Paul’s departure left the old problem still unsolved. Well, there was no help for it; if the family tradition was to be destroyed at last, so it must be. The time was coming when the ancient name of Winkler should be erased from the glass window of the Bakeshop, and a stranger’s name put in its place. Even Granny, usually so little troubled from her serenity by the vicissitudes of earthly things, seemed to brood over the prospect with melancholy. But the subject was not discussed so frequently as of yore, partly because there was little to be gained from such discussion, and partly because it reminded Mr. Lambert of his nephew’s delinquency and put him in a bad humor.

As September was always a hot month in that part of the country, school never began until early in October.

Jane felt utterly lost. Usually so resourceful, so capable of finding something to amuse her or interest her every minute of the day, she now went about her tasks indolently, and spent the rest of her time wandering around listlessly. Several times, she went down to call on Mr. Sheridan, who trotted her down to see his new Leghorn hens and his six Jersey cows. He had gone in for farming with his whole soul. He also discussed the changes he was making in the old house. Yes, he had decided to live in Frederickstown for good, as his grandfather had done before him, and his uncle, the Major, had done for many years. No, he didn’t think so much of solitude as he once had—but then there were reasons. Yes, he might travel now and then, but that didn’t count. No, he had not planned to settle permanently in Frederickstown, when he had first come, but things had happened since then that had changed his mind. Of course Janey had heard the news. Yes, he was the happiest man in the world. No, he had never been really in love before. No, he didn’t think Peterson would ever get married. Jane listened to him with the half-disdainful interest that one, who has been hardly dealt with by fate, pays to the cheerful talk of the fortunate. Their positions were reversed.

Jane was almost sorry that everything had gone so smoothly with Lily and Mr. Sheridan—she would have liked to have some complications to work on. It also seemed to her hardly dignified in Mr. Sheridan to have abandoned his pessimism so readily—whatever the cause of it might have been. And now that he was so cheerful and full of plans, he seemed to her less interesting than he had been before.

She was on pins and needles waiting for news of what had befallen Paul’s picture. She had allowed no one to share this secret which was absolutely her own, and her restless eagerness to hear was increased by not having anyone with whom to speculate on the chances of its success or failure.

No word had come from Paul. Where he was, what he was doing, how he was living were unknown to the family.

One fine, sunny day Aunt Gertrude declared that she was going to shut up shop and take a holiday.

“Come, we’ll take Dinah and the old wagon, and go out to the country. Elise, you and Jane can make up sandwiches. Granny doesn’t want to go, but Anna will be here to take care of her. Father is going over to Allenboro, so there doesn’t have to be any lunch cooked here, and Anna can get Granny’s.”

The prospect of this unexpected spree put everyone, including Jane into high spirits. Aunt Gertrude roasted two chickens, to be eaten cold, baked a chocolate cake with marshmallow filling, and boiled eggs, while Elise and Jane cut and spread enough sandwiches to stay the appetite of a small army.

At noonday they set out in the old wagon that had made the trip to Allenboro, Carl driving, with Aunt Gertrude and the twins beside him, Jane and Elise in the back with the luncheon hamper, books, embroidery and games.

And away they rumbled. Aunt Gertrude who actually had not been into the open country lying around Frederickstown in years, had set her heart on picnicking in one particular spot.

“I remember it from the time when I was a girl,” she said, blushing as she did so easily. “Long ago we had a picnic there—it’s about a mile below the Webster’s farm, Carl—I’ll show you—Nellie Webster, and Sam (she was referring to Dolly’s father and mother) and poor Nannie Muller and Ben McAllister—just think, they’re all old folk like me, now! And it was there that I met your father! Think of that now!”

Jane, finding this interesting, moved so that she could kneel behind the seat, with her elbows on the back.

“Is that really true, Mummy? And did you like him right away? Was he handsome?”

“Certainly he was handsome—and your father is still a remarkably handsome man, my dear!” said Mrs. Lambert, rather aggressively; and indeed she firmly believed that her husband was a perfect model of masculine good looks.

“Yes. Well, go on, Mummy. What did you wear?”

“What did I wear? Well, it’s very queer but I do remember that quite plainly. I wore a green muslin dress—that very dress, Lisa, that you found in my old trunk the other day—and a white leghorn hat, with little pink roses. Lisa, have you any idea what ever became of that hat? No—I remember now, I trimmed it up again and gave it to you when you were a little girl—and how sweet you looked in it!”

“I want a hat with pink rothes,” murmured Lottie.

“Don’t interrupt, Lottie. Go on, Mummy. What was Daddy like?”

“Your father,” said Mrs. Lambert complacently, “was a great catch. He was older than the rest of us, and so dignified. At that time, I remember, he wore a big moustache—and such a lovely brown. I was quite afraid of him, and I was sure that he thought me a very frivolous girl, as I certainly was. But—he didn’t seem to mind. And that night, there was a lovely big moon, and the hay had just been cut—and he took me home.”

That seemed to be the end of the story; Mrs. Lambert stopped, and a thoroughly sentimental smile spread over her youthful face. Lisa sighed. She was, if possible, even more sentimental than her mother, and in the hours that her flaxen head was bent over her incessant handiwork, it was filled with imaginings of romantic scenes, and dashing young gentlemen like Walter Scott’s heroes. She liked the portion of her mother’s artlessly told romance that touched on the moon and the new-mown hay, but for herself she would have preferred a smooth-shaven hero to one with the dragoon’s moustache that her mother so greatly admired.

“Now, Carl, you drive along this road to the left,” said Mrs. Lambert. “It’s all changed very little. I remember that rock, perfectly! And we can lead Dinah off from the road and hitch her to a tree. And here we all get out.”

So out they got, and Carl tied Dinah to a tree, while his sisters took the impedimenta out of the wagon. Mrs. Lambert holding a twin with each hand, lead the way along a shady path that skirted the bank of a meandering stream. The shadow of a grove of trees lay over the long grass; on each side of the stream stretched meadows colored with patches of golden-rod, and red pepper-grass; in the apple-trees the fruit was already bright red among the green leaves; the sun was warm, and the wind caressing.

“This is the very place—these are the very trees,” said Mrs. Lambert. “And now we shall all have lunch,”—this in a brisk, practical voice, for notwithstanding her romantic memories, Mrs. Lambert was hungry.

Elise spread a white cloth out on the grass, weighting it at the corners with three large stones and “The Vicar of Wakefield.” Carl went to put the bottles of loganberry juice in the stream to cool, and the others unloaded the hamper. Then they all sat down to eat. And when they had eaten all they wanted—that is, until there was nothing left to want—Aunt Gertrude took a book, pretending that she was going to read, and went to sleep, Elise took her sewing—pretending that she was going to be industrious, when she was really going to sit and dream—the twins, took off their shoes and stockings, and made for the shallow stream like a pair of ducks; Carl, who had recently acquired some enthusiasm for natural history, began to look around for specimens of the local flora and fauna—in the shape of mulberry leaves, and spiders, and Jane rambled off to see what she could see.

With her hands clasped behind her, she wandered through the trees, sometimes stopping to smell the ferns that grew in the moist rocks. At length she reached the edge of the little wood, where the stream, as if it had been playing a game with her, chuckled pleasantly at having appeared where she had not expected to find it. Again, on the opposite bank was the meadow, where now a few brown cows were to be seen in the distance, placidly munching the grass.

But it was not the cows that interested Jane at that moment; her curiosity was piqued immediately by a certain peculiar figure under an oak-tree on the far side of the stream.

This figure was seated on a little camp stool, beneath a green umbrella—as if the oak tree did not come up to the mark in furnishing the amount of shade required.

“What can he be doing?” wondered Jane. The odd character had his back to her so that she could not make out exactly what his occupation was, and therefore left her no alternative but that of picking her way across the stream on the stones, and ascertaining his business for herself.

As she approached him her wonder grew. He wore a suit of black and white checks, an emerald-hued necktie of such proportions that the loops of the bow were visible even from Jane’s inconvenient angle of sight. But most remarkable of all, was his hat. It was such a hat as, once seen, would leave an indelible impression, and yet defied all description. It can only be said that it was large—extremely large—that it was of straw, and that it was ornamented with a scarf of a rich and vivid green. But the jaunty freedom of its lines, the expression of its broad and supple brim—these were the individualities that distinguished it from all the other hats ever made by the hand of man.

After a moment or two Jane made out what he was doing. He was painting a picture. In front of him was a small easel, and on the easel was a small canvas, and on the canvas was a bewildering blur of colors. On his thumb he supported a huge palette.

It occurred to Jane that this fellow craftsman of Paul might have heard of her cousin, and in any event his occupation interested her. She drew nearer, until she was close enough to watch the airy strokes of his brushes which he selected from time to time from a large bunch, much as a golfer selects his clubs.

Presently, evidently hearing some motion on the grass behind him, the artist looked around and saw her. At once he sprang up, doffing his wonderful hat.

“Ah! How do you do?”

Jane stared at him, and then said, with dignity,

“How do you do? Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all! Not at all.”

“Can I watch you?”

“I shall be delighted; though I fear that your interest will be ill repaid,” he said modestly. “I am, as you see, endeavoring to render my impressions of the beauty and tranquillity of this charming scene. Ah, Nature! Nature! there is nothing like Nature, my dear young lady,—you may take my word for it. I am a great worshipper of Nature—I wear her colors like a true knight!” And he pointed to the scarf around the crown of his hat, which, as has been said, was of a green that was surely never to be met with on land or sea. He resumed his seat on the little camp stool, under the green umbrella—also, let it be observed, of Nature’s hue—and Jane, whose curiosity had been much piqued by this odd little man, settled herself sociably on a hillock. He set to work again, this time using certain self-conscious little mannerisms, throwing his head on one side, thrusting out his underlip, pondering over his palette, and then holding up one finger, saying briskly, “Ah-ha! Now I’ve got it!” and impetuously dashing a blob of paint onto the meek canvas, which seemed to have had already far more trouble than it deserved.

Jane looked at him intently. He was a little man, of twenty-six or seven, with a rosy face, a pug nose, and bright blue eyes, like pieces of Dutch china. His straw colored hair was combed down on his forehead, curled slightly around his ears, and grew down the nape of his neck. He wore a tiny moustache, which seemed to have no kinship with either his hair or his eyebrows, for where these last were almost flaxen, the stiff fringe on his upper lip was as red as rust. Yet he was a pleasant looking young man; the simplicity and earnestness of his expression, even his frank satisfaction with himself, made one like him in spite of all his absurdities.

“Now, you’re putting in the cows, aren’t you?” inquired Jane, respectfully.

“Yes, indeed. I am going to put in three cows—three is rather a symbolic number, you know. Faith, Hope and Charity—Good, Better, Best, so—so many things run in threes. I should like to suggest the number Three to the spectator—in fact, that’s really what I’m driving at.”

It seemed a quaint idea to Jane, but original.

“Do you—do you live in Frederickstown?” she ventured, presently.

“No. I regret to say that I am not a native of these delightful environs,” said he, “I am a bird of passage.” He looked at her thoughtfully as he repeated this definition of himself, evidently wondering how she liked “birds of passage.”

“You mean you don’t live anywhere?”

“Just that. All Nature is my home—the trees, the rocks—”

“You live in trees and rocks?” gasped Jane, looking at his dapper little suit, and wondering how it withstood the strain of such habits.

“Figuratively speaking. I confess that at times I inhabit—hotels. Deplorable as such necessity is, still it exists.”

“Yes,” said Jane, who did not understand why such a necessity should be particularly deplorable, “of course.”

The little man looked at her, and then in a confidential tone, remarked,

“I am an enemy to Civilization, Look! Look about you! These noble trees, this grassy meadow, that purling stream—all are doomed, my dear young lady. Have you ever thought of that? Civilization will overtake this natural Paradise—the factory will rise, the stony arms of the City will crush out the fresh beauty of the flowering mead—even these cows are slightly civilized already.” And a look of discontent overshadowed his cheerful, rosy face, as he gazed at the peaceful animals munching the grass under some distant willow trees.

Just at that moment a series of shrill cries rent the air. Jane sprang up. There could be no doubt that they came from the spot where she had left her family. She darted past the little artist, flew along the bank of the stream, and finally reached the scene of the commotion; though she was forced to view it from the opposite bank.

This is what had happened: Mrs Lambert, as has been said, had gone to sleep, and, while Elise had been sitting quietly, with a book in her lap, a large, black cow had ambled up behind her, and in the friendliest way in the world had thrust its head over her shoulder. Elise had promptly screamed; Mrs. Lambert, waking suddenly and seeing the cow, had screamed also, and then the twins, making mudpies down by the water’s edge, had added their shrieks to the general uproar. Elise, losing her presence of mind, had started to run, whereupon, after a moment’s thought, the cow had followed her.

“One moment! Allow me!” cried a voice behind Jane. “Ladies, be calm!” And the dapper little figure of “Nature’s Knight” sprang forward, hopped nimbly across the stepping stones of the stream, clambered up the muddy bank, and clutching the green umbrella, flew to Elise’s rescue.

He ran around in front of the cow, shouting loudly, recklessly drawing all the attention of the astounded animal upon himself. By this time the whole family had collected to watch the proceedings. Carl was chuckling. Mrs. Lambert was half-weeping, half-laughing, and wringing her hands all at once. Jane, open-mouthed, followed all the extraordinary actions of the rescuer, who, making the strangest sounds in his throat, waving his green umbrella, appeared to be trying to mesmerize the bewildered cow.

But singular as his methods were, the stranger actually succeeded in coaxing the animal away from Elise, and then began to shoo it across the field, with such energy and determination that presently it began to trot and then to gallop until it had vanished out of sight around the edge of the woods.

Elise, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, and looking rather foolish, got down from the fence to which she was clinging in desperation, and timidly thanked the young man, who had again removed his hat with something of the flourish of an acrobat.

“You aren’t hurt?” cried Mrs. Lambert, rushing to her daughter. “Oh, my dear, I really don’t think there was any danger at all—I’m sure that was quite a dear old cow—that is,—I don’t mean that it wasn’t extremely kind of you, sir, and I’m sure we are all very grateful to you—”

“Madam, I was fortunate to have this opportunity of serving you,” said the young gentleman, grandiloquently, and then turning to Elise, he added, with deep concern, “I trust that you feel no ill effects from this unpleasant adventure—”

“Oh, no—no, indeed, thank you.” Elise, being very self-conscious, blushed, and looked at her mother as if asking what she should say next.

“Won’t you rest for a moment, sir?” said Mrs. Lambert, “and have something cooling to drink? Carl, my dear, aren’t there one or two more bottles of loganberry down in the stream?” And then turning again to the stranger, who listened very willingly to her invitation to refreshment, she asked him if she might know his name.

“My name, Madam?” he looked around at them all as if to assure himself that they were quite prepared for anything that might follow. “My name is Montgomery,—P. Hyacinth Montgomery!” No one turned a hair. Mrs. Lambert then told him her name, and that of each member of her family, and then they all sat down, under the tree.

Very soon all constraint between the Lambert’s and Mr. Montgomery had quite disappeared. He was an adaptable, sociable person, and with all his eccentricities and absurdities, had a certain air of wistfulness that touched Mrs. Lambert. He did not seem at all loath to talk about himself, especially about his feelings; and the only thing he touched on rather vaguely was the matter of his native section of the country.

He was in “these environs” only temporarily, he said, and was lodging at the Red Fox Hotel, between Frederickstown and Goldsboro.

“Why, then,” said Mrs. Lambert, “we can take you part way home, if you are ready to start soon. We are going in the same direction.”

She could not tell what it was about Mr. Montgomery that seemed to her pathetic, but whatever it was it inspired the kindly woman to be cordial and friendly to the odd little man. He accepted her offer eagerly, and Jane fancied that as he did so he looked timidly at Elise.

While the others were packing up various odds and ends into the picnic basket, he ran off to collect his own possessions which he had left under the oak tree up the stream.

“He’s a queer duck,” remarked Carl, carefully sorting out his specimens of plant and animal life.

“Can I have a hat with a green thcarf?” demanded Lottie.

“I’ll borrow his suit to play chess on,” added Carl.

“Hush! Carl,—don’t make fun of him,” said Mrs. Lambert, smiling in spite of herself. “He seems to be a very good-hearted young man. Here he comes now.”

All flushed and panting, Hyacinth appeared with his numerous burdens; but notwithstanding the fact that he was laden like a camel with his box, and stool and easel and umbrella, he insisted upon carrying Elise’s books, and even offered to manage the basket somehow.

Just why, each and every one of the Lamberts felt a distinct liking for the ridiculous P. Hyacinth it would be hard to say, yet that they did was evident. And on his part, he seemed upon half an hour’s acquaintance to feel as much at home with them all as if he had known them all his life.

As they rumbled and bounced back to town he chattered happily and confidingly to them all, but for Elise he reserved some of his choicest thoughts on the beauties of nature.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lambert, when he had finally parted from them at the road that led off in a short cut to Goldsboro, after assuring them that he hoped for nothing more ardently than to renew his acquaintance with them, “a very nice young man, indeed. Where a good heart is so plainly beneath it one can forgive a small matter like a checker board waistcoat.”

Elise meantime had been thinking over not the checker-board waistcoat but the orange-colored moustache,

“But it was certainly very brave of him to frighten that bull away,” she remarked, half as if to herself. Carl shouted.

“A bull! You mean one poor old cow!”

Elise undisturbed by this interruption, added again in a tone as if she were arguing out his faults and virtues with herself,

“And even if his moustache was queer, he—he had a very nice complexion.” Then realizing that Jane had overheard this remark, she blushed a vivid pink, pretended to be looking for her work bag, and then asked, coldly,

“What are you laughing at, Janey?”

“I?” said Jane innocently; “I wasn’t laughing. Gracious! I wasn’t laughing.”