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

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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.”