Part 30 (1/2)

”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?”