he may show a passing interest in frivolous
people.”\par

“I don’t care what your brother-in-law thinks,”
returned Lily, with a spirit that astounded her
friends. “{\itshape{I}} feel like flirting. I’m tired of being
sensible. I want to be gay, and—and {\itshape{dangerous}}.”\par

“Amelia, you make me weary,” said Dolly; “you
pretend you aren’t the least bit interested in beaux,
but I know that you pose as being intellectual, just
to—well, because you think it’s one way of attracting
’em! And why are you going as Sappho if it isn’t
to show off your long hair?”\par

A titter of mirth greeted this observation, which
struck everyone but Amelia as being remarkably
astute.\par

“Come on, Lily—let’s just see how you {\itshape{would}}
look in a Spanish costume,” coaxed Annie Lee.
“We can use this yellow stuff for a skirt. Has
anybody got a black lace scarf and a comb?”\par

“I have,” said Lily, herself. “I got them about
four years ago and I’ve had them hidden in my
lowest bureau drawer ever since. I knew I never
could use them, but I couldn’t resist them. I—I
put them on sometimes when I’m alone, just to see
what I look like. Aren’t I silly?”\par

“Go and get them,” commanded Annie Lee. But
at that moment, Mrs. Deacon reappeared.\par

“Now here is the album,” she announced. “I
just want to read you these few little things that
I think perfectly dear, Amelia. You with your
veins of poesy will appreciate them.”\par

“Oh, mamma, {\itshape{please}},” implored the hapless Lily,
turning red as fire. “Don’t! They are so {\itshape{awful}}!”\par

“You are so modest, Lily. Now, here is a little
thing that Lily wrote when she was only fifteen,
Amelia. It’s called The Pinetree.” And with a
preparatory “Ahem!” Mrs. Deacon proceeded to
read amidst a profound silence,\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“The Pinetree stood lonely and bare,
In the ghastly—no, ghostly, white light of the moon,
And I wondered why it made me
Feel so very full of gloom.
It made me think of all the friends,
Whom—Lily, dear what is this next word?”\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
But Lily had fled. “That child is perfectly ridiculous,”
said Mrs. Deacon, with annoyance. “Now,
I think these little things are full of poetic feeling.
So melancholy, you know. Lily was quite a melancholy
child. Just look over some of these little
things, Amelia, and tell me, if you don’t think they
are sweet. Read the one beginning,\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Alone, alone, why am I so alone?”\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Just as this point the clock struck four, followed
by the low chimes from the belfry of the nearby
church, and Mrs. Deacon suddenly remembered
that she was due at a committee meeting at four-fifteen.\par

Lily was persuaded to return, and the unfortunate
subject of her “poesy” was tactfully abandoned, and
now that Mrs. Deacon’s overwhelming
presence was withdrawn, the discussion of
scarf and scarlet heels was renewed.\par

“We’ll dress you up, anyway. And I’m sure
that when she sees you Mrs. Deacon will let you
have your way,” said Annie Lee. “Get all your
things, and {\itshape{I’ll}} direct.”\par

Jane, from the window embrasure, watched the
proceedings with a critical eye. Of all the older
girls of the town—in fact of all the girls in general,—the
gentle Lily was her favorite. There
was not an atom of heroine-worship in her attitude;
on the contrary, she felt almost older than
Lily in many ways, notwithstanding the four years
difference in their ages; and she felt rather sorry
for Lily, without exactly knowing why. Jane, so
capable herself of getting what she wanted, had
the tendency of many vigorous natures, to feel a
certain good-natured, wondering contempt for
weaker and timid characters; but there was something
about Lily’s weakness and timidity that was
so perfectly in keeping with her delicately lovely
face, with her daintiness and maidenliness, that it
was really one of her charms, a beauty in itself.\par

With a sort of benevolent smile Jane observed
Lily’s face color with naive pleasure, as she saw
her ambition to appear “dashing and dangerous”
gradually being realized under Annie Lee’s skillful
manipulation of the very simple materials at hand.\par

In less than half an hour, the heavy, mahogany-framed
mirror, reflected the gayest vision that had
ever peered into its mottled surface. Jane
clapped her hands delightedly.\par

“{\itshape{Now}} don’t you like yourself!” she crowed.
Annie Lee sat back on her heels, thoroughly satisfied
with her achievement. And well she might be.
The vivid yellow skirt, which looked almost exactly
like real satin, had been judiciously shortened to
show the prettiest ankles in Frederickstown, clad
in a pair of black silk stockings with scarlet clocks!—another
of Lily’s hidden treasures. The black
lace scarf, draped like a mantilla over the high tortoise-shell
comb, fell over Lily’s slender white
shoulders, and framing her face, made her skin
seem more transparent, her hair blacker, her eyes
bluer, and her mouth redder than before. Mrs.
Deacon’s spangled black fan had been boldly rifled
from her bureau drawer, and from the humble
duty of stirring the listless air in church on a summer
morning, had been promoted to that of fluttering
coquettishly in Lily’s hand.\par

“If you must have scarlet heels,” said Annie
Lee, “you can tear the satin off the heels of your
black slippers and paint the wooden part red.”\par

“You {\itshape{do}} look perfectly scrumptious, Lily,” said
Dolly; “there isn’t a thing wrong, and you’ve
simply got to wear that costume.”\par

Lily, with her closed fan laid against her lips,
gazed into the mirror, as if uncertain that the reflection
that gazed back were really she, herself.\par

“I wish—” she began, and then broke off with
a shame-faced, confused little smile.\par

% File: 121.png-----------------------------------------------------

Just then, Jane, who happened to glance out of
the window to see how deep the snow was getting,
remarked,\par

“There goes Mr. Sheridan. I wonder what on
earth—”\par

“Where?” cried a chorus of voices in great excitement,
and instantly every girl was at the window
peering over each other’s shoulders, and fairly bursting
with curiosity to see the eccentric young man,
whose habits had for several weeks been the subject
of much speculation in that busybody little town.
Even Amelia forgot her dignity and scrambled to
see him. Lily, only, tried to appear indifferent, but
without complete success; for after a moment’s
hesitation, she too was peeping out from behind the
substantial Dolly.\par

The object of this flattering interest was sauntering
along with his hands in his pockets, and his
head bent; but presently, as if he felt the magnetism
of all this concentrated attention, he looked up to
the window. His expression of surprise,—even
of indignation, as if he resented this notice from
the “feminine element”—was almost instantly replaced
by one of alertness. Jane beamed at him,
and waved her hand, and he smiled back at her and
lifted his hat; but, in that brief second—and Jane
did not fail to note this—his eye travelled swiftly
over the cluster of pretty faces, and with remarkable
keenness, singled out Lily’s, and again he lifted
his hat, and bowed slightly.\par

Jane turned quickly to see Lily blushing pink,
and with an answering smile just fading from her
eyes.\par

“Do {\itshape{you}} know him too?” she demanded. Lily
pretended not to hear. Shrinking back, and pursing
up her lips, she said primly,\par

“Aren’t you all ashamed of yourselves—rushing
to stare at a stranger like that, and letting him see
you, too?”\par

“I’d like to know why I shouldn’t,” said Annie
Lee. “Anyone who is as queer as he is, deserves
to be stared at.”\par

“What’s queer about him?” cried Lily, quite indignantly.\par

“Well, he never goes anywhere, and never sees
anyone, and lives all alone in that big house. You
may not call that queer, but {\itshape{I}} do.” returned Annie
Lee.\par

“And he’s {\itshape{so}} handsome,” murmured Dolly, sentimentally.
“I’m sure he’s had some unhappy love-affair.”\par

“Pooh!” said Jane, who was not romantic, “he’s
no more heart-broken than I am.”\par

“You know very little, as yet, concerning the
secret sorrows that many people hide,” said Amelia.\par

“When they hide them that’s one thing,” retorted
Jane, “but he advertises his like a breakfast food.”
Then once more she turned on Lily, remorselessly,
“Do {\itshape{you}} know him, too, Miss Lily?” she repeated.\par

“I? Why, n-no,” said Lily, pretending to be
studying her own dimpled chin in the mirror.\par

% File: 123.png-----------------------------------------------------

“He bowed to you,” insisted Jane.\par

“To me? Why, he didn’t do anything of the
sort!”\par

“Lily Deacon!” cried Dolly, “you know very
well he did! Any why are you blushing?”\par

“I’m not blushing. I don’t know him. How
could that be? I-I only—”\par

“You only what?”\par

“Why, nothing!”\par

“Lily, you’re concealing something!” cried
Annie Lee.\par

“Oh, I’m not. Don’t be so silly. It isn’t anything
at all. Only last Thursday, when I was
coming home from Mrs. McTavish’s I happened
to take a short cut through the field there, and that
hateful dog that belongs to Mr. Jenkins started to
run after me, barking and growling the way he
always does. I got over the stile, but he crawled
under the fence, and followed me again. And I
started to run, and he ran after me, and jumped
up at me and frightened me to death. And Mr.
Sheridan happened to be coming through the field.
And he caught the dog, and told me I was a silly
to run. And that’s all.”\par

“My {\itshape{dear}}!” breathed Dolly, “and is that all he
said?”\par

“Oh, he just asked me if I was afraid of dogs,
and I said only of some. And he said he liked
them, they were so intelligent. And—and then I
said I hated cats, and he said he did too; and
asked me if I liked horses—”\par

% File: 124.png-----------------------------------------------------

“How long did this keep up?” inquired Annie
Lee.\par

“There are lots of animals,” said Jane. “Did
you find out how he liked cows and pigs and ducks
and porcupines—”\par

“I think you are all mean to laugh!” cried Lily
indignantly. “It was perfectly natural to say
{\itshape{something}}. And he was very nice and polite.”\par

“And what was the dog doing meanwhile?”\par

“The dog? What dog? Oh—I guess it must
have gone home.”\par

“Well!” said Amelia, “I must say, Lily, that I
think it would have been quite enough if you had
simply thanked him, and gone on your way. And
{\itshape{I}} think that Mr. Sheridan should hardly have
asked you if you liked dogs when he had never
been introduced to you.”\par

Lily, who was easily crushed, hung her head at
this reproof, and did not attempt to defend herself.
Now that she thought of it in the light that Amelia’s
words threw on it, it seemed nothing short of
shocking that she had spoken in such a familiar
vein with a young man to whom she had never been
introduced. Why had she said anything about it?
Now, it was all spoiled, that innocent little episode,
which had given her so much pleasure just to think
about. Jane, however, quickly came to her defense.\par

“How silly! I don’t think anyone but a prig
would be as proper as all that.”\par

“Jane!” remonstrated Elise, “that isn’t a very
nice thing to say.”\par

% File: 125.png-----------------------------------------------------

“How do {\itshape{you}} happen to know him Janey?” asked
Annie Lee.\par

“Oh, I called on him,” replied Jane, nonchalantly.\par

“{\itshape{Called}} on him!”\par

“Well, I thought someone ought to see what he
was like. And he was very nice. What I’ve been
wondering is what he does with himself all the time.
He says he wants solitude, and that he doesn’t want
to have to see any people, but I think that’s all nonsense.
{\itshape{I}} think he’s bored to death with himself.”\par

“Do you know what?” said Annie Lee, “I’m
going to ask mother to invite him to our party. If
he doesn’t want to he doesn’t have to come; but
everyone else in Frederickstown {\itshape{is}} invited, and its
all so informal and everything, I don’t see why we
shouldn’t ask him too. It would be perfectly all
right, because I think father knows him. I {\itshape{know}}
father used to know Major Sheridan, because I’ve
heard him talk about when they were in the Spanish
American war.”\par

This idea became popular immediately. Even
Amelia had no objections to make, and was in fact
already making certain mental improvements on
the costume she had planned.\par

But Lily was silent. Amelia’s criticism of her
behavior had wounded her to the quick, and with
a sober face she began quietly to take off her finery,
as if some of the fascination had evaporated from
that dashing Spanish comb, and even from the
thought of scarlet heels.\par

% File: 126.png-----------------------------------------------------

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VIII—JANE LENDS A HAND}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Mr. Sheridan, like Achilles, had been sulking
for a remarkably long time. It is true that some
men and women are able to nurse a grievance for
life; but Mr. Sheridan was too young, and too
healthy not to find himself, at the end of some
eight weeks, thoroughly bored, restless and dissatisfied
with himself. He was not ready to admit
this yet, however. He believed that he had proved
conclusively that it was in every way the wisest thing
to withdraw in lofty disgust from the arena of human
affairs, and while his present course of life had
the charm of novelty, he was unwilling to admit
that he was possibly mistaken. For a time he rather
enjoyed the rôle of the misanthrope, and cynic.
But it was not his natural character, by any means,
and notwithstanding the fact that he {\itshape{believed}} that
he did not want to have anything to do with anyone,
he found his new rôle exceedingly tiresome to
play day in and day out without an audience. Peterson,
who was as bored as he, and who could
not understand “what had gotten into Mr. Tim,”
was sour and unsympathetic; and finding the need
of someone as confidant, absolutely imperative, the
embittered recluse of five-and-twenty, resorted to
writing long letters to his one-time boon companion,
Philip Blackstone, in which he poured forth
his uncomplimentary opinions of human nature,
gave lengthy descriptions of his states of mind, and
accounts of his mode of living. Phil, a hearty young
man, who loved horses and dogs, who was quite
helpless without his friends, and hated writing letters,
responded tersely enough, inquiring what was
the matter with him anyway. The correspondence
died out. Mr. Sheridan tried to devote himself to
books, but the long, unbroken hours of silence in
the musty old library depressed him terribly. He
took long walks, and long rides for exercise, but
his own thoughts were dull company. He rode
through the woods and the idle, untilled fields of
his own estate, and was struck by the contrast between
his own barren, unkempt lands with the thriving
farms of his neighbors. It occurred to him to
go in for farming in the spring, to plant corn
and wheat, and to get cows and horses, to build
barns and paddocks, and to rent out part of his land
to some of the thrifty, shrewd young farmers, the
newly married ones. The idea delighted him; he
wanted to talk about it, to get the opinions of some
of the intelligent land-owners of the neighborhood,
and to air his own notions. But gradually his enthusiasm
waned again. He was getting lazy and
listless. Every effort seemed useless to him. He
began to feel very much abused because no one was
interested in him. Miss Abbott had treated him
very badly, even Peterson was as cross with him as
the old servant’s good manners would allow, Phil
scolded him in his short dry letters, and finally had
stopped writing altogether, and that bright little
red-headed girl had never come to see him again.
When he walked through the town he felt abused
because everyone seemed to be having a better time
than he. They all knew each other; the women
stopped to chat on their way to market, the men
talked local politics and business in the doorways
of the warehouses; when he passed they touched
their hats respectfully, and stared after him curiously,
as if he were something that had dropped
from another planet. He was in a chronically bad
humor. That the world in general had taken
him at his word, and left him entirely alone
put him still more at odds with it, and the fact that
he knew he was living idly and uselessly put him
at odds with himself. If he had stopped to consider,
he would have discovered very quickly that
he was not heart-broken as he imagined at all; he
was simply angry. He tried to excuse himself
for his aimless existence by arguing that no one
cared what he did, and that it was impossible for a
man to keep up his enthusiasm about anything when
there was no one to please but himself. He told
himself that everything was the fault of the heartless
Miss Abbott; but as a matter of fact if he
thought a great deal about Miss Abbott’s unkind
treatment, he thought surprisingly little about Miss
Abbott herself. He was quite shocked one day to
discover how blurred her very features had become
in his memory. A lot of fair, curly hair—which
somehow changed to smooth black tresses when he
tried to represent it in his fancy—a rosy, coquettish
face, and the arch, self-confident smile of a girl
who had begun to learn when she was less than sixteen
that she was beautiful and irresistible. But
all the features of that pretty, imperious face were
indistinct, and when he tried to picture it very
clearly, he found to his dismay and amazement that
he wasn’t thinking of {\itshape{that}} face at all. Another one
had replaced it, a shy, demure little face, the features
of which were very distinct indeed, so distinct
that he could not doubt for a moment to whom it
belonged. This was rather an alarming discovery
to be made by a young man who had definitely decided
that all women were henceforth to be indignantly
and strictly avoided. And it was with dismay
that he found himself repeatedly thinking about
a certain brief accidental conversation that he had
had with the timid, black-haired maiden in the field.\par

“Dogs are so intelligent,”—and then they had
spoken of the relative intelligence of cats. Not a
very brilliant conversation, certainly, and it piqued
him a little to think that he had not been able to
say something more interesting and original; yet
the girl had listened as intently as if every word
he had uttered was a mine of wisdom.\par

On the other hand, it was certainly quite possible
that {\itshape{all}} girls were not as treacherous as the beautiful
Miss Abbott. Here he pulled himself up short, and
displeased at his own weakness, firmly resolved not
to waste another thought on Lily. It was all the
fault of that little red-headed Jane, who had popped
in on his solitude, and roused his interest in Lily
Deacon by flattering his vanity.\par

One morning, early in Christmas week, Peterson
brought him a note. Mrs. Webster had couched
her invitation in the ceremonious, courtly style of
her generation, reminding him of the friendship
that had existed between her husband and his uncle,
and expressing her hope that he would give them
the pleasure of his company on New Year’s Eve.\par

After the gloomiest Christmas that he had ever
spent in his life, Mr. Sheridan’s determination to
avoid human society wavered feebly under this hospitable
attack; and after five or ten minutes reflection,
this hardened misanthropist sat down, and accepted
Mrs. Webster’s invitation in a tone that
fairly overflowed with gratitude.\par

On New Year’s Eve there was a full moon, a
huge, silver-white disk that flooded the whole sky
with light, riding high above the happy, festive little
town. New fallen snow glistened on the roofs,
lined the black branches of the trees, and flew up
in a sparkling mist from the swift runners of the
sleighs.\par

All Frederickstown was bound for the Webster’s
big farm. The streets were filled with the sounds
of laughter, shouts, jovial singing, and the jingling
of sleigh-bells. One horse sleighs and two horse
sleighs, old ones with the straw coming through the
worn felt covering of the seats, and new ones shining
with red paint and polished brass, all were
crowded with holiday-makers. All the younger
people, and even many of the older ones were in
masquerade, under their burly overcoats and mufflers,
and vast entertainment was derived from trying
to guess who was who, as one sleigh passed another,
the occupants waving and shouting. And it
was amusing to see that of the older people, it was
usually the most serious and sedate who wore the
most comic disguises, and the most grotesque
masks; evidently bent upon showing for once in the
year that they too had not forgotten how to frolic.
There was old Mr. Pyncheon, with green pantaloons
appearing from beneath his great bearskin coat, and
a huge red false nose hiding his own thin, impressive
eagle’s beak; there was grave, bearded Professor
Dodge with red Mephistophelean tights on his
lean nobby limbs, spryly tucking Miss Clementina
into his little single-seated sleigh. (Miss Clementina,
aged fifty-two, was representing “Spring,” in
pink tartalan with yards of green cotton vine leaves,
and bunches of pink cotton roses garlanding her
spare, bony little figure, though at present this delightfully
symbolical costume was hidden under piles
of cosy-jackets, mufflers, veils and cloaks.) And
lastly, there was Mr. Lambert himself, representing
a mediæval astrologer, with a black sateen robe ornamented
with silver-paper stars and crescents, a
long white beard held in place with black tape, and
a great pointed cap nearly a yard high. The entire
Lambert family, by no means excluding either
Granny or the twins was packed into the big three-seated
sleigh. Mr. Lambert mounted in front, with
Aunt Gertrude beside him, and Minie between them,
snapped his whip in a positively dashing fashion, and
off lumbered the two fat old horses. Sledges flew
out from the side lanes, joining the lively procession,
and of course there were races and near accidents,
and once indeed the Todd’s sleigh overturned into
a big drift depositing most of its occupants head
downwards into the snow.\par

“There’s Miss Lily, right in front of us!” cried
Jane, “and I do believe that she’s wearing her Spanish
costume after all!”\par

The Deacons, mother and daughter, were in fact
being driven along by old Mr. Buchanan, who had
gallantly placed its sleigh at the service of the two
ladies. At the same time, to judge from Mrs. Deacon’s
face, there seemed to be some reason for uneasiness
in the chesterfieldian old man’s very zeal.
He was an ardent, if not an exactly comfortable
driver; he shouted to his horses and the two lean,
shaggy animals alternately stopped short, and leapt
forward with terrific suddenness and speed; and at
each jolt, Mrs. Deacon groaned in suppressed alarm.
She had begun to suspect that her escort had already
been celebrating the coming New Year, and,
indeed, it was not unlikely; for the poor old bachelor
was as noted for his convivial temperament
as for his gallantry.\par

“Pray, Mr. Buchanan, would it not be as well to
drive less rapidly?” suggested Mrs. Deacon, as casually
as she could. But Mr. Buchanan would not
hear of this; he felt that she hinted at a veiled doubt
as to his ability for managing his fiery steeds.\par

“Have no fears, ma’am. You may place entire
confidence in me, ma’am. I may seem reckless—and
there’s dash of the old Harry in my nature, I
won’t deny—but there ain’t a man in Frederickstown,
I may say in the whole {\itshape{county}}, ma’am, as understands
this team of horses like me. Why I was drivin’
this here Jerry and Tom afore you was born,
Miss—er—ma’am;—it’s the living truth. Why,
they are like my own children—they love me, and
I l-o-ove them, like they was my own brothers!”
And the tenderness of his emotion so wrought upon
Mr. Buchanan’s spirit, that large tears stood in his
childish blue eyes. It cannot be said that even these
assurances calmed Mrs. Deacon’s fears; but if to her
that five mile drive was a thing of sudden alarms
and constant terrors, to Lily it was an unmixed delight.
It was not often that Lily was able to take
part in the various merry-makings of the town;
there always seemed to be so many other things
for her to do, and she was far oftener spending her
hours in company with her mother’s serious-minded
friends than with the lively boys and girls of her
own age. She attended innumerable meetings of the
Ladies’ Civic Uplift Society, she made innumerable
red flannel petticoats with feather-stitched hems for
little heathen girls, she prepared innumerable sandwiches
for various parish entertainments, she made
innumerable calls on fretful invalids; but she did not
very often find a chance to have simply a good time.\par

Now, snuggling down into a corner of the rickety
old sleigh, with the musty moth-eaten old bearskin
robe pulled up to her chin, she sat lost in complete
rapture. The fresh, cold air, stinging her cheeks,
the brilliant moon, the sweetly dissonant jingling of
the sleigh-bells, and the scraps of singing carrying
back from the jolly groups ahead of her, the wide,
free stretches of snow-covered fields, glistening under
moonlight so bright that one could detect a rabbit
track across their smooth expanse—all filled her
with unutterable delight. She was very glad that
she hadn’t gone with any of the others; then she
would have had to talk, and she wasn’t ready to talk
yet. It was too nice just to be able to sit still, and
enjoy it all, and think. Her thoughts must have
been pleasant ones. Pleasant? That is not the
word, but then there is no word that can describe
the timid, bold, incoherent, romantic and beautifully
absurd thoughts of an eighteen-year old girl. It
is enough to say that her shining eyes were filled
with them, that the dimples came, and that when she
smiled to herself, she bent her head so that no one
would be able to see that smile, and perhaps read
its meaning.\par

Mrs. Deacon had been persuaded to permit the
Spanish costume, and under her scarfs and furs,
Lily was very dashing indeed, with the high comb,
and the clocked stockings, the spangled fan, and
the scarlet heels. And she pictured herself naïvely
as the belle of the ball; yes, all the young men should
besiege her—but she didn’t care about that in itself.
What she longed for was to appear fascinating
and irresistible, just so that—well, just so that,
{\itshape{he}} could see. Dolly had told her that he would be
there. Would he recognize her? Would he dance
with her? Well, it might be this way; he would
see her of course, but she would pretend not to see
him, and he would think that she had forgotten all
about him. Then perhaps he might ask someone
to present him, but still she would pretend to have
forgotten all about that day in the field; then he
would ask her to dance with him; but already someone
would have claimed that dance. Then—what
if he did not ask her again? Suppose he should
just bow, and go away. There was a possibility.\par

“What a silly girl I am!” thought Lily, unconsciously
shaking her head. Just then she was flung
violently to one side, her mother half tumbling upon
her. At breakneck speed, and with a great flourish
of his whip, Mr. Buchanan had just negotiated the
abrupt and difficult turn into the gate of the Webster’s
farm.\par

Once past the gate, a long and rather narrow road
descended gradually between two snake-fences to the
hollow where the big, rambling, comfortable old
homestead stood. The road leading from the house
to the barn was illuminated with colored lanterns,
which threw weird tints over the faces of the masqueraders
as they sped past.\par

Already a dozen sleighs had emptied on the
wooden platform in front of the big sliding doors;
already the huge room, with its high ceiling crossed
by solid rafters, was half full of people. It was
gaily decorated. Ropes of cedar entwined the rafters,
branches of holly were tacked to the walls, colored
lanterns, with sly sprays of mistletoe hanging
from them, dangled from the ceiling. A huge fire
blazed in a great brick fireplace, in front of which
the older men had collected to drink a toast with
Mr. Webster. And up in the erstwhile hayloft,
which now did duty as a sort of musicians’ gallery, a
negro band was already playing “Old Uncle Ned,”
with such irresistible liveliness that many dancers
had begun to spin about the floor without having
paused to take off their heavy wraps.\par

For a New Year’s party at the Websters to be
anything but jolly,—superlatively merry—was an
unheard of thing. Indeed it could not have been
otherwise. Theirs was quite the merriest family in
the world. To see the four big boys, with their irresistible
grins, and the two rosy-cheeked bright-eyed
girls, and Mrs. Webster, a dignified-looking
woman, with a pair of twinkling eyes, and a lively
tongue, and old Mr. Webster, rotund and ruddy, was
sufficient to dispose the most melancholy soul in the
world to jocund mirth.\par

Around the fire the old wags were cracking jokes
and recounting their favorite anecdotes. Then the
darkies, grinning from ear to ear, and showing rows
of teeth like ears of corn, struck up a Virginia
Reel.\par

% File: 137.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Ah-ha!” cried Mr. Webster. “Choose your partners,
gentlemen!” and dashing across the room, he
singled out Janey.\par

“Here’s my girl!” and executing the most wonderful
bow imaginable, he led “his girl” out onto
the floor. The Virginia reel went on at a lively
pace, and Mr. Webster, leading with the laughing
and muddled Jane, introduced the most remarkable
figures, turning the dance into a sort of pot-pourri
of all the steps he had learned in his youth, including
a cake-walk and a sailor’s horn-pipe. Everyone
seemed to want to dance and no one seemed to
have any difficulty in finding a partner; but the two
undisputed belles of the evening were Lily Deacon
and—Miss Clementina! Yes, Miss Clementina,
little and wizened and brown as a walnut proved beyond
argument her right to boast of having been
once the queen of hearts in Frederickstown; and although
thirty years and more had passed since her
cheeks were rosy, and her sharp little elbows had had
dimples in them, she still had her faithful admirers,
grey-haired, portly gentlemen, a trifle stiff, and a
trifle gouty, who still saw in the wiry, black-eyed
little old maid, the charmer of auld lang syne. And
how outrageously she coquetted, and how everyone
applauded when she and the professor danced
a schottische together—most gracefully; the professor
spinning about, on his red legs, pointing his
toes, skipping and sliding in the lively dance with all
the sprightliness of a stripling of twenty; and Miss
Clementina pirouetting and skipping along beside
him, her pink tartalan skirts swirling around her
tiny little feet, and her black eyes sparkling in her
brown little face, as if saying, “Who says that {\itshape{my}}
day is over!”\par

But Lily held sway over the youth of the gathering.
Every moment she was dancing, light and tireless,
as if there were wings on her scarlet heels. But
now and then she lost the thread of what her partner
was saying, and her blue eyes strayed shyly toward
the door. Then suddenly, the bright red color
flushed up into her cheeks.\par

In front of the fire, with a glass of cider in his
hand, and talking to Mr. Webster (who was at
last forced to confess himself “a bit winded”) stood
Mr. Sheridan.\par

He seemed quite content to stand there listening
to his host’s reminiscences of his uncle and the times
they had had together; and to talk about the various
features of country life as compared to life in the
city; and to laugh at the droll yarns of the other
old gentlemen; and to watch the multi-colored swarm
of dancers spinning about to the lively rhythms of
the negro music. But as a matter of fact, Mr.
Sheridan had, in a remarkably short time singled
out one slim figure, and followed it through the
kaleidoscopic motion of the crowd.\par

“Well, sir, I hope you have decided to settle
down here for good,” said Mr. Webster, heartily.\par

“I—I haven’t exactly decided. But I shall probably
be here for some time.”\par

“You have a fine old place there. You don’t
happen to be thinking of getting rid of any of that
land of yours?”\par

“It all depends,” replied Mr. Sheridan vaguely.\par

“Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Webster suddenly bethinking
himself of his duties. “I’m nearly forgetting
that you’re not an old fellow like myself.”\par

And the hospitable old soul took his guest by the
arm and dragged him off to be presented to the
young ladies.\par

First, Mr. Sheridan danced a lively two-step with
the plump but agile Dolly. He enjoyed it, and he
enjoyed talking to Dolly, and he enjoyed the music.\par

Then Dolly, with a wicked twinkle in her eye,
said,\par

“I want to introduce you to one of my dearest
friends.” A hopeful, eager expression came into
Mr. Sheridan’s face, until Dolly, greatly enjoying
his disappointment (which he hastily concealed under
a pleasant smile) betrayed him into the hands
of a pallid young lady, wearing a wilted-looking
Grecian robe, and a wreath of laurel leaves in her
long, scanty, mouse-coloured hair. It was Amelia,
the poetess.\par

These proceedings aroused great interest in a
quarter to which none of the guests had given a
thought: namely, in the hayloft, or musicians’
gallery. Here since the early part of the evening,
Paul had ensconced himself, his long legs dangling
over the edge, his chin between his hands, brooding
above the jolly turmoil of the dance floor like a
large, thoughtful crow; and here several of the
younger folk had joined him, disdaining the flighty
amusements of their elders, and greatly preferring
to spend their time in the more solid enjoyment of
devouring nuts and raisins and oranges.\par

Jane was the latest addition to this noble company.
Having ascended the wooden ladder, she slid
along the edge of the loft to Paul’s side.\par

“Hullo,” she said.\par

“Hullo,” responded Paul, “been having a good
time?”\par

“Yes. What are you doing?”\par

“Watching.”\par

“It’s nice up here. It’s near the music. You
know, I’d like to learn how to play the bassoon,”
said Jane.\par

“Then you probably will. How would the trombone
suit you? That seems more your style.”\par

Jane turned up her nose at him, and then without
replying focussed her attention on the dancers below.\par

Suddenly, half laughing and half annoyed she
exclaimed,\par

“Oh, that {\itshape{is}} too mean of Dolly!”\par

“What’s too mean?”\par

“Why—oh, she is a wicked-hearted girl!—she
{\itshape{knows}}, just as well as I do that the main reason Mr.
Sheridan came was so that he might meet Lily Deacon.
And she’s gone and tied him up with Mealy
Amelia!”\par

“Huh?” said Paul.\par

“He’ll be with Amelia until the dance is {\itshape{over}}!”\par

% File: 141.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Is that your friend, Sheridan, down there? He’s
sort of a nice-looking fellow,” remarked Paul, condescendingly.
“I thought he was about ninety.
Seems a bit glum, doesn’t he?”\par

“Well, you’d be, too, if you had Amelia talking
about the infinite with you for a whole evening. I
saw Dolly introduce him to her at least half an hour
ago, and he hasn’t been rescued yet. Dolly did that
on purpose—just to tease me!”\par

“To tease you? Humph, you seem to think yourself
a pretty important person, don’t you?” observed
Paul with a grin.\par

“Well, I asked Dolly myself please to introduce
him to Miss Lily as soon as she could. I {\itshape{told}} her
he was very sad, and needed cheering up—and just
see what she’s done!”\par

“I must say you aren’t very easy on Amelia. You
usually seem to like everyone. What’s the matter
with her?”\par

“I {\itshape{do}} like nearly everyone, but I {\itshape{do not}} like Amelia.
She’s a—a hypocrite,” said Jane. “She’s a
{\itshape{fake}}. That’s what I don’t like about her. I don’t
like people who write about the stars, and then turn
around and say mean, nasty, cattish little things just
because they’re jealous. Oh, {\itshape{poor}} Mr. Sheridan!”\par

The object of Jane’s ardent sympathy really deserved
it. He was doing his duty manfully and
gallantly; but every now and then a haunted and
desperate expression came into his face, as he summoned
up all his faculties to respond to Amelia’s
discourse.\par

% File: 142.png-----------------------------------------------------

She was trying, by various subtle, melancholy little
observations to make him feel that she understood
that he was not a happy man, and that he
might confide in her. His only escape from this
harassing conversation was to dance with her
(tripping at every second step on her Grecian draperies)
and—his only escape from the disasters of
the dance was to talk to her.\par

“Paul!” said Jane in a tone of decision, “something
must be done.”\par

“Eh?”\par

“I’ll tell you what. {\itshape{You}} must go down, and ask
Amelia to dance with you!”\par

“{\itshape{What!}}”\par

“Yes. Now, do an unselfish act, and it shall be
returned to you a thousandfold,” said Jane, unctuously.\par

“Not interested in any such bargains,” returned
Paul.\par

“Yes. Now, Paul, don’t be stubborn. It’ll only
be for a minute. I’ll ask mother to get Daddy to
go and rescue you—or Mr. Webster, or Mr. Buchanan.”\par

“Can’t. Thank heaven, I don’t know how to
dance anything but a highland fling.”\par

“Well, teach Amelia how to do that. Come on,
now, Paul—like a good, delicious angel.” And
with that she began to tug at his arm.\par

“Jane, you’re going to be a horrible, horrible
old woman. You’re going to be a matchmaker.
You’re going to make all your friends hide in ambush
when they see you coming, and you’ll probably
be assassinated.”\par

“I don’t care. Come along, now—ni-ice little
Paul, and teach Amelia how to do the pretty highland
fling!” And actually, so irresistible was her
determination, she coaxed the enraged Paul down the
ladder, and standing disinterestedly at a certain distance
away, heard him say meekly, according to
her instructions,\par

“Miss Hartshorn, may I have the pleasure of this
waltz?” his voice fading away to an anguished
whisper. Mr. Sheridan, beaming with satisfaction,
professed abysmal regrets at being forced to
lose his charming partner; and then Paul, with the
sweetly wan expression of an early martyr, placed
one arm around Amelia’s waist, and began the peculiar,
grave capering which in his dazed condition,
he believed to be a waltz.\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER IX—“THE BEST LAID PLANS—”}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Mr. Sheridan, turning about, suppressing a vast
sigh, beheld Jane, standing and smiling at him with
her most benevolent expression.\par

“Why—so there you are again! How glad I am
to see you! Why haven’t you ever come to call
on me? I’ve missed you,” he said, taking her
hand. His pleasure was too sincere not to be extremely
flattering.\par

“I {\itshape{would}} have come, only I’ve been pretty busy,”
she explained; then her eyes twinkled. “That was
Paul,” she said. “You remember I told you that
he was coming. Isn’t he a nice boy?”\par

It was only the mischievous sparkle in her eyes
that told Mr. Sheridan that she had a double meaning.\par

“A {\itshape{charming}} boy!” he declared with fervor; and
then he laughed guiltily.\par

“That was mean of Dolly,” said Jane.\par

“What was mean?”\par

“To tie you up with Amelia Hartshorn.”\par

“Why, on the contrary, I—I thought Miss
Hartshorn very agreeable,” replied Mr. Sheridan,
fibbing like a gentleman.\par

% File: 145.png-----------------------------------------------------

Jane shrugged her shoulders.\par

“I was afraid that Dolly might have forgotten
that you were a stranger, and leave you with one
partner for the rest of the dance. And then you’d
have been bored, and—and would have wanted solitude
worse than ever.”\par

This remark brought first a puzzled expression
and then a burst of half-shamefaced amusement from
Mr. Sheridan.\par

“You evidently remember our conversation very
clearly,” he remarked.\par

“Oh, yes, I do. I’ve thought about it quite often—that
is, about some of the things you said.”\par

“And I must add that you seem to take great
interest in your friends.”\par

“I suppose,” replied Jane with a sigh, “that {\itshape{you}}
think I’m an awful busybody, too. Well, if I am
I can’t help it. I mean well.”\par

Mr. Sheridan chuckled again. He had never before
met any youngster who amused him quite as
much as Jane did.\par

“Was it because you brought some pressure to
bear on—er—Paul that he interrupted my dance
with Miss Hartshorn?”\par

“Yes,” answered Jane absently.\par

“You seem to find it easy to make people do what
you want.”\par

“No, not really—not at all. I had an awful
time with Paul.” Then after a short pause, she
added, “I’m awfully glad you came to-night. It
seems to have cheered you up.”\par

% File: 146.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Why do you think I needed cheering up?”\par

“Because you were so gloomy.”\par

With a smile Mr. Sheridan changed the topic by
suggesting that he get some refreshments, and to
this proposition Jane assented enthusiastically.\par

“Do you remember that Miss Lily I told you
about?” she inquired casually, when she had finished
her ice. “There she is.”\par

“The very pretty young lady in the Spanish
costume?”\par

“Yes. She’s horribly pretty, isn’t she? Would
you like to dance with her?”\par

“Very much. Only I haven’t had the pleasure——”\par

“Oh, {\itshape{I’ll}} introduce you to her, if you like,” interrupted
Jane, putting her plate on the window
sill.\par

Mr. Sheridan raised his head, and looked at Jane
with a touch of wariness. But her face was innocence
itself, utterly disarming in its childlike simplicity.\par

Enormously amused, he gravely followed her
across the room, to where Lily was sitting, chatting
gaily to the two Webster boys; and Jane sedately
performed the ceremony of introduction. Then,
well-satisfied with her accomplishment, and feeling
that she could do no more at present for these two,
she retired to her eyrie in the hayloft, entirely forgetful
of the unhappy Paul.\par

It is just possible that, as, out of the corner of
her eyes she saw Mr. Sheridan approaching, Lily
pretended to be enjoying the conversation of the
Webster boys a little more than she really was. She
felt the color burning in her cheeks, and was angry
with herself.\par

“He’ll think I’m just a—a silly village girl,” she
thought. Her natural shyness was greatly increased
by the presence of this young man with his indescribable
air of self-confidence; he was not at all like
the two simple hearty, countrified Webster boys.
There was something about him that marked him
unmistakably as a product of city life, of ease, and
rather varied worldly experience, and for some reason
this made her a little bit afraid of him; or, perhaps
afraid of herself. Usually the least self-conscious
person in the world, she now found herself
filled with misgivings about herself. She was
afraid that there were numberless shortcomings
about her of which she was unaware, but which he
would not fail to notice; and this thought stung
her pride. Furthermore, she was a trifle piqued
at his attentiveness to Amelia, though not for worlds
would she have admitted that any such silly vanity
existed in her. Added to all this, was the sting that
Amelia had left in her sensitive mind. Perhaps he
had thought it undignified of her to have chatted
with him so informally that day in the field—and
then he had seen her peeping at him from the window.\par

All these doubts excited in her a desire to snub
him a little. He was {\itshape{not}} to think her just a “silly
village girl.” Perhaps her gay, dashing costume
made her feel unlike herself, and gave her some of
the self-confidence that she lacked by nature. Indeed,
the pretty senorita was altogether quite a different
person, from the simple, artless girl that
Timothy Sheridan remembered so vividly. He was
himself a thoroughly simple young man, and he was
puzzled by the change in her.\par

Fluttering her fan nervously, she chatted with
him, asked him questions, laughed,—all with a little
air of frivolity, and carelessness. She felt a sort of
resentment toward him, and this lead her once or
twice to make a remark designed “to take him down
off the high horse” that she imagined (on no
grounds whatever) that he had mounted. His expression
of bewilderment and polite surprise gave
her a satisfaction that was not unmixed with regret
and displeasure at herself. At length, when the
music started up again, he asked her to dance. By
this time, his manner had grown a little cold and
formal, and Lily was piqued. So, with a little shake
of her head, she told him that she had promised this
one to Mr. Webster. There was something in her
slight hesitation before she answered that made
him feel that this was not quite true; and, hurt and
puzzled, he bowed, expressed his regret, and the hope
that he might have the pleasure later, and withdrew.
On the whole, Jane’s diplomacy had been anything
but successful.\par

Mr. Sheridan slipped out to smoke a cigar in the
fresh, cold air, and to meditate on the irritating
vagaries of the feminine gender. Lily’s reception
had hurt him more than he liked to admit even to
himself.\par

“What was the matter with her? She wasn’t a
bit like that before—she seemed so gentle and unspoiled
and kind. Hang it, there’s no way of understanding
what a girl really is like, anyhow. I’ve
just been an idiot.”\par

After a moment or two, he told himself fiercely,\par

“Well, if she doesn’t want to dance with me, I
certainly shan’t bother her.”\par

A little later, he threw away his cigar, and went
in again. But he did not dance. He sat and talked
pleasantly to Mrs. Webster for twenty minutes or
so, and then joined his host by the fire, with whom
he discussed agriculture and politics for the rest of
the evening.\par

In the meantime, Paul, deserted by Jane, had
managed to extricate himself from the toils of the
fair Amelia, and possessed by a deep sense of injury,
had climbed up again to the hayloft, with the
double purpose of expressing his indignant feelings
to Jane, and getting well out of the reach of his
recent partner.\par

“Well, I must say—if that’s the way you keep a
bargain—” he began. Jane looked around at him
with an abstracted expression, and then unable to
control herself at the sight of his aggrieved face,
burst into the most unsympathetic laughter.\par

“Oh, you poor creature! I {\itshape{am}} sorry! I forgot
all about you!”\par

“Do you think you’re giving me fresh
information?” inquired Paul, in tones of bitterest sarcasm.\par

“How {\itshape{did}} you get away?”\par

“Much you care!”\par

“There, don’t be angry. Tell me how you {\itshape{did}} get
away?”\par

“If you must know—I just bolted.”\par

“Paul!”\par

“Couldn’t help it. Just had to. Sorry if it was
uncouth and all that—but there are limits to human
endurance!”\par

“Now who’s hard on Amelia?”\par

Paul grinned unwillingly.\par

“I guess you were about right. The whole time
I was with her, she was picking on things about people—all
the other girls who were the least bit pretty.
Not plain, straight-forward out-and-out wallops,
mind you, but all sorts of sweet and sly—”\par

“Oh, I know her way. And did you just up and
leave her?”\par

“No. We pranced around a while, and then she
sat down, and made me fan her. And then we
pranced around some more—until I thought I was
going to die, and she kept talking—first about what
she thought about girls nowadays, and then about
poetry—you can imagine about how much I had to
say to that sort of stuff. And then we pranced
around some more, and by that time I’d concluded
that I had only myself to rely on”—this with renewed
bitterness, “so I told the woman that I had
a—a weak heart, and guessed I’d better get a little
air—”\par

% File: 151.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Paul, you didn’t!” cried Jane, horrified.\par

“Yes, I did,” said Paul, grimly. “I’d gotten to
the point where I’d have flopped down, and played
dead if necessary. She seemed to swallow the
story, bait, line and hook, and was quite sympathetic—and
here I am, and the next time you try to get
me into a fix like that—”\par

“I say,” interrupted Jane, “Mr. Sheridan hasn’t
danced with Lily at all! He’s gone and plopped
himself down with all those old fogies around the
fire!”\par

At this Paul took his turn to chuckle.\par

“Serves you right! {\itshape{Now}} will you keep your fingers
out of other people’s pies? I told you you
were too young to be meddling with such things.
But I guess you’re just like all women—jump
at conclusions, and then start trying to run
things—”\par

“You think you’re awfully clever, don’t you?”
retorted Jane acidly.\par

“Not clever—just humanly intelligent. Intuition
may be all right for women, but plain horse-sense
is good enough for me.”\par

“What’s intuition?” demanded Jane.\par

“The thing that makes girls think they know
more than men do,” replied Paul, scornfully. “Your
friend Amelia says she’s got a lot of it. Ask her
what it is.” Then he turned to her with an exasperating
grin; he was getting immeasurable satisfaction
out of her discomfiture. “Practice
what you preach, old lady. I guess it’s about
time that {\itshape{you}} left a thing or two to Providence.”\par

Jane felt that it was time to change the subject.\par

“People are queer,” she remarked.\par

“I’ve heard that before,” said Paul, rubbing his
nose, “I’ve observed it, and I know it.”\par

“I think you’re sort of detestable to-night.”\par

“It’s your fault, then. I think you’ve ruined my
disposition for life. The next thing you’ll be trying
to make me be sweet to that fat old dowager
with the moustaches!”\par

“{\itshape{Hush}}, Paul! That’s Mrs. Deacon.”\par

“Nobody could hear me in all this noise. She
seems in an awful stew about something, doesn’t
she?”\par

Jane did not answer. Paul stared at her.\par

“What’s the matter with you? You look as if
you were going to have a fit.” Still Jane did not
answer. There was indeed a frozen look on her
face.\par

“Well,” said Paul, eyeing her, “what have you
been up to now?”\par

“N-nothing,” said Jane.\par

“That won’t go with me, old salt. What have
you done to that poor, defenseless old widow?”\par

“I—I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess,” Jane
confessed, faintly.\par

“Oh, I’m quite sure of that. And you won’t
catch me coming to the rescue again. Here I am
and here I stay until I go home under Uncle Peter’s
sheltering wing. Well, what have you done?”\par

“I—I didn’t mean—”\par

% File: 153.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Of course not. Your kind never do. They’ll
have a revolution in this town, if they keep you here
until you’ve grown up—which I doubt very much.”
Then, seeing that she was really distressed, he patted
her hand, and said, consolingly, “There, tell your
Aunt Rebecca what you’ve done—I’ll help you out,
if I must.”\par

“No one can help me,” said Jane, darkly.\par

“Is it murder this time? Well, tell me anyhow.
I’m always prepared for the worst with you.”\par

“Don’t tease, Paul. I sent her sleigh away,”
said Jane, with the calm of deep trouble.\par

“You—{\itshape{what}}?”\par

“I said—I sent Mrs. Deacon’s sleigh away.”\par

There was a pause, during which Paul made
every effort to guess what earthly designs Jane had
had in perpetrating such a peculiar deed. Then he
gave up.\par

“You have something against Mrs. Deacon?” he
suggested, delicately. “You don’t like her moustaches,
perhaps? Or perhaps you think that a five
mile walk would be good for her health?”\par

Jane was not listening.\par

“I—you see, I thought it would be nice if Mr.
Sheridan took Lily home. And a little while ago
I was talking to Mr. Buchanan who brought the
Deacons here. He was sitting outside, and he
seemed awfully tired and sleepy, and kept saying
that late hours were bad for young and old; and
then I said that—that the Deacons weren’t going
back with him. And he didn’t wait a minute. He
just got into his sleigh, and went off like Santa
Claus. And now, it looks as if Mr. Sheridan and
Lily were mad at each other—and if Mrs. Deacon
finds out that I told Mr. Buchanan to go—I don’t
know {\itshape{what}} to do!”\par

“Well!” said Paul, “I suppose you’re about the
{\itshape{coolest}}—rascal I ever met in my life. I don’t think
I’ve ever even heard of anyone like you.”\par

“What shall I do?”\par

“Do? Why, to be perfectly consistent with your
kind, after having gotten everything into a sweet
kettle-of-fish, just wash your hands of it. Leave it
to Providence—and hike for the tall timber.” Then
he began to chuckle, hugging himself, and shaking
up and down, in a rapture of mirth.\par

“Oh, don’t bother about it. They’ll get home all
right—”\par

“I’m not bothering about that. I’m thinking
about what’ll happen if Mrs. Deacon finds out that
I sent Mr. Buchanan away.”\par

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. She
hasn’t found out yet.”\par

“I wonder why Mr. Sheridan and Lily are mad at
each other.” Then she jumped up.\par

“What are you going to do now?” demanded
Paul.\par

“I’m going down.”\par

“Take my advice and stay where you are.” But
Jane was already on her way down the ladder.\par

The party was beginning to break up. The wild
tooting of horns, the shrill notes of whistles, and
showers of confetti announced the New Year.
Jane made her way through the tangles of colored
streamers, and the knots of merry-makers toward
the huge chimney-place where a group of older people
were standing, watching the picturesque scene.\par

“Ah-ha, here’s my girl again!” cried Mr. Webster.
“Come here and watch the fun with your old
god-father.”\par

With his big hands on her shoulders, Jane leant
against him, and looked on as placidly as if there
were not a care in the world troubling her peace
of mind. When the noise had subsided a little, she
looked round and up at Mr. Webster’s face, and
raising her voice a little so that it was impossible for
Mr. Sheridan not to hear what she said, remarked,\par

“Mr. Buchanan has gone home, and left the Deacons
here.”\par

“What? What is that?” said Mr. Webster
hastily. Jane repeated her remark, glancing furtively
at Mr. Sheridan, whose face had suddenly
grown rather red. But he stared straight ahead
and pretended not to have heard her.\par

“Ah, well, Sam can hitch up our sleigh in a moment,”
said Mr. Webster. “I daresay he’ll be only
too glad to take Lily home.” And he chuckled slyly.\par

For some reason, Mr. Sheridan was able to hear
{\itshape{this}} remark quite distinctly. He looked around,
and after a momentary hesitation said,\par

“There is no reason for that. Mrs. Deacon and
her daughter are near neighbors of mine, and I—I’d
be delighted to take them home.” And without
giving his host a chance to argue the point, strode
off hastily in the direction of the majestic dowager.\par

By this time the old lady, undergoing the process
of being wrapped up in a dense cocoon of furs and
mantles, while the two Webster boys clamored for
the pleasure of putting on her carriage boots, was
quite besieged by young men begging to be allowed
to drive her home. Lily stood behind her chair,
smiling, but a little tired-looking.\par

Mr. Sheridan worked his way deftly and determinedly
through the group.\par

“Will you let me drive you home, Mrs. Deacon?”
He did not look at Lily, and Lily dropped her eyes.\par

“I am taking Miss—Mrs. Deacon home,” said
Sam Webster firmly, unconsciously grasping that
dignified lady’s plump foot more tightly, as if he
intended to hold her by it, should she attempt to
evade him.\par

Now Mr. Sheridan {\itshape{did}} look, at Lily. Would
she or would she not prefer to go with him?\par

“Why, if Mr. Sheridan has—has room for us,
we needn’t trouble Sam, mamma,” said Lily, demurely.
“That is—”\par

“It’s no trouble,” interrupted Sam,—which was
quite true—“and I’ve got the sleigh already hitched
up”—which was not true. He sent an almost belligerent
glance at Mr. Sheridan, who ignored it.\par

Mr. Sheridan felt extraordinarily jubilant. Nothing
should prevent his taking Lily home—not if he
had to slaughter this mob of impertinent young
men in cold blood.\par

% File: 157.png-----------------------------------------------------

Then Mrs. Deacon, extricating her foot from
Sam’s convulsive grip, rose up. There was a warm
light in her eye, the peculiar, benevolent beam which
enlivens the glance of the far-sighted mamma as it
rests upon an eligible young man.\par

“Mr. Sheridan, I thank you. I accept your pusillanimous
offer,” she said, in the full, bell-like
tone of a public official. “Samuel, we shall not
emburden you.”\par

In vain did Sam assure her that he would be
only too happy, that there was nothing he would
like to do more; meanwhile sending at Lily reproachful
looks fit to melt a heart of stone. Lily
simply did not see them. In cool triumph, Mr.
Sheridan escorted the two ladies to his sleigh.\par

An hour later,—it was after one o’clock—he entered
his library, where Peterson had kept the fire
burning, threw off his coat, and sat down to try to
work out the puzzle of Lily’s conduct. On the
way home, they had exchanged hardly six words.
But if Lily had been silent, the same could not be
said for her mamma. Even now he seemed to hear
the incessant, rich tones of Mrs. Deacon’s voice
ringing in his ear, as they say the booming of the
sea echoes in certain shells. He could not remember
whether he had ever answered her or not. But
Lily? It seemed evident to him that she had not
wanted to talk with him or to dance with him during
the party. It seemed equally evident that she {\itshape{had}}
wanted to drive home in his sleigh. Now what was
the meaning of behavior like that?\par

% File: 158.png-----------------------------------------------------

By two o’clock he had come to the conclusion that
she was a coquette, that he was a donkey, and that
the best thing he could do was to tell Peterson to
pack up and be ready to pull up their stakes the day
after to-morrow. He had been acting like an awful
fool anyway. He was twenty-five years old; too
old to be acting like a schoolboy. How in the
world had Mary Abbott been able to—\par

By three o’clock he had come to another conclusion.
He wasn’t going to go away at all. He’d
be hanged if he’d be chased around the earth by
{\itshape{women}}. He was going to stay where he was. He
was going to go in for farming. He liked the
quaint old town, he liked the solid, intelligent, industrious,
practical people. He liked Mr. Webster
for instance, and Mrs. Webster, and Dolly, and
old Mr. Pyncheon, and he quite loved that little
Janey Lambert, and he liked—well, already the list
had grown to a fairly respectable length for a confirmed
misanthrope.\par

At half past six, Peterson coming into the library
to see that everything was in order, discovered
his master sleeping placidly in the huge armchair,
surrounded by, almost buried under books,
pamphlets and almanacs which had never been
taken down from their shelves since the late Major
had been a young and hopeful devotee of farming.
He picked one up, and holding it at arm’s length
read the title, “Fertilizers and Fertilization.” The
old man drew a deep, long-suffering sigh.\par

“Lord, it was bad enough before,” he thought
despondently, looking down at Mr. Tim, and shaking
his head slowly. “It can’t be that he’s goin’ in
to be a useful citizen. Whatever would the Major
say to that?”\par

Then he suddenly remembered the old Major’s
invariable reply to such propositions. Quite undisturbed,
and in the most astounding French, he used
to say, “Searchez le Femme.”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER X—PAUL AND CARL}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Paul, in his heavy canvas apron, his sleeves rolled
up, flour in his hair, on his eyelashes, and on the end
of his nose, sat on a three-legged stool in front
of the door of the big oven. There was an expression
of such dogged concentration on his face, such
fierce intensity in the grim frown between his eyebrows,
that one might have thought he was expecting
to draw forth a new universe, remodelled
nearer to his heart’s desire, from the roasting bakeoven.
The event he was anticipating was indeed
of great moment not only to him but to at least
four other members of the household who had
gathered in the kitchen—Aunt Gertrude, Jane,
Elise, and ruddy little Anna, the bouncing little assistant
cook and shop-keeper, who never could
watch Paul’s culinary struggles without going into
a fit of giggling.\par

“It’s been in twenty minutes,” announced Jane,
glancing at the clock. Paul raised his head and
glowered at her.\par

“Can you or can you not hold your tongue?”\par

“I can not,” answered Jane, frankly.\par

“Who’s making this cake?”\par

% File: 161.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Come, Janey, leave Paul alone and don’t bother
him,” said Elise. “Come over here and let me try
this sleeve to see if it fits.” Elise was engaged in
making over one of her mother’s gowns into a
school-dress for Jane. Jane obediently stood
through the process of a fitting, but craning around
to keep her eye on Paul.\par

Suddenly, taking hold of the hot handle of the
oven-door with his apron, he flung it open; and
reaching in, pulled forth the huge cake pan.\par

“There! Now, Aunt Gertrude, come and look
at this fellow! How’s {\itshape{that}} for a blooming success?”
His face simply beamed with pride as a
chorus of “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” greeted his first real
triumph. Five big disks of cake, delicately, perfectly
browned, light as a feather, he turned out
onto the wooden board.\par

“Beautiful!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “I’ve never
made a better one myself, have I Elise? No, not
even your grandfather could make that cake more
perfectly.”\par

Paul swelled out his broad chest.\par

“Now I am a Baker!” he announced. “{\itshape{I’m}} the
boss around here, and I think I’ll begin by firing—Jane!”\par

Jane, delighted and quite as triumphant as he,
made a spring for him, and flinging both arms
around his waist hugged him ecstatically, shouting,\par

“I knew you could do it! {\itshape{I}} said you could!”\par

Paul tweaked her nose.\par

“I suppose you’ll be saying {\itshape{you}} made that cake,
next. You couldn’t learn to bake an article like
that in a life time. Unhand me, woman, I’ve got
to fix the frosting.”\par

His satisfaction sprang from a deeper source
than that of the mere success. Some people might
think it quite a trivial matter to make a good cake,
but Paul, during weeks of abject failure, had come
to consider that it required superhuman powers.
It must be remembered of course, that Winkler’s
cakes were not like any others, and that into the
mixing and baking of those delectable goodies there
had to go a skill and care that not many people
could give. Repeated failure had made Paul
moody; he had even begun to think that his lack
of success was attributable to some deep-rooted
weakness in himself. He had, in fact, begun to
give it quite an important significance; and, in his
earnestness, had even gone to the length of making
a curious pact with himself. He had determined
not to touch a pencil, not even to open the precious
box of paints that Jane had given him, until he had
learned to make cakes and bread that should be an
honor to the venerable traditions of his family.
Moreover, considerable reflection had convinced him
that Jane had been right in advising him to try to
win his uncle’s good will; and he had not liked to
have Mr. Lambert believe that he was deliberately
trying {\itshape{not}} to make good.\par

Jane understood very well the real cause of his
satisfaction; and she was as pleased as if he had accomplished
a Herculean task.\par

% File: 163.png-----------------------------------------------------

That night Mr. Lambert expressed his satisfaction
in Paul’s final success. He was a very just
man, and he did not fail to commend his nephew
for his patience.\par

“I am glad to see, my boy, that you have taken a
reasonable view of your situation; and have so fully
realized your peculiar responsibilities.”\par

Thereafter he began to treat Paul with a marked
difference of manner; he consulted him quite as
often as he consulted Carl, discussed domestic and
public business with him, entrusted important errands
to him, and, in a word, no longer treated him
as if he were an eccentric and willful child.\par

Within the three months that had passed since
Paul had come to live with his relatives his position
had changed astonishingly. At the beginning of
February he found himself looked up to by the
“women-folk” as if he were a prime minister. He
suggested, and was allowed to carry into effect
several important changes in the simple business
system of the Bakery; and customers with special
requests were now referred to the big boy, who
handled their concerns and their temperaments with
perfect tact and good sense.\par

But if Paul seemed at last to have given in to
his uncle’s wishes, he was in truth no more reconciled
to the lot which destiny had flung in his way
than before. He simply kept his own counsel.\par

On the other hand two things had contributed
to teach patience to the impetuous boy, who never
in his life before had known anything like restraint.
At first he had consoled himself for his repeated defeats
in the simple matter of cake-baking by the
thought that he was designed for more impressive
things. But the impressive things were not ready to
be done yet, and he was being measured by his failure
in that which {\itshape{was}} at hand. And so it came
about that he put all his will to the simple, woman’s
task, until he had mastered it. In the process, he
had come, also, to take a more personal interest in
the family affairs; and no longer to think of himself
as an outsider, to whom the interests of his
kindly relatives were matters of total indifference.
He was proud, too, to bear the name of one of the
first inhabitants of Frederickstown. It made him
feel that he had some share in the little community;
he was no longer a boy “without a country,” as he
had told his farmer acquaintance. He knew everyone;
and he was more or less interested in their
various affairs. Once, after he had been listening
to some of the older men discussing, in his uncle’s
warehouse, a question which had arisen concerning
the matter of running the state highway through the
town, or turning it off from one of the outlying
roads, he had said laughingly to Jane that he was
getting a mild attack of “civic interest”; and then
after a moment’s thought, he had added more seriously,
“But it’s true. I’ve gotten pretty fond of
this place. I almost feel as if I belong to it, and
it belongs to me. I’d like to make it proud of me
some day. It’s all very nice and fine to say that
you’re an independent citizen, and don’t hail from
anywhere in particular, but you {\itshape{do}} feel lonely
and left-out, and there are lots of things you never
can understand. Lots of things,” he repeated,
with more emphasis. “I’ve seen dozens of fellows
knocking around the world, coming from nowhere
in particular, and going nowhere in particular.
Some of ’em were pretty clever, I guess—I’d hear
’em talking, sometimes on board ship, sometimes
around the tables in the taverns. I used to listen
to them—they talked as if they knew a lot, and were
usually worked up over something,—Americans,
and Italians and down-and-out Englishmen. Lord,
how they used to shout and argue and pound their
fists. But, now that I think of it, all they said was
nothing much but a lot of noise. They were like
sea-weed floating around without its roots sticking
anywhere. They sounded awfully fiery and
patriotic, but I don’t think they honestly cared
much about any place under the sun, or about any
{\itshape{thing}}. And that’s a bad way to be. It would be
better, I think, to spend all your days in one place
and to love that place, even if you got kind of narrowed
down—than to belong nowhere.” These
grave views surprised Jane, and perhaps she did not
wholly understand Paul’s meaning. He was older
than she, and was beginning to think like a man,
and sometimes she could not quite follow his
thoughts. But she hoped that he meant that he
would find it possible to work out his own ambitions
without going away. Sometimes she wondered—he
spoke so little now about his plans—whether he
had given them up altogether; and this she did not
like to believe. But Jane, inquisitive as she was,
could hold her peace very patiently when she felt
that it was better so.\par

In the second place, Paul had become very conscious
of his almost total lack of education. He
could read, and write, and figure well enough to
cast up the accounts with accuracy; but beyond these
elements he knew nothing save what he had gleaned
from his rough contact with the world. His ignorance
of many things which even the twins had
learned, sometimes startled even Jane; and Carl
had never left off making sly fun of him for counting
on his fingers like a kindergarten child when he
had to calculate a simple problem in multiplication.\par

At first he had pretended to scorn his cousin’s
book-learning, but little by little he found himself
envying Carl’s extensive knowledge, which that
youth was rather overfond of airing. Every generation
of Winklers had seen to it that the young
ones acquired a sound, simple, thorough education;
and among them poor Uncle Franz had stood out
as the “dunce.”\par

There was something quite pathetic in the sight
of the big boy sitting on those winter evenings, listening
to the twins lisp out their next day’s lessons
to Elise, and storing away as well as he could the
simple things he heard; and many times, he sat up
until after midnight, over the ashes of the fire, poring
over an old “Elementary History of the United
States,” humbly beginning where Janey had long
since finished; and stumbling over words that even
Lottie could spell easily.\par

In the midst of these occupation, Paul spent little
time in dwelling upon plans for departure. He
seemed content to bide his time, if necessary, for
an indefinite period; and had settled into a state of
peace and amity toward all the world, with one and
only one exception.\par

That exception was Carl. Just where the rub
came between the two boys it would be hard to say;
but hard as he tried to hold his temper in check,
Paul found it impossible either to hit it off with
Carl, or to discover the root of his cousin’s grudge
against him; and it often seemed to him that Carl
deliberately tried to rouse the old Adam in him.
Every day Carl’s disposition became more acid, and
as the spring progressed he became positively intolerable.
Paul had put up with his ill-humors as
well as he could, partly because, during the latter
part of the winter, Carl, who was the least sturdy
of his cousins had not been very well. He suffered
frequently from severe headaches, and his constant
studying, which he doubled as the spring examinations
approached, certainly did not improve either
his health or his disposition. Aunt Gertrude was
worried about him, and tried to coax him to spend
more of his time out of doors, for by the end of
March the snow had melted away from the hills,
the sun was growing warmer, and the trees already
turning green with buds opening in the genial
warmth of an early southern spring. He resisted
these gentle efforts, however, and even when the
long Easter holiday came, settled down to a process
of cramming, utterly indifferent to the delicious
weather. Even his father had one or two slight
difficulties with him, so uncertain was his temper,
and the other members of his family treated him
with kid gloves, but with Paul he squabbled almost
continually. Now Paul had mislaid some of his
papers; now he had left the stopper off the inkwell,
now he had put his shoes where he couldn’t
find them. More than once it occurred to Paul that
Carl was actually trying to goad him into leaving.
“But what on earth have I ever done to the idiot?”
he wondered. That Carl was jealous of him never
dawned on his mind; and yet it was the case. Carl
was jealous of the position his cousin had taken in
the household; he was jealous of his physical
strength; he was even jealous of the self-control
with which Paul curbed his anything but mild temper,
under his continual nagging.\par

One day, flying into a rage over some trivial matter,
Carl informed him that the trouble with him
was “his confounded swell-head.” By this time,
Paul had reached the end of his tether; he retaliated,
with a sudden thrust that went home to Carl’s most
vulnerable spot.\par

“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he demanded
whirling upon his cousin. There was a
black frown on his face; and suddenly losing his
temper altogether, he seized Carl’s shoulder fiercely.
“I’m sick of your eternal whining, and snarling.
You snap at me at every chance you get,—but nothing
on earth would make you fight like a—a man!
Would it? Hey?”\par

Carl wrenched himself out of his grip, and
backed toward the door, trembling with fury.\par

“You’ve a swell-head,” he repeated, stubbornly,
his eyes flashing, “and you’re a—don’t you dare to
touch me! I hate you! You’re a bully—that’s
what you are!”\par

“A bully! It’s you that’s the bully. You know
darn well that {\itshape{you’re}} safe in nagging the life out of
me—you’re pretty sure that I wouldn’t hurt a little
fellow like you. You’re a little coward, Carl Lambert,
but I tell you now that if you don’t stop your
eternal whining, I’ll—I’ll—”\par

“You’ll what?” sneered Carl.\par

“I’ll thrash you until you can’t stand up. Do you
understand me?” And once more Paul’s big hand
clamped down on his shoulder. Carl’s face went
white, and a look of such utter terror superseded
the one of rage, that Paul was astonished.\par

“What on earth is the matter with you?” he repeated,
in a milder tone. “Will you tell me what
I’ve ever done to you?”\par

“I hate you! I’ve hated you ever since you came
here! Thrash me if you want to! Nothing will
ever make me hate you any worse than I do now!”\par

Paul frowning more in bewilderment than anger
stared into his cousin’s pale, distorted face. Then
suddenly he asked,\par

“If you hate me so much, why didn’t {\itshape{you}} tell
Uncle Peter about my playing billiards—for money—with
Jeff Roberts?”\par

Carl did not answer.\par

“I can’t make you out,” went on Paul, as if he
were talking to himself. “You bother the life out
of me, you squabble and row from morning to
night, and you never say {\itshape{what}} you’re down on me
for. I honestly believe that until recently you had
a lot to do with Uncle Peter’s bad opinion of me,
and yet—somehow, I {\itshape{don’t}} believe you hate me as
much as you think you do. If {\itshape{you}} had told Uncle
Peter about that business with Jeff Roberts he
would certainly—not certainly, perhaps, but very
likely—have sent me packing, and you would have
been rid of me, and yet you didn’t do it. And it
wasn’t as if you weren’t a tell-tale, because you are.
And what under the sun makes you say I’ve got a
swell-head?”\par

“It’s the truth,” repeated Carl, doggedly, and not
another word would he say. There was nothing
to do but to leave him alone; but the strain of putting
up with his sullen silence—which he maintained
for a full week—wore on Paul’s patience, until more
than once he was on the point of declaring his
definite intention to put up with it no longer. It was
at the end of that week—the last in a warm, summery
April—that matters changed suddenly, bringing
the first trouble that Paul had yet had to share
with his kinsfolk.\par

One warm Saturday afternoon, when it was May
in everything but name, Jane revelling in the last
days of the spring vacation proposed a long walk
into the country. The twins, Paul, and Elise approved
heartily.\par

“And try to coax Carl out, too, Lisa,” said Aunt
Gertrude, who wanted to stay at home to do some
mending while she took charge of the shop. “He
doesn’t take any exercise at all these days.”\par

At first Carl growled, and said he wished they’d
leave him alone, but just as Elise had given up trying
to persuade him, he suddenly changed his mind;
though still grumbling as if they were making him
do something against his will, joined the jolly little
party. But it cannot be said that he was a particularly
lively member of it. He looked pale and
sulky, walked by himself, and with a moody expression
kept his eyes on Jane and Paul as if their high
spirits, their perfect camaraderie angered him. And
in fact, not the least of his grievances against Paul
was Jane’s affection for him; for cold and selfish as
Carl might be, he loved Jane in his own way, and
in addition, he hated not to be the chief object of
interest. Besides, he was feeling half ill again.\par

“Shall we ask Lily to come with us?” suggested
Elise, as they reached the top of Sheridan Lane.\par

“Let’s ask everyone we meet,” said Jane, “everybody!
Nobody ought to stay cooped up indoors to-day.
Poor Lily—she’s practising again.”\par

And in fact Lily’s voice, a little listless and monotonous
to-day came sweetly through the quiet air;
there did not seem to be much joy in Schubert’s
beautiful little spring song as she sang it—“And
winking Mary-buds begin, to ope their golden
eyes—” she broke off in the middle of the second
part.\par

“Lily!”\par

A moment later she appeared at the window.\par

“Come along! You’ve got to come along with
us!”\par

“Where are you going?”\par

“A-maying.”\par

“But it isn’t May,” said Lily trying to sound
merry. Nevertheless, in another minute she was
with them, swinging her straw hat on her arm. On
down the lane they went, under the light shade of
the budding trees, past the old iron fountain.\par

“Whoa. Where are you off to?” shouted the
voice of some invisible being; there was a scrambling,
scraping sound in the branches of a tree that,
growing inside of the wall around the Sheridan
place, extended its patriarchal boughs across the
road; and presently the lord of the manor, hot, and
red, with a three foot saw in his hand swung gracefully
into view.\par

“Are you going to have a party without {\itshape{me}}?”
he asked in an injured tone. “Can’t I come, too?”\par

“There!” said Jane in a low tone, giving Paul a
surreptitious pinch, “what did I tell you?”\par

“Are you going to begin meddling with that
again?” demanded Paul, also in a low tone, remembering
bitterly the unhappy part he had been called
upon to play at the Webster’s party. “Because if
so, I’m going home.”\par

% File: 173.png-----------------------------------------------------

“I’ll meddle if I think it’s necessary,” returned
Jane, calmly, “but I don’t believe it will be.”\par

And, indeed, from the first it seemed quite plain
that her valuable services were not required. With
the air of one who feels that her small tasks have
been well done, she watched Lily and Mr. Sheridan
who wandered on ahead, leading the way across the
old wooden bridge, and up the hill.\par

Jane said frankly to Paul that she would “sort of
like to hear what they were talking about,” but
Paul was pained, and undertook to lecture her on
the spot for her deplorable habits.\par

On each side of the road lay the broad fields,
where, in the furrows of dark earth, freshly
ploughed, young corn was already thrusting upwards
its vivid green blades.\par

“How do you like my scare-crow?” Mr. Sheridan
called back, waving gaily toward the grotesque figure
which bore an absurd resemblance to Peterson.
“I made Peterson dress him up in his winter suit.
Isn’t he a fine, impressive fellow, though. How do
you think he’d strike you if you were a crow?”
Then without waiting for an answer, he went on
talking to Lily, describing all his late activities in
the line of agriculture, his plans for new buildings
on his land, and airing, boyishly all his newly acquired—and
perhaps not entirely assimilated—knowledge
of farming. Jane might have found this
talk distinctly disappointing, but to Lily everything
that he said seemed remarkable.\par

“And then, perhaps, you are going to live here—a
good deal of the time?” she asked timidly. “I
very glad that you have found so much to interest
you.”\par

Mr. Sheridan turned to help her over a stile.
For some reason, her words, so simply said, and
without the slightest tinge of coquetry, seemed to
disconcert him.\par

“I—yes. I—have grown very much attached
to Frederickstown—and farming is interesting because—because—”
But for the life of him he
could not think of any reason {\itshape{why}}.\par

The little party trailed across the field, all walking
together now, laughing and talking. Only Carl
hung behind. To begin with, he was not yet on
speaking terms with Paul, and he was piqued at
Jane, and the sunlight made his over-strained eyes
ache, and he was thoroughly tired out already.
Lily was walking arm in arm with Elise, and both
were talking to Mr. Sheridan, the twins were running
ahead, trying to catch the yellow butterflies
that they frightened away from the early field-flowers;
and Paul and Jane strolled along side by
side sometimes joining in the talk of the others,
sometimes discussing their own affairs. But at
last Jane turned around, and noticing for the first
time how Carl was lagging, called to him.\par

“Why don’t you come and walk with us, Carl?”\par

“I’m all right as I am, amn’t I?” he returned.
Jane shrugged her shoulders.\par

“What’s the matter with him?” she asked Paul.
“Have you had another quarrel?”\par

% File: 175.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Not since Monday,—haven’t had a chance. He
won’t speak to me. I don’t know what’s the matter
with him,” Paul shook his head. “I {\itshape{have}} tried
to get along with him, but I can’t seem to work it.
He says he hates me, and that he’s always hated me—and
maybe its true, though I don’t see why. I
mean that I’ve never given him any cause that I
know of. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.
I seem to make him downright unhappy—he acts as
if I had slipped into his shoes, and I’ve never taken
anything he wanted, have I?” and after a short
pause, he added, “And I’m sure that I don’t want
anything he has. It seems to get worse with him all
the time. Perhaps, Janey, his feelings may be
hurt because you and I get along so well. Maybe
I’d feel the same way if I were your brother, and
he were a ‘swell-head’ cousin from nowhere.
After a bit, why don’t you drop back with
him?”\par

“Why should he hate you?” wondered Jane. “I
could understand if you were really—”\par

“What?”\par

“If you were like what you {\itshape{seemed}} to be like the
first night you were here,” she said frankly. “I
didn’t like you then either. I didn’t like you for
quite a long time. I didn’t like you until you said
that you were going away.”\par

“Maybe Carl would like me better if I told him
that,” said Paul, laughing, but with a rather sad
expression in his eyes. “And I’ve been thinking
lately—”\par

% File: 176.png-----------------------------------------------------

“What?” asked Jane, quickly, looking up into his
face.\par

“I’ve been thinking that I—perhaps I ought to,
Janey.”\par

“No, no, no, {\itshape{no}}! Not yet, Paul! You said, just
the other day—and what a silly little thing to make
so much of. Lots of {\itshape{brothers}} squabble and call
each other names—”\par

“But it doesn’t make a particularly happy household,
does it? I don’t want to go, Janey—not yet.
J don’t want to go until—it’s a hard thing to explain
exactly, but this is the way it is. When I first came,
I was thinking only of one thing—father was gone,
and I didn’t care for anyone in the world, and I
didn’t want to. I wanted to work by myself and for
myself, in the way that seemed most to my liking—and
when I found that Uncle had other plans for
me, and intended to force me into them, it made me
furious—and what was worse was the thought that
I had to do either as Uncle wanted or—well, {\itshape{starve}},
if I was out of luck. And I was afraid of starving,
being an ordinary human being. I started to run
away the first night I was here—Carl knows that—and
I didn’t because I was afraid to. He knows
that, too. And so I stayed on, planning to make a
break as soon as I could. And I hated everything—I
was perfectly miserable—until that night, do
you remember, when we had that talk by the fire.
After that, I began to look at things differently.
It seemed to me that I’d been acting like a donkey,
and so I decided to do as you said—make the best
of things as I found them, and see what would happen.
And now—I don’t know how it is—but
you’ve all been so good to me, and it makes a difference
not to be all alone. Now, when I think of the
fine things I may do some day, I think of how you
all may be proud of me, and how—perhaps—maybe
Frederickstown would be proud of—all that seems
silly, doesn’t it—but anyway that’s the reason why
I’d hate to go away now—why I’d hate to go away
with any hard feeling behind me. That is, unless
it simply {\itshape{had}} to be. Men {\itshape{have}} lived alone, and
worked and done great things with no one to care
whether they lived or died—and I could do it, too.
But, over and above cake-baking—” he laughed,
as if a little ashamed of his own seriousness, “I’ve
learned that—I’ve learned that it is a better thing
not to be all alone.”\par

Jane made no reply, and presently Paul went on,\par

“I daresay I made myself pretty disagreeable at
first, and I don’t wonder that Carl hated me then—but
I {\itshape{have}} tried to be decent to him, and to make
him like me. If he doesn’t, it certainly isn’t his
fault—it can’t be helped. Only, I haven’t any right—I
mean, if he’s going to be miserable while I’m
around, if I get on his nerves every minute—it isn’t
as if we were little kids, we’ll soon be men, and two
men quarrelling with each other in one family can
make an awful mess of things. You were all happy
together before I came.” As he said this he looked
down gravely into the round, sober little face beside
him. “Don’t you see, Janey?”\par

% File: 178.png-----------------------------------------------------

Janey did not answer; but a little later as they all
turned into the cool shade of the woods, she dropped
back until she was walking near Carl. She had too
much instinctive wisdom to seem to do so deliberately,
and she did not talk to him until the twins
started to hunt for violets and jacks-in-the-pulpit,
when she began to remind him of the places they had
explored the summer before, and the grotto they
had found the summer before that until he began to
feel as if he were receiving the attention which was
his brotherly due.\par

The beautiful afternoon wore on happily. For
a long time they all sat talking and laughing under
the trees, sorting the white and purple violets that
they had picked. Once or twice Tim Sheridan
thought of what Phil Blackstone and Johnny
Everett and Mary and all the rest of them would
say to his bucolic pleasures, and grinned at the
thought of the expressions they would wear; and he
wondered himself at his own enjoyment in the company
of these simple young people—but he was having
a better time than he had ever had in his life,
and even Peterson was beginning to show some
interest in his eccentric master’s latest occupations.\par

And for a time, Carl, too, joined in the chatter, as
poor little Janey, inwardly saddened by what Paul
had told her so simply, tried to coax him out of his
sullen humor.\par

When, at length they all started homeward, he
even linked his arm through hers. Now, she
thought, was the time to ask him what was the root
of his ill-feeling against Paul, now was the time
to tell him what Paul had said—she hated so for
people to be unhappy for no reason, or for silly reasons.\par

“Carl, listen,” she began, “I want to—” but he
suddenly interrupted her.\par

“Look here, Jane—I don’t know what’s the matter
with me. But I—I feel like the dickens.”\par

She did not quite understand him.\par

“What about?” she asked.\par

“What about? About nothing—my head aches
like all get-out, and every now and then everything
gets to jiggling in front of my eyes.” She looked
at him in alarm, and saw that his face was terribly
pale.\par

“Carl! You mean you’re ill? Let me—oh,
what’s the matter?”\par

“For heaven’s sake, don’t kick up a fuss now.
No, don’t tell Elise,” he said, impatiently. “I’ll get
home all right. And don’t scare mother to death
when we get there. I guess it’s the sun or something.
And—don’t walk so fast.”\par

Jane, more frightened by the look of his face,
than by his words, obediently slackened her pace.
The others were eight or ten yards ahead of
them.\par

“Hurry up, Janey—we’ll be late for supper,”
called Elise, glancing back at them. Jane looked
pleadingly at Carl.\par

“I {\itshape{have}} to tell Elise. Please, Carl, dear, don’t be
foolish.”\par

% File: 180.png-----------------------------------------------------

“No, you must {\itshape{not}}. I tell you I won’t have them
all fussing over me, and talking, and asking questions!”
he exclaimed, with a sudden flash of temper.
“Let ’em go ahead if they want to.”\par

They dropped farther and farther behind, until
the others were already crossing the bridge as they
were just gaining the road. But Paul, strolling
along with his hands in his pockets whistling an accompaniment
to his own thoughts was midway between
the two divisions of the party.\par

Suddenly Carl declared that he had to rest until
his head stopped throbbing a bit. Just then Paul
happened to glance back.\par

“Hey! Are you going to spend the summer
back there?” he shouted, cheerfully, but the next
moment he seemed to guess that something was
wrong, for after a little hesitation, he turned and
started to walk toward them.\par

“We’re coming,” said Jane, “only Carl has a little
headache, and he wanted to rest a minute.”\par

Paul looked critically at his cousin’s white face.
He did not waste any time in asking the well-meant
questions that Carl found so objectionable, but said
simply,\par

“I guess you’d better let me help you, Carl.”\par

To Jane’s surprise there was no hostility in her
brother’s eyes.\par

“I won’t have {\itshape{them}} make a fuss over me, do you
hear,” he said in a dull voice. Paul glanced at
Jane.\par

“You cut along with the others, Janey. There’s
a short cut through this field. Carl and I’ll go this
way.”\par

“Good idea,” muttered Carl. “Guess we’ll—try
that, Jane.” And with an effort, he got to his feet.\par

“Take my arm,” said Paul.\par

Jane watched them as they started across the field,
and then obediently ran at full speed to catch up
with the laughing, chattering group ahead.\par

As for the two sworn enemies, they made their
way slowly along the little, meandering footpath,
that cut through the field, Carl leaning more and
more heavily on Paul’s sturdy arm, frankly, if
silently grateful for its solid support. They said
nothing, and Paul, who realized more than Jane had
that Carl was seriously ill, wore a grave expression.
He was thinking, not of the many bitter words that
Carl had showered on him, but of the angry threat
he himself had uttered, and the memory of it made
him wince.\par

“We’ve only a little way to go, now, cousin,” he
said gently. “Would you like me to give you a lift?”\par

Carl, quite exhausted by now only looked at his
cousin incredulously.\par

“{\itshape{You}} couldn’t carry me,” he said, thickly, and
then drawing a long breath, he added, “but I wish
to goodness you could!”\par

Paul smiled.\par

“I guess you aren’t much heavier than a keg of
olives,” and with that, he lifted Carl quite easily in
his arms, and set off at a quicker stride across the
field.\par

% File: 182.png-----------------------------------------------------

An hour later poor Carl was far past caring
whether “they” made a fuss over him or not. But
indeed the worst part of it was that there was very
little fuss made at all. His room was so quiet that
the chirping of the birds in the budding trees outside
his window, the sound of voices in the street
below could all be heard distinctly, and yet Aunt
Gertrude and Mr. Lambert sat beside his bed, and
Janey was there, clinging to her father’s hand, and
Paul sat half hidden in the little window embrasure,
staring out soberly at the fading sky. The shock
and suddenness of it all had stunned the little
family.\par

It was only Mr. Lambert’s face that Paul could
see clearly in the dusk of the room, and the transformation
it had undergone since the old man realized
the danger of his only son, left an indelible
memory on the boy’s mind. All its pompousness
had fled—it looked old and helpless and humble.
And apart as he was, Paul, looking upon their fear
and sorrow, felt that he was being welded to his own
people. All his own desires seemed at that moment,
small and selfish, and with a thrill of pity,
he vowed silently that if the need came, he was
ready to lay aside his own hopes forever, without
regret, and be their son.\par

% File: 183.png-----------------------------------------------------

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xicarl-squares-his-debt}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xicarl-squares-his-debt}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XI—CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
It was not until the nineteenth of May that the
burly, grey-haired little doctor could say definitely
that Carl would get well. And even then he could
not entirely dissolve the cloud that hung over the
family. Carl’s eyes which had always been weak
and near-sighted had been gravely injured by incessant
overstraining, and the doctor said frankly
enough that unless he took the greatest care of
them there was a strong possibility of his losing his
sight.\par

“No books, Mrs. Lambert. Nothing but rest,”
he said, firmly. “Later, he must be out of doors.
Plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep, and no study for
at least a year.”\par

This program, so entirely opposed to all Carl’s
tastes was not imparted to him until he was well on
the road to recovery. He listened to it stoically,
propped up among Aunt Gertrude’s downiest feather
pillows, in the dark bedroom, a green shade almost
bandaging his eyes, and hiding half of his thin
white face.\par

“Does the old boy think there’s a likelihood of
my being blind anyway?” he inquired, using the
blunt word without a tremor. No one answered
him. His face turned a shade paler as he turned
helplessly from one side to the other trying to
guess where his mother and father were standing.
Mr. Lambert attempted to say something, but all he
could do was to take his son’s groping hand in
his.\par

“Well—that’s all right, father. I guess I’ll go
to sleep now,” said Carl, after a short pause.
“There’s no good kicking up a fuss about that yet.”
And drawing his hand away he lay down quietly,
turning his face to the wall. He was quite still, until,
thinking that he was asleep, his father and
mother left the room noiselessly, Mr. Lambert with
his arm around his wife’s shoulders.\par

Then, wide-awake, Carl almost savagely worked
himself up on his pillows, and sat alone, thinking.\par

He wondered what time it was. He did not know
whether it was morning or afternoon. That it was
day and not night he could guess from the busy
rumbling of wagons on the street, and the soft chattering
of the twins’ voices in the little garden below.
Then he heard the solemn, monotonous tones
of the old church clock.\par

“Just noon-day,” he thought. “The twins have
been home all morning, so school must have closed.
And it must be fair, or they wouldn’t be playing in
the garden.”\par

At that moment he heard careful, tiptoeing footsteps
outside his door. He had already become
quick at recognizing the tread of different members
of the family, and without the least uncertainty he
called out,\par

“Paul!”\par

Then he heard the door open.\par

“I thought you were asleep,” said Paul’s voice.\par

“Well, I’m not.” Then in a jocose tone, Carl
said, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”\par

“Why, yes,” answered Paul, in some surprise.
“Look here—have you been taking off that bandage?”\par

“No. But it {\itshape{is}} a beautiful day isn’t it? I just
wanted to be sure I guessed right.”\par

Paul said nothing. To him there was something
indescribably terrible and touching in Carl’s
cheerfulness, and in the sight of that half-hidden
face turned nearly but not exactly in his direction.\par

“{\itshape{You}} heard what the doctor said,” said Carl
abruptly, “there’s a chance that I may be blind,
isn’t there? Come on, and tell me. You certainly
can’t keep me from knowing sooner or later. {\itshape{Did}}
he say that?”\par

“Yes. He did,” Paul replied briefly. Carl
seemed to think this over quite calmly for a moment
or two; then with a dignity that he had never shown
before, he said slowly,\par

“You once said I was a coward, cousin. And
you were right. I {\itshape{am}} a coward in the way you big
fellows think of it. But maybe I’m not a coward
in {\itshape{every}} way. Maybe I’m not. I don’t know.
Maybe I am.”
Paul said nothing, but stood helplessly with his
hands on the back of the chair.\par

“Sit down—that is, if you want to,” Carl suggested
rather awkwardly. “It isn’t time for your
lunch yet, is it? Where’s Janey?”\par

“She’s helping Elise.” Paul sat down, crossed
his legs and looked at his cousin, not knowing exactly
what else to say. He looked odd enough
sitting there, in his apron, his sleeves rolled up and
his shirt open at the neck, sunburnt and strong in
contrast to the bony, pallid boy in the bed.\par

Carl fingered his eyeshade wistfully.\par

“Lord, I wish I could take this confounded
thing off for just a minute,” he muttered moving
his head restlessly. “Do {\itshape{you}} believe what the
doctor says?”\par

“I believe you’ll be all right in six months,” said
Paul. Carl sat bolt upright.\par

“{\itshape{Do}} you think so? Do you really. You aren’t
saying that just to cheer me up? No, {\itshape{you}} wouldn’t
do that, would you?”\par

“No,” said Paul, “I wouldn’t.”\par

“Do you think I’ll be able to go back to school
next year?”\par

“No,” said Paul, “I don’t.”\par

“You don’t?” Then Carl laughed. “Well, I’m
glad you say what you think.”\par

“It’s very likely, though, that you’ll be able to
study a little, and a fellow as clever as you are
won’t be behind long,” went on Paul, gravely.
Carl was vastly pleased at the compliment.\par

% File: 187.png-----------------------------------------------------

“What makes you think I’m—clever?” he asked
presently.\par

“Why, you {\itshape{are}},” answered Paul in a surprised
tone, and then with a rather sad little laugh, he
added, “I wish I knew one tenth—one {\itshape{hundredth}}
as much as you do. I’m a dunce, I don’t know as
much as Lottie does—not nearly.”\par

In the face of this humble remark, Carl remembered
rather uncomfortably the innumerable jibes
he had directed at his cousin’s ignorance.\par

“Well, you can teach yourself a lot,” he said a
little patronizingly. Paul laughed.\par

“I try to. But I—I can’t even read decently,
and it takes the dickens of a long time.”\par

“Can’t {\itshape{read}}!” cried Carl.\par

“Well, not enough to boast of. I never went to
school in my life. A long time ago my mother or
somebody must have taught me something, and
then I picked up what I could here and there.
There was an old fellow I knew years ago,—he
was a passenger on a little coast trading vessel—we
were going from Marseilles down to the south
of Italy, and on the voyage, which was pretty slow,—because
we sometimes stayed for two or three
days at different ports,—he taught me a few things.
And then I learned to read French pretty well, and
a little Italian, and a young Englishman—a college
fellow, who’d given up studying for the ministry
and run away to sea—even taught me some Latin,
though what under Heaven he thought I’d do with
it I don’t know. He was a funny one,” said Paul,
chuckling reminiscently, “a thin little chap, with
a long nose. He used to say that every gentleman
should have a knowledge of the classics, and you’d
see him washing the deck, with copy of some old
Latin fellow’s poetry sticking out of his back
pocket.”\par

“What did he go to sea for?” inquired Carl; for
the first time he had deigned to listen to some of
Paul’s adventures, and he found himself getting
very much interested.\par

“I don’t know. His uncle was a lord or something—at
least he told me so, and I daresay it was
true. He said he was a younger son, though what
that had to do with it I don’t know. Anyway it
seemed to be an awfully important thing for me to
remember. He wanted to make something of himself,
he said. I told him he’d do better as—well,
anything but a cabin boy, or deck hand or whatever
he was. But he said he loved the sea—though
he was just about the worst sailor I ever saw.”\par

“What happened to him?”\par

“I don’t remember. Oh, yes, I do. The poor
little cuss died—got typhus or something and off
he went. Bill Tyler told me about it. They buried
him at sea.”\par

“Who was Bill Tyler?”\par

“Bill was—everything! He was an old bird—older
than father. He’d done everything, seen
everything—you never knew such a man! He
couldn’t write his own name, but he was the canniest,
drollest—and talk about strength! Next to father,
I guess I liked him better than anyone on earth!”
Paul’s face glowed, and he launched forth into an
animated account of his friend’s virtues and exploits,
urged on eagerly by Carl, who made him go on every
time he stopped. There were no absurd exaggerations,
a la Munchausen, in his tales that day. He
was thinking only of amusing the sick, feeble boy,
and making him forget his own dreary thoughts.
Nor did he once reflect that it was this same boy
who had told him so passionately that he “hated
him, and always would.”\par

Elise appearing at the door with Carl’s tray
stopped short at the sound of his laugh—the first
spontaneous laugh she had heard from him in many
a day.\par

“How much better you seem, dear,” she said,
setting the tray on his knees, and shaking up his
pillows. “Paul, your lunch is waiting for you.”
She sent him a grateful glance.\par

“If you haven’t anything special to do, come on
up when you’ve fed,” suggested Carl elegantly.
Elise nodded eagerly, and following Paul to the
door, said in a low voice,\par

“I wish you would, cousin. There isn’t much to
be done to-day—I can take care of it, and it seems
to have done him so much good.”\par

So Paul spent the afternoon, a long, sunny afternoon,
in that dark room, talking to his cousin, telling
him about people he had seen—and what a
heterogeneous collection they were!—places he had
visited, adventures he and his father had had together.
A whole new world he opened to the young
bookworm, who listened with his hands folded, and
a keen but detached interest, to all these tales of
action and happy-go-lucky wanderings.\par

“All that’s great to hear about,” remarked Carl,
“but I don’t think I’d like to live that way. Too
much hopping about, and too—uncomfortable.”\par

“I suppose it was uncomfortable—but I never
knew what it was to {\itshape{be}} comfortable—that is, to be
sure of a good bed to sleep in, and plenty to eat,
and all that—so I never minded.”\par

“It must bore you to be cooped up here—baking
cakes! Ha-ha!” Carl laughed outright. “I never
thought before of how funny that was!”\par

“I have,” remarked Paul, drily.\par

“What do you suppose that Bill Tyler would say?”\par

“I can’t imagine,” replied Paul, smiling glumly.
“He’d probably say it was a good job, and that I
ought to thank Heaven for it. He was a practical
old egg, or he pretended to be. He was forever
preaching what he called ‘hard sense’—and getting
himself into more tight squeezes—he was worse
than father. He had more common sense and used
it less than any man I ever saw.”\par

“Do you really want to be a painter?” asked Carl
suddenly. “That’s such a queer thing to want to be.”\par

“Oh, well,” said Paul, evidently not anxious to
pursue the subject.\par

“And so—{\itshape{useless}}.”\par

“That’s what Bill Tyler used to say. And yet
{\itshape{he}} was the one who took me to a picture gallery for
the first time in my life—I was only eleven or
twelve years old. And it was there that I met old
Peguignot—so it was partly Bill’s fault that I began
to think about painting at all. The old duffer!
He’d spend an entire afternoon rambling around
some gallery, going into raptures over this picture
and that, pointing out what he liked and what he
didn’t like—and then when we’d come out, he’d say,
’but that’s all nonsense, and waste of time.’”\par

“Who was Peguignot?”\par

“Why, he was a little artist—a funny, shabby,
excitable little guy, with a perfectly enormous moustache
that looked as if it were made out of a lot
of black hairpins; and his eyebrows were just like
it. When he talked and got enthusiastic about
something, they’d all work up and down. Bill and
I came upon him one day in some gallery or other.
He was sitting up on a high stool making a copy
of a big religious painting. Bill began to talk to
him, and, I suppose, just to tease him, started on
his favorite line about what nonsense it all was.
I thought Peguignot would blow up. He shook
a whole handful of wet paint-brushes in Bill’s face,
called him every name he could think of—I began
to laugh and then he turned on me, and told me I
was a miserable boy, and please both of us to go
far away from him. But I said I agreed with him
altogether, and then we both started in on Bill.
Well, anyhow it wound up by all of us getting to be
the best of friends; and after that Bill and I used
to go around and see him quite often. And he
taught me all I ever learned about painting. He
wasn’t very good himself, and he certainly wasn’t
successful, but he knew a lot, and when he wasn’t
exploding about something, he could tell what he
knew very clearly. Poor little beggar, he had a
hard time of it—he was as poverty-stricken as Job
most of the time.” And then Paul began to laugh.
“I remember one day his landlady came up to get
his rent. He heard her coming, and got into a perfect
panic, and was actually trying to crawl under
his bed when she knocked at the door. Then he got
very calm and dignified, and told me to let her in.
So in she came, and then an argument began, and
finally both of them started to weep and wring their
hands—you never heard such a rumpus. Finally
he said to her, ‘Madam, put me out. Put me out
on the streets—it is what I deserve,’ and he began
to hunt for his bedroom slippers which were the
things that were most precious to him I suppose.
And then she threw her apron over her head and
wailed, and said she couldn’t do that because he was
so ‘leetle.’ Well, at last he took a picture that I
had painted down from his easel, and said to her,
‘Madam, I give you this. Sell it, and keep the
money.’ Well, she stood there glowering as if she
simply couldn’t think of anything strong enough
to say; until she suddenly roared out, ‘Ah-h-h!
You leetle {\itshape{moustache}}! Why don’t you sell it {\itshape{yourself}}!
Then I should have my money.’ And she
took the picture with both hands, and banged him
over the head with it. But at last she said she’d
wait another month, and then she would have him
imprisoned—and off she went with my picture.”\par

Carl laughed.\par

“And did he pay her the next month?”\par

“I don’t know. In any case, he certainly wasn’t
imprisoned. But don’t think he took his debts
lightly. He was ashamed of them and he was
ashamed of himself; and he worked for money in
the only way he could, and never tried to shirk
his responsibilities. People knew that, and they
were lenient with him, because he was honest and
good and they loved him.”\par

There was a pause, then Carl asked curiously,
but with some hesitation,\par

“If I—if my eyes {\itshape{don’t}} get all right, what will
you do?”\par

“What do you mean?”\par

“I mean—will you stay on in the business?”\par

“In any case, it’s my job, isn’t it?” returned
Paul evasively. Then suddenly, he dropped his face
in his hands. For so many nights, in the little room
to which he had been relegated since Carl’s illness,
he had been wrestling with that problem. A hundred
times he had decided that there would be only
one course open to him in the event that Carl should
not get well; he would stay with his family and
help them. His uncle was getting old, and the
silent, tragic appeal in the poor man’s eyes, and
his dreadful anxiety about his son had touched Paul
even more than Aunt Gertrude’s sorrow.\par

“Ah, well, what’s the use of trying to settle the
whole course of your life,” he said aloud, but more
as if he were speaking to himself. “You get
worked up, and start pitying yourself before there’s
anything definite to pity yourself for.” Then suddenly,
he said, “Tell me, cousin, I have wanted
to ask you—why is it that you hated me? If you
don’t want to answer never mind. We seem to be
friends now—or I may be mistaken.”\par

Carl was silent for several moments, then he said
rather gruffly,\par

“I—there was no reason perhaps. Let that be.
You were right—when you said that I didn’t hate
you as much as I thought I did.”\par

That was the last reference that was made to
their former enmity. They were too different, perhaps,
ever to be really intimate, but the hatchet
was buried between them.\par

During Carl’s convalescence Paul was with him a
great deal. His stock of stories seemed inexhaustible,
and in lieu of books Carl found them the only
source of novel entertainment to be had; and for the
time being Paul was exempted from his duties in the
Bakery to amuse his cousin. It was not any too
amusing for {\itshape{him}}; but he willingly passed hour after
hour at Carl’s bedside. It was the sight of the
bandaged eyes that kept his sympathy keen and
made him gentle and patient even when Carl was
fretful and hard to please.\par

One day Carl said to him,\par

“Why don’t you read aloud to me? The doctor
says it’ll be all right now. I’ve a mountain of stuff
to make up for school, and we’ll both gain something.”\par

Paul blushed. He was not particularly keen on
displaying his shortcomings outright to Carl, even
if he did confess them. But oh second thoughts, he
got the book that his cousin asked for, and opening
it, plunged in bravely. It was a humiliating experience
for him, to have to stop before a long
word, and pronounce it syllable by syllable, and
although Carl did not laugh at him, he corrected
him with an air of grave superiority that was even
more trying. But the very fact that he did not
shine in this particular province, increased Carl’s
good will toward him.\par

“You are getting on very well,” he said in a
patronizing tone. “Keep it up.”\par

The books that they read frequently led to arguments—friendly
debates, and these were Carl’s special
delight. He liked to pretend that he was addressing
a jury, and would launch forth into a flood
of eloquence, to which Paul listened very respectfully,
usually taking care not to contradict his cousin
or to wound his vanity by remaining unconvinced
by his oratory. But sometimes he would get carried
away himself, and a vigorous battle would follow,
in which Paul had only his clear, simple reasoning to
pit against Carl’s confusing knowledge. But both
of them enjoyed it; Carl loved to dispute any point
at all, and Paul “liked the exercise.”\par

But in the long run, Paul found Carl’s favorite
occupations very little to his taste. He grew weary
of his cousin’s books, with their long-winded dissertations,
he positively hated the dim room; and
the innumerable games of checkers that they played,
when Carl’s eyes finally began to improve, gradually
developed in him a profound detestation of that
pastime. His only satisfaction came to him from
his aunt’s and uncle’s gratitude.\par

By the end of the month Carl was well enough to
sit up in a chair by the window for three or four
hours a clay, and even to take off his eyeshade for a
little while in the evening when the light was softer.
The family happiness over this improvement was
boundless, and in the late afternoons everyone
gathered in Carl’s room. These were gay occasions,
and even Mr. Lambert, who always sat beside his
son, and never took his eyes from his face, cracked
jokes, and laughed and was in the best humor
imaginable.\par

One Sunday afternoon they were thus collected—all
of them, including Granny, who sat rocking
serenely back and forth, smiling benignly and a little
absent-mindedly upon them all, winding a skein of
deep magenta wool, which Lottie held for her. The
whole room was in pleasant disorder, books and
games lay scattered around, for Mr. Lambert had
relaxed his usual strict Sabbath rules while Carl was
ill, and permitted all sorts of uncustomary amusements.
Minie was cutting new paper dolls out of
the Sunday paper, and painting them in glorious
hues. Everyone was gossiping and chattering—everyone,
that is except Jane and Paul, who sat on
the little bench that made a seat in the embrasure of
the casement window.\par

Jane, who had missed her cousin severely during
the last weeks, was content to have him with her
again, and sat beside him, looking through the section
of the newspaper that Minie had graciously
spared. Paul, a trifle out of spirits, was staring out
of the window. It was open, admitting a gentle
evening breeze, which rustled through the full-blown
foliage of Jane’s beloved nut-tree. Below, on the
other side of the street some children were playing
hop-scotch. And from somewhere came the sound
of boyish voices singing in “close harmony”—“I
was seeing Nelly ho-ome, I was seeing Nelly home,
It was from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, I was seeing
Nel-ly home.”\par

Suddenly Jane laid her hand on Paul’s to attract
his attention. “Look! Look at this, Paul,” she
said in a low voice, putting the paper on his knee,
and pointing to a paragraph.\par

He glanced down and read,\par

“C——. June 1st. The Academy of Arts announces
that it will offer a series of prizes for painting
and sculpture, to be competed for according to
the following rules.” Then followed a list of regulations,
after which the notice went on to say that,
“All work must be submitted on or before September
1st. Three prizes will be awarded in each department.
No work will be considered unless etc., etc.”\par

“Well, what of it?” said Paul, shortly.\par

“Can’t you—why don’t you—”\par

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“You know I can’t. Look at that kid down there,
will you—”\par

“Paul, why not?”\par

“Because I can’t, I tell you,” he repeated, irritably.\par

“But why don’t you try,” persisted Jane, undaunted.
“If you don’t win anything, there’s no
harm done, and if you {\itshape{should}}, Paul—if you
{\itshape{should}}—”\par

“When and where would I be able to do any work,
will you tell me?” He spoke almost angrily, but he
took the paper from her hand and looked at it again.\par

“What are you two whispering about?” inquired
Carl. He still felt a twinge of jealousy when he
saw Jane and Paul talking without taking him into
their confidence.\par

“Nothing,” said Paul. “Just something Jane saw
in the paper.” And picking up Minie’s rubber ball
he began to bounce and catch it monotonously.\par

“What is it?”\par

With a shrug of his shoulders, Paul handed the
paper over to Carl, pointing out the paragraph.
Carl gave it to Mr. Lambert.\par

“Read it, father.” So Mr. Lambert put on his
spectacles, while Jane looked uneasily at Paul.\par

Mr. Lambert read it aloud, and then without making
any comment, laid the paper aside. He looked
displeased.\par

“Why don’t you compete, Paul?” said Carl suddenly.
“There’d be no harm in trying.”\par

Then Aunt Gertrude, glancing timidly at her husband,
found courage to put in a word.\par

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There was a silence, during which everyone waited
for Mr. Lambert to say something; but no remark
from him was forthcoming. That he was annoyed
could be seen plainly, but because the suggestion had
come from Carl he maintained his silence.\par

“Do you think you’d stand any chance of winning,
Paul?” Carl asked secure in his peculiar privileges
of free speech.\par

“I don’t know. How should I?”\par

Jane was simply on tenter-hooks. If only Carl
would take up the case!\par

“Would you like to try it?”\par

“Yes. I would.”\par

“Well, why don’t you? You could find some
place—”\par

“That isn’t the point,” interrupted Paul, looking
directly at his uncle, “it’s up to you, Uncle Peter.
You told me that I wasn’t to touch a paint-brush
while I was in your house. And I haven’t. But
I—”\par

“Well, you’ll let him, won’t you, father? He
might as well have a go at it.”\par

“My boy, I think it is hardly—”\par

“But it’s only a little matter, father. I’d like to
see how he’d make out. We’d feel pretty fine if he
{\itshape{should}} win anything, and if he doesn’t, there’s nothing
lost.”\par

Mr. Lambert bit his lip. But at that time he
could no more have refused his son’s slightest wish
than he could have struck him.\par

“Well, well—go ahead if you want, Paul. I am
sure I wish you every success.” It was stiffly and
unwillingly said, but it was a victory nonetheless,
and Paul did not know whether to be more amazed
at his uncle’s concession or at Carl’s intercession.
Jane, her face beaming with delight, started to clap
her hands, and then realizing that any evidences of
unseemly joy might have unpleasant results, quickly
folded them in her lap.\par

And so it came about, through the play of circumstances,
that the one member of the Lambert family
who had been so bitterly inimical to Paul for eight
months assumed the rôle of benefactor, and gallantly
squared his debt by a few right words spoken at
exactly the right moment.\par

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CHAPTER XII—JEFF ROBERTS}

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{\noindent}
“Do you think I’ll be able to put it across?” Paul
asked, despondently, stepping back from the half
finished picture and eyeing it with his head on one
side and a frown on his brow.\par

Jane, perched on an old barrel, her chin on her
fists, studied the embryo masterpiece with a grave,
judicial air.\par

“I think it is going to be {\itshape{very}} good,” she observed
at length.\par

“Do you, honestly?” Paul knew of course that
Jane was about as capable of judging as Anna, but
he had reached the point where encouragement from
any source was sweet. “Lord, I hope I get it done
in time.”\par

“You will,” said Jane. Paul grinned at her.\par

“You’re about the most optimistic character I
ever knew. I suppose you think I’m certain to win
a first prize.”\par

“Don’t {\itshape{you}} think so?”\par

“No, my child. I don’t think there’s a chance in
the world.”\par

“Oh, Paul! But you’ll win something.”\par

“No, my jovial Jane, I won’t. But that’s neither
here nor there. Whew! Let’s get out of here.
I’m melting. How about you?”\par

“It {\itshape{is}} pretty hot,” Jane admitted. It most certainly
was. An attic, even on coolish days seems
able to store up heat as no other place can, and on
a sizzling August afternoon a bakeoven is Iceland
in comparison. The only thing to be said in favor
of the Lambert’s attic was that it had a northern
light if not a northern temperature, and here Paul
had set to work.\par

“Want to take a walk?” he suggested, dropping
his paintbrushes into a can of turpentine.\par

“Can’t. I promised Elise I’d help her with
some of the mending.”\par

“Well, I think I’ll browse around for a while.
Tell Aunt Gertrude I’ll be back for supper. She
said there wasn’t a thing for me to do.”\par

“Where are you going?”\par

“Nowhere in particular. I feel like doing something
rash and reckless, but there’s no danger of
anything like {\itshape{that}}—here. Where’s Carl?”\par

“Out in the garden with Elise and the twins.”\par

“Well—good-bye. I’ll be back in half an hour
or so.”\par

Paul selected for his solitary ramble a certain
rough, dusty, shady lane that led down past the
ruins of an old mill. Here on those breathless
afternoons a crowd of little urchins were wont to
gather to splash and paddle in the gurgling stream
that tossed over its stony bed on to the water-fall
above the mill. On the opposite side of the road
rose a wooded hill, where the tree-tops were gilded
with ruddy sunlight, and the deep fern scented recesses
were always cool and dim.\par

The shade and freshness of the woods on that hot
day were not to be resisted, and Paul turned into
them, following a soft, weed-grown road that lead
along a little tributary of the mill-stream. But he
was feeling restless and even a little rebellious. The
calm, uneventful course of his life during the past
nine months had gotten on his nerves, and he found
himself longing for some kind of change or excitement.
What wouldn’t he give to see old Bill Tyler
coming toward him at that moment!\par

He stopped, and leaning against an old wooden
railing, stared down at the stream that flowed by at
the foot of the steep bank. For more than a month
he had been working as hard as he could at his picture,
taking good care not to let it interfere with his
other duties, lest his uncle should recall his permission;
Aunt Gertrude tried to help him, and he had
progressed; but there wasn’t a chance in a million
of his winning anything, and he was not sure but
that he had made a mistake in undertaking the task
at all. He started on again, walking slowly, with
his hands buried in his pockets, forgetful of the passage
of time, and of his uncle’s dislike of having
anyone late for a meal. Suddenly he stopped. It
seemed to him that someone had called his name.\par

Looking back over his shoulder he saw a small
man running easily along the road toward him.\par

“Hello! Where are you off to?” inquired the
newcomer, as he came up, smiling in a friendly
way. “I saw you back there, and thought I recognized
you. How are you?”\par

It was no other than the notorious Jefferson
Roberts, his face beaming with a friendly, winning
smile, and his hand outstretched. Paul shook the
hand, and said that he was off to nowhere—that he
was just walking.\par

“Communing with Nature?” said Jeff, cocking his
head on one side, while his bright brown eyes twinkled
merrily. “May I commune with you? I’m going
in your direction.”\par

“Come ahead. That is, unless you’re in a hurry.
I {\itshape{won’t}} walk fast.”\par

“Oh, I’m never in a hurry. What have you been
doing since I saw you last?”\par

Paul answered the question briefly without going
into any details.\par

“What an industrious life!” exclaimed Jeff gaily.
“How is your good little cousin, Carl Lambert? Do
you remember that day in Allenboro? He was horrified
at you—he thinks I’m the most wicked creature
alive. But then, most of those good souls {\itshape{do}}.
And why? simply because I like to enjoy myself—and
succeed at it.” And as he said this he laughed
so spontaneously, his face was so full of arch, easy-going
good nature that Paul joined in his laugh,
feeling convinced that the tales about Jeff were
mostly absurd exaggerations. In fifteen minutes or
so he began to believe, also, that there was a great
deal of good in Jeff that had been most uncharitably
overlooked. There was nothing “smarty” about
him; he seemed frank and boyish, overflowing-with
high spirits, impulsive, enthusiastic, and happy-go-lucky
all at once. He was even rather a confiding
soul, and strolling along beside Paul, whose arm
he had taken, chattered naïvely about himself and
his affairs with child-like frankness.\par

Presently his mood changed; he began to blame
himself for his idleness, and to talk about his
mother. He told Paul that he had decided to get
a good job in the fall, and work hard.\par

“I’m a lot more serious than anyone thinks, let
me tell you,” he remarked gravely. “I like fun,
but I’m not like the rest of those chumps you saw
up at Allenboro. {\itshape{They}} think they know me—but
they don’t. They only see one side—so does
everyone else. But I’ll show ’em. One of these
days I’ll be a nice, respectable—Mayor, with three
chins, and a gold watch-chain.” This fancy sent
him off into a fit of amusement. His humors
changed so rapidly from melancholy to gaiety that
there was no way of being sure that he was not
joking when he seemed grave, and serious when he
was laughing; but he was a delightful companion,
and the two boys sauntered along talking as if
they had been intimates from their childhood.\par

Suddenly, Paul realized that much time must
have flown since Jeff interrupted his meditations.\par

“Gee! It must be pretty late,” he exclaimed
looking up through the trees, trying to guess the
time by the sun. “Have you got a watch?”\par

% File: 206.png-----------------------------------------------------

Jeff laughed, and pulling his watch-chain from
his pocket, displayed a bunch of keys, which he
twirled jauntily.\par

“My watch, I’m sorry to say, is on a short vacation.
But you don’t have to bother about the time.
Come on with me—I’m going to scare up some of
the fellows, and see what we can find to do.”\par

Paul hesitated. He was decidedly in the mood
for falling in with Jeff’s harmless suggestion; besides,
he would certainly be late for supper, and,
was consequently, slated for his uncle’s reproof
anyhow.\par

“All right. What are you going to do?”\par

“Oh, sit around and talk most likely. Probably
ramble off to get something to eat, and then we
might go up to see Tom Babcock—he’s a nice fellow.
You’d like him.”\par

This seemed a mild and agreeable program, and
was very much to Paul’s taste. If his uncle should
ask him where he’d been—well, hang it, did he
have to give an account of everything he did, as if
he were a child of ten? And all this fuss about
Jeff Roberts was such utter nonsense anyhow.\par

Accordingly, he accepted Jeff’s friendly invitation,
and they went off together following the road
on through the woods which led by a short cut to
the neighboring town, of Goldsboro.\par

Goldsboro was a progressive young community
where, unquestionably you could find more to do
than at Frederickstown. The streets were brightly
lighted at night, every Wednesday and Saturday
evening during the summer a band played for two
hours in the Square, and the shops stayed open
until ten o’clock, and there was even a theatre where
such old classics as “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “The Old
Homestead,” and “Billy, the Kid,” were enacted by
an ambitious stock company.\par

Jeff seemed to know everyone, and it was not long
before he had collected a jolly party of five or six
boys. He also knew where you could get a capital
sea-food supper, and insisted that Paul should be his
guest. In fact, Paul found the attentions bestowed
upon him by this rather famous youth, decidedly
flattering though he was at a loss to know just why
Jeff should suddenly have begun to treat him as if
he were his best friend. The truth was that Jeff
was inclined to sudden friendships, which were
often as speedily broken as made.\par

Supper over, it was suggested that they drop
around and see what Tom Babcock was doing.\par

Tom was a young man older even than Jeff—two-and-twenty,
perhaps, or twenty-three. He lived
magnificently alone in a small room over a corner
drugstore, where they found him smoking his pipe
and hanging half way out of his window to watch
the crowd in the Square, and to hear the strains of
the brass-band which at that moment was playing
“Kathleen Mavourneen” with deep pathos.\par

Upon the arrival of his guests, Tom lighted his
gas, and after a little conversation they all sat down
to a game of cards.\par

Paul enjoyed himself immensely. He liked Jeff,
he liked Tom, he liked Jim, and Jack and Harry.
They were “nice fellows,” all of them. Why they
should be considered such a dangerous crew was
more than he could understand.\par

And meantime the night wore on.\par

In the Lambert household mild wonder at Paul’s
absence gave way to anxiety.\par

“Well, I suppose the boy knows how to take care
of himself,” remarked Mr. Lambert, drily.\par

“Perhaps, Peter, you had better put the latch-key
under the doormat,” suggested Aunt Gertrude, but
Mr. Lambert would not agree to this.\par

“No, my dear. He knows quite well that everything
is locked at ten o’clock. If he prefers to be
roaming around the country at that time, he must
be prepared to take the consequences. I hope you
do not expect me to alter all the rules of the household
for the boy.”\par

So at ten o’clock, Paul not yet having made his
appearance, the front door was locked, and the family
went to bed.\par

But Jane was not able to take his absence so
calmly. Suppose he had got lost? Suppose he had
hurt himself? He might even have been kidnapped.
These fears made it impossible for her to sleep, and
so she sat down at her window, determined to wait
up for him all night if necessary. With the house
locked, how could he get in—where could he go?\par

The time that she waited seemed endless. The
tones of the church clock, striking eleven, boomed
solemnly through the stillness that lay over the town.
All the houses were darkened; the street was quiet.
Now and then, solitary footsteps rang out on the
bricks, and Jane sat up eagerly only to hear them
die away in a neighboring block.\par

Where {\itshape{could}} he be? She was almost in tears
when after an eternity of waiting she heard the
sound of whistling far up the street.\par

“That {\itshape{must}} be Paul. It {\itshape{must}} be!” She leaned
far out of the window, trying to get a glimpse of
the wanderer, who was in fact coming nearer to
the house. At last he came into the light of the
street lamp, and she recognized him with a great
sigh of relief. In another moment she had flown
noiselessly down the stairs, and unbolted the door
with as little squeaking and rattling as possible.\par

“Hello,” said Paul as calmly as if he had just
run up to the corner to mail a letter.\par

“Oh, {\itshape{where}} have you been?”\par

“Where have I been?” Paul was instantly on
the defensive. “Why—what’s the matter?
What’s everything locked up for?”\par

“Sh! Everyone’s asleep but me. Oh, I thought
you were {\itshape{dead}}!”\par

“Good Heaven’s—{\itshape{why}}? It isn’t late.”\par

“It’s nearly twelve. Everyone’s been in bed for
ages. We couldn’t imagine what had become of
you—”\par

“Well, I must say I don’t see why there’s so
much fuss. I just walked over to Goldsboro to
see what was going on, and fooled around there
for a while. It was later than I thought when I
went out, and when I found out I’d miss supper, I
thought I might as well take a good walk, and get
something to eat over there.”\par

“Oh,—well we couldn’t imagine—you’d better
walk softly, Paul.”\par

For some reason, Paul suddenly chose to think
that Jane was reproving him.\par

“I don’t see why I can’t be a little late without
everyone’s getting so worked up over it. Do you
mean to say that I mustn’t leave the house without
telling everyone exactly what time I’ll be back?”
he grumbled. “Gee whiz! Life isn’t worth living
if you have to be worrying every minute—”\par

“{\itshape{Sh-sh}}, Paul! You’ll wake everybody up,”
whispered Jane. He subsided a little, but was still
muttering indignantly when he parted from her
and tiptoed cautiously up to his room.\par

The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Lambert
asked him casually what had delayed him, and appeared
quite satisfied at his off-hand answer.\par

“And how did you get in? Everything is always
locked at ten, as you know.”\par

“I heard him whistling, Daddy, and I let him
in,” spoke up Jane. Mr. Lambert merely said,\par

“Ah! Well, don’t let it happen again my boy.
It made me very uneasy.”\par

No further reference was made to the matter.\par

“There was no harm in it,” thought Paul. “They
have the impression that Jeff is a black sheep, and
it would be a silly thing to go out of my way to tell
’em that I saw him again. Uncle would have a fit,
and it’s such a little thing to deliberately get up a
row about.”\par

And so being satisfied that his mild escapade would
have no uncomfortable results he thought no more
about it.\par

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CHAPTER XIII—DISASTER}

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{\noindent}
Poor Janey was feeling very blue indeed. During
the last week it seemed to her that Paul had
somehow grown so different—rather inclined to be
cross and uncommunicative, and even to avoid her
company. That very afternoon he had told her
please not to bother him while he was painting, or he
never would get his picture done, and twice when she
had offered to take a walk with him, he had refused
her company with no very gracious excuse.\par

Thus ignored and rebuffed, she had sadly devoted
herself to deeds of charity, and on that sultry afternoon
sat with Carl reading aloud to him from a fat
dull book about the ancient Britons. They were sitting
in the little garden, where the shadow of the
house offered some protection from the sun; Carl
reposing like a Sultan in his easy chair, gazing up at
the motionless weathervane on the gable of the attic,
and occasionally begging Jane “{\itshape{not}} to mumble her
words.” The attic was on the third floor just above
Granny’s room, in a part of the house that formed
an ell, bounding the garden on the south side with
its ivy-covered wall.\par

“I say, Jane, do you suppose that Paul is
{\itshape{smoking}}?” said Carl suddenly, interrupting the monotonous
flow of Jane’s reading.\par

“What?”\par

“Well, that’s smoke, isn’t it? coming out of the
attic window—and cigar smoke, too, or I’ll eat my
hat!”\par

Jane looked up. It was an undeniable fact that
a blue spiral issued from the attic, and, caught by
the faint breeze, was wafted gracefully upwards,
and dissolved. A very faint scent drifted down to
the garden, and that scent—if such it could be
called—was of tobacco. Paul, happily ignorant
of the dismayed interest he had roused in the
garden below, was sampling a cigar that Jeff had
lavishly bestowed on him.\par

“Well, all I’ve got to say is that if he knows
what is good for him, he’ll cut {\itshape{that}} out,” observed
Carl drily.\par

“I guess—I guess he’s just doing it for fun,”
said Jane.\par

“He won’t think it fun if father catches him.
But it’s none of {\itshape{my}} business, I suppose. Go
on.”\par

Jane went on reading, furtively glancing aloft
every now and then to see if the tell-tale puffs of
smoke were still issuing from the open window.
To her intense relief they had stopped after a few
minutes, and presently she heard Paul talking to
her mother in the kitchen.\par

“Do you really like this book?” she asked at
last, looking at her brother pathetically.\par

% File: 214.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Very much. But you needn’t read any more if
you’re tired. Here’s Elise, now, anyway.”\par

Elise had just entered by the garden gate.\par

“Carl! Jane! What do you think! The most
exciting thing—”\par

“Lily Deacon is engaged to Mr. Sheridan,” said
Jane promptly. Elise stared at her, her round
blue eyes wide with amazement.\par

“How did you know?”\par

“I put two and two together. Aren’t I clever?”\par

“No, how {\itshape{did}} you guess, Janey? Lily hasn’t
told anyone but me.”\par

“Well, I knew it {\itshape{was}} going to happen, and I
knew that you’d been up to see Lily this afternoon,
and I guessed the rest. Isn’t it {\itshape{nice}}, though!”
cried Jane, clapping her hands. “And you know
{\itshape{I’m}} really responsible for it.”\par

“{\itshape{You}}!” hooted Carl derisively.\par

“Yes, me. When did it happen, Elise, and
when are they going to be married? I do so love
a wedding, and there hasn’t been one here for
ages. Do you suppose she’ll wear a veil?”\par

Elise, who under her placid exterior had the most
romantic of souls, sat down to recount all the
details that she had gleaned from her best friend.\par

“And she’s going to live in that lovely house,
and she’ll travel, and she—goodness, do you suppose
Paul has burned up {\itshape{another}} batch of cakes?”
she broke off short in her rhapsody over Lily’s
prospects to sniff the air.\par

“Don’t you smell smoke? I do hope he hasn’t
had another disaster—he’s been getting along so
well. Well, anyway—where was I?”\par

“You said she was going to travel. What {\itshape{I}} want
to know is when the wedding is going to be,” said
Jane.\par

“Oh, that isn’t decided yet—in the spring, I think.
You know, that doesn’t smell like cake burning. It
smells like rags. I suppose somebody’s burning
trash.”\par

Carl laughed and looked at Jane; but the burning
smell did not resemble tobacco at all, and besides,
Paul was still in the kitchen with Aunt Gertrude.\par

“Go on and tell some more, Elise,” said Jane.\par

“I’ve told you all I know. I must get you your
milk, Carl.”\par

A minute later Elise reappeared at the dining
room door, bearing a tray well stocked with milk and
cookies, and followed by Paul and Aunt Gertrude.\par

“Dear me, who {\itshape{can}} be burning rubbish?” exclaimed
Mrs. Lambert. “Don’t you smell smoke,
children?”\par

“{\itshape{I}} do, I can tell you,” said Carl. “By Jove, Paul,
what’s going on up in your den?”\par

Everyone looked up in consternation to the attic
window. Paul had closed it before he came down,
but smoke was coming slowly from under the pane.\par

“Good heavens! It couldn’t be on fire!” cried
Elise. “Run, Paul! Run, {\itshape{quickly}}!”\par

But Paul had not waited to be urged. Up the
stairs he was flying, as fast as his long legs could
carry him, followed by Jane, Elise and poor Aunt
Gertrude, whose only thought was for Granny, the
twins having gone out to play early in the afternoon.\par

The smoke was already thick on the second floor.\par

“Elise, you and Aunt Gertrude take Granny downstairs,”
ordered Paul. “Jane, you’d better not come
up.”\par

“I’ll get a bucket of water. Oh, Paul! Your
{\itshape{picture}}!”\par

“Never mind my picture—get the water {\itshape{quick}}!”
And Paul dashed on up the stairs.\par

With his heart in his boots, he made his way to
the attic, trying to hold his breath so that he would
not swallow the smoke.\par

It turned out that so far as danger was concerned
there was no great cause for excitement. Although
the attic was dense with smoke, the cause of it was
only a small blaze in the heap of rags near the window,
which subsided under two bucketfuls of water.\par

Jane, whom Paul had not allowed to come up,
waited for news at the foot of the stairs; but after
he had informed her that the fire was out, she heard
nothing more from him. After a few moments she
shouted,\par

“Paul! Are you all right?”\par

“Oh, {\itshape{I’m}} all right,” replied a muffled voice, in a
tone of the utmost despair.\par

“Well, come on down, or you’ll smother. What’s
happened?”\par

“I’ll be down in a second,” and then through the
fog Paul appeared slowly, descending the stairs carrying
a square of canvas.\par

% File: 217.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Is it hurt?” asked Jane, fearfully. “Oh, Paul!”\par

“I don’t know. I can’t see it properly yet.”
But his face showed that he expected the worst
Neither of them spoke a word until they reached
the garden again, where Aunt Gertrude pounced
upon Jane.\par

“Oh, {\itshape{child}}, how you frightened me! Paul, are
you quite sure everything’s all right? Oh, how
did it start—was there really a {\itshape{blaze}}?”\par

“Just a little one—it’s all out—a few rags. I
pitched ’em all out of the window. I’m—sorry,
Aunt Gertrude.”\par

“Oh, my poor boy—your picture!”\par

“What’s the matter? Is it ruined?” asked Carl.
Jane said nothing, but stood looking first at her
cousin’s face, and then at the smoke-begrimed
and blistered canvas on which there was hardly a
semblance of the picture that had been so nearly
completed.\par

“Yes,” said Paul, with the calmness of despair,
“it’s ruined. It’s ruined all right.”\par

No one knew what to say, and a silence followed,
until Elise asked timidly if he didn’t have
time to do another.\par

“In four days? This is the twenty-seventh.
No, cousin, I couldn’t—and besides, even if I
could, I haven’t anything to do it with. So I guess
that’s all there is to that.” He tried to sound cheerful,
and turning the picture against the wall of the
house, announced that he was going back to the
attic to see if everything was calm up there.\par

% File: 218.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Well, that’s pretty hard luck,” remarked Carl.
“I daresay he’s more broken up than he lets on.”\par

Jane had begun to cry, hiding her face in
Granny’s lap. Not even Paul could have been as
cruelly disappointed as she.\par

“Oh, he {\itshape{would}} have won something! I’m sure
he would have!” she wept, disconsolately. “He
said he didn’t think so, but he {\itshape{did}}, and I know
he did.”\par

“Well, one way or the other, it’s his affair,”
said Carl, “and I certainly don’t see why {\itshape{you}}
should be in such a stew over it.”\par

“It is my affair, too,” wailed Jane, and at this
characteristic remark no one could help smiling.\par

“Come, Janey, darling, there’s no use in taking
it so to heart,” said Mrs. Lambert, laying her
hand softly on the curly head. “We are all dreadfully
distressed about Paul, but he has taken his
misfortune bravely, and after all he will have
many more chances. Elise, isn’t that the bell in
the bakeshop? Dear me, what can people think
coming in to all that smoke. I wonder if it’s clearing
out at all. Come now, Janey, cheer up.”\par

Janey lifted her face from Granny’s knees, and
wiped her wet cheeks with the palms of her hands,
leaving long smudges.\par

“There now. We must all be thankful that there
was no worse harm done,” said her mother, kissing
her. “Come along, Elise. You come with me
too, Janey. We mustn’t keep anyone waiting.”\par

But Paul was already in the bakeshop, and was
calmly counting out change to the customer when
his aunt came in. He was rather pale, but apparently
quite cheerful.\par

“I looked around in the attic again, Aunt Gertrude.
It’s all right up there,” he said calmly,
when the customer had gone. “The floor is charred
a bit where the rags were—but that’s all the damage.
And the smoke’s clearing out. It didn’t get
into the rooms much, because all the doors were
closed.”\par

“We’re all so distressed about your picture, my
dear,” said Aunt Gertrude, laying her hands on his
arm. “I know what disappointment you must feel—and
you are a very plucky boy.”\par

Paul looked down at her, started to say something,
and then abruptly left the shop.\par

“But how in the world could it have started?”
wondered Aunt Gertrude, for the first time. “He
surely couldn’t have had the oil-stove lighted in
this weather, and it couldn’t have started by itself.”\par

But Elise had no theory to offer, and Jane was
in tears again, so Aunt Gertrude carried her mystification
out to the kitchen, to see whether Anna
had returned with the groceries.\par

At six o’clock, Mr. Lambert returned to the
bosom of a highly excited family, and, at the supper
table, listened with a peculiarly austere expression
to the incoherent accounts of the disaster. Presently,
he held up his hand.\par

“Come, come! I cannot find the beginning or
end of all this,” he said, and then bending his gaze
on Paul, added, slowly and sternly, “there was
a fire to-day in the attic—where you, Paul, have
been—er—working. So much I understand. But
what I do {\itshape{not}} understand is—how this fire
started.”\par

There was a silence. Jane glanced at Carl, and
Carl took a drink of water.\par

“We hear of such things as spontaneous combustion,”
pursued Mr. Lambert, “but for anything
of the sort to take place, there must be certain conditions.
I do not imagine that such conditions
could exist—in a pile of rags—under an open window.
No,” said Mr. Lambert, shaking his head,
“I must discard that theory.”\par

Again the unpleasant silence followed these remarks.
Paul, who had eaten nothing, drummed
nervously on the table.\par

“You were there, were you not? a short time
before the fire started?” inquired Mr. Lambert.
“Did you notice any—er—odor of burning?”\par

“Why, Paul was with me in the kitchen for quite
a little while before any of us noticed anything,
Peter,” Aunt Gertrude broke in innocently.\par

“Well,” said Mr. Lambert, shaking his head, but
still keeping his eyes fixed immovably on his
nephew’s face, “it is quite beyond my comprehension.
How anything of the sort—”\par

At this point Paul suddenly interrupted.\par

“There isn’t anything so very queer about it,
uncle,” he said coolly enough, at first, though once
he had spoken his courage seemed to leave him a
little. “I—I was smoking up there, and I suppose
I threw a match—or maybe—”\par

“Ah-h-h!” said Mr. Lambert slowly. Then he
pressed his lips together, and for a moment or two
said nothing. At length he observed,\par

“There are one or two matters I should like to
take up with you after supper, Paul. However,
we won’t go into them just now.” And then he
changed the subject with an abruptness that so
far from drawing the thoughts of his family {\itshape{away}}
from speculations upon what was in store for Paul,
only made them more dismally foreboding. And
when after supper the family showed a desire to
disperse before the coming storm, Mr. Lambert
solemnly asked them to remain while he asked
Paul a few questions.\par

“Peter, don’t scold the poor boy to-night,” said
Aunt Gertrude in a low voice. “He has—he is
very much distressed and disappointed.”\par

“It is true that he brought his own punishment
upon himself,” returned Mr. Lambert, “and I
should, perhaps, overlook the matter of his smoking
this time, although he knew quite as well as
Carl that I have absolutely forbidden that. It is
a far more serious matter that I have to speak
of.”\par

And with this he turned to Paul, who had been
trying to collect his thoughts. He was not ignorant
of what the serious matter might be, but it
seemed to him that his uncle was making a good
deal more out of it than it was worth, and he had
begun to wonder whether he had been guilty of
some crime that so far he knew nothing of.\par

“I have heard to-day—from a source that I fear
is only too reliable—certain reports concerning
you, which in justice to you I must ask you to deny
or confirm,” said Mr. Lambert.\par

“What are they, uncle?” asked Paul.\par

“I was told—and by one of my most respected
fellow-citizens—that you have been seen not once,
but at least half a dozen time of late with a young
man of a most undesirable character and reputation—Jefferson
Roberts. Could my informant
have been mistaken? Have you or have you not
seen this young man several times—recently?”\par

Paul swallowed. The entire family was aghast,
for it was very plain that Mr. Lambert was deeply
angered.\par

“Well?” said the old merchant. “Is this true?”\par

“Yes, uncle.”\par

“You knew what my feelings would be if I
learned that this {\itshape{was}} true?”\par

“Yes, uncle.”\par

“Yes,” repeated Mr. Lambert, “I think you
knew very well that you were disobeying my strictest
injunctions. Just before Christmas you were—or
could have been—seen with this notorious
youth—a gambler, a rascal, a shameless loafer.
When I learned of this, I pardoned you, thinking
that you might not have known how deeply outraged
I should feel at discovering that any member
of my household should wish to associate with
such a person. But now you have disobeyed me
without such excuse. What am I to think? You
give me no choice but to believe that you find pleasure
in disobeying me, and mortifying me.”\par

After a pause, he went on,\par

“Yes, mortifying me. You have treated me as
I have not deserved to be treated. I have given
you a home, I have considered your welfare as attentively
as I have considered the welfare of my
own children; I have been lenient with you, though
you would, perhaps, not be willing to admit as much—and
in return I find you willing to—perhaps you
are not aware that in associating with this Roberts
and his crew you not only injure your own standing
in this town, but injure me also. For more
than a hundred years the family whose name you
bear, and my own have stood for every principle
of good citizenship; and that honorable reputation
is to be marred through the willfulness of a youth
who counts such a thing so lightly that he will toss
it away for a few hours’ idle amusement!”\par

This grave, stern accusation was not what Paul
had expected. He turned white and then blushed
crimson. His vocal chords felt stiff, but at last
he managed to speak.\par

“I—I didn’t think that Jeff Roberts was judged
fairly, sir,” he stammered.\par

“Ah!”\par

“And what have I done that’s so terrible?” cried
Paul, “I only—”\par

“You knew that you were disobeying me?”\par

% File: 224.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Yes, sir.”\par

“Perhaps you think that at eighteen years of age
you are a better judge of character than grey
headed men and women? Perhaps you think that
you are old enough to be your own master?” Mr.
Lambert got up. “I cannot allow willful disobedience
in my house. You have been guilty of it too
often. I feel now that it would be best for all
concerned—for you especially—to—let you {\itshape{be}} your
own master. You are free now to go where you
like, make friends with whom you will, direct your
own life as you please.” He stopped. There was
not a sound in the room—indeed no one quite realized
that Mr. Lambert’s words actually constituted
a dismissal.\par

“Your father,” continued the old man immovably,
“left with me a small amount of money, which
I shall turn over to you at once. It should be
sufficient to maintain you until you are able to support
yourself, and I am willing to add to it if
necessary. I think—I believe that in the course
of time experience will show you that I have been
just with you, and if you show yourself worthy
I shall always be ready to help you to the best of
my ability.”\par

Aunt Gertrude looked pleadingly at her husband,
but he did not see her. No one else had courage
to say anything, and indeed to do so would have
been worse than useless; for whether Mr. Lambert
had judged his nephew too harshly or not, it was
certain that he could not be made to look at the
facts of the case in a different light. To him two
things were of paramount importance,—obedience
to his wishes, and respect for public opinion,
and Paul had offended against both of these fundamental
statutes. The old merchant had not exaggerated
when he said that his nephew’s conduct
had mortified him.\par

Paul made no attempt to defend himself; he was
too much dazed by all that the day had brought
forth to find a word to say.\par

Well, he was free. He should have been glad—and
only a few months before he would have been.
But looking helplessly around the table, from one
face to the other he realized suddenly that he was
{\itshape{not}} glad. Why, he had grown to love them all—he
had even a certain fondness for Carl. Who
was there now to care whether he got into scrapes
or out of them, whether he won prizes or burnt
his pictures to cinders, whether he was defeated
or triumphant. But his face showed nothing of
what was passing in his mind. Somewhere in the
distance Mr. Lambert was saying,\par

“I wished for all of you to hear what I had to
say to my nephew, so that you would understand
that I judged him by nothing but what he himself
admitted. And I believe, Gertrude, that when
you have considered the matter as carefully as I
have you will feel that I am doing only what is just,
and, I hope, wise. Paul is not a child, but a young
man, quite able to think for himself. It is plain
that our ways and customs are disagreeable to him,
and I have come to believe that it is only fair to
him to let him go his own way as he thinks best.
And—er—that is all.”\par

One by one the others rose from the table, and
left the room. Only Paul and his uncle remained.\par

“Have I made myself quite clear?” asked Mr.
Lambert, sitting down at his desk, and putting up
the roll-top.\par

“Yes, uncle. I—when do you want me to—go?”\par

“That I leave entirely to your convenience,” returned
Mr. Lambert. He opened a drawer and
took out an envelope with a rubber band around
it, which he gave to his nephew. “If you should
find that this is not sufficient for your needs you
may let me know. I am very sorry that you have
forced this painful duty upon me—I had hoped
that you—I still hope that you will realize—”\par

“My responsibilities,” said Paul absently. “Oh,
I have—but never mind. I’m sorry, uncle. I
didn’t understand—”\par

“Quite so. I want you to know that I am not
acting with any thought of punishing you. I am
doing only what I believe to be best.”\par

“Yes, sir.”\par

Mr. Lambert looked curiously at his nephew’s
face, and saw that the contrition in it was sincere.
He did not for a moment waver in his decision,
but after a moment he held out his hand.\par

“I hope you do not harbor any hard feelings
against me?”\par

% File: 227.png-----------------------------------------------------

Paul slowly and wonderingly took the proffered
hand. His uncle’s cold, immovable justice was
something that he had never been able to understand.
Not for a moment did he dream of asking
for pardon, but he could not “harbor any hard feelings”
against the austere old man, who judged
everything according to an inflexible standard of
right and wrong—who saw all conduct as either
black or white, and to whom the crime of disobedience
was equally unpardonable whether it affected
the routine of a little household or the affairs of a
nation.\par

% File: 228.png-----------------------------------------------------

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\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XIV—THE CROSSROADS}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Along the dusty road, Paul trudged alone, his
head bent. He did not look up until the little town
lay behind him. There was very little feeling of
exultation in his heart as he made his way along
the shady road, under the apple trees, from which
the yellow fruit was already falling. For the first
time in his life, this young citizen of the world
knew what homesickness was—and he could not
bring himself to look back to the town to which
he had come so unwillingly ten months before.
Well, he was free—he was his own master. That
was what his uncle had said. The whole world
lay before him—but where should he go? There
was no one out there who knew that he was coming,
or who cared whether he came or stayed.
There was the city—“lots of people, lots of streets,
lots of houses.” But what was Paul Winkler to
the city? And even if at some time in that future
to which he looked forward with dogged hope, he
should make fame and fortune, would the city care
any more about Paul Winkler? Would he not
have been wiser—and happier—to have fitted himself
to the ways of his own people, to have gone
on growing up among them, learning to know
them, to honor them for their simple virtues, and
to forgive them their weaknesses? He shook his
head impatiently; it was too late to think about
the might-have-beens.\par

He had just reached a bend in the road, when
he heard a voice calling him.\par

“Paul! Oh, Paul, wait a minute!”\par

He stopped, and looked around slowly. Janey
was running toward him, stumbling over the
stones in the road, panting, her round little face
puckered with distress.\par

“Janey!” He dropped his bundle in the dust,
and held out both hands to her. But she ignored
his hands, and flinging both arms around him,
clung to him tightly.\par

“What is it, Janey darling?”\par

“N-nothing,” she sobbed, “only I—oh, {\itshape{Paul}} don’t go!”\par

He patted her red head tenderly; for a moment
or two he found it difficult to say anything.\par

“There, Janey—don’t. I—and you’d better
run on back, dear,” he said at last, stooping to pick
up his bundle.\par

“No, mother said I could come—she said I
could walk to the crossroads with you. And she
said I was to give you another kiss for her—and
tell you that she loved you—and Granny’s crying.”\par

“Is she?” said Paul. “Oh, Janey— Well,
come along, kidlet.” He took her hand, and they
went on slowly between the sweet-smelling fields
that lay turning to gold under the August sun.\par

With his hand in hers, Janey seemed to feel
comforted, but with every step Paul’s heart grew
heavier.\par

“Do you think, Paul, it would have been different
if your picture hadn’t burned up?”\par

“Why, Janey?”\par

“If you had won a prize?”\par

“I don’t think it would have won any prize.
And—it {\itshape{did}} burn up, so there you are. Besides,
it wasn’t as good as that old thing I did of Aunt
Gertrude. Do you remember? That thing on the
top of the flour barrel? That was much better—though
I don’t know why.”\par

Jane stopped short, looked at him for a moment
or two, her face brightening, then, without
saying anything, walked on again.\par

“What is it? What were you thinking about?”
asked Paul.\par

“Nothing.”\par

In a little while they reached the top of the hill
from which Paul, in the farmer’s wagon, had had
his first glimpse of Frederickstown. Now he
paused to take his last.\par

There it lay, a pretty town, in the shade of its
old trees. There was the spire of the very church
which old Johann Winkler had attended regularly
in his snuff colored Sunday suit, his wife beside
him, and his children marching decorously in front
of him. There were the gables of the Bakery, and
there the very window from which Paul had so
often gazed out longingly toward the open road.
There was the slate roof of his uncle’s warehouse
where, no doubt the old man was calmly engaged in
his day’s work, going over his books, talking and
haggling with the farmers that sold him their
goods;—a stern character, narrow, perhaps, and
obstinate, but upright and self-respecting in all his
dealings, a good father, a loyal citizen and an honest
man; justly proud of his standing among his fellow
townsmen. It was thus for the first time, that
Paul understood the uncompromising old man, who
had judged his ne’er-do-well, lawless father so
harshly, and with whom he himself had been in
constant friction since he had come there. To
Peter Lambert, respect for family traditions, regard
for the feelings and even the prejudices of his fellow
citizens, and submission to domestic and civil
laws, written and unwritten, were the first principles
of living and he could not pardon anyone who took
them lightly.\par

In the few short moments that he stood there
looking back, Paul felt his heart swell with affection
for all that he was leaving behind him; for
Granny, his father’s mother, who cried over him,
for Aunt Gertrude who had always loved him, for
gentle, industrious Elise, for the twins, with their
pranks and their coaxing little ways, and—yes, for
Carl, who had shown himself a good fellow, with
all his fussy habits, and irritating superciliousness.\par

“I’ll miss you the most, Paul,” said Janey, as if
she guessed his thoughts.\par

% File: 232.png-----------------------------------------------------

He looked down at her.\par

“I know you will—and I’ll miss you the most.”\par

That was all they said until at length they reached
the crossroads.\par

“Which way are you going, Paul?” asked Jane,
struggling to keep back her tears.\par

Paul looked up at the weather-beaten sign-post.\par

“To the City,” he said firmly. “That’s the road
I’m taking now, Janey.”\par

“Oh, Paul! Where will you be? Where will
you be?”\par

“I don’t know, Janey. I can’t tell you. I don’t
know anything now. But I shall be all right—don’t
worry about me.”\par

“Oh, will you ever, ever come back again?”
Poor Janey’s tears streamed down her rosy cheeks.
Paul looked at her seriously.\par

“Yes, I will, Janey. I promise you that. I
don’t know when or how, but I’ll be back some day.
Now give me the kiss Aunt Gertrude sent, and one
from you.”\par

She dried her eyes on her apron, and then standing
on tip-toe, put both her arms around his neck
and kissed him on each cheek.\par

“Good-bye, Paul.”\par

“Good-bye, Janey.”\par

She stood there under the sign-post, watching
him as he walked briskly down the country road.
Once, when to her he was only a miniature figure in
the distance, he looked back and saw her, standing
motionlessly, with the summer wind blowing her
bright blue dress, and the summer sun shining on
her red head. She had been, and was, and always
would be, his faithful friend, and he knew in his
heart he would never find anyone like her in the
whole wide world that lay before him.\par

When he had disappeared under the shadows
of the trees far down the road, Janey turned and
retraced her way homeward. She had been a little
comforted by his promise to come back again, and
was already imagining how one day he would
walk into the bakeshop, suddenly, when no one
was expecting him, and say that he was going to
live with them all for ever and ever. And so he
would live there, and everyone would love him,
and he would paint wonderful pictures and become
famous; but he would never go away again—the
world would come to him! Never for a minute
had Jane doubted that Paul was a rare and extraordinary
being, and in his wildest moments of
self-confidence he did not believe in himself as
completely as she did.\par

Then everything dropped from her thoughts,
except the one idea that had come to her a little
while before.\par

To-day was the twenty-eighth. There was
plenty of time.\par

Aunt Gertrude, was in the Bakery setting the
trays of freshly baked cakes under the glass counters,
with a sad face. She missed her nephew,
and in her heart believed that her husband had
been harsh with the boy whose efforts to master
himself had not escaped her, and whom she loved as
much as her own son. But she knew quite well
how useless it would have been for her to have
tried to intercede for him—and after all, what had
happened might be for the best. Aunt Gertrude
was always inclined to believe that anything that
happened was always “for the best” in the long run—and
that, no doubt, was why, in spite of a life
that had not escaped many sorrows and difficulties,
she was still young and fresh in spite of her forty-odd
years.\par

But she had expected her Janey to return inconsolable
for the loss of her beloved cousin, and
was surprised and puzzled when her daughter ran
into the shop in almost her usual state of high
spirits.\par

Without stopping Jane ran through the shop, and
up the stairs to the little room that Paul had occupied
since Carl’s illness—a small room, with one
window, and rather scantily furnished. Under the
window was a table, with one drawer, in which
Jane promptly began to rummage. Its contents
were hardly valuable—two or three thumb tacks, a
bed castor, a scrap or two of lead pencil, a shabby
copy of “A Short History of Greece”—the pathetic
testimony of Paul’s efforts at “getting to know
something”—and a portfolio stuffed with papers.
And then from this clutter of what seemed to be
school exercises of one sort or another, Jane finally
extracted what she was looking for—the newspaper
clipping that she had cut out for Paul three months
before, with the address to which he was to have
sent his ill-fated picture.\par

Jane did not lose a minute. She was now in
quest of the old picture he had painted on the top
of the flour barrel! {\itshape{He}} had said that it “wasn’t
so bad”—and she had once heard him say that some
great painter had painted a celebrated Madonna on
the top of a wine cask.\par

She remembered now that she had seen it lying
on the dinner table, one day when Elise was dusting
the dining room, and Elise had put it behind Mr.
Lambert’s desk, where it had reposed since the day
he had confiscated it. It must still be there.\par

And there, indeed, she found it. A fine coat of
dust had collected over its surface, but when she
had brushed it off with her apron, she found it
quite as fresh as ever.\par

And now, how was it to be wrapped so that it
could withstand the rough treatment of a long
journey? She glanced at the clock. It was not
yet noon-day.\par

Holding it face inwards under her arm, she
started forth to look for counsel in this important
matter. Mr. Wheelock, at the post-office, was one
of her particular friends; he would be able to tell
her exactly what was to be done.\par

She found that gentleman sitting on the steps
of the post-office, smoking a calabash pipe, and
sunning himself placidly while he waited for the
noon mail.\par

“What have you got there?” he called out.\par

% File: 236.png-----------------------------------------------------

“I want you to tell me something, Mr. Wheelock.”\par

“How many calves’ tails it takes to reach the
moon?” said the old man, facetiously. “No?
What is it to-day, then?”\par

“I can’t tell you here. Come inside.”\par

He knocked his pipe out on the step, rose, and
followed her as she skipped back to his little office.\par

“Now, tell me how to send this away.”\par

Mr. Wheelock took a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles
out of the pocket of his grey alpaca coat, and
put them on. Then he picked up the barrel top
and looked at it in an astonishment that gave way
presently to something like profound admiration.\par

“Well, I declare! If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert!
And its a mighty fine thing, too. How did you
come by this?”\par

“{\itshape{Do}} you think it’s good, Mr. Wheelock?” cried
Jane, eagerly, her face glowing.\par

“It’s fine,” said Mr. Wheelock, in a tone that indicated
that he considered his opinion quite final.
“And on the top of an old flour barrel, too!” he
went on, turning the picture over. “Ain’t that
quaint? Well, now, where did you want it sent?”\par

Jane sat down and copied out the address for
him.\par

“And you’ll wrap it up {\itshape{carefully}}, Mr. Wheelock?”\par

“Sure thing. And send it by express, too.”\par

“And you won’t tell a living soul?”\par

“Nary a breath. Here, hadn’t you better write
your address on the back of this here pitcher—or
somewheres, case it might get lost.”\par

Jane had nearly forgotten this item. She took
a post card, and wrote on it boldly, “Paul Winkler,
Frederickstown, N. C.”\par

“There, Mr. Wheelock, will you paste that on
the back?”\par

Mr. Wheelock was inspecting the card.\par

“Paul Winkler! That young feller I seen
around here a lot with you folks? Did he make
this pitcher?”\par

“Yes,” said Jane proudly.\par

“I declare! Now I call that right smart. If it
ain’t Mrs. Lambert to the life I’ll eat my hat.”
And he set it up on his desk again, leaning against
the wall. Jane looked at it intently. If only she
knew just {\itshape{how}} good it was. She did not feel that
Mr. Wheelock was exactly an authoritative critic—then
she remembered again that Paul had said
it wasn’t “so bad,” and that settled her doubts.\par

It was, in fact, in spite of the crudities of which
Paul had been very well aware, a piece of work that
might have done credit to many a more experienced
painter; and there were things in it that neither
Jane nor Mr. Wheelock saw, vigor and harmony
and beauty, over and above the superficial likeness
to Mrs. Lambert that Mr. Wheelock found so amazing.\par

“You’ll send it off right away, Mr. Wheelock?
And—and let me know how much it costs. I can’t
pay before Saturday.”\par

% File: 238.png-----------------------------------------------------

He laughed.\par

“I’ll try to get along ’til then. Don’t you bother
your head, child.”\par

Satisfied, though full of hope and fear, Jane went
home.\par

The family gathered for its noonday meal, Mr.
Lambert taking his seat at the head of the table,
grave and pompous as always in his well-brushed
black coat. The difference of one place seemed to
make the table unnaturally small, and yet no one
seemed to notice it. Mr. Lambert talked about some
man that had been in to see him, about the prospects
of the new courthouse being finished, about the
harvests. His family docilely listened to him, interpolating
the proper question or remark here and
there. Paul’s name was not mentioned, it being
tacitly understood that such were the wishes of the
master of the house.\par

% File: 239.png-----------------------------------------------------

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XV—AN UNSUSPECTED HERO}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
Paul’s departure left the old problem still unsolved.
Well, there was no help for it; if the family
tradition was to be destroyed at last, so it must
be. The time was coming when the ancient name
of Winkler should be erased from the glass window
of the Bakeshop, and a stranger’s name put
in its place. Even Granny, usually so little troubled
from her serenity by the vicissitudes of earthly
things, seemed to brood over the prospect with melancholy.
But the subject was not discussed so frequently
as of yore, partly because there was little to
be gained from such discussion, and partly because
it reminded Mr. Lambert of his nephew’s delinquency
and put him in a bad humor.\par

As September was always a hot month in that
part of the country, school never began until early
in October.\par

Jane felt utterly lost. Usually so resourceful,
so capable of finding something to amuse her or
interest her every minute of the day, she now went
about her tasks indolently, and spent the rest of
her time wandering around listlessly. Several
times, she went down to call on Mr. Sheridan, who
trotted her down to see his new Leghorn hens and
his six Jersey cows. He had gone in for farming
with his whole soul. He also discussed the changes
he was making in the old house. Yes, he had decided
to live in Frederickstown for good, as his
grandfather had done before him, and his uncle,
the Major, had done for many years. No, he
didn’t think so much of solitude as he once had—but
then there were reasons. Yes, he might travel
now and then, but that didn’t count. No, he had
not planned to settle permanently in Frederickstown,
when he had first come, but things had happened
since then that had changed his mind. Of
course Janey had heard the news. Yes, he was the
happiest man in the world. No, he had never been
{\itshape{really}} in love before. No, he didn’t think Peterson
would ever get married. Jane listened to him with
the half-disdainful interest that one, who has
been hardly dealt with by fate, pays to the cheerful
talk of the fortunate. Their positions were
reversed.\par

Jane was almost sorry that everything had gone
so smoothly with Lily and Mr. Sheridan—she
would have liked to have some complications to
work on. It also seemed to her hardly dignified
in Mr. Sheridan to have abandoned his pessimism
so readily—whatever the cause of it might have
been. And now that he was so cheerful and full
of plans, he seemed to her less interesting than he
had been before.\par

She was on pins and needles waiting for news
of what had befallen Paul’s picture. She had allowed
no one to share this secret which was absolutely
her own, and her restless eagerness to
hear was increased by not having anyone with
whom to speculate on the chances of its success or
failure.\par

No word had come from Paul. Where he was,
what he was doing, how he was living were unknown
to the family.\par

One fine, sunny day Aunt Gertrude declared that
she was going to shut up shop and take a holiday.\par

“Come, we’ll take Dinah and the old wagon, and
go out to the country. Elise, you and Jane can
make up sandwiches. Granny doesn’t want to go,
but Anna will be here to take care of her. Father
is going over to Allenboro, so there doesn’t have
to be any lunch cooked here, and Anna can get
Granny’s.”\par

The prospect of this unexpected spree put everyone,
including Jane into high spirits. Aunt Gertrude
roasted two chickens, to be eaten cold, baked
a chocolate cake with marshmallow filling, and
boiled eggs, while Elise and Jane cut and spread
enough sandwiches to stay the appetite of a small
army.\par

At noonday they set out in the old wagon that
had made the trip to Allenboro, Carl driving, with
Aunt Gertrude and the twins beside him, Jane and
Elise in the back with the luncheon hamper, books,
embroidery and games.\par

And away they rumbled. Aunt Gertrude who
actually had not been into the open country lying
around Frederickstown in years, had set her heart
on picnicking in one particular spot.\par

“I remember it from the time when I was a girl,”
she said, blushing as she did so easily. “Long ago
we had a picnic there—it’s about a mile below the
Webster’s farm, Carl—I’ll show you—Nellie Webster,
and Sam (she was referring to Dolly’s father
and mother) and poor Nannie Muller and Ben
McAllister—just think, they’re all old folk like me,
now! And it was there that I met your father!
Think of that now!”\par

Jane, finding this interesting, moved so that she
could kneel behind the seat, with her elbows on the
back.\par

“Is that really true, Mummy? And did you like
him right away? Was he handsome?”\par

“Certainly he was handsome—and your father is
still a {\itshape{remarkably}} handsome man, my dear!” said
Mrs. Lambert, rather aggressively; and indeed she
firmly believed that her husband was a perfect
model of masculine good looks.\par

“Yes. Well, go on, Mummy. What did you
wear?”\par

“What did I wear? Well, it’s very queer but
I {\itshape{do}} remember that quite plainly. I wore a green
muslin dress—that very dress, Lisa, that you found
in my old trunk the other day—and a white leghorn
hat, with little pink roses. Lisa, have you any idea
what ever became of that hat? No—I remember
now, I trimmed it up again and gave it to you when
you were a little girl—and how sweet you looked
in it!”\par

“I want a hat with pink rothes,” murmured
Lottie.\par

“Don’t interrupt, Lottie. Go on, Mummy.
What was Daddy like?”\par

“Your father,” said Mrs. Lambert complacently,
“was a {\itshape{great}} catch. He was older than the rest of
us, and so dignified. At that time, I remember,
he wore a big moustache—and such a lovely brown.
I was quite afraid of him, and I was sure that he
thought me a very frivolous girl, as I certainly was.
But—he didn’t seem to mind. And that night,
there was a lovely big moon, and the hay had just
been cut—and he took me home.”\par

That seemed to be the end of the story; Mrs.
Lambert stopped, and a thoroughly sentimental
smile spread over her youthful face. Lisa sighed.
She was, if possible, even more sentimental than
her mother, and in the hours that her flaxen head
was bent over her incessant handiwork, it was filled
with imaginings of romantic scenes, and dashing
young gentlemen like Walter Scott’s heroes. She
liked the portion of her mother’s artlessly told romance
that touched on the moon and the new-mown
hay, but for herself she would have preferred a
smooth-shaven hero to one with the dragoon’s
moustache that her mother so greatly admired.\par

“Now, Carl, you drive along this road to the
left,” said Mrs. Lambert. “It’s all changed very
little. I remember that rock, {\itshape{perfectly!}} And we
can lead Dinah off from the road and hitch her to
a tree. And here we all get out.”\par

So out they got, and Carl tied Dinah to a tree,
while his sisters took the impedimenta out of the
wagon. Mrs. Lambert holding a twin with each
hand, lead the way along a shady path that skirted
the bank of a meandering stream. The shadow
of a grove of trees lay over the long grass; on each
side of the stream stretched meadows colored with
patches of golden-rod, and red pepper-grass; in the
apple-trees the fruit was already bright red among
the green leaves; the sun was warm, and the wind
caressing.\par

“This is the very place—these are the very trees,”
said Mrs. Lambert. “And now we shall all have
lunch,”—this in a brisk, practical voice, for notwithstanding
her romantic memories, Mrs. Lambert
was hungry.\par

Elise spread a white cloth out on the grass,
weighting it at the corners with three large stones
and “The Vicar of Wakefield.” Carl went to put
the bottles of loganberry juice in the stream to cool,
and the others unloaded the hamper. Then they
all sat down to eat. And when they had eaten all
they wanted—that is, until there was nothing left
to want—Aunt Gertrude took a book, pretending
that she was going to read, and went to sleep, Elise
took her sewing—pretending that she was going to
be industrious, when she was really going to sit
and dream—the twins, took off their shoes and
stockings, and made for the shallow stream like a
pair of ducks; Carl, who had recently acquired some
enthusiasm for natural history, began to look
around for specimens of the local flora and fauna—in
the shape of mulberry leaves, and spiders, and
Jane rambled off to see what she could see.\par

With her hands clasped behind her, she wandered
through the trees, sometimes stopping to smell the
ferns that grew in the moist rocks. At length she
reached the edge of the little wood, where the
stream, as if it had been playing a game with her,
chuckled pleasantly at having appeared where she
had not expected to find it. Again, on the opposite
bank was the meadow, where now a few brown
cows were to be seen in the distance, placidly
munching the grass.\par

But it was not the cows that interested Jane at
that moment; her curiosity was piqued immediately
by a certain peculiar figure under an oak-tree on the
far side of the stream.\par

This figure was seated on a little camp stool, beneath
a green umbrella—as if the oak tree did {\itshape{not}}
come up to the mark in furnishing the amount of
shade required.\par

“What {\itshape{can}} he be doing?” wondered Jane. The
odd character had his back to her so that she could
not make out exactly what his occupation was, and
therefore left her no alternative but that of picking
her way across the stream on the stones, and
ascertaining his business for herself.\par

As she approached him her wonder grew. He
wore a suit of black and white checks, an emerald-hued
necktie of such proportions that the loops of
the bow were visible even from Jane’s inconvenient
angle of sight. But most remarkable of all, was
his hat. It was such a hat as, once seen, would
leave an indelible impression, and yet defied all description.
It can only be said that it was large—extremely
large—that it was of straw, and that it
was ornamented with a scarf of a rich and vivid
green. But the jaunty freedom of its lines, the
expression of its broad and supple brim—these were
the individualities that distinguished it from all the
other hats ever made by the hand of man.\par

After a moment or two Jane made out what he
was doing. He was painting a picture. In front
of him was a small easel, and on the easel was a
small canvas, and on the canvas was a bewildering
blur of colors. On his thumb he supported a huge
palette.\par

It occurred to Jane that this fellow craftsman of
Paul might have heard of her cousin, and in any
event his occupation interested her. She drew
nearer, until she was close enough to watch the
airy strokes of his brushes which he selected from
time to time from a large bunch, much as a golfer
selects his clubs.\par

Presently, evidently hearing some motion on the
grass behind him, the artist looked around and saw
her. At once he sprang up, doffing his wonderful
hat.\par

“Ah! How do you do?”\par

Jane stared at him, and then said, with dignity,\par

% File: 247.png-----------------------------------------------------

“How do you do? Am I disturbing you?”\par

“Not at all! {\itshape{Not}} at all.”\par

“Can I watch you?”\par

“I shall be delighted; though I fear that your
interest will be ill repaid,” he said modestly. “I
am, as you see, endeavoring to render my impressions
of the beauty and tranquillity of this charming
scene. Ah, Nature! Nature! there is nothing like
Nature, my dear young lady,—you may take my
word for it. I am a great worshipper of Nature—I
wear her colors like a true knight!” And he
pointed to the scarf around the crown of his hat,
which, as has been said, was of a green that was
surely never to be met with on land or sea. He
resumed his seat on the little camp stool, under the
green umbrella—also, let it be observed, of Nature’s
hue—and Jane, whose curiosity had been much
piqued by this odd little man, settled herself sociably
on a hillock. He set to work again, this
time using certain self-conscious little mannerisms,
throwing his head on one side, thrusting out his
underlip, pondering over his palette, and then holding
up one finger, saying briskly, “Ah-ha! Now
I’ve got it!” and impetuously dashing a blob of
paint onto the meek canvas, which seemed to have
had already far more trouble than it deserved.\par

Jane looked at him intently. He was a little
man, of twenty-six or seven, with a rosy face, a
pug nose, and bright blue eyes, like pieces of Dutch
china. His straw colored hair was combed down
on his forehead, curled slightly around his ears,
and grew down the nape of his neck. He wore a
tiny moustache, which seemed to have no kinship
with either his hair or his eyebrows, for where
these last were almost flaxen, the stiff fringe on his
upper lip was as red as rust. Yet he was a pleasant
looking young man; the simplicity and earnestness
of his expression, even his frank satisfaction with
himself, made one like him in spite of all his absurdities.\par

“Now, you’re putting in the cows, aren’t you?”
inquired Jane, respectfully.\par

“Yes, indeed. I am going to put in three cows—three
is rather a symbolic number, you know.
Faith, Hope and Charity—Good, Better, Best, so—so
many things run in threes. I should like to
suggest the number Three to the spectator—in fact,
that’s really what I’m driving at.”\par

It seemed a quaint idea to Jane, but original.\par

“Do you—do you live in Frederickstown?” she
ventured, presently.\par

“No. I regret to say that I am not a native of
these delightful environs,” said he, “I am a bird
of passage.” He looked at her thoughtfully as
he repeated this definition of himself, evidently
wondering how she liked “birds of passage.”\par

“You mean you don’t live anywhere?”\par

“Just that. All Nature is my home—the trees,
the rocks—”\par

“You {\itshape{live}} in trees and rocks?” gasped Jane, looking
at his dapper little suit, and wondering how it
withstood the strain of such habits.\par

% File: 249.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Figuratively speaking. I confess that at times
I inhabit—hotels. Deplorable as such necessity is,
still it exists.”\par

“Yes,” said Jane, who did not understand why
such a necessity should be particularly deplorable,
“of course.”\par

The little man looked at her, and then in a confidential
tone, remarked,\par

“I am an enemy to Civilization, Look! Look
about you! These noble trees, this grassy meadow,
that purling stream—all are doomed, my dear
young lady. Have you ever thought of that?
Civilization will overtake this natural Paradise—the
factory will rise, the stony arms of the City
will crush out the fresh beauty of the flowering
mead—even these cows are slightly civilized already.”
And a look of discontent overshadowed
his cheerful, rosy face, as he gazed at the peaceful
animals munching the grass under some distant
willow trees.\par

Just at that moment a series of shrill cries rent
the air. Jane sprang up. There could be no doubt
that they came from the spot where she had left her
family. She darted past the little artist, flew along
the bank of the stream, and finally reached the scene
of the commotion; though she was forced to view
it from the opposite bank.\par

This is what had happened: Mrs Lambert, as
has been said, had gone to sleep, and, while Elise
had been sitting quietly, with a book in her lap, a
large, black cow had ambled up behind her, and in
the friendliest way in the world had thrust its head
over her shoulder. Elise had promptly screamed;
Mrs. Lambert, waking suddenly and seeing the cow,
had screamed also, and then the twins, making mudpies
down by the water’s edge, had added their
shrieks to the general uproar. Elise, losing her
presence of mind, had started to run, whereupon,
after a moment’s thought, the cow had followed
her.\par

“One moment! Allow me!” cried a voice behind
Jane. “Ladies, be calm!” And the dapper little
figure of “Nature’s Knight” sprang forward,
hopped nimbly across the stepping stones of the
stream, clambered up the muddy bank, and clutching
the green umbrella, flew to Elise’s rescue.\par

He ran around in front of the cow, shouting
loudly, recklessly drawing all the attention of the
astounded animal upon himself. By this time the
whole family had collected to watch the proceedings.
Carl was chuckling. Mrs. Lambert was half-weeping,
half-laughing, and wringing her hands all at
once. Jane, open-mouthed, followed all the extraordinary
actions of the rescuer, who, making the
strangest sounds in his throat, waving his green
umbrella, appeared to be trying to mesmerize the bewildered
cow.\par

But singular as his methods were, the stranger
actually succeeded in coaxing the animal away from
Elise, and then began to shoo it across the field,
with such energy and determination that presently
it began to trot and then to gallop until it had vanished
out of sight around the edge of the woods.\par

Elise, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, and
looking rather foolish, got down from the fence
to which she was clinging in desperation, and timidly
thanked the young man, who had again removed
his hat with something of the flourish of an
acrobat.\par

“You aren’t hurt?” cried Mrs. Lambert, rushing
to her daughter. “Oh, my dear, I really don’t think
there was any danger at all—I’m sure that was
quite a dear old cow—that is,—I don’t mean that
it wasn’t extremely kind of you, sir, and I’m sure
we are all {\itshape{very}} grateful to you—”\par

“Madam, I was fortunate to have this opportunity
of serving you,” said the young gentleman,
grandiloquently, and then turning to Elise, he
added, with deep concern, “I trust that {\itshape{you}} feel no
ill effects from this unpleasant adventure—”\par

“Oh, no—no, indeed, thank you.” Elise, being
very self-conscious, blushed, and looked at her
mother as if asking what she should say next.\par

“Won’t you rest for a moment, sir?” said Mrs.
Lambert, “and have something cooling to drink?
Carl, my dear, aren’t there one or two more bottles
of loganberry down in the stream?” And then
turning again to the stranger, who listened very
willingly to her invitation to refreshment, she asked
him if she might know his name.\par

“My name, Madam?” he looked around at them
all as if to assure himself that they were quite prepared
for anything that might follow. “My name is
Montgomery,—P. Hyacinth Montgomery!” No
one turned a hair. Mrs. Lambert then told him her
name, and that of each member of her family, and
then they all sat down, under the tree.\par

Very soon all constraint between the Lambert’s
and Mr. Montgomery had quite disappeared. He
was an adaptable, sociable person, and with all his
eccentricities and absurdities, had a certain air of
wistfulness that touched Mrs. Lambert. He did not
seem at all loath to talk about himself, especially
about his feelings; and the only thing he touched on
rather vaguely was the matter of his native section
of the country.\par

He was in “these environs” only temporarily, he
said, and was lodging at the Red Fox Hotel, between
Frederickstown and Goldsboro.\par

“Why, then,” said Mrs. Lambert, “we can take
you part way home, if you are ready to start soon.
We are going in the same direction.”\par

She could not tell what it was about Mr. Montgomery
that seemed to her pathetic, but whatever it
was it inspired the kindly woman to be cordial and
friendly to the odd little man. He accepted her
offer eagerly, and Jane fancied that as he did so he
looked timidly at Elise.\par

While the others were packing up various odds
and ends into the picnic basket, he ran off to collect
his own possessions which he had left under the oak
tree up the stream.\par

“He’s a queer duck,” remarked Carl, carefully
sorting out his specimens of plant and animal life.\par

% File: 253.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Can {\itshape{I}} have a hat with a green thcarf?” demanded
Lottie.\par

“I’ll borrow his suit to play chess on,” added Carl.\par

“Hush! Carl,—don’t make fun of him,” said
Mrs. Lambert, smiling in spite of herself. “He
seems to be a very good-hearted young man. Here
he comes now.”\par

All flushed and panting, Hyacinth appeared with
his numerous burdens; but notwithstanding the fact
that he was laden like a camel with his box, and stool
and easel and umbrella, he insisted upon carrying
Elise’s books, and even offered to manage the basket
{\itshape{somehow}}.\par

Just why, each and every one of the Lamberts
felt a distinct liking for the ridiculous P. Hyacinth
it would be hard to say, yet that they did was evident.
And on his part, he seemed upon half an
hour’s acquaintance to feel as much at home with
them all as if he had known them all his life.\par

As they rumbled and bounced back to town he
chattered happily and confidingly to them all, but
for Elise he reserved some of his choicest thoughts
on the beauties of nature.\par

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lambert, when he had finally
parted from them at the road that led off in a short
cut to Goldsboro, after assuring them that he
hoped for nothing more ardently than to renew his
acquaintance with them, “a very nice young man,
indeed. Where a good heart is so plainly beneath
it one can forgive a small matter like a checker
board waistcoat.”\par

% File: 254.png-----------------------------------------------------

Elise meantime had been thinking over not the
checker-board waistcoat but the orange-colored
moustache,\par

“But it was certainly very brave of him to frighten
that bull away,” she remarked, half as if to herself.
Carl shouted.\par

“A bull! You mean one poor old cow!”\par

Elise undisturbed by this interruption, added again
in a tone as if she were arguing out his faults and
virtues with herself,\par

“And even if his moustache {\itshape{was}} queer, he—he had
a very nice complexion.” Then realizing that Jane
had overheard this remark, she blushed a vivid pink,
pretended to be looking for her work bag, and then
asked, coldly,\par

“What are you laughing at, Janey?”\par

“I?” said Jane innocently; “{\itshape{I}} wasn’t laughing.
Gracious! I wasn’t {\itshape{laughing}}.”\par

% File: 255.png-----------------------------------------------------

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CHAPTER XVI—A FAMILY MATTER}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
The appearances of Mr. P. Hyacinth Montgomery
at the Bakery became very frequent. His devotion
to the family increased so rapidly that in a
little while, not a day passed without his calling to
inquire solicitously for the health of all, to talk to
Aunt Gertrude, present a bouquet of wild flowers to
Granny (who always had to have them taken out
of her room because they made her sneeze), and play
with the twins like an affectionate uncle.\par

One day, having noticed the sign on the Bakeshop
window, evidently for the first time, he inquired
how the name there happened to be “Winkler,” when
the family name was “Lambert.” He showed so
much interest in the matter that Mrs. Lambert, flattered,
gave him a short history of the family, to
which he listened thoughtfully, once murmuring
something about “coincidence.”\par

“A quaint history,” he remarked.\par

No member of the household was so blind as not
to notice the preference that Mr. Montgomery
showed for the society of Miss Elise, nor her tell-tale
bashfulness when he plucked up sufficient courage to
address her. But Mr. Lambert so plainly disapproved
of the young man that not even his wife
dared to open any discussion on the subject with
him, for fear that a violent explosion would result.
The old merchant maintained a stolid silence which
all the pathetic efforts of Mr. Montgomery were
powerless to thaw; though now and then Mr. Lambert
was inspired to break it himself in order to
utter sarcasms that reduced the poor young man to
the last stage of discomfort and despair, and frequently
caused Elise to weep bitterly in the solitude
of her little bedroom. At the same time, she found
something rather agreeable to her romantic taste in
this rôle of unhappy love-lorn maiden.\par

“You are enjoying a great deal of leisure, Mr.
Montgomery,” Mr. Lambert remarked one evening,
looking at the writhing youth over his spectacles.
“Is it a vacation—or a habit?”\par

P. Hyacinth smiled uncertainly, with a beseeching
expression in his large blue eyes.\par

“Neither a vacation—nor yet exactly a—a habit,
sir. I—I have my own philosophy of life, as you
might say—”\par

“Ah!—a rather expensive one, I {\itshape{do}} say,” interrupted
Mr. Lambert. “You are fortunate to be able
to afford your philosophy. You expect to remain
for long in these parts?”\par

“Not {\itshape{very}} long—that is, I—my plans are not definite.”\par

“My wife has given me to understand that you
are—an {\itshape{artist}}?” Mr. Lambert observed in a tone that
almost overcame the miserable Hyacinth.\par

% File: 257.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Not really—that is—with me, sir, Art is an—an
avocation, as you might say—”\par

“Ah! And what might your {\itshape{vo}}cation be?”\par

Mr. Montgomery waved his hand.\par

“That, sir, is inconstant, variable.”\par

“I am not surprised that it {\itshape{is}},” remarked Mr.
Lambert, and after that, he withdrew into his shell
of icy silence, evidently waiting for further developments
before he expressed his opinion of P. Hyacinth
still more plainly.\par

In Jane, Elise found a highly sympathetic confidante,
but even Jane was prompted to ask frankly,\par

“But what does he do, Elise? Does he sell his
pictures?”\par

“He does,” cried Elise. “He’s sold {\itshape{three}}! He
did a perfectly lovely design once for a stationer’s
advertising calendar—it was a picture of a girl, he
said, with a lot of red roses in her arms. And he
did a picture of some wild animals for a sportsman’s
den.”\par

“And what was the other one?”\par

“I—he didn’t tell me. We started to talk of
something else. Oh, Jane, are you going to be horrid
about him, too?” cried Elise, suddenly bursting
into tears. Then, having grown quite artful where
any defense of her suitor was necessary, she added,
“Paul was an artist, and you didn’t laugh at {\itshape{him}}!”
To Jane it seemed hardly worth while to point
out what appeared to her to be the many differences
between Paul and Mr. Montgomery. So
she disregarded Elise’s challenge, and putting
both arms around her sister, said half-laughing,\par

“You know I’m not going to be horrid about him.
I like him very much.”\par

“Do you really, Janey?” asked Elise, brightening.
“Oh, Jane you can’t imagine how unselfish he is.
He—he said he’d give up everything for me. He
said he’d break stones in a quarry—boo—hoo!”
And here Elise again dissolved into tears.\par

“Well, he won’t, dear,” said Jane comfortingly,
“I mean—that is—he probably won’t have to.
There are so many other things that he could do, you
see. What else did he say?”\par

“What else? Oh, well—not very much,” answered
Elise, blushing, and beginning to dimple.
“He said that—he—he’d have to have a talk with
father.”\par

“Good gracious! Then he—oh, Elise!”\par

“Only he’s {\itshape{so}} afraid of Papa. Of course, Janey,
you must understand that Mr. Montgomery hasn’t—you
know—hasn’t—that is, I know he likes me, but
he hasn’t said so. He says he can’t, until he’s talked
to Papa; he says that wouldn’t be honorable. And
Papa won’t give him a chance!” And once more,
Elise began to weep gently.\par

“Don’t cry, Elise darling—father {\itshape{will}} give him a
chance,” said Jane; but these words of comfort only
elicited sobs from Elise.\par

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” she wailed disconsolately.\par

This state of affairs seemed hopelessly complicated
to Jane. It had no points in common with the romance
of Lily and Mr. Sheridan, and in this fact
Elise found a certain melancholy satisfaction. Elise
of course kept Lily well-posted on the details of her
own affair of the heart, and unconsciously assumed
a certain superiority in recounting and describing
her difficulties that almost irritated the sweet
tempered and sympathetic Lily.\par

“{\itshape{I}} was very unhappy, too,” said Lily; but Elise
shook her head as if to say, “What opposition did
{\itshape{you}} meet with?”\par

Jane simply looked on, vastly interested in this
new development of domestic happenings, but exceedingly
dubious as to the outcome. Mrs. Lambert
was, of course, deeply sympathetic with her daughter,
and Mr. Lambert feeling that there was a conspiracy
among the feminine members of the household
to overcome his objections, became more than
adamantine in his silence.\par

So matters stood one warm evening, when, notwithstanding
the date the summer still lingered on,
perhaps from sheer curiosity to know how the problem
was going to be solved.\par

Jane, with a book in her lap, was sitting at her
window, not reading, for the light was fading out
of the sky, and she was unwilling to light her lamp,
so lovely were these last twilight moments of that
mild autumn day.\par

Presently, hearing voices in the garden, she
thrust her curly head out of the window.\par

Elise was sitting on the green bench against the
wall; in front of her stood Mr. Montgomery, who,
judging from the open gate, had just made his appearance.
He held his hat in his hand, but Jane,
accustomed to having her attention caught by the
green scarf upon it, now noticed with surprise that
the green scarf had been replaced by a black one.
Now, what might be the significance of that? Mr.
Montgomery’s tow-colored hair was slightly disordered,
giving yet another reason for one’s believing
that he was in distress of some sort.\par

“Poor little man, what {\itshape{can}} be the matter?” wondered
Jane, and she leaned a little farther out so
that she could hear some of the conversation.\par

“No, dear Miss Lambert—I feel that I must go,”
he was saying in sincerely miserable accents. “You
cannot—I must not flatter myself that you {\itshape{can}} feel
what this parting means to me. Indeed, desiring
your happiness above all things, I earnestly hope
that you are untouched by {\itshape{my}} wretchedness! I have
come to-night to say farewell to you and your
charming family for whom I could not feel a deeper
affection were it my own.”\par

“Oh, Mr. Montgomery—surely you don’t mean
that you are going for good?” cried Elise.\par

He drew a heavy sigh. And then, letting his
head droop pathetically, said,\par

“Miss Lambert, that must be for you to decide.
And yet I cannot allow you—even though my dearest
hopes were to be realized thereby—to make any
decision. Miss Lambert, I think you may have
guessed my feelings. How deep and sincere they
are I can only prove by my readiness to disregard
them. In short, dear Miss Lambert, I feel my
unworthiness to aspire to the happiness—” here
he swallowed his words completely so that Jane
found it impossible to make out what he was
saying.\par

“But where are you going, Mr. Montgomery?”
stammered Elise, evidently on the point of tears
again. Her concern and emotion affected P. Hyacinth
deeply and rapidly. Taking a step closer to
her, he looked into her eyes;\par

“Are these tears, Miss Lambert—Elise? Is it
possible that my departure is not wholly indifferent
to you?” he cried, casting his hat recklessly on the
ground and seizing both her hands.\par

“Oh, Mr. Montgomery, you know—that it is not,”
murmured Elise, freeing one hand in order to dry
her eyes.\par

“Then,” declared Hyacinth heroically, “I shall—I
shall seek an interview with your parent to-night—”\par

“You may have an interview immediately, if you
want,” announced a bass voice from the dining-room
doorway.\par

“Jiminy!” gasped Jane, drawing herself back from
the window.\par

The two young people started as if a cannon had
exploded beside them. Mr. Montgomery, minus at
least three shades of his rosy color, drew himself up,
and breathed a deep breath. His knees were quaking;
yet it was not without an air of real dignity that
he prepared to brave the old lion.\par

% File: 262.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Wait here, Elise. I think I had better see your
father a—alone.”\par

“Not at all,” said Mr. Lambert again raising his
terrifying tones, “Elise, I wish you to step in here,
too.”\par

Instinctively, Elise clung to Hyacinth’s hand, and
like the babes in the wood, they slowly walked into
the dining room.\par

Mr. Lambert was seated at his desk; and the light
coming in through the window shone upon his
glasses so that neither of the quailing young people
could quite see his eyes. There was a ferocious
frown between his bristling grey eyebrows.\par

“Mr. Montgomery, I heard some of the remarks
you were making to my daughter. I also heard you
say that you wanted to see me. I am willing to listen
to anything you have to say—provided that you
come to the point {\itshape{quickly}}!” He brought out the
last word so sharply that poor Hyacinth gasped as if
he had been struck by a high wind.\par

“Yes, sir,” he managed to articulate, faintly; and
after this effort seemed unable to utter a sound.\par

“Well?” said Mr. Lambert. “Proceed.”\par

Hyacinth squared his shoulder.\par

“Mr. Lambert—sir—I—er—I—”\par

“Do you wish to marry my daughter?”\par

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”\par

“Then why don’t you say so?”\par

“I {\itshape{do}} say so, sir.”\par

“And you wish to ask my permission?”\par

“Yes, sir—just so. I {\itshape{do}} ask your permission.”\par

% File: 263.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Lambert, removing his
spectacles, and polishing them slowly on his handkerchief.
“It is {\itshape{not}} granted.”\par

Here Elise began to weep, but disregarding her
distress, Mr. Lambert continued,\par

“And I should advise you, sir, to keep to that very
excellent plan of yours to depart, at once.”\par

Notwithstanding the grim look around Mr. Lambert’s
mouth, Hyacinth held his ground heroically.\par

“Sir, I love your daughter. I think I have a right
to ask you why you object to me as a son-in-law.”\par

Mr. Lambert turned upon him slowly in his swivel
chair, eyed him gravely from head to foot, and then
said,\par

“Yes. Quite so. You have such a right. Very
well, then,—I object to your clothes, to begin with.”\par

“Sir,” said Hyacinth, turning a deep pink, “they
can be—changed.”\par

“No doubt,” said Mr. Lambert. “In the second
place I object to your profession,—if you are pleased
to call it such.”\par

“You object to my being an interpreter of nature—an
artist, sir?” stammered Hyacinth. “Surely sir—however
that too can be changed.” And he
bowed his head submissively. “In fact, sir,” he
added with an ingenuous expression, “I shall be
quite willing to change it.”\par

“Ah,” said Mr. Lambert. “Well, my dear sir,” a
slightly sarcastic smile illumined his rugged features
for a moment, and he rose as if he were about to
finish off the matter, with his final objection, “well,
my dear sir, lastly, I don’t like your name. Perhaps,
though” ({\itshape{very}} ironically), “you can change
{\itshape{that}}!”\par

Hyacinth hesitated a moment, and then said pathetically,\par

“Don’t you really like it, sir?”\par

“I can hardly express my feelings about it!” cried
Mr. Lambert, losing patience. “Really, my dear
sir—”\par

“One moment, please,” urged Hyacinth, “I—I {\itshape{can}}
change it—”\par

“No doubt! No doubt! Perhaps you can change
your skin—indeed I should not be surprised—”\par

“But really, sir. Allow me to explain. I—well,
it is necessary for you to know sir, that, very often,
persons who embrace any line of artistic activity
may desire to assume a fictitious name—”\par

“I can easily imagine that in many cases regard
for their personal safety would force them to it,”
observed Mr. Lambert, drily.\par

“Precisely. And sir—I confess that heretofore
you have known me under a name that—that is not
my own.”\par

“Not your own!” roared Mr. Lambert. “What
the deuce do you mean sir? Not your own! Then
whose is it?”\par

“No one’s sir, believe me!” cried Hyacinth, backing
away from the indignant old man. “I invented
it, sir—”\par

“And you mean to tell me that you have had the
audacity to enjoy my hospitality under false pretences!—to
say nothing of paying court to my
daughter—”\par

“Pray, sir—one moment!” implored Hyacinth,
wringing his hands. “Oh, don’t misunderstand
me—”\par

“And will you have the goodness to tell me, sir,
at once, {\itshape{what}} and {\itshape{who}} you are?” bellowed Mr. Lambert.
“Come, I won’t tolerate your insolence.”\par

“Oh, my {\itshape{dear}} Mr. Lambert, don’t, {\itshape{don’t}} be hasty.
I—I don’t know what I am. But I—”\par

“What is your name, sir?” shouted Mr. Lambert.\par

“My name, sir, is—Winkler. P. Hyacinth Winkler.
The P. stands for Pol—”\par

“Winkler!” gasped Mr. Lambert, “{\itshape{Winkler}}!”\par

“Winkler!” murmured Elise, faintly.\par

“For Polybius,” continued Hyacinth, not heeding
their ejaculations. “I will conceal nothing from
you sir. The P. stands for Polybius. My sponsors,
not I, are to be blamed—”\par

“Winkler!” repeated Mr. Lambert.\par

“If you are afflicted with the same sensitiveness
of the auditory nerve that nature bestowed on me,”
went on Hyacinth, “you cannot doubt that there is
something in the combination of the word Winkler
with the two polysyllabic names preceding it, which
is grating, imperfect—”\par

“Winkler,” Mr. Lambert was still repeating monotonously.\par

“Yes, sir. I now perceive the cause of your astonishment.
It is a name with which you have some
connection—”\par

% File: 266.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Will you be good enough to tell me what part
of the world you are from?” demanded Mr. Lambert.\par

“I was born in the state of Missouri, in the year
1895. My parents were people of consequence in a
humble way. My father had for many years been
the proprietor of a solid business in dyes and textiles—”\par

“My dear sir, I don’t want your biography,” interrupted
Mr. Lambert, but in a remarkably softened
voice. “Your father’s name was—?”\par

“Samuel Winkler.”\par

“Samuel? And his father’s?”\par

“John.”\par

“John—Johann! By Jove!” cried Mr. Lambert.
And he began to rummage in the drawer of his desk,
bringing to light the large scroll on which was
traced the family tree of the Winklers. Just as he
had unrolled it under Paul’s eyes, he now unrolled it
again, and eagerly began to trace the lines of twigs
and branches.\par

“Here!” he exclaimed, “Samuel Winkler—son
of the first Johann—moves to Missouri in 1817—two
sons, Ferdinand and Johann. Ferdinand died
1824. Johann married, 1850—Samuel, your father,
born 1857. Is that right, sir?”\par

“Yes.”\par

“Do you realize,” inquired Mr. Lambert, throwing
himself back in his chair, “that you are the
fourth or fifth cousin of my wife? That you are,
in fact, the legal heir—or can be made so by her
consent and yours—to this famous establishment.
That, in a word sir,” cried Mr. Lambert, growing
almost too excited to speak distinctly, “if you
show aptitude, and willingness to fit yourself to
carry on this business, I shall withdraw all my objections
to you—I will accept you as a son-in-law—Embrace
one another, my children! Bless you a
thousand times! Ah, Heavens! Gertrude!” And
almost apoplectic with excitement, Mr. Lambert
sprang up, and actually cutting a caper, flew to the
door to call his wife.\par

As a matter of fact, he had not far to look;
for his roars and bellows had brought his entire
family down to the hall outside the dining-room
door, Jane having informed her mother of
the probable nature of the scene going on within,
and a natural concern for the well-being of the
two victims having stirred their sympathy and
anxiety.\par

“Come in! Come in!” cried Mr. Lambert, throwing
the door wide. “Gertrude, my dear, embrace
me!” and he promptly hugged his startled wife.
“Jane, kiss your dear sister. Gertrude, salute your
son—”\par

“But w-what—”\par

“What? What? You ask what? He has been
found!” Then suddenly, Mr. Lambert remembering
that actually Hyacinth had not consented to the
conditions of his acceptance at all, turned upon him
abruptly.\par

“I presume, sir, that I am right in believing that
you are willing to lay aside all other interests,
and—”\par

Then seeing Hyacinth and Elise standing by the
window, evidently quite oblivious to his oration, he
smiled with positive benevolence.\par

“I have found a {\itshape{Winkler}}, my dear wife,” he
said. “And this time, I believe,” with a playful
glance in the direction of the two at the window,
“a Winkler who—”\par

“Who will stay put,” finished Jane.\par

There was no need for much explanation, Mr.
Lambert’s tones during the interview having been of
such a quality that not only the entire household
might have heard him, but the neighbors into the
bargain.\par

And thus, as Jane had once prophesied to Paul,
the incredible had happened—the Other Winkler
was found.\par

% File: 269.png-----------------------------------------------------

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CHAPTER XVII—AN HONOR TO THE FAMILY}

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{\noindent}
“And of course {\itshape{I}} shall lend you my pearl pin,”
cried Lily, embracing Elise for the sixth time.
“Oh, I {\itshape{am}} so delighted! And to think, you sly
girl, that you’re going to be married four whole
months before I am!”\par

“And I,” announced Dolly Webster, taking her
turn at embracing the blushing and dimpling Elise,
“{\itshape{I’ve}} brought you a pair of blue garters. Annie
Lee made ’em, but I sewed on the little pink roses,
so they’re from both of us. And mamma is going
to give you the dearest set of tea cups—though
that’s a secret. I {\itshape{never}} was so surprised at anything
in my life!”\par

“And your fiancé is charming,” added Amelia,
“{\itshape{so}} interesting. Now, do let me look at all these
pretty things you are making.”\par

“Well, I want to hear more about all this,” said
Annie Lee, sitting down, and taking off her rain-soaked
hat. “Here, my dear, give me some of your
sewing to do. You must be rushed to death.”\par

“I {\itshape{am}} rushed—but everyone has been helping.
The house is simply upside down,” said Elise.
“Just look at this room! I don’t know how we’re
going to get everything straightened out for the
wedding. Papa insists that we must have a big
party here afterwards, but where in the world we’ll
find room to move I don’t know.”\par

Indeed, since the events recorded in the last
chapter, the gentle routine of the Lambert’s family
life had been unhinged at its very foundations.
Everyone knows that the prospect of a wedding has
a thoroughly disturbing influence, and during the
weeks of trousseau making, and festivity-planning,
Mr. Lambert’s rules of law and order were freely
and boldly disregarded.\par

The wedding date was set for early winter,—to
this suggestion, Mr. Lambert had given a ready
consent, being anxious to have his son-in-law firmly
attached to the household and his duties as soon as
possible, and the domestic machinery moving once
again with its customary smoothness. At the same
time the old merchant desired to have his daughter’s
marriage do him credit. He discussed the preparations
fussily; he made decisions and redecisions
on the household articles and heirlooms which should
go to his daughter on her marriage; he even had
his opinions on the bride’s dress. One evening he
called her down and presented her with an ancient
silver chain, set with curious, embossed medallions,
which had belonged to his own grandmother—“Now
I have the ‘something old,’”—Elise said, as she
showed it proudly to her friends—: another time,
on his return from a trip to Allenboro, he brought
her a pair of tiny blue silk slippers, so small that
no woman of the modern generation could possibly
have pressed her feet into them. Altogether, his
satisfaction was so profound that at times he was
positively kittenish, and teased the young lovers with
elephantine playfulness. He no longer saw in his
prospective son-in-law and distant relative those
eccentricities that had annoyed him so excessively.
He called Hyacinth, Polybius—a name, which in his
opinion had classic dignity—and treated him with
a solemn regard that disconcerted the young man
even more than his former sarcasm.\par

Everyone was pleased. Letters of a most friendly
and cousinly nature had been exchanged with the
family of the bridegroom who did not hesitate to
express very frankly their surprise and delight in
that young man’s unlooked for good sense in choosing
the bride he had, and in preparing to lay aside
his artistic whimsies in favor of a solid and thriving
business.\par

Hyacinth had been exhibited to all the Lamberts’
neighbors; he had been approved and congratulated.
Frederickstown received him amiably into its midst.
He had bought a calm, dark blue suit, and was growing
a small beard to give some air of age and authority
to his rosy, youthful face. He spent much
of his time at the warehouse with Mr. Lambert
where he sat and listened gravely to the talk of the
other merchants, spoke rarely, but always with a
judicious, reflective manner, which was positively
impressive.\par

“A fine young man, who’ll be a credit to you,
Mr. Lambert, and as good a husband as any young
lady could wish,” was the general opinion of the
new Winkler.\par

He had been admitted to the secrets of the Bakery,
and here his talents shone. Here he proved his
claim to his descent, exhibiting a genius for cake-making
that might in time rival that of old Johann
himself. He had already invented three new recipes;
and so great was his enthusiasm that he actually
sat up at night thinking out new mixtures.
He had found the natural outlet for his creative instinct,
and his whole soul was possessed with an
ardor for increasing the name and fame of his
house.\par

But it was not without a slight shadow of resentment
that Jane, although she was sincerely fond
of her future brother-in-law, saw him usurping the
place that had been Paul’s. Now Paul seemed to
be entirely forgotten; his place was filled; in the
flurry of preparations even Aunt Gertrude did not
have a thought to spare for him. It was as if he
were no longer a member of the family at all, as
if his life and theirs had no connection. How could
they feel that way, Jane wondered indignantly.
And to cap all, she had heard no news of the fate
of the picture. She was bitterly disappointed, for
even while she had tried to pretend that she had
no reason to hope for much, she had really been
building all sorts of delightful imaginings on her
unshakable belief that it {\itshape{would}} win a prize.\par

But Jane was too entirely feminine not to be diverted,
and greatly absorbed by the plans for the
wedding; and on that rainy, windy afternoon, she
busily pricked her fingers trying to make tiny stitches
in the pretty, simple lingerie that she was helping
Elise to make, and listened eagerly to the chattering
of the other girls who were all talking and asking
questions at once.\par

The brisk, kindly Annie Lee promptly fitted a
thimble on her finger and took up the piece of muslin
that Elise had been hemming. The two engaged
ladies exchanged open confidences for the benefit
of all, while Dolly sat by munching chocolates from
the box of candies that she herself had brought as
an offering to the bride-to-be.\par

“Now, do tell about the wedding,” she said, giving
a bounce of anticipation. “Have you started on
your dress?”\par

“Oh, yes—and Granny has given me a lovely piece
of lace. Wait, I’ll show you. Janey, dear, will
you go and put the kettle on, and I’ll make some
tea in a little—you dear girls have gotten soaked
coming to see me.”\par

Then the half-finished wedding dress was taken
out of its box, and held so high that its immaculate
cream-colored flounces should not touch the floor.\par

“It was mother’s,” Elise explained. “And I’m
just altering it a little, so it will not look very old
fashioned—but I can’t bear to change it, and I think
it’s lovely as it is.”\par

“It’s {\itshape{delicious}}!” cried Lily.\par

“I wouldn’t {\itshape{think}} of changing it,” said Annie Lee.
“Why that’s just the style that suits you. You’ll
look lovely!”\par

“I suppose it was once white,” said Amelia, “but
still, that cream-color is very nice—though a pure
white would be more to my taste.”\par

“What are you talking about, Amelia—that old
ivory shade is a {\itshape{thousand}} times nicer than dead
white. Hold it up against you, Lisa.”\par

Aunt Gertrude’s wedding dress was made of silk,
with a tight little bodice and a huge skirt, brave with
flounces and gathers; and above its mellow ivory-colored
tones Elise’s flaxen hair shone like gold.
Lily, Dolly and Annie Lee were loud in their raptures
over her plump, blooming prettiness, but
Amelia looked on with a rather strained smile.\par

“Now, put it back in the box, or you’ll soil it,”
said Annie Lee. “And {\itshape{I}} shall help Janey with the
tea; you can’t do half a dozen things at once.”\par

Over the tea-cups these feminine tongues rattled
on still more exuberantly. Amelia drew attention to
the probable differences in the futures of the two
brides-to-be, and wondered which would be the happier,
then Annie Lee began to tease her about some
imaginary suitor whom she declared was languishing
for Amelia.\par

“What nonsense! What are you saying? Whoever
heard of such a thing!” cried Amelia, but she
was immensely pleased, and put on a mysterious
expression meant to convey to them that there was
more truth in their pleasantries than they were aware
of.\par

% File: 275.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Tell me,” she said, presently, with a lively air,
“what has become of that delightful cousin of
yours?”\par

“You mean Paul?” inquired Jane, looking up
stolidly enough, but with a grin twitching at the
corners of her lips.\par

“Yes. I met him out at your dance last winter,
Dolly,” said Amelia, “and he was really charming
to me. We had many dances together—such an interesting
boy!”\par

Even Elise bent her head to conceal a smile at the
mention of the “many dances” Paul and Amelia
had had together. She had heard Paul’s account
of that pleasure.\par

“Why, Amelia! did you set your cap at Paul?
I’m surprised at you. And he was only a child!”\par

“Dear me—how can you say such things, Elise,”
cried Amelia coyly. “I—”\par

“I wish I could tell him that you asked about him,”
added Elise, “I know it would make him very
happy.”\par

“Nonsense! I’m sure he wouldn’t care in the
least! But tell me what has become of him.”\par

“He went away last month—or six weeks ago,”
said Elise, briefly, glancing at Jane. “Isn’t that
Papa just coming in, Janey? It must be after five.”\par

“After five!” cried Lily, “then I have to run,
dear. Mamma didn’t want me to come at all in this
rain—”\par

“We’ve got to go too, so we’ll take you home,
Lily,” said Annie Lee. “Come along, Amelia. We
may drop in to-morrow, Lisa, and Mama says that
if you want any extra sewing done that Roxie can
do it easily.”\par

Mr. Lambert entered the dining room just after
the four girls had gone. There was a peculiar expression
on his face—a mixture of annoyance, pleasure
and pride, and he seemed to take no notice of
the disorder of the room as he kissed his two daughters,
and asked them to give him a cup of tea.\par

“And, Jane, call your mother. Where is Carl?”\par

“I think he came in just a moment ago, father.
He has been out walking.”\par

“Well, well. Well, I’ve got a piece of news—quite
a piece of news, I must say.” Still, he seemed in
no hurry to part with it, and Jane and Elise were
left to exchange inquiring glances behind his back,
until Mrs. Lambert and Carl had obeyed the summons
of the master of the house.\par

“And what is this piece of news, Peter?” asked
his wife, at length. They all looked up at him, as
he stood in front of the fire, drinking his tea.\par

“Well, I must say I am very much surprised.
And yet not so much surprised either. I had an
idea that there was something in the boy, and that
was one reason I wanted to let him have his own
rope for a while—”\par

“Daddy!” cried Jane, springing up, “is it about
{\itshape{Paul}}?”\par

Mrs. Lambert looked at her with a little frown and
a shake of the head, but Jane did not see these warning
signs.\par

% File: 277.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Lambert, smoothing his
beard. “The boy, it seems won a third prize in that
competition. I found the letter in the mail that
was left at my office—”\par

“Daddy!” shrieked Jane. “Oh, let me see! It
isn’t—it can’t be true—”\par

“Don’t yell like that, Jane!” admonished Carl.\par

“I will—I {\itshape{must}} yell! Oh, mother, darling, isn’t
it—”\par

“Sh, Janey! Of course it is wonderful news—”\par

“But Paul doesn’t know anything about it. Oh,
Daddy, where is he? Why he—” “{\itshape{I}} don’t see
how it could be—since his picture was burnt up,”
observed Carl. This fact had so far not occurred
to anyone.\par

“That’s true!” exclaimed Mr. Lambert. “Do you
imagine that there is a mistake after all?” And
his face fell slightly. He was inordinately proud of
the honor that had redounded to the family from
his discredited nephew’s achievement.\par

“No, {\itshape{no}}! There’s no mistake!” cried Jane. “It
wasn’t the burnt picture—it was the other one—the
one he did on top of the flour barrel. Don’t you
remember, Mummy?”\par

“How do {\itshape{you}} know?”\par

“Why, because I sent it off. After Paul had
gone—and he doesn’t know {\itshape{anything}}!”\par

“Well, well—the boy must learn of this, somehow,”
said Mr. Lambert. “It was absurd of him to
fly off in a temper as he did—but that’s the way of
young people. Gertrude, my dear, I think it would
be quite proper to have a notice of this inserted in
the {\itshape{Frederickstown Star}}. In fact, I dropped by on
my way home this evening, and told Jim Braintree
about it, and he’s putting it in on the front page to-morrow.
‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘I certainly must
congratulate you, Peter Lambert.’ The prize by
the way was seventy-five dollars. Not bad for a
youngster—by Jove! Frederickstown will have
reason to boast of this family for a good many
years to come, {\itshape{I’m}} thinking!” And the worthy
old man swelled almost visibly with pride, as if
in some way he was entirely responsible for the
new honor that had been bestowed upon his
house.\par

In fact, not even Jane herself was more delighted
than her father who less than a year before had angrily
consigned the prize-winning picture to dust and
oblivion behind his desk.\par

But it was all very well to say that Paul must
learn of his success. Where was he? For all that
they knew, for all that anyone knew, he might at
that very moment have been once again on the ocean,
or in New Zealand or Timbuctoo. This sad possibility
somewhat dampened Jane’s boundless, blissful
rapture; and yet she declared stoutly that she had
a feeling in her bones that Paul was coming
back—\par

“And if he does come back, Daddy,” she asked
timidly, “will you—will it be all right?”\par

“I haven’t the slightest doubt that as soon as he
gets over his little fit of temper, he will return,”
replied Mr. Lambert. “He must be running short
of money now, indeed—”\par

“{\itshape{That}} won’t bring him back!” interrupted Jane.\par

“Well, well, I am sure that he will feel—I am
sure that he will realize—that he has acted very
impetuously—and—and will do the sensible thing,”
said Mr. Lambert a trifle impatiently. “And now,
Jane, will you bring me my slippers!”\par

% File: 280.png-----------------------------------------------------

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\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XVIII—THE WANDERER COMES HOME}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\noindent}
The weeks which seemed so long to Elise and
Hyacinth, and so desperately crowded to Aunt Gertrude
(who was quite as excited and flustered as if
she were going to be married herself) {\itshape{we}} can skip
over at will. It is enough to say that within them
the old house underwent such a cleaning and scrubbing
and furbishing up as it had not known in five
and twenty years. Mr. Lambert talked of building
a new wing for the newly married couple. The
floors were scrubbed and freshly oiled, the brass
and pewter was polished until the antique household
wares fairly winked at you through the glass
doors of the cupboards. The woodwork was
rubbed until it shone like satin; fresh curtains went
up at the windows, carpets were beaten, the front
door and the window frames received a fine new
coat of green paint, and Mr. Lambert himself put
on a new latch to the door of the Bakery. And
when these wonders had been accomplished, Aunt
Gertrude entrusted the proprietorship of the Bakery
to Hyacinth and Anna, and solemnly shut herself
up to make the wedding cake. It was to be such a
wedding cake as Frederickstown had never seen before—a
mammoth delicacy, destined to be long remembered,
composed of spices and raisins and citron
and nuts, all buried under a snowy frosting, and
artistic decorations designed by the versatile Hyacinth,
who was allowed to contribute to this part
of it, only.\par

And then came the day when the Samuel Winklers
arrived, and took up their quarters at the Red
Fox Inn, midway between Frederickstown and
Goldsboro. And after they had paid their respects
to their cousins, and presented their daughter-in-law-to-be
with innumerable gifts, there was a party in
their honor, at which Granny presided with the
greatest dignity and Mr. Lambert proposed no less
than eighteen toasts which were enthusiastically
drunk in blackberry wine. In fact, the wedding
festivities in honor of a union which restored the
house of Winkler to its former state of security
threatened to completely disorganize the delighted
community.\par

At last the sixth of December—the wedding-day—was
come.\par

In accordance with a time-honored custom, the
ceremony was performed at eight o’clock at night.
And what a night it was! The first snow of the
winter had fallen, covering streets and house-tops
with a thick, soft, sparkling mantle. And like a
Russian bride, Elise returned from the old church
with the sound of sleigh bells jingling in the clear,
frosty air.\par

A beautiful bride she was, too, rosy and golden-haired
and blue-eyed; and as for Hyacinth! with a
flower in his button-hole, with his hair all sleek and
glossy, with such an expression of importance and
sedateness—it was no wonder that his parents gazed
upon him with eyes actually moist with pride, and
Elise thought him a matchless paragon amongst
men.\par

No one knows to this day how all the guests that
came managed to crowd themselves into the old
house, but they did, and no less than thirty of them
sat down at the table with the bride and bridegroom.
There was scarcely one imprint of footsteps
in the new-fallen snow that night that did not
point in the direction of the Bakery.\par

A little after nine o’clock, the musicians arrived,
Tom Drinkwater with his fiddle, and Mr. Mellitz
with his trombone in a huge green felt case, and
Frank Fisher with his harp and old Mr. Gilroy with
his cello. They settled themselves in a corner, tuned
up a bit, and then the dancing began.\par

It was with immeasurable pride that on this occasion,
Mr. Lambert welcomed Mr. Sheridan
amongst his guests—Mr. Timothy Sheridan, nephew
to the late Major, and of a family that had had its
roots in Frederickstown as long as the Winklers
themselves, or nearly. Lily was a bridesmaid, and
it was with her that Mr. Lambert himself started
the dancing. Mrs. Deacon was there, gorgeous in
purple and plumes, the Websters in a solid phalanx—in
fact there was not a face that was familiar in
Frederickstown that was not to be seen that night
glowing with satisfaction and good will and personal
enjoyment under the roof of the Lambert-Winkler
dwelling.\par

It was when the general merriment was at its
height that Jane, laden with a tray of refreshments
approached the overheated musicians who were
scraping and blowing and thumping away in that
corner of the dining room from which Mr. Lambert’s
desk—as an article that harmonized too little
with the elegance of the occasion—had been temporarily
banished.\par

“In another four or five years or so, we’ll be making
music at {\itshape{your}} wedding no doubt—if we live,
eh?” said old Elias Gilroy at last laying aside his
cello for a moment, to take a long draught of cider.
When he came out of the mug, wiping his grizzled
moustaches delicately on a blue polka dot handkerchief
he winked merrily at Jane, who had sat down
beside him.\par

“And why aren’t you twirling round with the
boys, my lassie?” he went on affectionately, now
helping himself to a gigantic slice of cake.\par

“I came over to watch you—and besides, I’d
rather look on,” said Jane, carefully smoothing out
the skirt of her new blue silk dress. “Shall I get
you some more cider, Mr. Gilroy?”\par

“Well—I’ll not trouble you,” said he, uncertainly,
“though if there’s plenty to be had—”\par

“There’s lots. There’s lots and lots of everything!”
cried Jane. “I’ll bring a pitcher!”\par

When the enthusiastic musicians had had “fresh
heart put into ’em” as Mr. Gilroy said, she stood
by watching them tune up their instruments for a
new onslaught on the famous, lively measures of
“Old Uncle Ned.”\par

“Oh, I {\itshape{do}} wish I could make music out of that
big thing!” she cried pointing to the cello.\par

“You have to be born to it,” replied Mr. Gilroy
solemnly, sawing away with all his might. “It’s an
easier matter to blow a tune through that—” he
jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Mellitz’s
gleaming trombone, whose huge tones fairly
drowned out the voices of the other instruments.
Mr. Mellitz, though he might have taken offense at
the disparaging manner in which his colleague referred
to his instrument, seemed not to have heard
Mr. Gilroy’s remark. He sat behind the other
three, directly under the window, staring fixedly
down the shining tube of the trombone at his music;—a
meager, melancholy looking man, little given
to sociable conversation, with a tallow-colored
face which just now was swollen out as he forced
all the breath in his lean body into the mouthpiece.\par

“Why,” wondered Jane, “did he choose to play
the trombone?”\par

With her hands folded in her lap, she sat watching
him fixedly, as he pushed his slide up and down.
All around her people were dancing, eating, drinking,
talking, laughing. People were leaving, people
were coming—she was not thinking about them—she
was not even thinking about solemn Mr. Mellitz
nor of how Mr. Gilroy coaxed his deep, sweet tones
out of the frayed strings of his old cello.\par

She was wondering where Paul was. The very
gaiety of the family reunion made her feel the absence
of the outcast all the more keenly. Her cheerful
hope of his return had waned steadily during
the past weeks. There was no news of him, although
Mr. Lambert himself had tried to trace
him. No, he was gone.\par

“Well, my lassie, if you watch us hard enough
no doubt you’ll learn a thing or two about it,” remarked
Mr. Gilroy, when the music came to a stop
at the end of the dance, and the musicians mopped
their perspiring faces. “Here, take this bow, since
you’re so curious, and have a try at it, while I
breathe easy a moment or two.” He put the neck
of his cello into her hand, and showed her how to
press her fingers on the strings.\par

“Now, just take the bow so—like this, see?
That’s better—and {\itshape{bite}} the string with it—”\par

Jane laughingly tried to do as she was told, but the
sound that the instrument emitted under her touch
showed only too plainly that sweetly as it could sing
under the fingers of Mr. Gilroy it had a very different
temper for rash amateurs.\par

As she looked up, laughing, into the old man’s
face, she suddenly caught her breath in a
gasp. Through the window, just behind the long
head of Mr. Mellitz, it seemed to her that she
had seen a face—though the next moment it had
disappeared.\par

% File: 286.png-----------------------------------------------------

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Gilroy, noticing her
frightened expression. “Aren’t seeing ghosts are
ye?” he added jocosely.\par

Jane shook her head, but she looked again, uneasily,
at the window. There was nothing there
but the reflection of the interior of the room—Anna
taking plates of the table, two or three older men
standing by the fire, the silhouettes of the musicians’
heads, her mother hurrying in to see about something
and then hurrying out again, people moving
past the door.\par

Then, all of a sudden, there it was again! Fantastically
white, it seemed to Jane, and apparently
without any body accompanying it, so that it looked
like a mask suspended outside the window. She
sprang up in a fright, not thinking for a moment
that it might be no more than the face of some
inquisitive wayfarer, who had stolen into the garden
to peer in upon the festivities.\par

All at once, hope, fear, doubt and joy broke over
her.\par

{\itshape{“Paul!”}}\par

The cello fell over onto the floor with an indignant
“thrum-m!” as she darted forward. The
next moment, she had opened the door, and stood
upon the snowy step, looking eagerly about in the
shadows of the garden.\par

“Paul! Paul! Are you there?”\par

A figure moved out of the darkness, into the shaft
of light that streamed through the open door.\par

“Janey!” She heard the unmistakably familiar
short laugh as she flung herself into his bear-like
hug.\par

“You’ve come back! I knew it! I knew you
would!” she cried, patting his shoulders and the
wet, rough sleeves of his shabby coat in a perfect
ecstasy of delight. “Oh, Paul—come in! come in
quickly!” But he drew back.\par

“No, no Janey. I can’t do that. But what’s
going on, anyway?”\par

“Why, Paul—don’t you know? It’s Elise—Elise’s
wedding. And what do you think? There’s
another Winkler after all—Oh, you’ve got to come
in, Paul—”\par

“No; Janey—I can’t,” he repeated firmly. “I’ll
come back again some day, as I promised—but not
now. I can’t do it now. I only stopped to look
in—I’m on my way down to Riverbury—there’s a
fellow down there who says he has some work for
me, if I want to come. I—I just stopped to peek
in, thinking that perhaps I’d see you all sitting
around the fire. A fine wedding guest I’d make,”
he added laughing. “I’d be a worse mortification
to Uncle Peter than ever I was. No, Janey, I can’t.
Walk in there like this? The black sheep of the family
coming in like a vagabond at the wedding feast?”\par

Indeed, he was shabby enough—and in his laugh
was a tell-tale note of something like shame. It
stung his pride not a little to have even Janey see
the plain evidences of the rather unsuccessful struggle
he had been waging with circumstances. He
wore the same old seaman’s cap, the same old short,
thick jacket—but frayed edges, patches, and empty
buttonholes did not escape Janey’s eyes, and he knew
it, and tried to draw out of the light. He was
much thinner too, and even a trifle taller, so that
his garments, which had never fitted him kindly
were now still looser in the places where they had
once been much too loose and tighter where they
had once been much too tight. He felt also that
the light showed only too plainly the traces that actual
hunger had drawn in his face, and of these he
was more ashamed than of his clothes.\par

“You mustn’t stand out here, Janey—you’re
shivering in that thin dress. And I must say good-bye—you’ve
left the door open, and here come some
people.”\par

Janey glanced over her shoulder. Through the
door from the hall, her father was entering the
dining room, with Elise, followed by Hyacinth and
Aunt Gertrude, and then the remaining guests. The
ceremony of solemnly drinking the bride’s health
was about to take place. Granny sat at the head of
the table.\par

“How lovely Elise looks,” said Paul, “and how
nice it is to see them all. There’s Mrs. Deacon—and
Lily and Mr. Sheridan—and there’s my friend,
Amelia. Is that fellow with the beard the bridegroom?”\par

“That’s Hyacinth. And he’s a Winkler—a real
true Winkler, Paul. I found him.”\par

“Did you?” said Paul, laughing, “I’m not surprised.”\par

% File: 289.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Only I didn’t know he was a Winkler—so it
doesn’t count—”\par

“Here comes Uncle Peter! He’s seen you, Janey.
Good-bye, dear.” But she held both his hands
tightly.\par

“I won’t let you go! I won’t, Paul! You don’t
understand. It’s all right—”\par

Just then, Mr. Lambert pushed the half-open door
wide.\par

“Jane! What are you doing? Come in at once—you’ve
chilled the whole house!”\par

Everyone had turned, and was staring in amazement,
as Jane pulled Paul to the threshold, under
her father’s very nose.\par

“What’s this?” cried Mr. Lambert, seizing his
nephew by the arm.\par

“It’s—me, Uncle,” said Paul. “I am going. I
only—”\par

“Going!” cried Mr. Lambert. “Going! Not at
all! Come in! Come in!”\par

The next thing that the bewildered Paul was
conscious of was that he was standing inside the
room, facing the table full of guests, with his
uncle’s arm jovially embracing his shoulders, Jane
clinging to his hand, and everyone exclaiming over
the returned prodigal.\par

“Ladies and gentlemen!” announced Mr. Lambert,
but his speech was cut short, as Aunt Gertrude
rushed forward to kiss the utterly dazed,
uncomprehending, and horribly embarrassed boy.\par

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Lambert began
again, “you are aware, I think, of the recent honor
bestowed upon my nephew—an honor which is
shared not only by his family, but by this community
of which he is a part!” The remainder of
the speech, no less than its resounding introduction
was pure Greek to Paul, who stood with his long
arms dangling, helplessly, and with open mouth,
gazing from face to face, as if trying to piece out
the solution of the mystery.\par

Then everyone began to clap their hands. His
appearance had for the time being absorbed all interest.
Granny, almost hidden behind the towering
wedding cake, which had just been brought on to be
cut, pulled him to her, and kissed him. Carl, looking
very clean and spruce in his new suit, and snowy
collar and polished shoes, shook hands with him.
Elise embraced him, regardless of her silk dress, and
her flowers and her veil; Hyacinth, looking abnormally
solemn and important—the exuberant nature
lover and enemy of civilization had miraculously
vanished to give place to one of the most civilized
and sedate of young men—Hyacinth shook his
hand, and said something very incoherent and
flowery about the pleasure and honor of meeting his
distinguished cousin, and about their being in some
sense, kindred spirits.\par

And then Paul, understanding nothing whatever,
not at all sure that he was not dreaming, but feeling
as happy as he was puzzled, took his place beside
his uncle, to drink the health of the bride, and long
life to the name of Winkler. It was nice to be
there, to see all the familiar faces, to hear the familiar
voices—above all it was good to have his
part in this celebration of family happiness, to feel
that these were his kin folk whose joys and sorrows
must affect his life just as his affected theirs. But
why was it that the glances that he met shone with
pride? What had {\itshape{he}} done? Why were they not
ashamed of him as he stood there, tattered and
muddy—the very picture of the aimless, shiftless
wanderer that his father had been before him? He
blushed for himself, feeling vaguely that he ought
not to be there, after all, that he should have resisted
Jane and Mr. Lambert and gone his way.
He looked around the familiar room,—above the
chimneyplace hung the old, clumsily executed portrait
of Great-grandfather Johann, in his snuff-colored
Sunday suit—a severely pleasant-looking
old man, with a constant expression of honesty and
self-respect—who now seemed to gaze down placidly
and commendingly upon the united gathering of his
descendants. He had worked for them, had old Johann
Winkler; it was his industry, his self-respect,
his respect for the opinions of his fellow-citizens
that had laid the foundations of their comfort and
prosperity and their good standing in the community;
from him had come the simple principles upon
which they lived and worked together. And Paul
felt, as he looked up into the painted blue eyes that
old Johann would have dealt harshly with those who
disregarded family responsibilities, or brought any
shadow of public censure upon the name. And
there, under those keen little blue eyes, he stood,
ragged and disreputable-looking, and the keen little
blue eyes seemed to ask him, “What does this mean,
sir?” Yet, Uncle Peter had bidden him to the
feast, and was even now filling the glass in front
of him.\par

And then the toasts were drunk, and the glasses
clinked, and the wedding cake was cut. And after
that, Elise went up to her room to change her dress,
for the sleigh was at the door, and it was high time
that the bride and bridegroom should be on
their way. Of peculiar interest, the fact should
be chronicled that when the ascending bride
tossed her bouquet over the bannisters into the
midst of her maids, Dolly and Amelia, and Lily,
and Annie Lee, it was Amelia who caught the
nosegay!\par

And at last, the sleigh with its jingling bells had
driven swiftly away over the snowy road. The last
handful of rice had been flung; the last guest had
gone, and Aunt Gertrude stood laughing and weeping
over the flight of the first of her little flock—though
indeed Elise and her Hyacinth were going
no farther than Salisbury, and would be back in
two days!\par

Paul and Jane stood side by side on the rice-strewn
steps looking up the moonlit street.\par

“Mr. Daniels is building a porch on his house,
isn’t he?” remarked Paul, quickly detecting the little
alterations that had occurred on that familiar street
since his going.\par

% File: 293.png-----------------------------------------------------

“Come in, children,” said Aunt Gertrude, “come
in, my dears, and let me count you all to make
sure that no more than one has run away from
me!”\par

And when they had all gathered around her in
the old dining room in the midst of the gay disorder
of the wedding-feast, she made a pretense of
counting them, laughing and crying at the same
time.\par

“Here is my Jane and my Carl, and my two sleepy
twinnies! That’s four—and here’s my missing
fifth!” And she gave Paul an extra kiss.\par

Paul looked around him. Then turning to his
uncle he said;\par

“Uncle Peter, you’ve been very kind to me. I
had no intention to come in here to-night—I only
stopped to look in at you all—and I’m afraid I
wasn’t anything to be proud of at Elise’s wedding—”\par

“Come, my boy, no more of that!” said Mr. Lambert
briskly; then he came closer to Paul, and laying
his hand on his shoulder looked keenly into the
lean, and somewhat haggard face.\par

“You’ve not found life easy since you went
away?” he asked kindly.\par

“Not too easy, sir—and not so bad either,” returned
Paul, sturdily. “I’ve been out of luck a bit
lately, but I’m on my way now to Riverbury.
There’s a man there that has good, honest work for
me. With a little time, sir, I hope—”\par

“Why should you be on your way to Riverbury
for work when there’s work enough in this town,
and a comfortable home for you?”\par

Paul looked uncertainly from face to face, and
then at his uncle again.\par

“It’s here that your people have lived these many
years,” went on Mr. Lambert. “It’s here that those
who are proud of you live now,—”\par

“{\itshape{Proud}} of me?” repeated Paul; then he hung his
head as he said in a low voice, “It is not long since
that you showed me you had good reason to be
ashamed of me, sir. I was only hoping that in a
little I might do—I might be of some account, sir—as
{\itshape{he}} would expect,” and he jerked his head as he
spoke toward the picture of old Johann.\par

“My boy, I do not say but that I may have judged
you over-harshly for what to other men might seem
a light enough indiscretion. I thought you—a
scatter-brained lad that thought too little of things
that old men know to be worth valuing. I had but
little sympathy with your notions, and was angered
that you should prattle of pictures and what-not
when—ah, well, let all that be forgotten.”\par

“But Daddy!” cried Jane suddenly, “Paul doesn’t
know!”\par

“Doesn’t know what?”\par

“Let {\itshape{me}} tell him! Let me tell him! It’s your
picture, Paul—”\par

“What picture?” asked Paul, with a puzzled
frown, looking down at her eager little face.\par

“It won, Paul! Don’t you understand—it won!
And we’re all so proud of you—and it was in the
papers—only we didn’t know where you were,
and—”\par

“What {\itshape{are}} you talking about, Janey?” demanded
Paul, cutting short this rush of breathless words.
“{\itshape{My}} picture won? What picture? Won what?”\par

“The other one—the one that wasn’t burnt—oh,
don’t {\itshape{anybody}} interrupt me! I want to tell him
every bit. And they said that ‘in spite of many
something-or-other faults it showed’—I’ve forgotten
what—they said it was awfully, awfully good—oh,
I don’t know where to begin!”\par

“Begin at the beginning, darling. No one will
interrupt your story,” said Aunt Gertrude, drawing
Jane to her. “And Paul’s not going to run away.”\par

So Janey took a deep breath and commenced
afresh; while Paul listened, first growing pale, and
then blushing a deep red. He felt the glow rushing
all over him, and when she had finished, he could
not say a word. They were all looking at him with
eyes full of that warm pride that only a family can
feel, and it seemed to him that his triumph had
brought more happiness to them even than to himself.
He could not think of anything to say to them
all, and presently he got up, and walked over to the
window, where he stood looking out into the cold
little garden. But what he saw was only the reflection
of the group around the fire—that very group
which he had so often pictured to himself with such
homesick longing during his months of exile. He
thought of his lonely father, and his aimless wanderings,
and then he knew that he was glad to have come
home again. The world could teach him no more
than he could learn by working and growing and
thinking among his own people, and the world
could not give him any praise half so sweet, or
half so inspiring as their simple pride.\par

Suddenly he felt a warm little hand slip into his.
It was Janey.\par

She looked up at him timidly—his serious profile
seemed quite stern to her.\par

“Paul, what are you thinking about now?” she
asked plaintively.\par

Then he laughed, and looked more like his old self.\par

“I was thinking that I shall {\itshape{not}} go away—if Uncle
Peter means that I needn’t. And I was thinking
how unpleasant things might be if you, ma’am, attended
strictly to your own affairs!”\par

“And I,” said Mr. Lambert, “am thinking that it
is time we all went to bed. Gertrude, my dear,
I hope that Anna will be able to get everything into
order to-morrow. I shall want my desk to be in
place especially. And—er—Breakfast at seven,
as usual.”\par

\begin{container}
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――――
\endgraf}
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And now the doors and windows were locked, and
the lights were put out, and the household was
silent and slumbering. But the pale reflection of
the moonlit snow glimmered through the window
upon the scene of the late revelry, and a red glow
still shone among the ashes of the fire, throwing a
faint red light through the shadows that deepened
over the painted face of Great-grandfather Johann.
And a well-contented expression that plump, ruddy
old face wore—a comfortable, benevolent patriarchal
look, as if that excellent old lover of law and
order were saying, “And now I think everything is
quite as it should be!”\par

{\centering
THE END
\endgraf}
\par

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*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE LENDS A HAND ***\par

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This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including
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Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe
to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\par\bookmark[level=1,page=1]{Contents}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iaffairs-of-the-lambert-family]{CHAPTER I—AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iibusybody-jane]{CHAPTER II—BUSYBODY JANE}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-iiicivic-interest]{CHAPTER III—CIVIC INTEREST}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-ivthe-appearance-of-paul]{CHAPTER IV—THE APPEARANCE OF PAUL}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-vpaul-hesitates]{CHAPTER V—PAUL HESITATES}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-via-rebel-in-the-house]{CHAPTER VI—A REBEL IN THE HOUSE}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-viigirls]{CHAPTER VII—GIRLS}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-viiijane-lends-a-hand]{CHAPTER VIII—JANE LENDS A HAND}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-ixthe-best-laid-plans]{CHAPTER IX—“THE BEST LAID PLANS—”}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xpaul-and-carl]{CHAPTER X—PAUL AND CARL}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xicarl-squares-his-debt]{CHAPTER XI—CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xiijeff-roberts]{CHAPTER XII—JEFF ROBERTS}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xiiidisaster]{CHAPTER XIII—DISASTER}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xivthe-crossroads]{CHAPTER XIV—THE CROSSROADS}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xvan-unsuspected-hero]{CHAPTER XV—AN UNSUSPECTED HERO}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xvia-family-matter]{CHAPTER XVI—A FAMILY MATTER}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xviian-honor-to-the-family]{CHAPTER XVII—AN HONOR TO THE FAMILY}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=chapter-xviiithe-wanderer-comes-home]{CHAPTER XVIII—THE WANDERER COMES HOME}
\hbox{}
\end{document}

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