The appearances of Mr. P. Hyacinth Montgomery at the Bakery became very frequent. His devotion to the family increased so rapidly that in a little while, not a day passed without his calling to inquire solicitously for the health of all, to talk to Aunt Gertrude, present a bouquet of wild flowers to Granny (who always had to have them taken out of her room because they made her sneeze), and play with the twins like an affectionate uncle.

One day, having noticed the sign on the Bakeshop window, evidently for the first time, he inquired how the name there happened to be “Winkler,” when the family name was “Lambert.” He showed so much interest in the matter that Mrs. Lambert, flattered, gave him a short history of the family, to which he listened thoughtfully, once murmuring something about “coincidence.”

“A quaint history,” he remarked.

No member of the household was so blind as not to notice the preference that Mr. Montgomery showed for the society of Miss Elise, nor her tell-tale bashfulness when he plucked up sufficient courage to address her. But Mr. Lambert so plainly disapproved of the young man that not even his wife dared to open any discussion on the subject with him, for fear that a violent explosion would result. The old merchant maintained a stolid silence which all the pathetic efforts of Mr. Montgomery were powerless to thaw; though now and then Mr. Lambert was inspired to break it himself in order to utter sarcasms that reduced the poor young man to the last stage of discomfort and despair, and frequently caused Elise to weep bitterly in the solitude of her little bedroom. At the same time, she found something rather agreeable to her romantic taste in this rÔle of unhappy love-lorn maiden.

“You are enjoying a great deal of leisure, Mr. Montgomery,” Mr. Lambert remarked one evening, looking at the writhing youth over his spectacles. “Is it a vacation—or a habit?”

P. Hyacinth smiled uncertainly, with a beseeching expression in his large blue eyes.

“Neither a vacation—nor yet exactly a—a habit, sir. I—I have my own philosophy of life, as you might say—”

“Ah!—a rather expensive one, I do say,” interrupted Mr. Lambert. “You are fortunate to be able to afford your philosophy. You expect to remain for long in these parts?”

“Not very long—that is, I—my plans are not definite.”

“My wife has given me to understand that you are—an artist?” Mr. Lambert observed in a tone that almost overcame the miserable Hyacinth.

“Not really—that is—with me, sir, Art is an—an avocation, as you might say—”

“Ah! And what might your vocation be?”

Mr. Montgomery waved his hand.

“That, sir, is inconstant, variable.”

“I am not surprised that it is,” remarked Mr. Lambert, and after that, he withdrew into his shell of icy silence, evidently waiting for further developments before he expressed his opinion of P. Hyacinth still more plainly.

In Jane, Elise found a highly sympathetic confidante, but even Jane was prompted to ask frankly,

“But what does he do, Elise? Does he sell his pictures?”

“He does,” cried Elise. “He’s sold three! He did a perfectly lovely design once for a stationer’s advertising calendar—it was a picture of a girl, he said, with a lot of red roses in her arms. And he did a picture of some wild animals for a sportsman’s den.”

“And what was the other one?”

“I—he didn’t tell me. We started to talk of something else. Oh, Jane, are you going to be horrid about him, too?” cried Elise, suddenly bursting into tears. Then, having grown quite artful where any defense of her suitor was necessary, she added, “Paul was an artist, and you didn’t laugh at him!” To Jane it seemed hardly worth while to point out what appeared to her to be the many differences between Paul and Mr. Montgomery. So she disregarded Elise’s challenge, and putting both arms around her sister, said half-laughing,

“You know I’m not going to be horrid about him. I like him very much.”

“Do you really, Janey?” asked Elise, brightening. “Oh, Jane you can’t imagine how unselfish he is. He—he said he’d give up everything for me. He said he’d break stones in a quarry—boo—hoo!” And here Elise again dissolved into tears.

“Well, he won’t, dear,” said Jane comfortingly, “I mean—that is—he probably won’t have to. There are so many other things that he could do, you see. What else did he say?”

“What else? Oh, well—not very much,” answered Elise, blushing, and beginning to dimple. “He said that—he—he’d have to have a talk with father.”

“Good gracious! Then he—oh, Elise!”

“Only he’s so afraid of Papa. Of course, Janey, you must understand that Mr. Montgomery hasn’t—you know—hasn’t—that is, I know he likes me, but he hasn’t said so. He says he can’t, until he’s talked to Papa; he says that wouldn’t be honorable. And Papa won’t give him a chance!” And once more, Elise began to weep gently.

“Don’t cry, Elise darling—father will give him a chance,” said Jane; but these words of comfort only elicited sobs from Elise.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” she wailed disconsolately.

This state of affairs seemed hopelessly complicated to Jane. It had no points in common with the romance of Lily and Mr. Sheridan, and in this fact Elise found a certain melancholy satisfaction. Elise of course kept Lily well-posted on the details of her own affair of the heart, and unconsciously assumed a certain superiority in recounting and describing her difficulties that almost irritated the sweet tempered and sympathetic Lily.

“I was very unhappy, too,” said Lily; but Elise shook her head as if to say, “What opposition did you meet with?”

Jane simply looked on, vastly interested in this new development of domestic happenings, but exceedingly dubious as to the outcome. Mrs. Lambert was, of course, deeply sympathetic with her daughter, and Mr. Lambert feeling that there was a conspiracy among the feminine members of the household to overcome his objections, became more than adamantine in his silence.

So matters stood one warm evening, when, notwithstanding the date the summer still lingered on, perhaps from sheer curiosity to know how the problem was going to be solved.

Jane, with a book in her lap, was sitting at her window, not reading, for the light was fading out of the sky, and she was unwilling to light her lamp, so lovely were these last twilight moments of that mild autumn day.

Presently, hearing voices in the garden, she thrust her curly head out of the window.

Elise was sitting on the green bench against the wall; in front of her stood Mr. Montgomery, who, judging from the open gate, had just made his appearance. He held his hat in his hand, but Jane, accustomed to having her attention caught by the green scarf upon it, now noticed with surprise that the green scarf had been replaced by a black one. Now, what might be the significance of that? Mr. Montgomery’s tow-colored hair was slightly disordered, giving yet another reason for one’s believing that he was in distress of some sort.

“Poor little man, what can be the matter?” wondered Jane, and she leaned a little farther out so that she could hear some of the conversation.

“No, dear Miss Lambert—I feel that I must go,” he was saying in sincerely miserable accents. “You cannot—I must not flatter myself that you can feel what this parting means to me. Indeed, desiring your happiness above all things, I earnestly hope that you are untouched by my wretchedness! I have come to-night to say farewell to you and your charming family for whom I could not feel a deeper affection were it my own.”

“Oh, Mr. Montgomery—surely you don’t mean that you are going for good?” cried Elise.

He drew a heavy sigh. And then, letting his head droop pathetically, said,

“Miss Lambert, that must be for you to decide. And yet I cannot allow you—even though my dearest hopes were to be realized thereby—to make any decision. Miss Lambert, I think you may have guessed my feelings. How deep and sincere they are I can only prove by my readiness to disregard them. In short, dear Miss Lambert, I feel my unworthiness to aspire to the happiness—” here he swallowed his words completely so that Jane found it impossible to make out what he was saying.

“But where are you going, Mr. Montgomery?” stammered Elise, evidently on the point of tears again. Her concern and emotion affected P. Hyacinth deeply and rapidly. Taking a step closer to her, he looked into her eyes;

“Are these tears, Miss Lambert—Elise? Is it possible that my departure is not wholly indifferent to you?” he cried, casting his hat recklessly on the ground and seizing both her hands.

“Oh, Mr. Montgomery, you know—that it is not,” murmured Elise, freeing one hand in order to dry her eyes.

“Then,” declared Hyacinth heroically, “I shall—I shall seek an interview with your parent to-night—”

“You may have an interview immediately, if you want,” announced a bass voice from the dining-room doorway.

“Jiminy!” gasped Jane, drawing herself back from the window.

The two young people started as if a cannon had exploded beside them. Mr. Montgomery, minus at least three shades of his rosy color, drew himself up, and breathed a deep breath. His knees were quaking; yet it was not without an air of real dignity that he prepared to brave the old lion.

“Wait here, Elise. I think I had better see your father a—alone.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Lambert again raising his terrifying tones, “Elise, I wish you to step in here, too.”

Instinctively, Elise clung to Hyacinth’s hand, and like the babes in the wood, they slowly walked into the dining room.

Mr. Lambert was seated at his desk; and the light coming in through the window shone upon his glasses so that neither of the quailing young people could quite see his eyes. There was a ferocious frown between his bristling grey eyebrows.

“Mr. Montgomery, I heard some of the remarks you were making to my daughter. I also heard you say that you wanted to see me. I am willing to listen to anything you have to say—provided that you come to the point quickly!” He brought out the last word so sharply that poor Hyacinth gasped as if he had been struck by a high wind.

“Yes, sir,” he managed to articulate, faintly; and after this effort seemed unable to utter a sound.

“Well?” said Mr. Lambert. “Proceed.”

Hyacinth squared his shoulder.

“Mr. Lambert—sir—I—er—I—”

“Do you wish to marry my daughter?”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

“Then why don’t you say so?”

“I do say so, sir.”

“And you wish to ask my permission?”

“Yes, sir—just so. I do ask your permission.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Lambert, removing his spectacles, and polishing them slowly on his handkerchief. “It is not granted.”

Here Elise began to weep, but disregarding her distress, Mr. Lambert continued,

“And I should advise you, sir, to keep to that very excellent plan of yours to depart, at once.”

Notwithstanding the grim look around Mr. Lambert’s mouth, Hyacinth held his ground heroically.

“Sir, I love your daughter. I think I have a right to ask you why you object to me as a son-in-law.”

Mr. Lambert turned upon him slowly in his swivel chair, eyed him gravely from head to foot, and then said,

“Yes. Quite so. You have such a right. Very well, then,—I object to your clothes, to begin with.”

“Sir,” said Hyacinth, turning a deep pink, “they can be—changed.”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Lambert. “In the second place I object to your profession,—if you are pleased to call it such.”

“You object to my being an interpreter of nature—an artist, sir?” stammered Hyacinth. “Surely sir—however that too can be changed.” And he bowed his head submissively. “In fact, sir,” he added with an ingenuous expression, “I shall be quite willing to change it.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Lambert. “Well, my dear sir,” a slightly sarcastic smile illumined his rugged features for a moment, and he rose as if he were about to finish off the matter, with his final objection, “well, my dear sir, lastly, I don’t like your name. Perhaps, though” (very ironically), “you can change that!”

Hyacinth hesitated a moment, and then said pathetically,

“Don’t you really like it, sir?”

“I can hardly express my feelings about it!” cried Mr. Lambert, losing patience. “Really, my dear sir—”

“One moment, please,” urged Hyacinth, “I—I can change it—”

“No doubt! No doubt! Perhaps you can change your skin—indeed I should not be surprised—”

“But really, sir. Allow me to explain. I—well, it is necessary for you to know sir, that, very often, persons who embrace any line of artistic activity may desire to assume a fictitious name—”

“I can easily imagine that in many cases regard for their personal safety would force them to it,” observed Mr. Lambert, drily.

“Precisely. And sir—I confess that heretofore you have known me under a name that—that is not my own.”

“Not your own!” roared Mr. Lambert. “What the deuce do you mean sir? Not your own! Then whose is it?”

“No one’s sir, believe me!” cried Hyacinth, backing away from the indignant old man. “I invented it, sir—”

“And you mean to tell me that you have had the audacity to enjoy my hospitality under false pretences!—to say nothing of paying court to my daughter—”

“Pray, sir—one moment!” implored Hyacinth, wringing his hands. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me—”

“And will you have the goodness to tell me, sir, at once, what and who you are?” bellowed Mr. Lambert. “Come, I won’t tolerate your insolence.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Lambert, don’t, don’t be hasty. I—I don’t know what I am. But I—”

“What is your name, sir?” shouted Mr. Lambert.

“My name, sir, is—Winkler. P. Hyacinth Winkler. The P. stands for Pol—”

“Winkler!” gasped Mr. Lambert, “Winkler!”

“Winkler!” murmured Elise, faintly.

“For Polybius,” continued Hyacinth, not heeding their ejaculations. “I will conceal nothing from you sir. The P. stands for Polybius. My sponsors, not I, are to be blamed—”

“Winkler!” repeated Mr. Lambert.

“If you are afflicted with the same sensitiveness of the auditory nerve that nature bestowed on me,” went on Hyacinth, “you cannot doubt that there is something in the combination of the word Winkler with the two polysyllabic names preceding it, which is grating, imperfect—”

“Winkler,” Mr. Lambert was still repeating monotonously.

“Yes, sir. I now perceive the cause of your astonishment. It is a name with which you have some connection—”

“Will you be good enough to tell me what part of the world you are from?” demanded Mr. Lambert.

“I was born in the state of Missouri, in the year 1895. My parents were people of consequence in a humble way. My father had for many years been the proprietor of a solid business in dyes and textiles—”

“My dear sir, I don’t want your biography,” interrupted Mr. Lambert, but in a remarkably softened voice. “Your father’s name was—?”

“Samuel Winkler.”

“Samuel? And his father’s?”

“John.”

“John—Johann! By Jove!” cried Mr. Lambert. And he began to rummage in the drawer of his desk, bringing to light the large scroll on which was traced the family tree of the Winklers. Just as he had unrolled it under Paul’s eyes, he now unrolled it again, and eagerly began to trace the lines of twigs and branches.

“Here!” he exclaimed, “Samuel Winkler—son of the first Johann—moves to Missouri in 1817—two sons, Ferdinand and Johann. Ferdinand died 1824. Johann married, 1850—Samuel, your father, born 1857. Is that right, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize,” inquired Mr. Lambert, throwing himself back in his chair, “that you are the fourth or fifth cousin of my wife? That you are, in fact, the legal heir—or can be made so by her consent and yours—to this famous establishment. That, in a word sir,” cried Mr. Lambert, growing almost too excited to speak distinctly, “if you show aptitude, and willingness to fit yourself to carry on this business, I shall withdraw all my objections to you—I will accept you as a son-in-law—Embrace one another, my children! Bless you a thousand times! Ah, Heavens! Gertrude!” And almost apoplectic with excitement, Mr. Lambert sprang up, and actually cutting a caper, flew to the door to call his wife.

As a matter of fact, he had not far to look; for his roars and bellows had brought his entire family down to the hall outside the dining-room door, Jane having informed her mother of the probable nature of the scene going on within, and a natural concern for the well-being of the two victims having stirred their sympathy and anxiety.

“Come in! Come in!” cried Mr. Lambert, throwing the door wide. “Gertrude, my dear, embrace me!” and he promptly hugged his startled wife. “Jane, kiss your dear sister. Gertrude, salute your son—”

“But w-what—”

“What? What? You ask what? He has been found!” Then suddenly, Mr. Lambert remembering that actually Hyacinth had not consented to the conditions of his acceptance at all, turned upon him abruptly.

“I presume, sir, that I am right in believing that you are willing to lay aside all other interests, and—”

Then seeing Hyacinth and Elise standing by the window, evidently quite oblivious to his oration, he smiled with positive benevolence.

“I have found a Winkler, my dear wife,” he said. “And this time, I believe,” with a playful glance in the direction of the two at the window, “a Winkler who—”

“Who will stay put,” finished Jane.

There was no need for much explanation, Mr. Lambert’s tones during the interview having been of such a quality that not only the entire household might have heard him, but the neighbors into the bargain.

And thus, as Jane had once prophesied to Paul, the incredible had happened—the Other Winkler was found.