“Poor child, you are dripping wet! You’ll catch your death of cold!” cried Mrs. Lambert, noticing Paul’s state for the first time. “What can I be thinking of! You must have a hot bath and some dry things at once. Carl, take Paul up to your room, dear, and see that he makes himself very comfortable. I must see to supper. You must be starving, too!”

Accordingly, Carl undertook his duties as host as hospitably as he could, and Paul followed him upstairs.

In a moment or two Carl returned, wearing the prim expression of one who would like to express his opinion, and is merely waiting to be asked, and at length, one by one, the family began, naturally enough, to discuss the impression that the newcomer had made on them, severally. The criticisms were very kindly, but at the same time, it soon became clear that so far no one felt any great enthusiasm for the stranger. His curt manner had hurt his aunt and his grandmother, who had been so eager in their welcome to the fatherless boy, and had irritated Mr. Lambert. The short, brusque answers he had given to the endless kindly questions with which he had been plied, had discouraged the well-meant, and very natural curiosity of his relatives, and had made them feel rather uncomfortable.

Grandmother Winkler and Mrs. Lambert staunchly insisted that the poor boy was only lonely and unhappy; but down in their hearts they had been sadly disappointed in Franz’s son. Elise also ranged herself in his defense, feeling that any disapproval, expressed or unexpressed, of the new head of the clan, was a form of treason.

“Think how you would feel, Carl,” she said, “if you had lost your father, and had landed in a strange country among strangers—for after all we are strangers to Paul.”

“That’s all right,” returned Carl, “I could understand it if he were just gloomy. But I don’t see any reason why he has to be downright disagreeable.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be disagreeable, my dear,” said Mrs. Lambert.

“Well, we mustn’t lose any time in getting the boy settled down to his work,” said Mr. Lambert. “That will take his mind off his own troubles. I shall have a talk with him after supper.”

“I shook hands with him, and said I was glad to see him, and he just stared at me as if I were a—a fish,” went on Carl, still dwelling on his own grievances. “I know he’s here to stay, and I’ll try to get on with him, though I’ll tell you right now, it’s not going to be an easy job. And I hope to goodness I won’t have to room with him permanently, mother. Can’t you find somewhere to put him? Can’t you—” Carl broke off abruptly, reddening, for at that moment Paul entered the room. He was scrubbed and brushed, and, dressed in Mr. Lambert’s summer suit, looked vastly better than the young tramp who had entered their midst an hour before. Unfortunately he had overheard Carl’s remark, and his expression had changed from one that was almost friendly to the stony, immobile look that absolutely altered the whole character of his face. The cozy family scene in the dining room, where now the table had been set, and the lamp lighted, and where the firelight shone upon the faces of three generations, from Granny to little Minie, had done much to make Paul feel that he would be happy after all among these simple, happy people—until his quick ears caught Carl’s unkind remark.

Only Jane had seen the look that showed he had overheard; but everyone felt that he had, and an awkward little silence followed his entrance, during which Elise glanced at her brother in distress, and Mrs. Lambert struggled to think of something to say that would mend matters a little. But Carl met his cousin’s eyes defiantly, and from that moment the tacit hostility of the two boys was sealed.

So Paul, who had been on the verge of thawing a little, had frozen up again. He concluded immediately that everyone disliked him, and like many sensitive people, instead of attempting to overcome this imagined dislike, he carefully hid all that was winning in his nature, under his cold, unsympathetic manner. He even fancied that his aunt’s affectionate little attentions were only assumed to hide her real feelings. Poor Aunt Gertrude! No one in the world was less capable of insincerity than she, and her gentle heart ached over the forlorn, taciturn youth.

Supper was a decidedly uncomfortable meal; and Paul, who had felt that he could have eaten the proverbial fatted calf, found it difficult to swallow a mouthful. During the journey there had been too much to occupy him, too many difficulties and strange events for him to think much about the abrupt change that had taken place in his life; but now, as he sat with his eyes on his plate, in the midst of these strange faces, he felt as if the bottom had dropped out of everything. A perfect wave of depression engulfed him, and all he wished for was to get off by himself.

“Well, my boy, are you too tired to have a little talk?” asked Mr. Lambert, at length pushing back his chair.

“No, sir,” muttered Paul, curtly, thinking to himself, “I don’t suppose that they want to have me on their hands any longer than is necessary.”

“Children, you may prepare your lessons in your own rooms to-night. Well, Paul, suppose you and I get over here into my corner,” suggested Mr. Lambert, walking across to his desk. “Sit down.”

Paul sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and fixed his eyes attentively on the window. The rain still rattled on the glass panes, and the wind banged the shutters, and moaned through the leafless trees.

“I am only going to acquaint you with the wishes which your father—my poor brother—expressed in a recent letter,” began Mr. Lambert, rummaging through his orderly pigeon-holes. “It might be best for you to read it for yourself.” But Paul declined the letter with a gesture.

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Lambert, replacing the poor, blotted sheets in the envelope, “I don’t want to pain you, my dear boy, and I would not touch on the subject at all, if I did not feel that it were best for you to find something to occupy your thoughts at this time.” He paused, but as Paul did not seem to think it necessary to make any reply, he continued:

“You must understand how deeply I am interested in your affairs. Er—how old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Seventeen? I should have thought you were older. But seventeen is not an age of childhood, and in any event I feel that you are fully capable of assuming the responsibilities which must fall upon you as the only—living—male descendant—of—the Winkler Family.” Mr. Lambert uttered these last words with an impressiveness that cannot be described. Paul looked up, suddenly interested, and with a wary, defensive expression.

“No doubt your father acquainted you with his wishes?”

“My father told me to come to you, and that you would help me,” said Paul.

“Help you? Indeed I will help you. I would help you in any event because you are my nephew, and blood runs thicker than water, my boy. Always remember that. But believe me, it is not family duty alone that impels me to give you all the assistance I can,—I feel that you are a young man who is worthy—worthy to enter upon the duties of your position.”

Paul was puzzled. He could not understand these allusions to his “position,” and his “responsibilities.”

“Never hesitate to come to me for any advice. Do not allow little discouragements to overwhelm you,” continued Mr. Lambert. “Your aunt, of course, will be your real teacher—”

“My aunt?” echoed Paul, completely bewildered. “I don’t understand—”

“Ah,” said Mr. Lambert, smiling, “perhaps you are not familiar with the traditions of your family. Then, I will tell you; your great-great-grandfather, on your father’s side, Johann Winkler, was, as you surely know, the founder of this Bakery. He was, moreover, the inventor of certain delicacies which have made it famous, and which cannot possibly be made by any other baker in this country—in the world, I may say. It was his wish that the fruits of his labors should be the heritage of his descendants, and that only those who bore the name of Winkler, should learn the secret recipes by which those cakes are mixed. A moment’s thought will make it clear to you that you are the next in line to be initiated into these secrets, which are sealed from me, and my children. In a word, you are the only living heir to this business. Your aunt, of course, is the present proprietor, and she and she alone can instruct you in the work in which you must follow her.”

Paul was speechless, and Mr. Lambert, mistaking his astonished silence, for a calm acceptance of what he had said, now drew forth a large parchment from a drawer of his desk, and spread it out with a pompous air.

“This, my boy, is the family tree of the Winklers, which establishes your claim to your inheritance. Here, you see—” his broad forefinger began to trace the branches, “Johann Winkler had two sons, Frederick and Samuel. Frederick, the elder had two sons, also Samuel and Johann. In this case, the younger became the Baker, and Samuel became a hardware merchant in Missouri. Thus, Johann was the father of your Aunt Gertrude, and your father, who also relinquished his inheritance, like Esau—”

“But what of Samuel’s children?” stammered Paul. “Maybe he has a son or a grandson—”

“However that may be they have forfeited their claims,” replied Mr. Lambert. “No, you need have no fears of any disputes, my boy. Surely, your father must have acquainted you with all these matters which relate to you so closely.”

“My father never even mentioned anything of the sort!” exclaimed Paul, pushing back his chair, as if he were thinking of sudden flight.

“I need hardly tell you that you are doubly welcome, my dear boy,” continued Mr. Lambert placidly, totally misunderstanding Paul’s astonishment.

“But, sir! One moment! I don’t understand! You surely can’t mean that you think I am going to learn how to bake bread, and make pies!” burst out Paul at last. “Great heavens! My father couldn’t have dreamed—I! Making biscuits!”

“And why not, pray?” demanded Mr. Lambert, sharply. “Am I to understand that you consider yourself too good for a profession that the great Johann Winkler thought worthy of his genius? Is it that you do not consider it manly? Surely, you do not mean me to understand this?” Mr. Lambert’s face hardened a little; the expression of bland benevolence left his eyes, which now grew cold and piercing. He had not expected rebellion, but recovering quickly from his surprise he prepared to cope with it as only he could.

“Of course I don’t mean that, sir!” exclaimed Paul. “But don’t you see—I can’t—I’m not fitted for such work. I couldn’t learn how to bake a pie in a life time. I—”

“Oh, I am sure you underrate your intelligence, my boy. Don’t give way to discouragement so soon. A little patience, a little industry—”

Paul began to laugh, almost hysterically. Even in the midst of his serious anxiety, the idea of himself demurely kneading dough was too much for his gravity.

“But I’d poison everyone in town in twenty-four hours! Bake bread! Rolls! Tarts! Sir, I could far more easily learn how to trim hats!”

“I don’t doubt it. Any silly schoolgirl can learn that. I freely admit that the art of a great baker is not readily acquired. I admit that in some measure it requires an inborn gift, and a gift that is by no means a common one. Great cooks are far rarer, believe me, than great orators, or great artists, although the world in general does not rank them as it should. There was a time when a fine pastry or a sauce composed with genius called forth the applause of kings, and when eminent bakers were honored by the noblest in the land. But to-day, through the ignorance and indifference of the world, the profession is fallen in value, because, forsooth, it is fancied that it caters to the less noble tastes of mankind. My dear boy, it is for you, in whose veins flows the blood of the King of Bakers, to maintain the fame and dignity of your profession. Do not imagine that you lack the gift. It has lain idle, but a little practice will soon prove that it is in your possession.”

Paul, feeling that he had come up against a wall of adamant, got up and began to pace the floor. Here he was with exactly twenty-five cents in his pocket, without even a suit of clothes that deserved the name, without a friend within three thousand miles, nor the faintest idea of where he could go, if he rashly broke away from the family roof-tree.

“It seems that you had other ideas,” remarked Mr. Lambert in a politely interested tone, which said, “I don’t mind listening to any of your fantastic notions.” Paul hesitated. He most certainly had had other ideas, and, what was more, he did not have the slightest intention of relinquishing them. The question was, could he lay them simply before his uncle? One glance at Mr. Lambert’s smooth, practical face was sufficient to make him feel that anything of the sort was not to be considered; certainly not at this time, in any case. Mr. Lambert had fixed his mind on one idea, and tenacity was his most striking characteristic. It was his boast that he never changed his mind, and the truth of this statement was recognized by everyone who had any dealings with him.

“I should like to think over all that you have said, Uncle Peter,” Paul at length said warily. “All this has been very unexpected, and I don’t know just what to say.”

“You mean that you are still doubtful as to whether you will accept or reject the position, to which Providence has called you, and which it is plainly your Duty to accept?” inquired Mr. Lambert, raising his eyebrows. He was surprised and annoyed by his nephew’s resistance, but knowing the boy’s circumstances he had no fear that Paul would decide against his own wishes.

Paul was quick to perceive this underlying cocksureness, and his whole soul rose in rebellion.

“I don’t see that either Providence or Duty has anything to do with the case,” he retorted, instantly firing up.

Mr. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

“You do not feel that you are under obligations to your Family? I don’t like to believe that you have so slight a sense of your responsibilities. No, I am sure that a few moments reflection will convince you to the contrary. By all means consider the matter. I should, however, like to have your answer to-night, if it is convenient for you. I have several letters to write, and shall be here when you have reached your decision.” And with a curt nod, he swung around to his desk, and took up the old-fashioned goose-quill pen, which he was in the habit of using under the impression that it lent him an air of business solidity.

Paul, lost in thought, went up to Carl’s room for the “few moments of reflection” that his uncle had advised.

His cousin, wearing a brown dressing gown, with a hideous pattern of yellow fleurs-de-lis, was sitting at the table, with a book in his hands, and a greenshade over his nearsighted eyes, engrossed in his studies. The two boys glanced at each other, and nodded brusquely without speaking.

Paul threw himself across the bed.

“Duty! Providence!” All he could see in the matter was that he had got into a pretty kettle of fish. “And uncle thinks that just because I’m broke, I’ll knuckle under without a murmur.”

Obligations! That was a nice thing to preach to him.

“Would you mind not kicking the bed?” said Carl’s thin, querulous voice. “It makes it rather hard to concentrate.” This petition, uttered in a studiedly polite tone, was accompanied by a dark look, which this time, however, Paul failed to see.

“Sorry,” said Paul, gruffly, and got up.

Now he began to walk the floor; but at length stopped at the window, pressing his face to the glass so that he could see something besides the reflection of his cousin’s mouse-colored head, and monotonous rocking in his chair.

He peered out over the roofs of the town, up the street, all sleek and shining with the rain, in the direction of the cross-roads at which he had stood, less than four hours ago. Why hadn’t he taken the Other One, anyway? He had been perfectly free to choose—no one had been preaching Duty and all the rest of it to him then. He hadn’t taken it, because he had been tired and hungry, and almost penniless—and lonely, too, and the farmer had turned up. Perhaps he had been a coward. It had led to the City, where, even if he were penniless, he would at least have been his own master, free to work according to his own ideas, and not Uncle Peter’s.

“Would you mind not whistling!” snapped Carl. “It’s the most maddening sound. Hang it! I’m trying to study.”

Paul’s mournful whistling stopped.

Baking pies! So that was to be his future, was it? Well, he still had something to say. It wasn’t too late to take the other road yet. He’d walk a thousand miles before he would let himself be trussed up in a canvas apron, and put to kneading dough for the rest of his days.

He glanced around for his cast off clothes, and saw them hanging, still dismally wet over a chair. But not even the cheerless prospect of a clammy shirt dampened his resolution. He began to fling off his dry clothing, sending collar, necktie, socks and shoes flying in all directions.

Presently Carl, aroused by the commotion, put down his book. Then he stared in astonishment, at the sight of his cousin rapidly climbing into the soaking, muddy garments. But he felt that it was not in keeping with the dignity he had assumed, to inquire into the reasons for this strange proceeding. All he said was,

“Would you mind not shaking that mud over my things?”

Without replying, Paul shouldered his ridiculous bundle, felt in his pocket to make sure that his quarter was still there, and marched out of the room, down the stairs, and to the door.

Then it occurred to him that this abrupt departure, without a word of farewell to anyone was rather a shabby way of returning the hospitality he had received, and he hesitated.

“Well, if I don’t get out now, it’ll mean a lot of argument and explanation. I could write a note.” But he had no paper, and he did not want to go back to Carl’s room. So there he stood uneasily enough, wriggling in his damp clothes, and glancing uncertainly toward the closed door of the dining room behind which his uncle sat waiting for his decision. Overhead, he heard the low murmur of his aunt’s voice, and the thudding of the twins’ little bare feet as they romped and squealed in a pillow fight. Paul felt his resolution waver, and then anger at his own weakness steadied his determination. He opened the door, strode out, and pulled it to quietly behind him.

A wild gust of wind nearly robbed him of his breath, and made him stagger. The rain had gathered up its forces, and now came down in a solid sheet, swept this way and that by the wind.

“Whew!” Paul bent his head, and ploughed his way against it, without looking to the right or to the left. The branches groaned and tossed, creaking as if they were being torn from the trunks of the swaying trees.

Then all at once, with a crash a dead bough fell in front of him, missing him by not more than fifteen inches. Paul stopped. The very elements seemed opposed to his unmannerly flight, and again he hesitated, looked back, and saw the friendly, ruddy windows of the Bakery. Thirty miles in this tempest! He smiled sheepishly, and then frowned. His impetuousness had put him in a very ridiculous position. His pride rebelled at the idea of returning, and with the thought of Carl’s smothered amusement, came the memory of his cousin’s inhospitable speech. On the other hand, he saw that it was no less absurd to follow up his plan of flight, and the streak of common sense underlying his hasty, high-handed nature told him that it was less foolish to go back and undertake the immediate problem that had been thrust upon him, than to plunge himself into the serious difficulties that his adventure would entail. And at length, inwardly raging at his own folly, he retraced his steps.

As the dining room door opened, Mr. Lambert looked up, started to remove his spectacles, and then with a start, adjusted them more accurately. Paul, who had left his cap and bundle in the hall tried to stand in the shadow so that his clothes would not be noticed. After a short silence, Mr. Lambert preferring to observe nothing extraordinary in his nephew’s appearance, folded up his spectacles, put them in the breast pocket of his frock coat and said, pleasantly,

“Well? What have you decided?”

Paul cleared his throat.

“I have decided—I have decided—” he finished by spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders.

“To undertake your—er—responsibilities?” prompted Mr. Lambert, as if he were administering an oath.

“To learn how to bake pies,” said Paul, feebly, and then mumbling some vague excuse he backed out of the room, leaving Mr. Lambert to indulge in a short chuckle.

Paul hid himself in the bakeshop until he felt reasonably sure that his cousin had gone to bed, and then, boots in hand tiptoed shamefacedly up to the bedroom, and began to undress in the dark. But Carl was not asleep, and after listening to Paul’s smothered exclamations as he struggled with wet button holes and laces, could not resist a polite jibe.

“Oh,” came in interested tones from the bed, “where did you go, cousin?”

“For a walk,” replied Paul, laconically, and a certain note in his voice warned Carl that it would be wiser not to refer to the delicate subject again.