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Jane Lends A Hand

by Shirley Watkins · English · Gutenberg #35593 · 409,059 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Jane Lends A Hand

Author: Shirley Watkins


        
Release date: March 17, 2011 [eBook #35593]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35593

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE LENDS A HAND ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.







                           Jane Lends A Hand

                                   BY

                            Shirley Watkins

                _Author of "Nancy of Paradise Cottage,"_
                     _and "Georgina Finds Herself"_

                      The GOLDSMITH Publishing Co.
                              CHICAGO ILL.
                              MADE IN USA




                          _Copyright 1923, by_
                      _George W. Jacobs & Company_

                          All rights reserved
                           PRINTED IN U.S.A.






Contents


  - CHAPTER I--AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY
  - CHAPTER II--BUSYBODY JANE
  - CHAPTER III--CIVIC INTEREST
  - CHAPTER IV--THE APPEARANCE OF PAUL
  - CHAPTER V--PAUL HESITATES
  - CHAPTER VI--A REBEL IN THE HOUSE
  - CHAPTER VII--GIRLS
  - CHAPTER VIII--JANE LENDS A HAND
  - CHAPTER IX--"THE BEST LAID PLANS--"
  - CHAPTER X--PAUL AND CARL
  - CHAPTER XI--CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT
  - CHAPTER XII--JEFF ROBERTS
  - CHAPTER XIII--DISASTER
  - CHAPTER XIV--THE CROSSROADS
  - CHAPTER XV--AN UNSUSPECTED HERO
  - CHAPTER XVI--A FAMILY MATTER
  - CHAPTER XVII--AN HONOR TO THE FAMILY
  - CHAPTER XVIII--THE WANDERER COMES HOME


         ------------------------------------------------------

                           JANE LENDS A HAND






CHAPTER I--AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY


At six o'clock Jane had awakened, and, lifting her tousled head from her
pillow, sniffed the frosty air.

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.

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. _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.

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.

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.

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

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.

"Oh, _Ja-ane_!"

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

"Um." A yawn. "What time is it?"

"It's _half-past thix_, and breakfath's all ready, and you'll be late
_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.

"I've got a--a headache," announced Jane unblushingly, "I don't think
I'll go to school to-day."

"O-oh, Jane!" remonstrated the twins in chorus.

"Well, I haven't exactly got one _now_," said Jane, "but I would have if
I got up too suddenly. I've been studying too hard. That's what."

"Ooooh, Jane!" The twins covered their rosy mouths with their hands, and
tittered.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 _her_
thoughts was the concocting of a feasible plan to avoid the distasteful
prospect of going to school.

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.

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.

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.

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

"Jane! Coming? Or must I fetch you?"

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

"Good morning, Jane."

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.

"Sit down now, you bad child," whispered Mrs. Lambert, patting Jane's
ruddy cheek, "and don't talk. Your father is going to."

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.

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,

"Who's that from, Papa?"

"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."

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

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.

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.

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.

"Mind your _own_ business!"

"_Jane_!" Mr. Lambert turned to her, his spectacles glistening
warningly. There was a moment's silence.

"Do you wish to leave the table?"

"No, Papa, but--"

"Very well, then. Have the goodness to be quiet."

"Yes, Papa. But--"

"Silence, ma'am! Your brother was quite right. He is older than you, and
he had good reason to reprimand you."

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.

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.

"It looks as if it were written by a _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--"

"You've never seen a sailor," said Carl also in a low tone, "so you
don't know what you're talking about."

"I _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--"

"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."

"But--but what does the letter say, Peter?" asked Mrs. Lambert timidly.
"I haven't seen it."

"This letter is from your brother--"

"Yes. From Franz. I recognized his hand after all these years--"

"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 _us_ to judge. I have nothing to say
about him--"

"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.

"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.

Mr. Lambert cleared his throat, and read:

    "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.

    "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.


                                         "Respectfully your brother,
                                                     "Franz Winkler.



    "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."

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.

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.

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

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

"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."

"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--"

"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."

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.

"Yes, yes. What you say is quite true, Peter. After all Franz may
recover completely."

"Certainly," said Mr. Lambert, briskly. "And now my dear, let us
consider."

"Is Paul our cousin, Papa?" asked Jane.

Mr. Lambert ignored her question.

"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 _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.'"

"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."

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

"That is quite true!" exclaimed Mr. Lambert.

"But of course!" cried his wife.

"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."

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

"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--"

"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.

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




CHAPTER II--BUSYBODY JANE


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.

"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 _so_ busy. Any time this afternoon will do. I put them in your school
bag."

"All right," said Jane, and Elise, always busy, always placid and
gentle, went back to her work.

"Well, what do _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.

"Think about what?" said Carl, gruffly.

"About Paul's coming, of course. It's awfully sad about Uncle Franz--but
it _is_ sort of exciting having a new cousin to stay with us, I think."

"You wouldn't think it so awfully exciting if _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."

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.

Jane did not reply to this indignant objection.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

"I don't feel like school to-day a bit," she remarked, looking up
through the trees.

"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."

"H'm?" said Jane, "why not?"

"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."

"Oh,--you would, would you, Goody-goody?" retorted Jane with spirit.
"I'm not a dunce. I'm the brightest girl in my class."

"Whoo-ee!" whooped Carl, staggered by this cool conceit. "Well! If you
haven't got cheek!"

"'Tisn't cheek," said Jane, calmly, "I am. I heard Dr. Andrews say so to
Miss Trowbridge."

"Well--he must have been talking through his hat, then," observed Carl.
"He was _probably_ talking about someone else."

"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--'"

"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."

"I don't see how either," said Jane placidly; "but he did. Oh,
look--Miss Clementina has got a new canary!"

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.

"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.

"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."

Jane reluctantly obeyed.

"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."

"Her old sweethearts!" echoed Carl derisively.

"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."

"Humph!" said Carl.

"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.'"

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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--"

"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,

"Yes, Miss Farrel."

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

"Well?" prompted Miss Farrel.

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,

"I didn't exactly understand the question, Miss Farrel."

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

"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.

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.

"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."

"Well, what I didn't understand was--was--I didn't understand--I didn't
understand the question."

Another silence.

"Did you _hear_ the question?"

"No, Miss Farrel."

"Oh. And what, pray, have you been doing?"

"Why--just thinking."

"Ah. How interesting. And what were you thinking of?"

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

"Nothing, Miss Farrel."

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

"Sit down, Jane. And will you please wait for me here after school. At
three o'clock. Well, Isabel, will _you_ give me the formula for finding
the area of a circle."

Jane took her seat.

"What a goose I am, anyway," she thought, and accepted her punishment
with her usual calmness.

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.

"Well, now, what are they keepin' you here for, this fine afternoon,
Miss Janey?" she said sympathetically.

"Oh, I don't mind much. How's Amelia, Mrs. Tinker?"

"Fine. Fine, miss, thank yer."

"And how's Henry Clay?"

"He's fine, too, I thank yer."

"Is Mr. Tinker out of the hospital yet?"

"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."

"Is Henry Clay the one that's going to be an undertaker?"

"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."

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

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

And then she turned her attention to Jane.

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.

"And now, Jane, we must review all last week's work. You see how much
time you lose?"

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

"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--"

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

"Oh--Janey! How you sc-alarmed me!"

"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."

"Thank you so much. How thoughtful of you. Won't you come in?"

"Well, you're practising, aren't you?"

Lily shook her head.

"It's nearly five. And I'm tired."

"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.

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

"I wish--" she began impetuously, and then abruptly checked herself.

"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.

"Oh, I don't know what I was going to say. Something foolish, no doubt,"
and then to change the subject, she said hastily,

"I suppose you have heard the news about the Sheridan house?"

"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."

"Oh, no--not that. But some member of the family is going to live there
again, and is already moving in."

"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 _interesting_?"

Lily blushed slightly.

"Why, I'm not sure. I think there's only one--a Mr. Sheridan, I
suppose."

"Young, old or middle-aged?" inquired Jane, who had already rather lost
interest.

"Why, he seemed rather youngish," said Lily, blushing again, "but I
couldn't tell very well."

"When did you see him?"

"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.

"Um," said Jane. "Well, I suppose it's too late to go and investigate
now. But I think I'll go to-morrow."

"Oh, Jane! You couldn't do that!" said Lily, in a shocked tone.

"Why not? How else'll I find out."

"Why, I don't know."

"Very well then. Somebody's got to know something about strangers when
they come here."

"Yes--that's true," said Lily.

"Of course," said Jane. "It's what you call civic interest."

"Oh," said Lily,--she had been taught to call "it" curiosity; but then
mamma's vocabulary was not like other peoples'.

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

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.




CHAPTER III--CIVIC INTEREST


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.

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
_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.

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.

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

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.

"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--"

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 _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.

"Any letters, Peterson?"

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,

"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.

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.

"Those rolls, Peterson--they are rather nice," he remarked, with a touch
of enthusiasm that he quickly suppressed.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tim. I'm glad to have found something as
pleases you, sir," said Peterson, with a perfectly grave face.

"Yes. My appetite hasn't been very good lately."

"No, Mr. Tim," agreed Peterson, tactfully.

After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,

"Where did you get them?"

"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--"

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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 _wanting_ to do anything else?

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.

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.

"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 _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.

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

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"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.

"I am just looking around," she condescended to explain at last.

"I see," said Mr. Sheridan politely. "Do you know that you are
trespassing?"

"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.

"You'll make yourself ill," he remarked.

"Oh, no. I never make myself ill," said Jane.

"Are you going to eat _all_ those?" he demanded, pointing with his stick
at her crammed pockets.

"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.

"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 _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."

"Thank you," said Mr. Sheridan, "I don't believe I care for it just
now."

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

"_You_ don't mind my trespassing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?"

"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.

"Oh, I recognized you."

"Recognized me? When did you--"

"By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a stick, and that you were
youngish."

"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.

"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.

"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 _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 _always_ president."

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

"But when did Miss Lily see me? I've never been here before."

"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 _I_ think she got a pretty good idea."

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.

"And how did _she_ know who I was?"

"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."

"Ah--of course."

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

"I think you might tell me _your_ name."

"My name? Jane."

"Jane what?"

"Lambert. Are you going to live here a long time?"

Mr. Sheridan sighed.

"I think so."

"What are you going to do?"

"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.

"Oh. Are you sick?"

"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.

"Don't you ever want to see anybody? I can't understand that."

"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?"

"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."

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

"What do _you_ do?"

"Oh, _I_ go to school, and help mother, and go on adventures--"

"Go on adventures?"

"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."

"Don't you ever get lost?"

"Oh, often. That makes it more exciting than ever."

"What are Raisin Delights?"

"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."

"Who is Paul?"

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.

"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.

"No. She's just Elise's best friend."

"And what does _she_ do?"

"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."

"Does she like that?"

"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."

"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.

"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.

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

"Oh, but I thought you wanted to be alone," said Jane, innocently.

Mr. Sheridan hesitated.

"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."

Jane was tremendously flattered.

"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?"

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

"There you are, Eve. Like Adam, I'd be much better without it."

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.

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.




CHAPTER IV--THE APPEARANCE OF PAUL


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.

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.

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.

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.

Lottie, looking up, and seeing that Jane was no longer engrossed in
"John Halifax," ventured to suggest timidly,

"Will you play with uth, Janey?"

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

"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.

"How do you play that?" asked Minie.

"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."

"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?"

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.

Suddenly Jane jumped up.

"I think this is an _awful_ game!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Jane, aren't you going to play any more?" cried Lottie in dismay.
Jane shook her head.

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

"We can make some more," she said hastily; "there are lots of old
magazines in mother's room."

"But you can't make Isabel again," wept Minie.

"Well, _you_ cut her head off," said Jane.

"But _you_ told her to," cried Lottie, taking up her twin's cause.

"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."

Minie's chubby, tearful face brightened.

"A fairy story?"

"Yes. About a prince and princess."

"And you won't have it end up badly?"

"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.

                                  ----

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.

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, 2-1/2 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

"Where does that road go to?" asked the boy, pointing to the right.

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.

"That road," he said at length, "goes to the City--thirty miles. Going
to walk it, stranger?"

"Which way are you going?"

The farmer jerked his head in the direction of Frederickstown.

"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."

"That's all right. Keep your money, young feller, and get in if you want
to. I'll be glad of yer company."

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.

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.

"Where might you be goin', now?"

"My uncle lives in Frederickstown. His name is Lambert. Mr. Peter
Lambert."

"That so? I know Mr. Lambert. Well, I took you for a furriner."

"I am not a foreigner."

"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?"

"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.

"Well! I'll be!" exclaimed the farmer, much interested. "And what might
yer name be, young feller?"

"Paul Winkler."

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

"And why was you askin' me where that other road went to?"

The boy smiled, and shook his head.

"I don't know."

"Jes' for curiosity?"

"Yes."

"Hum. How old might you be?"

"Seventeen."

"Yer a well grown lad for yer years. I should have taken yer to be
older."

This time Paul broke the silence that followed.

"What is the City like?"

"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 _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 _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."

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

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

"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?"

"Fifteen miles, I think."

"Fifteen miles! Pretty hungry, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did ye come across the water alone?"

"No. There was a friend of my father's travelling to this country also.
I left him last night."

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--

The horse stopped.

"Well, young man, I guess we part now."

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.

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?

                                  ----

"So the prince took his knife and cut the third of the golden apples in
half, and to his astonishment--"

"Janey, _who_ is that talking to your father?" demanded Granny, opening
her eyes suddenly.

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.

"I don't know, Granny," said Jane. "Nobody in particular, I guess."

But the old lady felt nervously for her stick.

"Heavens! It _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."

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.

"My dear boy, we will go into this at length, later this evening. I see
that you are tired now. You say you _walked_ from Allenboro?"

"It was necessary. I did not discover that my money had been stolen
until after I left the ship."

"Did Mr. Morse know of your misfortune?"

"No. I did not tell him."

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.

"It's _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
_this_ boy's sallow, unsmiling face.

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.

"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.

"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.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried. "Peter Lambert, why didn't you tell
me? Ah, heaven's! My dear boy, _I_ am your old Granny!" And weeping from
sheer joy, she unhesitatingly flung her arms around his neck and kissed
him.

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.

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.

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.

"How do you do, cousin?"

"How do you do, cousin Paul?" repeated Jane decorously.

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.




CHAPTER V--PAUL HESITATES


"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
_very_ comfortable. I must see to supper. You must be starving, too!"

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

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.

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.

"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 _are_ strangers to Paul."

"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."

"I'm sure he doesn't mean to be disagreeable, my dear," said Mrs.
Lambert.

"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."

"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.

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.

So Paul, who had been on the verge of thawing a little, had frozen up
again. He concluded immediately that _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.

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.

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

"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."

"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."

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.

"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.

"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:

"You must understand how deeply I am interested in your affairs. Er--how
old are you?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"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.

"No doubt your father acquainted you with his wishes?"

"My father told me to come to you, and that you would help me," said
Paul.

"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 _worthy_--worthy to enter upon the duties of your position."

Paul was puzzled. He could not understand these allusions to his
"position," and his "responsibilities."

"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--"

"My _aunt_?" echoed Paul, completely bewildered. "I don't understand--"

"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."

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.

"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 _your_ father, who also relinquished his inheritance, like Esau--"

"But what of Samuel's children?" stammered Paul. "Maybe he has a son or
a grandson--"

"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."

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

"I need hardly tell you that you are doubly welcome, my dear boy,"
continued Mr. Lambert placidly, totally misunderstanding Paul's
astonishment.

"But, sir! One moment! I don't understand! You surely can't mean that
you think I am going to learn how to _bake bread_, and make _pies_!"
burst out Paul at last. "Great heavens! My father couldn't have
dreamed--_I_! Making biscuits!"

"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 _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.

"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--"

"Oh, I am sure you underrate your intelligence, my boy. Don't give way
to discouragement so soon. A little patience, a little industry--"

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.

"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!"

"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."

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.

"It seems that you had other ideas," remarked Mr. Lambert in a politely
interested tone, which said, "I don't mind _listening_ to any of your
fantastic notions." Paul hesitated. He most certainly _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.

"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."

"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.

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

"I don't see that either Providence or Duty has anything to do with the
case," he retorted, instantly firing up.

Mr. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

"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.

Paul, lost in thought, went up to Carl's room for the "few moments of
reflection" that his uncle had advised.

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.

Paul threw himself across the bed.

"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."

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

"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.

"Sorry," said Paul, gruffly, and got up.

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.

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.

"Would you mind not whistling!" snapped Carl. "It's the most maddening
sound. Hang it! I'm trying to study."

Paul's mournful whistling stopped.

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 _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.

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.

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,

"Would you mind not shaking that mud over my things?"

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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,

"Well? What have you decided?"

Paul cleared his throat.

"I have decided--I have decided--" he finished by spreading his hands
and shrugging his shoulders.

"To undertake your--er--responsibilities?" prompted Mr. Lambert, as if
he were administering an oath.

"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.

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.

"Oh," came in interested tones from the bed, "where did you go, cousin?"

"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.




CHAPTER VI--A REBEL IN THE HOUSE


"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.

"And now, my dear, I have to show you the rest."

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

"Oh, _you_ are a very remarkable person, Aunt Gertrude," he said
gravely.

"Tut! You mustn't laugh at me, you impudent boy," said Mrs. Lambert,
shaking her head, and pretending to be severe. "You must be _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.

"Now," she said briskly, "_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.

"You see, now, you have to knead this dough _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
_very_ vigorous treatment of the meek, flabby dough.

"You're certainly giving that poor stuff an awful trouncing, Aunt
Gertrude. Don't you think you ought to let up a bit?"

"Not at all," returned Mrs. Lambert, seriously, "I never let up, once I
begin."

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

"No, no," panted Aunt Gertrude. "Now don't interfere. Just _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.

"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."

"Then we'll put you in the window as an advertisement."

Aunt Gertrude thought this a huge joke.

"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.'"

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

"There now, you see exactly how it is done, don't you?"

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.

"Tut! what are you doing?"

Paul looked up. Then, seeing Mrs. Lambert's face, he began to laugh.

"Well, you told me to watch you, Aunt Gertrude. I've been watching you.
Why are you cross?"

"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?"

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.

"Now, that is very clever. Where did you learn to make pictures?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know."

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

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

"There, Aunt Gertrude,--I know all about those old cakes. Please just
let me--"

"Old cakes, indeed!"

"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."

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.

"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.

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.

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
_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.

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; mediaeval 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.

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

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.

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 _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.

"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--"

"'A little patience, Uncle--'" quoted Paul serenely. Mr. Lambert
flushed.

"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."

Paul thought for a moment, then he said slowly,

"Uncle, I _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."

"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 _you_ were not satisfied, and to urge you, if that is the
case, to speak out frankly."

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.

"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."

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

"I see that you are deliberating," said Mr. Lambert, coldly. "Again let
me urge you to be frank."

"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 _I don't want to be a baker_!"

"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.

"And what _do_ you want to be?"

"I want to be--" ("Here's where the music starts," thought Paul), "I
want to be a painter."

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,

"A _what_?"

"A painter," Paul repeated.

"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 _artist_?"

"I'm afraid I mean an artist, sir."

"A person who," Mr. Lambert went through a tragic pantomime of painting
in the air, "who paints _pictures_?"

"Yes," said Paul briefly.

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.

"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.

"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.

"Here I am, just because I didn't have the _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.

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.

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 _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.

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

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.

The twins were popping corn over the fire, Granny was _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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"Elise, will you take my coat?"

"You are cold, Peter. Do get warm, while I see about supper," said Aunt
Gertrude hastily.

"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.

"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.

"But, Peter, I didn't know--you never said--"

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.

"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.

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

"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?"

"You only told me not to--"

"Don't argue with me, sir! I will not tolerate your disrespect! Let it
be enough for you that I forbid--I _forbid_ your idling over this
useless and childish nonsense."

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.

"Leave those things just where they were, please." Paul did as he was
told.

"You'll throw them out, uncle?"

"Kindly learn to obey without asking questions!"

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.

"These things are mine, uncle," he said, quietly.

"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.

"No, that is yours," he said, and walked out of the room.

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.

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.

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.

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

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,

"Who--who is that?"

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

"Is that you, Jane?"

"Oh, _Paul_!" Jane gave a great sigh of relief.

"Did I frighten you?" Paul asked, getting up.

"Well, you _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?"

"Nothing," said Paul. "What are _you_ doing?"

"I want some food," said Jane, succinctly. "Do you?"

"I'm not very hungry. What are you going to get?"

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

At length Jane asked him,

"You don't want to live here and take over the business after all, do
you?"

"Ah, Janey, what kind of a baker would I make?" responded Paul, smiling
half-sadly.

"You want to be an artist?"

"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 _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."

Jane was silent.

"Oh, I _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 _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 _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.

"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.

"Well, what shall I do?" he demanded presently--"_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?"

Jane meditated a moment; then she said,

"Well, I wouldn't get up and go--yet. I'd wait and see."

"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.

"I'd wait and see--lots of things. First of all, you _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 _you_ understood
me!" But Jane neither retracted nor explained. "And then," she went on,
calmly, "Daddy _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 _might_ turn up--you never _can_ tell."

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

"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.

"You think, I may not care about painting as much as I think I do?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I said, _I'd_ wait and see," returned Jane placidly.

"Humph. And you think Uncle might change his mind?"

"He might."

"And what chance is there of another Winkler showing up, I'd like to
know? One in ten thousand!"

"It _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.

"You're a nice one to preach patience!"

"Oh, I'm quite patient _sometimes_."

"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!"

"All right," said Jane, getting up. Paul stood up, too. Then suddenly he
held out his hand.

"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."

"_I've_ got more sense than _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!"

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.




CHAPTER VII--GIRLS


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.

"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 _last_ minute."

"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 _I_ think it's really more economical."

"Oh, but then they don't have the personal touch," said a third, a tall,
thin anaemic-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."

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

"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."

"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 _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. "_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?"

"Oh, mamma!" cried Lily, blushing crimson. "Those silly poems of mine!"

"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."

"Oh, mamma, don't get it now," begged Lily, overcome with embarrassment,
adding, desperately, "Do look at the lovely thing Elise is making."

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

"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.

"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."

"Ah! A Masquerade? How charming."

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

"As Sappho," she replied. Mrs. Deacon looked astonished, and interested.

"Sappho, my dear? How will you do that? Sappho was a race-horse!"

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.

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

"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.

"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,

"A race-horse! Sappho was a poetess."

"Ah, of course!" said Mrs. Deacon hastily, "that will be charming. And
_so_ well chosen. How will you signify yourself?"

"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."

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

"How will you get a lyre?" asked the practical Annie Lee.

"I shall try to make one out of card-board and gold paper."

"Or you could borrow old Mr. Poindexter's banjo," suggested Jane,
gravely. "That would really be better, because you _could_ twang on it."

Amelia did not deign to reply to this remark.

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

Lily glanced at her mother.

"I wish I could go as--as a Spanish dancer!" she said timidly.

"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.

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.

"I _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 _scarlet
heels_!"

"You'd look lovely. I'm sure if you beg hard, your mother would let
you," wheedled Annie Lee. Lily shook her head.

"I don't think so. And I'm afraid mamma thinks its awfully bold of me
even to think of such a thing."

"There's nothing bold about a Spanish dancer. Just dashing," said Dolly.

"But Lily isn't at all dashing," remarked Amelia.

"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 _flirt_!"

"Lily!" cried Amelia, in pained astonishment, "why, whatever is the
matter with you? You want to _flirt_? Why, I never heard of such a
thing. You, of all people! Why, flirting is beneath you!"

"Oh, no, it's not!" returned Lily, audaciously. "Do you think it's
beneath _you_?"

"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?"

Amelia hesitated.

"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."

"I don't care what your brother-in-law thinks," returned Lily, with a
spirit that astounded her friends. "_I_ feel like flirting. I'm tired of
being sensible. I want to be gay, and--and _dangerous_."

"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?"

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

"Come on, Lily--let's just see how you _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?"

"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?"

"Go and get them," commanded Annie Lee. But at that moment, Mrs. Deacon
reappeared.

"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."

"Oh, mamma, _please_," implored the hapless Lily, turning red as fire.
"Don't! They are so _awful_!"

"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,

    "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?"

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,

    "Alone, alone, why am I so alone?"

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.

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.

"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 _I'll_ direct."

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.

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.

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.

"_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.

"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."

"You _do_ look perfectly scrumptious, Lily," said Dolly; "there isn't a
thing wrong, and you've simply got to wear that costume."

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.

"I wish--" she began, and then broke off with a shame-faced, confused
little smile.

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

"There goes Mr. Sheridan. I wonder what on earth--"

"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.

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.

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

"Do _you_ know him too?" she demanded. Lily pretended not to hear.
Shrinking back, and pursing up her lips, she said primly,

"Aren't you all ashamed of yourselves--rushing to stare at a stranger
like that, and letting him see you, too?"

"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."

"What's queer about him?" cried Lily, quite indignantly.

"Well, he never goes anywhere, and never sees anyone, and lives all
alone in that big house. You may not call that queer, but _I_ do."
returned Annie Lee.

"And he's _so_ handsome," murmured Dolly, sentimentally. "I'm sure he's
had some unhappy love-affair."

"Pooh!" said Jane, who was not romantic, "he's no more heart-broken than
I am."

"You know very little, as yet, concerning the secret sorrows that many
people hide," said Amelia.

"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 _you_ know him, too, Miss Lily?" she repeated.

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

"He bowed to you," insisted Jane.

"To me? Why, he didn't do anything of the sort!"

"Lily Deacon!" cried Dolly, "you know very well he did! Any why are you
blushing?"

"I'm not blushing. I don't know him. How could that be? I-I only--"

"You only what?"

"Why, nothing!"

"Lily, you're concealing something!" cried Annie Lee.

"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."

"My _dear_!" breathed Dolly, "and is that all he said?"

"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--"

"How long did this keep up?" inquired Annie Lee.

"There are lots of animals," said Jane. "Did you find out how he liked
cows and pigs and ducks and porcupines--"

"I think you are all mean to laugh!" cried Lily indignantly. "It was
perfectly natural to say _something_. And he was very nice and polite."

"And what was the dog doing meanwhile?"

"The dog? What dog? Oh--I guess it must have gone home."

"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
_I_ think that Mr. Sheridan should hardly have asked you if you liked
dogs when he had never been introduced to you."

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.

"How silly! I don't think anyone but a prig would be as proper as all
that."

"Jane!" remonstrated Elise, "that isn't a very nice thing to say."

"How do _you_ happen to know him Janey?" asked Annie Lee.

"Oh, I called on him," replied Jane, nonchalantly.

"_Called_ on him!"

"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. _I_ think he's bored to
death with himself."

"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 _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 _know_ father
used to know Major Sheridan, because I've heard him talk about when they
were in the Spanish American war."

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.

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.




CHAPTER VIII--JANE LENDS A HAND


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 role of the misanthrope, and cynic. But it was not
his natural character, by any means, and notwithstanding the fact that
he _believed_ that he did not want to have anything to do with anyone,
he found his new role 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
_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.

"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.

On the other hand, it was certainly quite possible that _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.

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.

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.

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.

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 mediaeval 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.

"There's Miss Lily, right in front of us!" cried Jane, "and I do believe
that she's wearing her Spanish costume after all!"

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.

"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.

"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 _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.

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.

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 naively 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, _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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

"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 _my_
day is over!"

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.

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.

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.

"Well, sir, I hope you have decided to settle down here for good," said
Mr. Webster, heartily.

"I--I haven't exactly decided. But I shall probably be here for some
time."

"You have a fine old place there. You don't happen to be thinking of
getting rid of any of that land of yours?"

"It all depends," replied Mr. Sheridan vaguely.

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Webster suddenly bethinking himself of his
duties. "I'm nearly forgetting that you're not an old fellow like
myself."

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

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.

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

"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.

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.

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.

"Hullo," she said.

"Hullo," responded Paul, "been having a good time?"

"Yes. What are you doing?"

"Watching."

"It's nice up here. It's near the music. You know, I'd like to learn how
to play the bassoon," said Jane.

"Then you probably will. How would the trombone suit you? That seems
more your style."

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

Suddenly, half laughing and half annoyed she exclaimed,

"Oh, that _is_ too mean of Dolly!"

"What's too mean?"

"Why--oh, she is a wicked-hearted girl!--she _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!"

"Huh?" said Paul.

"He'll be with Amelia until the dance is _over_!"

"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?"

"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!"

"To tease you? Humph, you seem to think yourself a pretty important
person, don't you?" observed Paul with a grin.

"Well, I asked Dolly myself please to introduce him to Miss Lily as soon
as she could. I _told_ her he was very sad, and needed cheering up--and
just see what she's done!"

"I must say you aren't very easy on Amelia. You usually seem to like
everyone. What's the matter with her?"

"I _do_ like nearly everyone, but I _do not_ like Amelia. She's a--a
hypocrite," said Jane. "She's a _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, _poor_ Mr. Sheridan!"

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.

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.

"Paul!" said Jane in a tone of decision, "something must be done."

"Eh?"

"I'll tell you what. _You_ must go down, and ask Amelia to dance with
you!"

"_What!_"

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

"Not interested in any such bargains," returned Paul.

"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."

"Can't. Thank heaven, I don't know how to dance anything but a highland
fling."

"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.

"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."

"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,

"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.




CHAPTER IX--"THE BEST LAID PLANS--"


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

"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.

"I _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?"

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

"A _charming_ boy!" he declared with fervor; and then he laughed
guiltily.

"That was mean of Dolly," said Jane.

"What was mean?"

"To tie you up with Amelia Hartshorn."

"Why, on the contrary, I--I thought Miss Hartshorn very agreeable,"
replied Mr. Sheridan, fibbing like a gentleman.

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

"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."

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

"You evidently remember our conversation very clearly," he remarked.

"Oh, yes, I do. I've thought about it quite often--that is, about some
of the things you said."

"And I must add that you seem to take great interest in your friends."

"I suppose," replied Jane with a sigh, "that _you_ think I'm an awful
busybody, too. Well, if I am I can't help it. I mean well."

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

"Was it because you brought some pressure to bear on--er--Paul that he
interrupted my dance with Miss Hartshorn?"

"Yes," answered Jane absently.

"You seem to find it easy to make people do what you want."

"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."

"Why do you think I needed cheering up?"

"Because you were so gloomy."

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

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

"The very pretty young lady in the Spanish costume?"

"Yes. She's horribly pretty, isn't she? Would you like to dance with
her?"

"Very much. Only I haven't had the pleasure----"

"Oh, _I'll_ introduce you to her, if you like," interrupted Jane,
putting her plate on the window sill.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

All these doubts excited in her a desire to snub him a little. He was
_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.

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.

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.

"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."

After a moment or two, he told himself fiercely,

"Well, if she doesn't want to dance with me, I certainly shan't bother
her."

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.

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.

"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.

"Oh, you poor creature! I _am_ sorry! I forgot all about you!"

"Do you think you're giving me fresh information?" inquired Paul, in
tones of bitterest sarcasm.

"How _did_ you get away?"

"Much you care!"

"There, don't be angry. Tell me how you _did_ get away?"

"If you must know--I just bolted."

"Paul!"

"Couldn't help it. Just had to. Sorry if it was uncouth and all
that--but there are limits to human endurance!"

"Now who's hard on Amelia?"

Paul grinned unwillingly.

"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--"

"Oh, I know her way. And did you just up and leave her?"

"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--"

"Paul, you didn't!" cried Jane, horrified.

"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--"

"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!"

At this Paul took his turn to chuckle.

"Serves you right! _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--"

"You think you're awfully clever, don't you?" retorted Jane acidly.

"Not clever--just humanly intelligent. Intuition may be all right for
women, but plain horse-sense is good enough for me."

"What's intuition?" demanded Jane.

"The thing that makes girls think they know more than men do," replied
Paul, 

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