“You take a tablespoonful of butter, a pound of sugar, half a teaspoonful each of cinnamon and all-spice, a pound of raisins, and a cupful of molasses,” said Aunt Gertrude timidly, reading from the yellowed pages of the century-old book of recipes, in which were traced in brown ink, and in the quaint, tremulous handwriting of old Johann Winkler himself, the secret formulas of the “King of Bakers.” Then she closed the book.

“And now, my dear, I have to show you the rest.”

Paul submitted to his instructions meekly enough but nevertheless his aunt felt singularly at a loss with this strange pupil on her hands, and she had her own grave doubts as to whether the culinary genius of the Winklers really lay dormant in him at all.

On that bright, windy afternoon, aunt and nephew were closeted in the room off the kitchen, which was called the Mixing Room. It was here that the book of recipes was kept, and here that the bread and cakes were mixed, according to the time-honored tradition of secrecy. No one had the right of entry without Mrs. Lambert’s permission, and that permission was never given while she was engaged in preparing her doughs and batters. It was a cheerful little room, snug and warm, lined with the old, well polished cupboards in which the tins of spices and dried fruits and crocks of mysterious, delicious mixtures were kept safely locked. Seated at the table, was plump, rosy, beautiful Aunt Gertrude, full of the importance of her business, but a trifle uncertain of her six-foot disciple, who, shrouded in a great white apron, and with his sleeves rolled up on his muscular, brown arms, stood soberly measuring out flour and sugar with hands that looked better fitted for a lumber camp.

But little by little, as the lessons progressed, Paul became less austere; and as he unbent, Aunt Gertrude regained her natural jollity; until she actually dared to tease him.

“What a frown! You will frighten all my customers away,” she said, gaily, peeping up into his swarthy face. “You must practice how to look very cheerful.”

“Must I? Well, how is this?” And Paul promptly expanded his mouth into the empty grin of a comic mask. “Only I can’t remember to grin while I count out spoonfuls of cinnamon. It’s like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.”

“In a little while you won’t have to think so hard while you are measuring your ingredients. I do it by instinct,” said Aunt Gertrude, proudly. And Paul smiled at her air of naive vanity.

“Oh, you are a very remarkable person, Aunt Gertrude,” he said gravely.

“Tut! You mustn’t laugh at me, you impudent boy,” said Mrs. Lambert, shaking her head, and pretending to be severe. “You must be very respectful.” But she was tremendously pleased with herself for having discovered a vein of gaiety in her unsociable nephew. His slight smile, the first spontaneous expression she had seen on his face, was like a light thrown across his harsh, aquiline features, giving the first glimpse that anyone of the family had seen, into the gentler traits of his character; and Aunt Gertrude felt that she had been right in attributing his abrupt, ungracious manner to loneliness and depression.

“Now,” she said briskly, “I shall finish this first batch, just to show you how it is done, and then you must do one all by yourself. How nice it is to have you to help me! You can’t think how I dislike being shut up in this room for hours every day without anyone to talk to.” Indeed, there was nothing that Aunt Gertrude disliked more heartily than solitude and silence. Like Jane, she adored people in general, she loved chat and gossip, she loved to hear all that was going on, and could never escape too quickly to the shop, where all day long the townspeople were running in and out, always stopping for a short chat with the lively, inquisitive merry proprietress.

“You see, now, you have to knead this dough quite vigorously,” was her next instruction, and turning her sleeves back from her strong, white arms, she proceeded to give a demonstration, while Paul sat by, with his elbow on the table, resting his head on one hand, and smiling at her very vigorous treatment of the meek, flabby dough.

“You’re certainly giving that poor stuff an awful trouncing, Aunt Gertrude. Don’t you think you ought to let up a bit?”

“Not at all,” returned Mrs. Lambert, seriously, “I never let up, once I begin.”

“What a terrible character you are, Aunt Gertrude! Here, do you want me to take a hand at it?”

“No, no,” panted Aunt Gertrude. “Now don’t interfere. Just watch me.” And again she began her pummelling with redoubled energy. The exercise brought a deep flush to her smooth cheeks; a lock of brown hair barely tinged with grey kept falling over her forehead, and she kept tucking it back with the patience of absent-mindedness.

“You can’t imagine how good these cakes are, my dear. They are my very favorites, though I know I shouldn’t eat so many myself. I’m afraid I’m going to be a very fat old lady.”

“Then we’ll put you in the window as an advertisement.”

Aunt Gertrude thought this a huge joke.

“But what will people think when they see you, my dear? We’ll have to get you fatter, too. Then people will say, ‘Do you see that fine, stout, rosy, cheerful man? Well, once he was as thin as a poker. Winkler’s Pastry gave him that lovely figure.’”

At the end of twenty minutes she had finished kneading and rolling the dough, and with a sigh of relief, turned to Paul.

“There now, you see exactly how it is done, don’t you?”

But Paul did not answer. With a stub of charcoal which he had fished from his pocket, the future baker was sketching busily on the smooth round top of a flour barrel. Aunt Gertrude’s mouth opened in speechless indignation.

“Tut! what are you doing?”

Paul looked up. Then, seeing Mrs. Lambert’s face, he began to laugh.

“Well, you told me to watch you, Aunt Gertrude. I’ve been watching you. Why are you cross?”

“But is that any way to do?” demanded Mrs. Lambert, clasping her hands with a gesture of indignant reproach. “Here I’ve been working and working, and there you sit, you bad boy—what are you drawing?”

Here her curiosity got the better of her annoyance, and she peered over his shoulder. The hasty sketch, which had been executed with a skill that Aunt Gertrude could not fully appreciate, showed a woman with her arms in a basin of dough—Aunt Gertrude herself, in fact. In arrangement, and in the freedom and vigor of every line, the rough picture gave evidence of really exceptional talent. Aunt Gertrude tried to look like a connoisseur.

“Now, that is very clever. Where did you learn to make pictures?”

Paul shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

Then Aunt Gertrude, suddenly remembering the business in hand, put on a severe expression.

“That is all very well; but what have you learned to-day from me? Nothing! I have wasted my time! Oh, you are—”

“There, Aunt Gertrude,—I know all about those old cakes. Please just let me—”

“Old cakes, indeed!”

“Beautiful, wo-onderful cakes, then. Please just let me finish this, like a nice good aunt. And then, I’ll tell you what—I’ll finish it in colors, and I’ll give it to you. You haven’t any idea how lovely you are to draw, Aunt Gertrude—you’re so nice and round.”

Aunt Gertrude tried not to simper; she was as susceptible to flattery as a girl of sixteen, and found it impossible to resist even when she knew perfectly that she was being cozened.

“What nonsense!” But nonetheless she resumed her position at the bowl of dough again, and Paul chatted artfully, to distract her thoughts from his lesson in cooking, while he hastily completed the sketch.

From that afternoon on, there was no longer the slightest shadow of constraint between aunt and nephew. But Paul was very slow to drop his aloof curt manner with the rest of the family, and except for Mrs. Lambert and Granny none of them had penetrated his shell.

Carl had by no means lost his dislike of his cousin, and indeed he was not entirely to blame. To begin with he inspired Paul with an uncontrollable desire to annoy him, and when he felt like it, Paul had a perfect genius for irritating people. He had found all the joints in Carl’s armour, and he took a thoroughly infuriating delight in probing him in every unguarded spot. Every now and again, Carl would adopt a peculiar, affected accent in his speech, and would use very grand language; then Paul would mimic him perfectly gravely, until Carl was fairly writhing with suppressed rage. Again, Carl was rather given to boasting about himself in an indirect way, and Paul would promptly cap these little bursts of vanity with some outrageous story about himself, making himself out the hero of some high-flown adventure, and modestly describing his own feats of strength until Carl, who could not decide whether his cousin was serious or slyly making fun of him, came at length to the opinion that Paul was the most insufferable braggart that ever lived. He was particularly vulnerable on this point, because he had, secretly, a great admiration of physical strength and courage, and Paul’s superiority to him in these qualities had much to do with his dislike.

As the weeks went on, the twins were next to lose their timidity with their strange cousin. He teased them fearfully, and tweaked their yellow pig-tails, and told them they looked like a pair of little butter balls; but on Saturday nights, while Elise read “Ivanhoe” aloud, and the family gathered around the big fireplace in the dining room, he used to make them the most wonderful paper dolls, beautifully drawn and colored, and in the greatest variety; mediÆval ladies and knights, brigands, Italian and Rumanian peasants, and hosts of comic ones; until Minie and Lottie finally came to regard him as quite the most enchanting and remarkable member of the family.

Jane, however, was still neutral; she neither liked nor disliked him, and was perfectly indifferent as to whether he liked or disliked her.

And meanwhile, under Aunt Gertrude’s guidance, he struggled, more manfully than successfully with the difficult art of baking cakes and bread. It cannot be said that he showed the slightest signs of the gift which Mr. Lambert believed that Johann Winkler had bequeathed to all his descendants; and so far not one of his attempts had been fit to go into the shop. His bread was as heavy as lead, his rolls were like sticks of dynamite, his cakes invariably scorched, or had too much baking soda in them.

Notwithstanding the fact that he really tried hard to learn, as much to please his aunt as for any other reason, and cheerfully rose before daylight on those wintry mornings to knead his dough, and see that the ovens were properly heated, Mr. Lambert chose to believe that his nephew was deliberately trying not to be successful; and seeing in Paul’s repeated failures a sly rebellion against his plans, he became more and more out of humour with the boy.

“See here, young man, how long is this business going to go on?” he demanded at length, losing patience altogether. “All of us have got to earn our own salt. I’m not a rich man, and I simply can’t afford to provide for a big, strapping boy who can’t even learn a simple trade—”

“‘A little patience, Uncle—’” quoted Paul serenely. Mr. Lambert flushed.

“You are impudent. Patience, indeed. I have been patient. But I feel that it is high time that you proved yourself in earnest, or at least told me frankly whether you intend to make yourself of some use or not.”

Paul thought for a moment, then he said slowly,

“Uncle, I am trying to learn this confounded business. There is no use in getting angry with me—it isn’t my fault if I don’t succeed. Ask Aunt Gertrude whether I’ve worked hard or not. But I don’t want to be a burden to you—you’ve been very kind, and I should hate to feel that you think I’m simply sponging on you. If you aren’t satisfied with me, please just say so.”

“Oh, come now, my boy, there’s nothing to take offense about,” said Mr. Lambert hastily, changing his tactics immediately. “It merely occurred to me that you were not satisfied, and to urge you, if that is the case, to speak out frankly.”

Paul hesitated. During the last three or four weeks he had been repeatedly on the point of coming to an understanding with his uncle, and had put it off, certain that it would not be an “understanding” at all, but simply a good old-fashioned row. There was not one chance in a hundred that Mr. Lambert could be made to understand his ideas or sympathize with them in the least, and Paul, financially, as well as in other ways, was too helpless to struggle just then. At the same time, it had occurred to him, that from one point of view, he was not acting fairly. He was ashamed of accepting Mr. Lambert’s hospitality when, plainly, it was extended to him only on the condition that he conformed with Mr. Lambert’s wishes, and when he had not the slightest intention of fulfilling his uncle’s desires.

“It’s a pretty shabby trick, and cowardly too, to live here until I get ready to do what I want, when all of them are depending on my being a fixture. It would be better to put the whole business up to uncle, and stand my ground openly. Then, if he wants to kick me out, he can.”

Paul reached this decision in the pause that followed Mr. Lambert’s last remark, during which his uncle eyed him narrowly.

“I see that you are deliberating,” said Mr. Lambert, coldly. “Again let me urge you to be frank.”

“Very well, sir. I will!” declared Paul impetuously. “I’ll be telling you very little more than I told you when I first came. I can never learn to be a baker. You can see that for yourself. And what’s more, it isn’t as if I hadn’t tried. I don’t want charity, and I thought that if for a while I could be of some help to Aunt Gertrude, it might be one way of paying for my board and lodging. And that’s why—whatever you may think—I’ve done my best to learn how to make all this stuff. But it’s no use. I never can be a baker, and I don’t want to be a baker!”

“Ah!” said Mr. Lambert, leaning back in his chair. “I thought that was how the land lay.” He was silent for a moment, and then, carefully plucking a thread from the buttonhole in his lapel, he inquired.

“And what do you want to be?”

“I want to be—” (“Here’s where the music starts,” thought Paul), “I want to be a painter.”

Mr. Lambert looked as if a cannon had suddenly been discharged in his ear. For fully thirty seconds he was quite speechless; then pulling himself together, he articulated,

“A what?”

“A painter,” Paul repeated.

“Do you mean a house-painter, or—” here Mr. Lambert raised his eyes to the ceiling as if invoking the mercy of the gods upon this benighted youth, “or an artist?”

“I’m afraid I mean an artist, sir.”

“A person who,” Mr. Lambert went through a tragic pantomime of painting in the air, “who paints pictures?”

“Yes,” said Paul briefly.

There was a long pause while Mr. Lambert struggled to assimilate this preposterous idea. At last a tolerant, half-pitying smile spread over his features.

“My dear boy, we all have foolish notions in our youth. You will get over this nonsense. Meanwhile, be so good as never to mention it to me again.” And without another word, he left the room.

“Well!” said Paul aloud, “I certainly didn’t accomplish much. Where do I stand, anyhow?” Again the picture of the cross-roads rose in his mind, again the thought of the city.

“Here I am, just because I didn’t have the nerve to make a break for the other direction,” he thought bitterly, recalling his ignominious attempt at flight, “because I was afraid of being cold and hungry, and now, I’m in a worse fix than I was before.” For while he cared very little about his uncle’s opinions, he had grown to love his aunt, and the thought of disappointing her hopes troubled him deeply.

Well, at least his uncle knew his intentions. If he did not choose to regard them seriously, that was his own affair. Paul decided to let matters take their own course for a while.

Now, as a matter of fact, Mr. Lambert considered his nephew’s declaration a great deal more seriously than he appeared to. He knew just enough about people to realize quite clearly that there was a good likelihood of Paul’s not getting over his absurd notions; but he was quite determined that they should be suppressed with a firm hand. He made no reference whatever to their conversation, and continued to act as if Paul’s expostulation had never been uttered, but at the same time he was keenly alert to note any further symptoms that Paul still harbored his outlandish, preposterous, ridiculous, and treasonable idea.

It was not long before he discovered that these symptoms were very alarming indeed.

One Sunday afternoon early in December, he returned from a two days’ trip to Allenboro to find his family gathered in the dining room, indulging in a general spirit of gaiety, which in Mr. Lambert’s opinion was exceedingly out of place on the Sabbath. He was strongly persuaded in favor of the most rigid observation of Sunday, not as a day of rest, but of strenuous inactivity. All out of door games were forbidden, any books not of the most serious character were sternly prohibited, and laughter was frowned upon by the worthy old merchant, who ruled his household with a rod of iron. Furthermore, he had not accomplished all that he had wished at Allenboro, and he was in no very genial humour to begin with. What were his feelings, therefore, when, appearing in the doorway, tall and formidable in his burly overcoat, and wide-brimmed black felt hat, he discovered his family enjoying themselves in defiance of every rule of Sabbath decorum and solemnity.

The twins were popping corn over the fire, Granny was knitting! While over by the window, Elise, Jane and Aunt Gertrude were grouped around Paul, all talking at once, and apparently in great excitement. What they were talking about, and exclaiming over, Mr. Lambert did not know. The window shade was run up as far as it would go, admitting the wintry twilight, and under the window, propped against the back of a chair was an object which looked like the top of a flour barrel. Paul, evidently in a most unfamiliarly happy and animated frame of mind, was talking vivaciously.

“You see, if I only had some decent colors! But it’s not so bad, either. What it needs, now—” here he broke off abruptly, as Mr. Lambert, with a loud, and threatening “Ha-hum!” announced his presence.

Everyone turned around with as much consternation, as if they had been caught conspiring to rob a bank, and blank, guilty silence fell over the room.

“Ah!” said Mr. Lambert. He allowed his displeasure to show very plainly in his face, through the chilly smile with which he received his wife’s timid kiss.

“Elise, will you take my coat?”

“You are cold, Peter. Do get warm, while I see about supper,” said Aunt Gertrude hastily.

“But I am anxious to see what it is that interests you all so much,” said Mr. Lambert, walking over to the window. Paul, with a rather defiant expression, stepped aside to allow his uncle a full view of the picture.

“You have been painting? My dear boy, you must know that I cannot allow you to indulge in such frivolous pastimes on this day of the week,” said Mr. Lambert calmly. “Gertrude, I am surprised that you allowed this infringement of our rules.” Poor Aunt Gertrude blushed red under this reproof, and stammered like a school-girl.

“But, Peter, I didn’t know—you never said—”

Mr. Lambert checked her with a slight gesture; then adjusting his glasses, leant forward to inspect the painting, while Paul, with his hand on his hip, looked dreamily out of the window. Granny, who was rather deaf, had been very little disturbed, and went on brazenly with her knitting. Elise had hastened out to the kitchen to help her mother; but Jane, intensely interested in the proceedings, stood her ground, looking keenly from Paul’s face to her father’s.

“You have been painting your aunt, I see,” remarked Mr. Lambert, presently. “It seems to me that an occupation more suitable to the Sabbath could have been found.” He looked at the picture closely. Ignorant as he was of anything concerning the fine arts, he felt that the painting was far from being merely a school-boyish production; and, in fact, the very skill it revealed increased his determination to put an end to his nephew’s efforts once and for all. He did not overlook the fact that in lieu of proper materials Paul had made a surprisingly successful use of a piece of raw wood, and a few mediocre oil paints—a rather bad sign, in Mr. Lambert’s opinion, showing as it did, a dangerous tendency to surmount difficulties. Moreover, it seemed to him that the whole thing showed a stubborn, deliberate disobedience to his orders. He was very angry, too angry to act with tact and good judgment.

Straightening up, with a flush showing on his cheekbones, he said abruptly,

“I thought I had expressed myself clearly to you before; but evidently I did not make myself understood. I cannot and I will not have you wasting your time on this tom-foolery. While you are in my house, you must obey my orders implicitly, do you understand?”

“You only told me not to—”

“Don’t argue with me, sir! I will not tolerate your disrespect! Let it be enough for you that I forbid—I forbid your idling over this useless and childish nonsense.”

Without a word, Paul began to gather together his few brushes and tubes of paint, but when he started to leave the room with his picture, Mr. Lambert stopped him peremptorily.

“Leave those things just where they were, please.” Paul did as he was told.

“You’ll throw them out, uncle?”

“Kindly learn to obey without asking questions!”

All that day, Jane had seen her cousin gay, full of good spirits, utterly unlike the moody, disagreeable boy that he had been for so long; but now the old, hard, obdurate expression came into his face.

“These things are mine, uncle,” he said, quietly.

“Indeed? The top of that flour barrel?” inquired Mr. Lambert, pointing to the picture. Paul hesitated for a moment, and then with a slight shrug, put it down again on the chair.

“No, that is yours,” he said, and walked out of the room.

Mr. Lambert took the picture, looked at it for a moment or two, as if uncertain whether it too, were guilty of some heinous crime against his rule; then, he took it; but instead of breaking it in two, placed it quite carefully behind his desk.

Paul did not appear at supper; but Mr. Lambert preferred not to notice his absence. Everyone was aware that civil war was brewing in the household, and with varying degrees of curiosity or anxiety, made their private conjectures as to what the future would develop in the way of open hostilities or amicable compromise between uncle and nephew.

It was at about half-past ten that night, that Jane, who was rarely in bed at the prescribed time, happened to remember that Elise had left “Ivanhoe” on the dining room mantel piece; she felt also, that an apple or two was just what she wanted to subdue a certain mild emptiness. The household was perfectly still, and so, taking off her slippers, she stole down-stairs in her stocking feet, to get her book, and rummage in the larder.

There was still a faint glow of firelight in the dining room.

Half-way to the kitchen door she stopped, arrested by a movement in the room, and with her heart beating violently, peered about her. Then she saw that someone was sitting in Granny’s chair. For a moment, she could not move a muscle, then, mustering up her courage, she quavered,

“Who—who is that?”

The figure in the chair gave a violent start, then with a little laugh Paul’s voice said,

“Is that you, Jane?”

“Oh, Paul!” Jane gave a great sigh of relief.

“Did I frighten you?” Paul asked, getting up.

“Well, you startled me,” said Jane, who had always maintained that she was not afraid of ghosts or burglars—never having met a sample of either. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Paul. “What are you doing?”

“I want some food,” said Jane, succinctly. “Do you?”

“I’m not very hungry. What are you going to get?”

“Well, if there’s enough wood there to fix up the fire a little, I could make some cocoa. It’s awfully cold in here.”

Paul picked up a stout log and flung it onto the smouldering ashes, and in a few moments, a bright flame crackled up, sending its ruddy light into every corner of the room.

Everyone is familiar with the exquisite feeling of sympathy, which food, produced at just the right moment, can excite between the most hostile natures, and over their cups of cocoa, Jane and Paul, who had never been really hostile, began to see each other in a new light. For the first time they talked with unguarded friendliness, and gradually Paul became more confiding, and Jane listened with her usual eager interest.

At first he talked about his life with his father, his wanderings, and strange adventures, without however, the least exaggeration or the braggadocio with which he had teased and disgusted Carl. It was not strange that Jane, who had never seen any part of the world save the few square miles of earth, bounded by the hills of Frederickstown, listened to his stories of foreign seas and foreign lands as if she were bewitched.

Never before had Paul talked to any of them about himself or his past life; loquaciousness on any subject was not one of his characteristics and concerning his own affairs he had been particularly reticent; but now it was as if he could no longer smother down all that was pent up within him. In the presence of his sympathetic listener, his words now fairly tumbled over each other, and his face grew tight and weird with earnestness and enthusiasm.

At length Jane asked him,

“You don’t want to live here and take over the business after all, do you?”

“Ah, Janey, what kind of a baker would I make?” responded Paul, smiling half-sadly.

“You want to be an artist?”

“Yes. Don’t think that I expected to have everything just as I wanted it. Naturally I knew that I would have to work here. I have no money. You don’t imagine that I expected Uncle to plant me comfortably in some art school, and support me while I went through years of study? I planned, do you see, to work at anything that I could make enough to repay Uncle for boarding me, and to save a little so that in five or six years even, I could manage to study. I hadn’t any idea of looking for help to anyone but myself, and as a matter of fact, I very nearly went on to the city to look for work instead of plumping myself on uncle. But I didn’t.—I did happen to be ‘broke,’ and the city was thirty miles away, and then I hoped that uncle would advise me. I had no one else to turn to, and it seemed natural to come to him. Then, when I got here, I found that everything had been arranged for me. What I was to do was all mapped out—for my whole life—and I hadn’t a word to say about it. And what was more, Uncle won’t let me mention having plans of my own. And to-day—well, you were here—he forbade my even playing with paints, ‘As long as I am in his house.’ Don’t think that I am criticizing him, Janey. No doubt he is doing exactly what he thinks is best—but what am I to do? Will you tell me that? I’ve been sitting here thinking and thinking, and the only answer seems to be for me to get up and go.”

Jane was silent.

“Oh, I do understand uncle’s point of view perfectly. I was awfully angry to-day, but I’ve tried to look at it reasonably, and I can see why it seems like rot to him. Thousands of boys of my age have crazy ideas about what they think they want to do, and thousands of them think differently as soon as they’ve got some sense. And Uncle thinks, I guess, that I’ll do the same. If I could only show him how much it means to me! If I could only show him that I’ve got something in me besides a lot of high-falutin notions! I have tried to learn how to bake cakes. But I’ll never learn in this world. Even Aunt Gertrude has given up on me, and she knows that I haven’t loafed on the job, either. I’ve been pummelling dough every day at five in the morning for the last six weeks, and still not a single roll has turned out decently.

“But Uncle won’t hear of my getting any other job, all because of this idiotic tradition about the Winklers. I never heard of—” he broke off and began to pace up and down the room, while Jane sat silently nibbling her thumb-nail.

“Well, what shall I do?” he demanded presently—“You suggest something Janey, you’re a wise little worm.” This sincere, if rather inelegant tribute brought a pleased smile to Jane’s face. “What would you do if you were in my boots?”

Jane meditated a moment; then she said,

“Well, I wouldn’t get up and go—yet. I’d wait and see.”

“Wait and see what?” Paul rapped out a little impatiently, and frowning as if this piece of advice were not exactly to his taste. But Jane was unmoved.

“I’d wait and see—lots of things. First of all, you might find that you don’t care as much about painting pictures as you think you do.” This observation surprised and angered Paul, and his face showed it. His startled, resentful look said plainly, “I thought that you understood me!” But Jane neither retracted nor explained. “And then,” she went on, calmly, “Daddy might change his mind a little, if you took good care not to make him angry about unimportant things—especially about squabbling with Carl. And last of all, it’s just barely possible that another Winkler might turn up—you never can tell.”

Paul stared at her for fully thirty seconds in absolute silence. Then he honored these sage remarks with a contemptuous grunt.

“Well, that helps a lot I must say,” he said, sarcastically. “If I waited for any one of those things to happen, I’d be pounding dough until doomsday! Thanks!” and with that he turned away and resumed his restless promenade around the room. Jane shrugged her shoulders. A rather long and chilly pause followed. Paul was disappointed in her; but his silent indignation seemed to trouble her very little, and after a while, he threw a cold glance at her. But she was sitting with her back toward him, and so he felt the need of rousing her attention in another way.

“You think, I may not care about painting as much as I think I do?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I said, I’d wait and see,” returned Jane placidly.

“Humph. And you think Uncle might change his mind?”

“He might.”

“And what chance is there of another Winkler showing up, I’d like to know? One in ten thousand!”

“It might be better than that.” Paul sat down on the edge of the table, and glowered at the back of her head. Then gradually a slow, unwilling grin broke over his face.

“You’re a nice one to preach patience!”

“Oh, I’m quite patient sometimes.”

“Well, look here—I’ll wait and see, then. But I’ll tell you one thing—if things don’t begin to get different pretty soon, I’m off!”

“All right,” said Jane, getting up. Paul stood up, too. Then suddenly he held out his hand.

“Listen, Janey—please don’t mind me when I get rough and short. You’ve got more sense than I have, and I need someone to talk to like the dickens.”

“I’ve got more sense than you have, Paul!” repeated Jane, sincerely amazed. “How can you say that? Why, you’re the most—the most clever person I ever knew in my life!”

Nothing cements friendship like mutual admiration; but Jane felt something warmer and better than mere admiration, as she put her hand into Paul’s big paw; she felt that rare, happy pleasure that is stirred in a responsive young soul when it is first called upon to give sympathy and help; and their firm handclasp sealed a friendship that was to last to the end of their lives.