“Do you think I’ll be able to put it across?” Paul asked, despondently, stepping back from the half finished picture and eyeing it with his head on one side and a frown on his brow.

Jane, perched on an old barrel, her chin on her fists, studied the embryo masterpiece with a grave, judicial air.

“I think it is going to be very good,” she observed at length.

“Do you, honestly?” Paul knew of course that Jane was about as capable of judging as Anna, but he had reached the point where encouragement from any source was sweet. “Lord, I hope I get it done in time.”

“You will,” said Jane. Paul grinned at her.

“You’re about the most optimistic character I ever knew. I suppose you think I’m certain to win a first prize.”

“Don’t you think so?”

“No, my child. I don’t think there’s a chance in the world.”

“Oh, Paul! But you’ll win something.”

“No, my jovial Jane, I won’t. But that’s neither here nor there. Whew! Let’s get out of here. I’m melting. How about you?”

“It is pretty hot,” Jane admitted. It most certainly was. An attic, even on coolish days seems able to store up heat as no other place can, and on a sizzling August afternoon a bakeoven is Iceland in comparison. The only thing to be said in favor of the Lambert’s attic was that it had a northern light if not a northern temperature, and here Paul had set to work.

“Want to take a walk?” he suggested, dropping his paintbrushes into a can of turpentine.

“Can’t. I promised Elise I’d help her with some of the mending.”

“Well, I think I’ll browse around for a while. Tell Aunt Gertrude I’ll be back for supper. She said there wasn’t a thing for me to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular. I feel like doing something rash and reckless, but there’s no danger of anything like that—here. Where’s Carl?”

“Out in the garden with Elise and the twins.”

“Well—good-bye. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

Paul selected for his solitary ramble a certain rough, dusty, shady lane that led down past the ruins of an old mill. Here on those breathless afternoons a crowd of little urchins were wont to gather to splash and paddle in the gurgling stream that tossed over its stony bed on to the water-fall above the mill. On the opposite side of the road rose a wooded hill, where the tree-tops were gilded with ruddy sunlight, and the deep fern scented recesses were always cool and dim.

The shade and freshness of the woods on that hot day were not to be resisted, and Paul turned into them, following a soft, weed-grown road that lead along a little tributary of the mill-stream. But he was feeling restless and even a little rebellious. The calm, uneventful course of his life during the past nine months had gotten on his nerves, and he found himself longing for some kind of change or excitement. What wouldn’t he give to see old Bill Tyler coming toward him at that moment!

He stopped, and leaning against an old wooden railing, stared down at the stream that flowed by at the foot of the steep bank. For more than a month he had been working as hard as he could at his picture, taking good care not to let it interfere with his other duties, lest his uncle should recall his permission; Aunt Gertrude tried to help him, and he had progressed; but there wasn’t a chance in a million of his winning anything, and he was not sure but that he had made a mistake in undertaking the task at all. He started on again, walking slowly, with his hands buried in his pockets, forgetful of the passage of time, and of his uncle’s dislike of having anyone late for a meal. Suddenly he stopped. It seemed to him that someone had called his name.

Looking back over his shoulder he saw a small man running easily along the road toward him.

“Hello! Where are you off to?” inquired the newcomer, as he came up, smiling in a friendly way. “I saw you back there, and thought I recognized you. How are you?”

It was no other than the notorious Jefferson Roberts, his face beaming with a friendly, winning smile, and his hand outstretched. Paul shook the hand, and said that he was off to nowhere—that he was just walking.

“Communing with Nature?” said Jeff, cocking his head on one side, while his bright brown eyes twinkled merrily. “May I commune with you? I’m going in your direction.”

“Come ahead. That is, unless you’re in a hurry. I won’t walk fast.”

“Oh, I’m never in a hurry. What have you been doing since I saw you last?”

Paul answered the question briefly without going into any details.

“What an industrious life!” exclaimed Jeff gaily. “How is your good little cousin, Carl Lambert? Do you remember that day in Allenboro? He was horrified at you—he thinks I’m the most wicked creature alive. But then, most of those good souls do. And why? simply because I like to enjoy myself—and succeed at it.” And as he said this he laughed so spontaneously, his face was so full of arch, easy-going good nature that Paul joined in his laugh, feeling convinced that the tales about Jeff were mostly absurd exaggerations. In fifteen minutes or so he began to believe, also, that there was a great deal of good in Jeff that had been most uncharitably overlooked. There was nothing “smarty” about him; he seemed frank and boyish, overflowing-with high spirits, impulsive, enthusiastic, and happy-go-lucky all at once. He was even rather a confiding soul, and strolling along beside Paul, whose arm he had taken, chattered naÏvely about himself and his affairs with child-like frankness.

Presently his mood changed; he began to blame himself for his idleness, and to talk about his mother. He told Paul that he had decided to get a good job in the fall, and work hard.

“I’m a lot more serious than anyone thinks, let me tell you,” he remarked gravely. “I like fun, but I’m not like the rest of those chumps you saw up at Allenboro. They think they know me—but they don’t. They only see one side—so does everyone else. But I’ll show ’em. One of these days I’ll be a nice, respectable—Mayor, with three chins, and a gold watch-chain.” This fancy sent him off into a fit of amusement. His humors changed so rapidly from melancholy to gaiety that there was no way of being sure that he was not joking when he seemed grave, and serious when he was laughing; but he was a delightful companion, and the two boys sauntered along talking as if they had been intimates from their childhood.

Suddenly, Paul realized that much time must have flown since Jeff interrupted his meditations.

“Gee! It must be pretty late,” he exclaimed looking up through the trees, trying to guess the time by the sun. “Have you got a watch?”

Jeff laughed, and pulling his watch-chain from his pocket, displayed a bunch of keys, which he twirled jauntily.

“My watch, I’m sorry to say, is on a short vacation. But you don’t have to bother about the time. Come on with me—I’m going to scare up some of the fellows, and see what we can find to do.”

Paul hesitated. He was decidedly in the mood for falling in with Jeff’s harmless suggestion; besides, he would certainly be late for supper, and, was consequently, slated for his uncle’s reproof anyhow.

“All right. What are you going to do?”

“Oh, sit around and talk most likely. Probably ramble off to get something to eat, and then we might go up to see Tom Babcock—he’s a nice fellow. You’d like him.”

This seemed a mild and agreeable program, and was very much to Paul’s taste. If his uncle should ask him where he’d been—well, hang it, did he have to give an account of everything he did, as if he were a child of ten? And all this fuss about Jeff Roberts was such utter nonsense anyhow.

Accordingly, he accepted Jeff’s friendly invitation, and they went off together following the road on through the woods which led by a short cut to the neighboring town, of Goldsboro.

Goldsboro was a progressive young community where, unquestionably you could find more to do than at Frederickstown. The streets were brightly lighted at night, every Wednesday and Saturday evening during the summer a band played for two hours in the Square, and the shops stayed open until ten o’clock, and there was even a theatre where such old classics as “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “The Old Homestead,” and “Billy, the Kid,” were enacted by an ambitious stock company.

Jeff seemed to know everyone, and it was not long before he had collected a jolly party of five or six boys. He also knew where you could get a capital sea-food supper, and insisted that Paul should be his guest. In fact, Paul found the attentions bestowed upon him by this rather famous youth, decidedly flattering though he was at a loss to know just why Jeff should suddenly have begun to treat him as if he were his best friend. The truth was that Jeff was inclined to sudden friendships, which were often as speedily broken as made.

Supper over, it was suggested that they drop around and see what Tom Babcock was doing.

Tom was a young man older even than Jeff—two-and-twenty, perhaps, or twenty-three. He lived magnificently alone in a small room over a corner drugstore, where they found him smoking his pipe and hanging half way out of his window to watch the crowd in the Square, and to hear the strains of the brass-band which at that moment was playing “Kathleen Mavourneen” with deep pathos.

Upon the arrival of his guests, Tom lighted his gas, and after a little conversation they all sat down to a game of cards.

Paul enjoyed himself immensely. He liked Jeff, he liked Tom, he liked Jim, and Jack and Harry. They were “nice fellows,” all of them. Why they should be considered such a dangerous crew was more than he could understand.

And meantime the night wore on.

In the Lambert household mild wonder at Paul’s absence gave way to anxiety.

“Well, I suppose the boy knows how to take care of himself,” remarked Mr. Lambert, drily.

“Perhaps, Peter, you had better put the latch-key under the doormat,” suggested Aunt Gertrude, but Mr. Lambert would not agree to this.

“No, my dear. He knows quite well that everything is locked at ten o’clock. If he prefers to be roaming around the country at that time, he must be prepared to take the consequences. I hope you do not expect me to alter all the rules of the household for the boy.”

So at ten o’clock, Paul not yet having made his appearance, the front door was locked, and the family went to bed.

But Jane was not able to take his absence so calmly. Suppose he had got lost? Suppose he had hurt himself? He might even have been kidnapped. These fears made it impossible for her to sleep, and so she sat down at her window, determined to wait up for him all night if necessary. With the house locked, how could he get in—where could he go?

The time that she waited seemed endless. The tones of the church clock, striking eleven, boomed solemnly through the stillness that lay over the town. All the houses were darkened; the street was quiet. Now and then, solitary footsteps rang out on the bricks, and Jane sat up eagerly only to hear them die away in a neighboring block.

Where could he be? She was almost in tears when after an eternity of waiting she heard the sound of whistling far up the street.

“That must be Paul. It must be!” She leaned far out of the window, trying to get a glimpse of the wanderer, who was in fact coming nearer to the house. At last he came into the light of the street lamp, and she recognized him with a great sigh of relief. In another moment she had flown noiselessly down the stairs, and unbolted the door with as little squeaking and rattling as possible.

“Hello,” said Paul as calmly as if he had just run up to the corner to mail a letter.

“Oh, where have you been?”

“Where have I been?” Paul was instantly on the defensive. “Why—what’s the matter? What’s everything locked up for?”

“Sh! Everyone’s asleep but me. Oh, I thought you were dead!”

“Good Heaven’s—why? It isn’t late.”

“It’s nearly twelve. Everyone’s been in bed for ages. We couldn’t imagine what had become of you—”

“Well, I must say I don’t see why there’s so much fuss. I just walked over to Goldsboro to see what was going on, and fooled around there for a while. It was later than I thought when I went out, and when I found out I’d miss supper, I thought I might as well take a good walk, and get something to eat over there.”

“Oh,—well we couldn’t imagine—you’d better walk softly, Paul.”

For some reason, Paul suddenly chose to think that Jane was reproving him.

“I don’t see why I can’t be a little late without everyone’s getting so worked up over it. Do you mean to say that I mustn’t leave the house without telling everyone exactly what time I’ll be back?” he grumbled. “Gee whiz! Life isn’t worth living if you have to be worrying every minute—”

“Sh-sh, Paul! You’ll wake everybody up,” whispered Jane. He subsided a little, but was still muttering indignantly when he parted from her and tiptoed cautiously up to his room.

The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Lambert asked him casually what had delayed him, and appeared quite satisfied at his off-hand answer.

“And how did you get in? Everything is always locked at ten, as you know.”

“I heard him whistling, Daddy, and I let him in,” spoke up Jane. Mr. Lambert merely said,

“Ah! Well, don’t let it happen again my boy. It made me very uneasy.”

No further reference was made to the matter.

“There was no harm in it,” thought Paul. “They have the impression that Jeff is a black sheep, and it would be a silly thing to go out of my way to tell ’em that I saw him again. Uncle would have a fit, and it’s such a little thing to deliberately get up a row about.”

And so being satisfied that his mild escapade would have no uncomfortable results he thought no more about it.