The shade and freshness of the woods on that hot day were not to be resisted, and Paul turned into them, following a soft, weed-grown road that lead along a little tributary of the mill-stream. But he was feeling restless and even a little rebellious. The calm, uneventful course of his life during the past nine months had gotten on his nerves, and he found himself longing for some kind of change or excitement. What wouldn’t he give to see old Bill Tyler coming toward him at that moment!
He stopped, and leaning against an old wooden railing, stared down at the stream that flowed by at the foot of the steep bank. For more than a month he had been working as hard as he could at his picture, taking good care not to let it interfere with his other duties, lest his uncle should recall his permission; Aunt Gertrude tried to help him, and he had progressed; but there wasn’t a chance in a million of his winning anything, and he was not sure but that he had made a mistake in undertaking the task at all. He started on again, walking slowly, with his hands buried in his pockets, forgetful of the passage of time, and of his uncle’s dislike of having anyone late for a meal. Suddenly he stopped. It seemed to him that someone had called his name.
Looking back over his shoulder he saw a small man running easily along the road toward him.
“Hello! Where are you off to?” inquired the newcomer, as he came up, smiling in a friendly way. “I saw you back there, and thought I recognized you. How are you?”
It was no other than the notorious Jefferson Roberts, his face beaming with a friendly, winning smile, and his hand outstretched. Paul shook the hand, and said that he was off to nowhere—that he was just walking.
“Communing with Nature?” said Jeff, cocking his head on one side, while his bright brown eyes twinkled merrily. “May I commune with you? I’m going in your direction.”
“Come ahead. That is, unless you’re in a hurry. I won’t walk fast.”
“Oh, I’m never in a hurry. What have you been doing since I saw you last?”
Paul answered the question briefly without going into any details.
“What an industrious life!” exclaimed Jeff gaily. “How is your good little cousin, Carl Lambert? Do you remember that day in Allenboro? He was horrified at you—he thinks I’m the most wicked creature alive. But then, most of those good souls do. And why? simply because I like to enjoy myself—and succeed at it.” And as he said this he laughed so spontaneously, his face was so full of arch, easy-going good nature that Paul joined in his laugh, feeling convinced that the tales about Jeff were mostly absurd exaggerations. In fifteen minutes or so he began to believe, also, that there was a great deal of good in Jeff that had been most uncharitably overlooked. There was nothing “smarty” about him; he seemed frank and boyish, overflowing-with high spirits, impulsive, enthusiastic, and happy-go-lucky all at once. He was even rather a confiding soul, and strolling along beside Paul, whose arm he had taken, chattered naïvely about himself and his affairs with child-like frankness.