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.