Jane lay on her stomach, stretched out comfortably on the window-seat in Granny’s room, her elbows propped on a cushion, her chin in her hands and a book open on another cushion. The light was already waning, for the days were growing perceptibly shorter, and furthermore the afternoon had been dark and stormy. A driving autumn rain pattered steadily against the window, drummed on the roof, gushed from the drain pipes, and angrily stripped the branches of the trees of their gaudy foliage. Now, only the stark black boughs creaked in the wind; here and there one stubborn brown leaf still clung to a twig, but you could see the whole lead grey sky clearly, and the irregular outlines of glistening roofs.

But Granny’s room, always cosy, was cosiest when the outside world was bleakest. A coal fire glowed brightly in the old fashioned open stove, reflecting in the window panes, on the elaborately carved head-board of the great four-poster bed, and in the plump, bulging surfaces of the well-polished pewter jugs which stood in a row along the shelf—treasured heirlooms, glistening self-complacently, as if they knew that they had outlived four generations of human beings. Granny’s room, was in fact, a regular museum; a big, speckled sea shell served as the door prop; chunks of rock sparkling with mica lay on each side of the stove; a stuffed owl, with only one glass eye stared down from the lintel of the door. Wherever you looked you saw some singular object which interested you simply because you could not imagine what it was for, why it had been treasured, or how it had ever got into Granny’s room in the first place. But there was not an article that Granny would not have missed sadly if it had been removed. Each curiosity had its particular association which made it valuable to her; each was linked to some memory, and she could not have parted with one without parting with the thing it stood for.

The atmosphere, warm almost to the point of suffocation, was permeated with a peculiar, and far from unpleasant odor, of apples, spices, and camphor, emanating from the gigantic chest on one side of the room. Like all good Winklers, Granny had a sweet tooth, which was one reason why the young Lamberts found her society so desirable. To be sure, some people might not care much for the flavor of camphor or cedar in their candied orange peel, or Smyrna figs, but it was inseparable from Granny’s tid-bits, and her grandchildren had cultivated an especial taste for it.

The twins sat on the floor in front of the fire, playing with their paper dolls, while Granny nodded over the many-coloured quilt she was knitting, happily unconscious of the fact that Phyllis, her maltese cat, had playfully carried the ball of red wool off to a far corner, and was gleefully tangling it around the legs of the dressing table. Every now and then a burst of fresh laughter from one of the flaxen haired twins roused her, and she smiled sympathetically, and for a little while listened to their chatter; then her head drooped again, her steel-rimmed spectacles slid down on her nose, and lulled by the heat of the fire, the drumming of the rain, and the sound of their soft, happy voices, she dozed off peacefully.

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

“Will you play with uth, Janey?”

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

“All right.” She rolled herself off the window seat. “Want to play ‘French Revolution’?” Jane had little taste for the domestic character of the twin’s doll games.

“How do you play that?” asked Minie.

“Why, first of all you get me some books out of my room,” ordered Jane, and Minie obediently trotted off to return grunting under the burden of “stage properties.”

“Now, you see, build a prison out of ’em,” went on Jane; “this is the Conciergerie, and it has to be full of prisoners; princesses and duchesses, and of course Marie Antoinette. Now, we’ll make a guillotine, and chop all their heads off. Don’t you think that’ll be fun?”

The twins were enchanted. Lottie piled the hooks into a “scaffold,” while Minie sat by, clashing the scissors, eagerly. And presently, one by one, the poor paper prisoners were marched to their doom, Jane directing the carnage, describing the history of each victim, like a Greek chorus, and delivering their last speeches, while Minie, hypnotized into passive obedience, snipped off the paper heads of her innocent, and dearly treasured dolls.

Suddenly Jane jumped up.

“I think this is an awful game!” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

“But you can’t make Isabel again,” wept Minie.

“Well, you cut her head off,” said Jane.

“But you told her to,” cried Lottie, taking up her twin’s cause.

“Well, you asked me to play with you, didn’t you?” But Minie’s tears went to Jane’s heart. “I’m sorry, Minie, darling. Please don’t cry. I’ll tell you a story if you like.”

Minie’s chubby, tearful face brightened.

“A fairy story?”

“Yes. About a prince and princess.”

“And you won’t have it end up badly?”

“No. I promise.” So Jane, whose mind was a perfect storehouse of stories and legends, had soon charmed the twins into forgetfulness of their late bereavement while she launched forth upon her tale of giants and enchanted princes.

On this very afternoon, and in fact, at exactly the time that Jane had staged her disastrous amusement, a boy was tramping stolidly with his head bent against the rain, along one of the country roads a good three miles from Frederickstown. He was a big, raw-boned boy, whose shabby clothes originally much too loose for his lean frame, and now soaked through, gave him an almost grotesque appearance. A faded dark blue cap, with a patent leather visor, such as sea-captains wear, and the upturned collar of his coat, almost concealed his long brown face, in which the most striking features were a pair of black eyes, set rather close together, and a big handsome Roman nose. With a bundle slung over his shoulder on the end of a stick, he looked like any one of the foreign immigrants who were frequently seen seeking for work as laborers on the neighboring farms.

He did not raise his head until he reached a cross-roads. Then he stopped, pushed back his cap from his face, which was flushed and hot from his long walk, and looked up at the signs. On the left, the white board, roughly carved into the semblance of a pointing finger, read, “Frederickstown, 2-½ Miles.” The name on the right-hand sign-post was too badly damaged by weather to be intelligible to a stranger’s eyes; only the distance, “30 miles” was legible.

There was no reason why the boy should have hesitated for a moment; his destination was Frederickstown, the second direction did not concern him in the least; and yet, perhaps because the vagueness of the destination of the second road appealed to his imagination; perhaps because the greater distance lent it greater charm, and the very impossibility of walking thirty miles that day made it seem the more desirable, at any rate there he stood, looking uncertainly to the right, then to the left, and back to the right again. A gust of wind, flapping the skirts of his coat rudely, seemed to shove him forward, as if impatient of his indecision, but he planted his feet firmly, and continued to gape uncertainly up at the sign posts. “I’ll make up my own mind, thank you, and I’m not to be hurried,” was the reply which his determined attitude made to the impatience of the wind.

There was little difference in the features of the country traversed by the two roads; all that he could see through the blur of the rain, were bleak fields, muddy furrows, here and there a clump of leafless trees, the skeleton of a forest, or, down in a hollow the sheds and barns of a little farm. A cheerless prospect for a hungry and footsore Wanderer.

Behind him he heard the weary splashing of a horse’s feet, and the creaking of wheels. He turned around. A covered wagon, drawn by a tired, steaming horse was approaching.

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

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

The driver tilted his hat, scratched his head, and straightened his hat again before replying, thus gaining time to cast a shrewd eye over the appearance of the questioner. He was one of those excellent back-country farmers who regard every stranger with suspicion, and do not like to be hurried into speech.

“That road,” he said at length, “goes to the City—thirty miles. Going to walk it, stranger?”

“Which way are you going?”

The farmer jerked his head in the direction of Frederickstown.

“Will you let me go with you?” asked the boy, feeling nervously in his pocket. “I cannot pay you much, but I will gladly give you what I can.” He pulled the last coin out of his pocket, and looked at it uncertainly as if he were not at all sure how much it was. “I will give you twenty-five cents.”

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

The boy looked surprised and grateful, and without wasting any more words, clambered up to the hard wooden seat, and settled himself beside the farmer.

The road was rough, the wheels were rimmed with iron, and the board seat joggled unmercifully, so that the boy found it hard to answer his neighbor’s endless questions without biting his tongue in two; moreover, now that he was sitting down, after walking almost steadily since early morning, he found himself almost too tired to think; but he tried to be civil, since it seemed that if his companion was kind enough to refuse payment, the least he could do was to gratify his curiosity.

“Where might you be goin’, now?”

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

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

“I am not a foreigner.”

“Not but that you don’t talk good English, only sort of care-ful like. Like it wasn’t yer natural langwidge. What part of the country might yer be from, now?”

“I have never been in this country before. My father, who—who was Mr. Lambert’s brother-in-law, was a sailor, captain, also a trader. I don’t belong to any country. I have come back to work with my uncle, because my father is dead, and I have no other relatives.” The boy explained this in a dry, precise way, as if it were an answer that he had already had to make many times.

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

“Paul Winkler.”

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

“And why was you askin’ me where that other road went to?”

The boy smiled, and shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Jes’ for curiosity?”

“Yes.”

“Hum. How old might you be?”

“Seventeen.”

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

This time Paul broke the silence that followed.

“What is the City like?”

“Like? Why like any other city. Lots of houses, lots of streets, lots of people, lots of noise. I’m a countryman myself, and don’t have much hankerin’ for the big towns. Though there’s my son now, my second boy, he can’t stand the farm. No, he has to be off to the city. I suppose that’s the way all you youngsters are feeling nowadays. What you’re after is always somewhere different from where the Lord put you. Opportunity—that’s what my boy’s forever chatterin’ about—you got to get where you have opportunities. I says to him, ‘Well, Tom, what is it ye’re after?’ ‘Independence, Dad,’ says he, ‘Like George Washington.’ ‘A good thing,’ says I. ‘And what do ye call independence?’ Well, sir, we argue away for hours, and for the life of me I can’t see that he ain’t just about the most dependant feller I know. No sir, when ye live the sort of life I live ye get plenty time to think, and I tell ye when ye sift down to rock bottom just what ye do want, and don’t dress it up in a lot of fine words, ye find that there’s precious little as really matters to ye, that ye can’t get without having to trot all over the country after it.”

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

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

“There ye are,” said the farmer pointing ahead with his whip, “and I’ve no doubt it’s a glad sight to ye, youngster. Have ye walked far?”

“Fifteen miles, I think.”

“Fifteen miles! Pretty hungry, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Did ye come across the water alone?”

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

Now the wagon was jolting over the cobblestones, jarring every bone in Paul’s weary body. And, he was so hungry! All at once he caught the odor of spices, of fresh ginger-bread—such a friendly smell, such a homey, domestic smell, that made you think of a warm hearth, and familiar faces—

The horse stopped.

“Well, young man, I guess we part now.”

Paul felt as if he were asleep. He climbed stiffly out of the cart, shook the friendly, horny paw that his erstwhile companion thrust out, and tried to mutter his thanks. The wagon rumbled away up the street—and here he was.

He stood in the shelter of the quaint wooden balcony which extended from the second story of the Lambert’s dwelling out over the pavement. In front of him the light shone cheerily through the bakeshop window. Somehow, he rather dreaded to go up and knock at the door. Suppose that after all it was the wrong place? Suppose that no one knew that he was coming? Or, suppose that they wouldn’t believe he was Paul Winkler?

“So the prince took his knife and cut the third of the golden apples in half, and to his astonishment—”

“Janey, who is that talking to your father?” demanded Granny, opening her eyes suddenly.

Jane stopped and listened. Granny’s room was directly over the dining room, and sounds carried easily through the thin walls of the old house.

“I don’t know, Granny,” said Jane. “Nobody in particular, I guess.”

But the old lady felt nervously for her stick.

“Heavens! It couldn’t be—Janey, just run to the head of the stairs and see. Minie, darling, do you see Granny’s stick? Run, Janey—just peep over.”

But the door of the dining room was half closed, and Janey, hanging over the bannister, had to wait several moments before she caught a glimpse of the stranger, whose low voice occasionally interrupted her father’s eloquent talk.

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

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

“Did Mr. Morse know of your misfortune?”

“No. I did not tell him.”

Then Jane caught her first glimpse of the speaker, as he took a step back toward the fireplace, and into her line of vision through the half opened door.

“It’s Paul!” The thought flashed across her mind instantly. Her first impression of her new cousin was disappointing. Though such matters rarely counted for much with Jane, she was really shocked by the shabbiness of his appearance; for covered as he was with mud, his ill-fitting, outworn clothes made him look like a veritable ragamuffin. But it was not this so much as his whole bearing and expression that displeased her. There was something both sullen and stubborn in his face, which, combined with lines of weariness and hunger, made him seem much older than he really was, and decidedly unattractive. And she had been so sure that she was going to like her new cousin; she had pictured him as a jolly, ruddy, lively boy who would probably enter heart and soul into her enjoyments; someone with whom you could make friends in five minutes; whereas unsociability was stamped on every feature of this boy’s sallow, unsmiling face.

Just then the sharp tapping of Granny’s cane resounded through the corridor. The old lady’s singular impatience to know who the stranger was, had not allowed her to wait for Jane’s tardy report. With her cap askew, she appeared at the head of the stairs.

“Who is it? Who is it?” she demanded, almost breathlessly. “Stand aside, child.” And without waiting for a reply, she descended the stairs with wonderful rapidity, marched to the dining room door, and flung it open.

“Peter! Gertrude!” she blinked nervously into the room, where only the firelight illumined the two figures in the dusk. Then she stared into Paul’s face. It was only a moment before her uncertainty disappeared.

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

A few moments later the entire family had collected to welcome the newcomer. The twins with their round blue eyes fastened on him gravely, clung to their mother, who kissed him warmly, exclaimed over his size, and at once began to worry affectionately about his wet clothes. Elise greeted him with her usual gentle, modest smile, Carl with a patronizing, “How do you do, cousin?” and a keen glance, as if he were “sizing up” an opponent of some sort.

During these proceedings Paul looked utterly bewildered, and exceedingly awkward, as if he could not believe that all these good people who were smiling at him, shaking hands with him, and asking him if he were tired, were really his family. All that interested him was the fact that he smelt supper cooking.

Last of all to welcome him was Jane, who had stood aside, watching him intently; and it was he who turned to her, and with the polite smile that he had forced for the occasion, held out his hand.

“How do you do, cousin?”

“How do you do, cousin Paul?” repeated Jane decorously.

Jane was not over impulsive, and she had not yet made up her mind as to the degree of liking she felt for this tall, reticent youth, this sober, chilly, self-assured boy, whom Destiny had now placed at the head of the House of Winkler.