Along the dusty road, Paul trudged alone, his head bent. He did not look up until the little town lay behind him. There was very little feeling of exultation in his heart as he made his way along the shady road, under the apple trees, from which the yellow fruit was already falling. For the first time in his life, this young citizen of the world knew what homesickness was—and he could not bring himself to look back to the town to which he had come so unwillingly ten months before. Well, he was free—he was his own master. That was what his uncle had said. The whole world lay before him—but where should he go? There was no one out there who knew that he was coming, or who cared whether he came or stayed. There was the city—“lots of people, lots of streets, lots of houses.” But what was Paul Winkler to the city? And even if at some time in that future to which he looked forward with dogged hope, he should make fame and fortune, would the city care any more about Paul Winkler? Would he not have been wiser—and happier—to have fitted himself to the ways of his own people, to have gone on growing up among them, learning to know them, to honor them for their simple virtues, and to forgive them their weaknesses? He shook his head impatiently; it was too late to think about the might-have-beens.

He had just reached a bend in the road, when he heard a voice calling him.

“Paul! Oh, Paul, wait a minute!”

He stopped, and looked around slowly. Janey was running toward him, stumbling over the stones in the road, panting, her round little face puckered with distress.

“Janey!” He dropped his bundle in the dust, and held out both hands to her. But she ignored his hands, and flinging both arms around him, clung to him tightly.

“What is it, Janey darling?”

“N-nothing,” she sobbed, “only I—oh, Paul don’t go!”

He patted her red head tenderly; for a moment or two he found it difficult to say anything.

“There, Janey—don’t. I—and you’d better run on back, dear,” he said at last, stooping to pick up his bundle.

“No, mother said I could come—she said I could walk to the crossroads with you. And she said I was to give you another kiss for her—and tell you that she loved you—and Granny’s crying.”

“Is she?” said Paul. “Oh, Janey— Well, come along, kidlet.” He took her hand, and they went on slowly between the sweet-smelling fields that lay turning to gold under the August sun.

With his hand in hers, Janey seemed to feel comforted, but with every step Paul’s heart grew heavier.

“Do you think, Paul, it would have been different if your picture hadn’t burned up?”

“Why, Janey?”

“If you had won a prize?”

“I don’t think it would have won any prize. And—it did burn up, so there you are. Besides, it wasn’t as good as that old thing I did of Aunt Gertrude. Do you remember? That thing on the top of the flour barrel? That was much better—though I don’t know why.”

Jane stopped short, looked at him for a moment or two, her face brightening, then, without saying anything, walked on again.

“What is it? What were you thinking about?” asked Paul.

“Nothing.”

In a little while they reached the top of the hill from which Paul, in the farmer’s wagon, had had his first glimpse of Frederickstown. Now he paused to take his last.

There it lay, a pretty town, in the shade of its old trees. There was the spire of the very church which old Johann Winkler had attended regularly in his snuff colored Sunday suit, his wife beside him, and his children marching decorously in front of him. There were the gables of the Bakery, and there the very window from which Paul had so often gazed out longingly toward the open road. There was the slate roof of his uncle’s warehouse where, no doubt the old man was calmly engaged in his day’s work, going over his books, talking and haggling with the farmers that sold him their goods;—a stern character, narrow, perhaps, and obstinate, but upright and self-respecting in all his dealings, a good father, a loyal citizen and an honest man; justly proud of his standing among his fellow townsmen. It was thus for the first time, that Paul understood the uncompromising old man, who had judged his ne’er-do-well, lawless father so harshly, and with whom he himself had been in constant friction since he had come there. To Peter Lambert, respect for family traditions, regard for the feelings and even the prejudices of his fellow citizens, and submission to domestic and civil laws, written and unwritten, were the first principles of living and he could not pardon anyone who took them lightly.

In the few short moments that he stood there looking back, Paul felt his heart swell with affection for all that he was leaving behind him; for Granny, his father’s mother, who cried over him, for Aunt Gertrude who had always loved him, for gentle, industrious Elise, for the twins, with their pranks and their coaxing little ways, and—yes, for Carl, who had shown himself a good fellow, with all his fussy habits, and irritating superciliousness.

“I’ll miss you the most, Paul,” said Janey, as if she guessed his thoughts.

He looked down at her.

“I know you will—and I’ll miss you the most.”

That was all they said until at length they reached the crossroads.

“Which way are you going, Paul?” asked Jane, struggling to keep back her tears.

Paul looked up at the weather-beaten sign-post.

“To the City,” he said firmly. “That’s the road I’m taking now, Janey.”

“Oh, Paul! Where will you be? Where will you be?”

“I don’t know, Janey. I can’t tell you. I don’t know anything now. But I shall be all right—don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, will you ever, ever come back again?” Poor Janey’s tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. Paul looked at her seriously.

“Yes, I will, Janey. I promise you that. I don’t know when or how, but I’ll be back some day. Now give me the kiss Aunt Gertrude sent, and one from you.”

She dried her eyes on her apron, and then standing on tip-toe, put both her arms around his neck and kissed him on each cheek.

“Good-bye, Paul.”

“Good-bye, Janey.”

She stood there under the sign-post, watching him as he walked briskly down the country road. Once, when to her he was only a miniature figure in the distance, he looked back and saw her, standing motionlessly, with the summer wind blowing her bright blue dress, and the summer sun shining on her red head. She had been, and was, and always would be, his faithful friend, and he knew in his heart he would never find anyone like her in the whole wide world that lay before him.

When he had disappeared under the shadows of the trees far down the road, Janey turned and retraced her way homeward. She had been a little comforted by his promise to come back again, and was already imagining how one day he would walk into the bakeshop, suddenly, when no one was expecting him, and say that he was going to live with them all for ever and ever. And so he would live there, and everyone would love him, and he would paint wonderful pictures and become famous; but he would never go away again—the world would come to him! Never for a minute had Jane doubted that Paul was a rare and extraordinary being, and in his wildest moments of self-confidence he did not believe in himself as completely as she did.

Then everything dropped from her thoughts, except the one idea that had come to her a little while before.

To-day was the twenty-eighth. There was plenty of time.

Aunt Gertrude, was in the Bakery setting the trays of freshly baked cakes under the glass counters, with a sad face. She missed her nephew, and in her heart believed that her husband had been harsh with the boy whose efforts to master himself had not escaped her, and whom she loved as much as her own son. But she knew quite well how useless it would have been for her to have tried to intercede for him—and after all, what had happened might be for the best. Aunt Gertrude was always inclined to believe that anything that happened was always “for the best” in the long run—and that, no doubt, was why, in spite of a life that had not escaped many sorrows and difficulties, she was still young and fresh in spite of her forty-odd years.

But she had expected her Janey to return inconsolable for the loss of her beloved cousin, and was surprised and puzzled when her daughter ran into the shop in almost her usual state of high spirits.

Without stopping Jane ran through the shop, and up the stairs to the little room that Paul had occupied since Carl’s illness—a small room, with one window, and rather scantily furnished. Under the window was a table, with one drawer, in which Jane promptly began to rummage. Its contents were hardly valuable—two or three thumb tacks, a bed castor, a scrap or two of lead pencil, a shabby copy of “A Short History of Greece”—the pathetic testimony of Paul’s efforts at “getting to know something”—and a portfolio stuffed with papers. And then from this clutter of what seemed to be school exercises of one sort or another, Jane finally extracted what she was looking for—the newspaper clipping that she had cut out for Paul three months before, with the address to which he was to have sent his ill-fated picture.

Jane did not lose a minute. She was now in quest of the old picture he had painted on the top of the flour barrel! He had said that it “wasn’t so bad”—and she had once heard him say that some great painter had painted a celebrated Madonna on the top of a wine cask.

She remembered now that she had seen it lying on the dinner table, one day when Elise was dusting the dining room, and Elise had put it behind Mr. Lambert’s desk, where it had reposed since the day he had confiscated it. It must still be there.

And there, indeed, she found it. A fine coat of dust had collected over its surface, but when she had brushed it off with her apron, she found it quite as fresh as ever.

And now, how was it to be wrapped so that it could withstand the rough treatment of a long journey? She glanced at the clock. It was not yet noon-day.

Holding it face inwards under her arm, she started forth to look for counsel in this important matter. Mr. Wheelock, at the post-office, was one of her particular friends; he would be able to tell her exactly what was to be done.

She found that gentleman sitting on the steps of the post-office, smoking a calabash pipe, and sunning himself placidly while he waited for the noon mail.

“What have you got there?” he called out.

“I want you to tell me something, Mr. Wheelock.”

“How many calves’ tails it takes to reach the moon?” said the old man, facetiously. “No? What is it to-day, then?”

“I can’t tell you here. Come inside.”

He knocked his pipe out on the step, rose, and followed her as she skipped back to his little office.

“Now, tell me how to send this away.”

Mr. Wheelock took a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles out of the pocket of his grey alpaca coat, and put them on. Then he picked up the barrel top and looked at it in an astonishment that gave way presently to something like profound admiration.

“Well, I declare! If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert! And its a mighty fine thing, too. How did you come by this?”

“Do you think it’s good, Mr. Wheelock?” cried Jane, eagerly, her face glowing.

“It’s fine,” said Mr. Wheelock, in a tone that indicated that he considered his opinion quite final. “And on the top of an old flour barrel, too!” he went on, turning the picture over. “Ain’t that quaint? Well, now, where did you want it sent?”

Jane sat down and copied out the address for him.

“And you’ll wrap it up carefully, Mr. Wheelock?”

“Sure thing. And send it by express, too.”

“And you won’t tell a living soul?”

“Nary a breath. Here, hadn’t you better write your address on the back of this here pitcher—or somewheres, case it might get lost.”

Jane had nearly forgotten this item. She took a post card, and wrote on it boldly, “Paul Winkler, Frederickstown, N. C.”

“There, Mr. Wheelock, will you paste that on the back?”

Mr. Wheelock was inspecting the card.

“Paul Winkler! That young feller I seen around here a lot with you folks? Did he make this pitcher?”

“Yes,” said Jane proudly.

“I declare! Now I call that right smart. If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert to the life I’ll eat my hat.” And he set it up on his desk again, leaning against the wall. Jane looked at it intently. If only she knew just how good it was. She did not feel that Mr. Wheelock was exactly an authoritative critic—then she remembered again that Paul had said it wasn’t “so bad,” and that settled her doubts.

It was, in fact, in spite of the crudities of which Paul had been very well aware, a piece of work that might have done credit to many a more experienced painter; and there were things in it that neither Jane nor Mr. Wheelock saw, vigor and harmony and beauty, over and above the superficial likeness to Mrs. Lambert that Mr. Wheelock found so amazing.

“You’ll send it off right away, Mr. Wheelock? And—and let me know how much it costs. I can’t pay before Saturday.”

He laughed.

“I’ll try to get along ’til then. Don’t you bother your head, child.”

Satisfied, though full of hope and fear, Jane went home.

The family gathered for its noonday meal, Mr. Lambert taking his seat at the head of the table, grave and pompous as always in his well-brushed black coat. The difference of one place seemed to make the table unnaturally small, and yet no one seemed to notice it. Mr. Lambert talked about some man that had been in to see him, about the prospects of the new courthouse being finished, about the harvests. His family docilely listened to him, interpolating the proper question or remark here and there. Paul’s name was not mentioned, it being tacitly understood that such were the wishes of the master of the house.