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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any letters, Peterson?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,

“Where did you get them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t mind my trespassing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?”

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

“Oh, I recognized you.”

“Recognized me? When did you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how did she know who I was?”

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

“Ah—of course.”

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

“I think you might tell me your name.”

“My name? Jane.”

“Jane what?”

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

Mr. Sheridan sighed.

“I think so.”

“What are you going to do?”

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

“Oh. Are you sick?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you do?”

“Oh, I go to school, and help mother, and go on adventures—”

“Go on adventures?”

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

“Don’t you ever get lost?”

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

“What are Raisin Delights?”

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

“Who is Paul?”

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

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

“No. She’s just Elise’s best friend.”

“And what does she do?”

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

“Does she like that?”

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Sheridan hesitated.

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

Jane was tremendously flattered.

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

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

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

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

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