Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. Jane Lends A Hand BY Shirley Watkins _Author of âNancy of Paradise Cottage,â_ _and âGeorgina Finds Herselfâ_ The GOLDSMITH Publishing Co. CHICAGO ILL. MADE IN USA _Copyright 1923, by_ _George W. Jacobs & Company_ All rights reserved PRINTED IN U.S.A. Contents Â· CHAPTER IâAFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY Â· CHAPTER IIâBUSYBODY JANE Â· CHAPTER IIIâCIVIC INTEREST Â· CHAPTER IVâTHE APPEARANCE OF PAUL Â· CHAPTER VâPAUL HESITATES Â· CHAPTER VIâA REBEL IN THE HOUSE Â· CHAPTER VIIâGIRLS Â· CHAPTER VIIIâJANE LENDS A HAND Â· CHAPTER IXââTHE BEST LAID PLANSââ Â· CHAPTER XâPAUL AND CARL Â· CHAPTER XIâCARL SQUARES HIS DEBT Â· CHAPTER XIIâJEFF ROBERTS Â· CHAPTER XIIIâDISASTER Â· CHAPTER XIVâTHE CROSSROADS Â· CHAPTER XVâAN UNSUSPECTED HERO Â· CHAPTER XVIâA FAMILY MATTER Â· CHAPTER XVIIâAN HONOR TO THE FAMILY Â· CHAPTER XVIIIâTHE WANDERER COMES HOME ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ JANE LENDS A HAND CHAPTER IâAFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY At six oâclock Jane had awakened, and, lifting her tousled head from her pillow, sniffed the frosty air. The red sunlight of an October morning was sending its first ruddy beams into the bare little room, but notwithstanding this sign that the morning was advancing, and the fact that all the children had had their first summons to get up and dress, Jane, this lazy Jane, merely burrowed down deeper into her warm nest, and buried her round nose in the patchwork quilt. She had a strong disinclination to leaving her cosy bed, and braving the penetrating chill of an autumn morning. Owing to Mr. Lambertâs Spartan ideas on the up-bringing of children, the little bed-rooms under the irregular roof of the old house were never heated until the bitterest days of mid-winter. _His_ children were not, said he, to be softened and rendered unfit to endure the various hardships of life by pampering. His wife, the jolly comfort-loving Gertrude, sometimes confided privately to Grandmother Winkler that she thought it was too hard on the children to have to leave their warm beds, and dress in rooms where the ice formed a film in the water pitchers, and in which they could see their breath; but when anyone in the Lambert household had ideas contrary to those of the master, they did not advertise them publicly. Among Mr. Lambertâs pet aversions were Unpunctuality and Laziness, and no one had better reason to know this than Jane. Nevertheless, she infringed upon the iron-bound rules of the household every day of her life, and cheerfully paid her penalties with a sort of serene stoicism. She had inherited from her placid, happy-tempered mother a vigorous dislike of physical discomfort, and a calm way of doing what she wanted, and then good-naturedly paying the piper as circumstances demanded. In the adjoining room, the twins, Wilhelmine (or Minie) and Lottie could be heard chattering and laughing in their fresh, sweet voices. Shivering, but rosy and wide-awake, the two little girls were dressed in their warm woolen frocks inside of ten minutes. Since they were six years old, Mr. Lambert had permitted no one to help them but themselves; and so, with their little cold red fingers they buttoned each otherâs dress and plaited each otherâs smooth, shining yellow hair; then set to work making up their wooden beds, sweeping, dusting, and putting their room to rights. At half-past six came the summons to breakfast, which had already been announced by appetizing odors of porridge and frying bacon. Little Minie, running past her sisterâs door, glanced in, and stood transfixed with horror at the sight of Jane rolled up like a dormouse, and still dozing peacefully. âOh, _Ja-ane_!â A head covered with curly, reddish hair rose above the mountain of bed-clothes; a pair of sleepy eyes blinked at the little girl. âUm.â A yawn. âWhat time is it?â âItâs _half-past thix_, and breakfathâs all ready, and youâll be late _again_, Jane. Whatever will Papa thay!â This was Lottie, who never failed to join her twin on any occasion of grave importance. The two plump, rosy-cheeked little girls, with their stiffly starched white pinafores, and with their yellow pig-tails sticking out at the sides of their heads, were as much alike as a pair of Dresden ornaments. They stood now, hand-in-hand, their china-blue eyes round with reproof and dismay, gazing at lazy Jane. âIâve got aâa headache,â announced Jane unblushingly, âI donât think Iâll go to school to-day.â âO-oh, Jane!â remonstrated the twins in chorus. âWell, I havenât exactly got one _now_,â said Jane, âbut I would have if I got up too suddenly. Iâve been studying too hard. Thatâs what.â âOoooh, Jane!â The twins covered their rosy mouths with their hands, and tittered. âYou donât know anything about it,â said Jane, tartly. She reflected for a moment. On second thought the plea of a headache seemed weak; furthermore, if it were accepted the chances that Mr. Lambert would recommend a bitter dose and a dull day in the house had to be considered; for the stern parent had a certain grim humour of his own, and was not easily to be imposed on even by Janeâs fertile invention. âWell, then put down the windows, Minieâlike a good little darling, and Iâll be down-stairs in three minutes. The day after to-morrowâs Saturday anyhow.â And encouraged by this cheerful thought, Jane at length prepared to rise. Her idea of âthree minutesâ was astonishingly inaccurate. She dawdled into her clothes, interrupted by fits of abstraction, during which, with one foot on the chair, and the button-hook thrust through the button-holes of her sturdy shoes, she stared out of the uncurtained window. The old house, a rambling two storey building, half-wood, half-brick, abounding in gables and dormer windows which gave it its quaintly picturesque outline, fronted on the busiest street of the industrious but placid little town. For more than a hundred years the Winkler family had held there a certain calm, unassailable position; rightly theirs as the unfailing reward of industry, honesty, and the other simple, respectable virtues of conscientious, self-respecting citizens and tradesfolk. One hundred and thirty years ago, to be exact, old Johann Winkler had settled there, and had founded what deserves the name of an Institution. Certainly, it was the most wonderful bakeshop in the world. Now, no one but a true Winkler had ever been intrusted with the precious recipes for those spiced fruit cookies, or those rich snow-cakes, those golden breakfast-rolls, or those plum-puddings which have immortalized the name. And in view of the importance which such a family must have in the eyes of all who respect supremely excellent baking, a short history of its affairs may be admitted here. It is hardly necessary to say that it prospered for no Winkler had ever been born lacking the virtue of wise thriftiness, or the ability to make small savings bring in generous increase. At the same time, the shop was never moved from the spot where it had first been opened, nor was any attempt ever made to give it a more pretentious appearance. The corner stone which old Johann Winkler had laid himself with so much pride bore the date, âA.D. 1789.â A good many generations of little Winklers had grown up in the shelter of the quaint old house; and a good many generations of little townspeople had stuffed their round stomachs with those incomparable spice-cakes and ginger-nuts, had loitered hungrily around the tempting show-window, and had scrawled caricatures on the walls and the worn stone steps. The business had been inherited in a direct line from father to son; until the day when Uncle Franz Winkler had gone to sea, and left his domestic patrimony in the hands of his sister. This sister was no other than the jolly Gertrude, once the prettiest, most blooming maiden in Frederickstown; who, in the course of time married one Peter Carl Lambert, a grave, practical-minded young man; and this grave, practical-minded young man (who, as the years went on became more and more grave, not to say, severe, and more and more practical) was no other than the father of all the young Lamberts, a portion of whose history is going to be the subject of this story. Mr. Lambert was, himself, the owner of a moderately prosperous business, dealing in the whole-sale and retail distribution of hay and grain; but at the some time he had no inclination to allow his wifeâs inheritance to decline, and while he managed his own affairs, Gertrude and Grandmother Winkler continued in charge of the bakery, which under his shrewd supervision became more flourishing than ever. On one point and only one did husband and wife find cause for dissension. It had become a tradition in the family, as has already been said, that no one but a Winkler had ever possessed the magical recipes for those cakes and pies which had no rivals. Now, since the outrageous and even impious conduct of Uncle Franz, the question had risen, who should be regarded as the heir to the business and the name? For there were no more Winklers. Gertrude wanted her only son, Carl, to be her heir, although he was a Lambert. But Mr. Lambert had other ideas for the youth, and the hope that his son would, by becoming a professional man, take a step up in the world, was dear to his heart. Furthermore, Carl himself, a calm, phlegmatic and determined boy, shared his fatherâs views. He had announced his intention of becoming a lawyer. So matters stood. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. But these family difficulties had no place in Janeâs mind as she took her time to wash and dress on that October morning. What engrossed _her_ thoughts was the concocting of a feasible plan to avoid the distasteful prospect of going to school. The sun had fully risen now, and already the frosty air had been softened by its genial warmth. She opened her window again, and leaned out, looking critically from east to west with the gaze of an old seaman, calculating the possibilities of the weather. There was not a cloud in the sky. Never before, it seemed to her, had the heavens displayed such a vast expanse of deep, untroubled blue. A light, fresh wind rustled through the hazel-nut tree whose boughs touched her window; and sent a few of the ruddy, copper-colored leaves drifting lazily down to the uneven brick pavement below. Across the square, she could see the broad, open door of Mr. Lambertâs warehouse, where already two men in blue shirts were at work tossing a fresh wagon-load of corn husks into the well-filled loft. Early to bed and early to rise was the motto of the industrious folk of Frederickstown, one and all. Wagons covered with white canvas hoods, and filled with tobacco, others, overflowing with pumpkins, celery, apples and cranberriesâall the rich autumn produce of the fertile farming country beyond the townâwere rumbling over the cobblestones in a picturesque procession, on their way to the market-place. And the well-known smell of the rimy vegetables was to the adventuresome Jane an almost irresistible call to the open. Her meditations were soon cut short by a final summonsâand this in the firm cold tones of Mr. Lambert himselfâto breakfast. âJane! Coming? Or must I fetch you?â âJiminy!â said Jane, and banging down the window she fled, clattering down the old wooden staircase like a whirlwind. In the large, sunny room, which served nearly all purposes, the family had gathered for breakfast; Granny Winkler at one end of the tableâa miniature old lady with a frilled cap,âMr. Lambert at the other end, Carl at his right and flaxen haired Elise at his left, Mrs. Lambert with one twin beside her and another facing her. Janeâs chair, between Elise and Lottie was still conspicuously empty. A door at the right of the dining room opened into the bakeshop, and a second door at the back led to the kitchen, from which the exquisite odors of the dayâs outlay of fresh cakes and bread were already issuing. The big, bright room, with its casement windows opening onto the small garden hemmed in by high brick walls, with its pots of geraniums, and Chinese lilies,âwhich were Eliseâs special careâits immaculately dusted cupboards on whose shelves gleamed rows of solid old German pewter ware, was the scene in which the Lambertâs, great and small, carried on a large part of their daily affairs. In one corner stood Mr. Lambertâs squat, business-like desk, where every evening, from nine to ten, he went over his accounts. At the round table in the center, the family ate their meals, and at night, the children prepared their lessons, while Grandmother Winkler, seated in her padded rocking chair, read her Bible, or nodded over her knitting. When Jane made her unceremonious entry, the family was seated, and, with their heads bent reverently over their plates of steaming porridge, were reciting grace in unison. Mrs. Lambert, glancing up, made her a sign to take her place as inconspicuously as possible; and accordingly just before Mr. Lambert raised his head, she slipped into her chair. Her father eyed her for a moment with uncertainty and displeasure; but this morning he had another matter on his mind of greater importance than that of reprimanding incorrigible Jane. Moreover, he had made it a rule, always, if possible, to avoid unpleasantness at meals, owing to the unfavorable effects upon the digestion. Consequently, after a brief, cold stare at his daughter, whose shining morning face was as bland as if her conscience were completely innocent of guilt, he said, solemnly, âGood morning, Jane.â And Jane said, beaming at him, âGood morning, Papa,â and rose to kiss his cheek, and then to give her mother a hug that left the plump, smiling, dimpling Gertrude quite breathless. âSit down now, you bad child,â whispered Mrs. Lambert, patting Janeâs ruddy cheek, âand donât talk. Your father is going to.â The family sat silent and expectant, while Mr. Lambert gravely salted his porridge, then fumbled for his steel-rimmed spectacles in the pocket of his coat, fitted them on his high-bridged nose, and at length cleared his throat. By this time Jane, whose curiosity was of the most irrepressible variety, had all but broken her neck by craning and wriggling in her chair to see the letter which lay beside her fatherâs plate. It bore a foreign stamp, and she guessed, and guessed rightly that it had some bearing on Mr. Lambertâs gravity of demeanor. Finally, unable to endure her fatherâs pompous preparations for speech any longer she pointed to the envelope, and inquired timidly, âWhoâs that from, Papa?â âThat is none of your affair, Jane,â said Carl, with perfect truth, but in his unfortunately superior and reproving way, âand you are very ill-mannered.â He spoke with his characteristically priggish air, with a pomposity ludicrously like his fatherâs, and doubly ludicrous in a lad of barely sixteen. Carl, who was Mr. Lambertâs darling, was at that time a tall, thin, delicate looking boy, with a long pale face, straight brown hair, which was cut in a bang across his forehead, and a pair of nearsighted, light grey eyes, that blinked owlishly behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. It is true that his character was as nearly faultless as it is possible for any youthâs character to be; he was quiet, studious, and dutiful. At school he shone as by far the best of all the pupils, and at home he was never known to disobey a single rule of the household. Intelligent beyond the average, with a precocious love of accuracy; astonishingly, even irritatingly self-controlled, and with a dry judicial quickness and keenness already strongly developed, he was an unusually promising boy, in whom one already saw the successful, complacent, cool-tempered man. But at the same time he neither cared for, nor could boast of great popularity. His mother felt more awe than affection for him; in all of his sisters but Jane, he inspired only a sort of timid admiration and respect; and his school-companions summed him up tersely as a âmuffâ and a âgrind.â For, while he walked away with the highest honors at the close of every session, he was, if the truth must be told, something of a coward. He had moods of sulkiness, and moods of maddening superiority. His brain was nimble enough, but he had never been known to accept any challenge to match his physical strength and courage with theirs. He professed a deep contempt for their primitive and barbaric methods of settling difficulties, and adroitly evaded the outcome of any schoolboyâs discussion that seemed likely to end in mortal combat, by yielding his point with a self-contained, contemptuous politeness, and a premature diplomacy which mystified and enraged his companions. Jane only was not to be dominated by his assumption of patronizing authority; and at his unsolicited correction, she promptly bristled up. It rarely took much to rouse the fiery, impulsive Jane. âMind your _own_ business!â â_Jane_!â Mr. Lambert turned to her, his spectacles glistening warningly. There was a momentâs silence. âDo you wish to leave the table?â âNo, Papa, butââ âVery well, then. Have the goodness to be quiet.â âYes, Papa. Butââ âSilence, maâam! Your brother was quite right. He is older than you, and he had good reason to reprimand you.â Jane meekly subsided; but when her father had withdrawn his gaze, she refreshed herself by making a most hideous grimace at her brother, who, more complacent than ever, retaliated with a look of icy and withering scorn. By this time, Mr. Lambert had almost finished a second reading of the letter, while his wife scanned his face anxiously, not daring to urge him to share its news with her. It covered three or four pages of cheap paper, and was written in a great, sprawling script that consumed one sheet in six or seven lines. âIt looks as if it were written by a _sailor_,â murmured Jane, without lifting her eyes, and seemingly speaking to herself; and in the same dreamy undertone, she explained this singular observation, âEverything about a sailor is sort of loose and blowy; theyâve got blowy coats, and blowy neckties, and blowy trousersââ âYouâve never seen a sailor,â said Carl also in a low tone, âso you donât know what youâre talking about.â âI _do_ know what Iâm talking about,â returned Jane, âI wrote a story about a sailor once, and I could see him inside of my head just as plainly as anything. He had red hair, and a fuzzy wart on his cheek, like a caterpillar, and his name was Moses Thomsonââ âWell, wife, after all there is no choice left us,â said Mr. Lambert laying down the letter. âWithout a doubt, this will be a burden, a heavy responsibility; but I hope I am not deficient in generosity. I think no one can accuse me of that. I am prepared to do my duty in this matter as in all others.â âButâbut what does the letter say, Peter?â asked Mrs. Lambert timidly. âI havenât seen it.â âThis letter is from your brotherââ âYes. From Franz. I recognized his hand after all these yearsââ âYour poor brother. Far be it from me to judge him. I have nothing to say about him. A shiftless idler, a hair-brained, irresponsible neâer-do-well comes to no good end, and leaves better folk to take up his burdens. But it is not for _us_ to judge. I have nothing to say about himââ âPeter! My poor brotherâmy poor Franz!â cried Mrs. Lambert, greatly agitated, âwhat are you saying?â She stretched out her hand to take the letter, and, in her concern, half-rose from her chair. âI will read you his letter, my dear,â said Mr. Lambert. âTry to control yourself.â He looked at her calmly and firmly, and she sat down again, with tears welling up in her soft, beautiful eyes. Mr. Lambert cleared his throat, and read: âDear brother and Honored Sir; I hope this finds you and my good, dear mother, and my dear sister, Gertrude, and all your dear little ones in good health. I am not in good health. I am thinking that my time is about up although not an old man, just forty-two which is the Prime of life. The doctor, who is a good fellow, thinks it is about up with me but I have got a lot out of life and have no complaints to make. But I would ask you a favor, and hope that you will see your way to granting me this, seeing that I am a dying man and have no one to turn to and being in a forran country. My son, Paul, will soon be left alone, I fear, which is a bad thing for a young lad and I am hoping that perhaps being kinsfolk and he being a likely young fellow, good hearted though a bit unlicked, you may find your way to giving him a home until he can shift for himself. I havenât done all I should have done by the lad, perhaps, living a kind of touch and go life, and I am hoping that you may find your way to letting him get some education which I think a valuable thing for a man, though having no great love of letters myself. This is a great favor I am asking I know but I trust you may find it in your heart to do me this favor and the boy will not forget it. The boy will work for you also and do as you say. He is sixteen years old now, and an orphan my wife being dead these ten years or so. âMy dear brother, I beg you to forget me and my failings, which have been many and show your kindness to my poor boy. And now I will close with respectful regards to yourself and give my love to my dear old mother and to my dear sister and all her sweet children who must be big youngsters now. âRespectfully your brother, âFranz Winkler. âP. S. Am not letting on to the boy what the doctor says as he will take it hard and I canât bear that. Have just told him that I am sending him back to America with a friend, Mr. Morse, and that I will join him as soon as I am in better shape, and have told him how to find you.â A silence followed the reading of this letter, and the emotions that it had roused among the members of the little family, were plainly to be seen in their faces. The twins who had not been able to understand it but who felt that it had brought some grave news, looked first at their father and then at their mother. Carl watched Mr. Lambert, and Eliseâs plump, rosy face was solemn; but Jane, as if she were pierced by an understanding of the pathos that was magnified by the very clumsy illiterateness of the letter, sat perfectly still; her vivid face contracted with a look of genuine pain. Mrs. Lambert was weeping. Then, suddenly, old Grandmother Winkler, who had not said a word, got up, took her sonâs letter out of Mr. Lambertâs hand, and leaning on her cane, went out of the room. The astonishment and awkwardness depicted in Mr. Lambertâs face showed that he had not guessed that the letter would produce such an effect. After a moment or two, he cleared his throat, and said in a gentle but somewhat unctuous tone to his wife: âMy dear, we must not be impatient under our afflictions. This is very sad; but it is the will of heaven, and we should learn to endure our sorrowsâerâuncomplainingly. Furthermore, Providence has seen fit to soften this blow byâerâthat is after all, you have not seen Franz in ten years or more.â âYes, Peter. Of course,â answered Mrs. Lambert, meekly wiping her eyes on her napkin. âBut when I think of poor Franzâall aloneâand the boyâthat poor childââ âOf course my dear, your brother may have deceived himself. Come, he may be on the road to health at this moment. Let us hope for the best. Let us prepare to welcome our nephew, and perhaps,âwho knows, Franz himself may be spared to us.â Mrs. Lambertâs face brightened. She was naturally optimistic, and eagerly grasped this ray of hope. Moreover, while she had been very fond of her brother, in years of absence his features had somewhat faded from her memory. She was not fond of sorrow or melancholy, and was ready to exchange grief for hope, and tears for sanguine smiles the moment she saw a possibility of the future setting her fears at nothing. âYes, yes. What you say is quite true, Peter. After all Franz may recover completely.â âCertainly,â said Mr. Lambert, briskly. âAnd now my dear, let us consider.â âIs Paul our cousin, Papa?â asked Jane. Mr. Lambert ignored her question. âI feel great sympathy for the boy,â he said to his wife. âIt is hard indeed to lose a father at his tender age. For after all, to whom can one turn for such disinterested guidance? Who will have his welfare more deeply at heart? I hope my son, that in comparing _your_ lot,â he turned to Carl, âwith that of this unfortunate young man, you will realize your blessings. And I hope, nay, I believe that in me, this orphaned youth will find one who in every way will strive to fill in his life a place worthy of the revered name of âfather.ââ âThen,â continued Jane, who had been following up her own train of thought, âthen Paul is a Winkler. And so he can go into the business when he is a man.â This simple observation, which had not yet occurred to anyone, called forth looks of surprise. âThat is quite true!â exclaimed Mr. Lambert. âBut of course!â cried his wife. âI see the beneficent hand of Providence in this,â said Mr. Lambert, who was fond of thinking that Heaven had his domestic affairs very much in mind. âYes, we must prepare to welcome our nephew. I hope, my dear, that he will not prove difficult to manage. I hope that he is not lacking in a grateful heart.â âPoor child. No father or mother, and so young,â murmured Mrs. Lambert, her eyes again filling with tears. âAnd I never even knew that Franz had a child. I had forgotten even that he had married.â âYon can put a cot in Carlâs room,â suggested Mr. Lambert; âI presume that the boy will arrive in a day or two. And now, children, it is a quarter past seven.â Everyone rose from the table, and the dayâs routine began again in its accustomed groove. Mr. Lambert departed for the warehouse. Elise helped the fat young servant girl to clear away the dishes; Carl went out to bring in wood for the stove; even the twins had their household tasks which had to be finished before they started to school at eight oâclock. But Jane went off to find her Grandmother. Behind the counter, in the bakeshop, the old woman was sitting, weeping quietly; and the slow tears of age were trickling down her wrinkled, brown face, while she strained her eyes to read the crooked awkward lines of her sonâs letter. âHe was a good boy,â she said, taking Janeâs little hand in her gnarled old one. âI understood him, never fear. He was a brave, fine boyâand he always loved his old mother. I know that. Didnât he send me this pretty shawlââ âBut Granny, darling, he may get well. Donât cry, Granny. Donât you cry.â She kissed the old woman, and patted her, feeling awed and oppressed by this aged sorrow that she could not share. After a minute, she quietly left Grandmother Winkler, and in an unusually silent, and subdued mood, went away to help the twins. CHAPTER IIâBUSYBODY JANE At half past eight, Elise had seen that the two little girls had their books and their packages of sandwiches, and started them off to school, Carl and Jane marching behind. âOh, and Janey!â she called, hastening back to the doorway. âWill you remember to give those patterns back to Lily Deacon for me. Iâm going to be _so_ busy. Any time this afternoon will do. I put them in your school bag.â âAll right,â said Jane, and Elise, always busy, always placid and gentle, went back to her work. âWell, what do _you_ think about it?â Jane asked, presently. She had quite forgotten her recent friction with Carl, for quick tempered as she was, she rarely remembered a quarrel ten minutes after it occurred. âThink about what?â said Carl, gruffly. âAbout Paulâs coming, of course. Itâs awfully sad about Uncle Franzâbut it _is_ sort of exciting having a new cousin to stay with us, I think.â âYou wouldnât think it so awfully exciting if _you_ had to share your room with someone you never saw in your life,â returned Carl, sulkily. âI donât see why one of the store-rooms couldnât be cleared out for him. All I know is that I wonât stand for it a second if he tries to sling my things around, or scatter his all over the place.â Carl was never very enthusiastic about sharing anything with anyone (though in this instance one might sympathize with his annoyance) and his fussy love of neatness reached a degree that one would far sooner expect to find in a crabbed old maid than in a boy of sixteen years. Jane did not reply to this indignant objection. âWhat do you think heâll be like?â she asked next, scuffling through the piles of ruddy brown leaves that lay thick on the uneven brick walk. âI think heâll be a big, roistering bully. Thatâs what I think,â answered Carl savagely; his lips set in a stubborn line, and the lenses of his spectacles glinted so angrily, that Jane decided to drop the subject. For several minutes they walked along in silence: the twins marching ahead, chattering like little magpies, their yellow pigtails bobbing under their round brown felt hats. Each clutched her spelling book and reader, and her package of sandwiches and cookies; each wore a bright blue dress, a bright red sweater, and a snow white pinafore. It was fully a mile to the school, but as a rule the brisk young Lamberts walked it in twenty minutes. This morning, however, Jane dawdled shamelessly. âI donât feel like school to-day a bit,â she remarked, looking up through the trees. âYou never do,â returned Carl, dryly, âbut youâve got to go all the same. I bet you donât play hookey again in a hurry.â âHâm?â said Jane, âwhy not?â âWhy not?â the first really mirthful grin that Carl had shown that day spread slowly over his serious features. âDidnât you catch it hot enough last time? Youâre such an idiot anyway. If youâd only do your work conscientiously you wouldnât mind school. Iâd hate it too if I were as big a dunce as you.â âOh,âyou would, would you, Goody-goody?â retorted Jane with spirit. âIâm not a dunce. Iâm the brightest girl in my class.â âWhoo-ee!â whooped Carl, staggered by this cool conceit. âWell! If you havenât got cheek!â ââTisnât cheek,â said Jane, calmly, âI am. I heard Dr. Andrews say so to Miss Trowbridge.â âWellâhe must have been talking through his hat, then,â observed Carl. âHe was _probably_ talking about someone else.â âNo, he wasnât. They were standing outside the school-room door, at lunch-hour, and I was in there, and I heard Dr. Andrews say, âThat little Jane Lambert has brains. Sheâs one of the brightest childrenâââ âThatâs the trouble with you!â broke in Carl, thoroughly exasperated. âYouâve got such a swell-head that you wonât work at all. And I donât see how anyone could say that you were clever when you get about one problem right out of a dozen.â âI donât see how either,â said Jane placidly; âbut he did. Oh, lookâMiss Clementina has got a new canary!â There was no event that occurred in Frederickstown which did not excite Janeâs interest. She stopped to peer into the front window of a small brick house, where amid a perfect jungle of banana plants and ferns, a brightly gilded cage hung between two much befrilled net curtains. âPoor old lady, Iâm glad she got her bird. He has a black spot on his head just like her old one. I daresay her cat will eat him too. I wonder what she has named him. Her old one was named William.â Jane giggled. âWhat an idiotic name for a bird!â said Carl. Like his father, he was never amused by anything that seemed to him fantastic. âYouâd better hurry up and stop peeking into everyoneâs window. Come on.â Jane reluctantly obeyed. âWilliam is a queer name for a bird,â she agreed amicably, âbut itâs no queerer than calling her cat Alfred, and that awful little monkey of hers, Howard. She told me that she named her pets for all her old sweethearts.â âHer old sweethearts!â echoed Carl derisively. âYes. She said that she had dozens. And you know what? I believe itâs true. Anyhow, she has lots of pictures of beautiful gentlemen, with black moustaches and curly side-whiskers. Iâve seen the whole collection. She said she never could bear fair men.â âHumph!â said Carl. âShe said that she was dreadfully heartless when she was a girl. An awful flirt. Professor Dodge still calls on her every Sunday afternoonâall dressed up with a flower in his button-hole, and kid gloves, and a little bouquet wrapped up in wet paper. And she plays the piano for him, and sings âAlice Ben Boltâ and âThe Mocking Birdâ and âComing Throâ the Rye.ââ âWhat a busybody you are. Always prying into other peopleâs affairs. It wouldnât hurt you to mind your own business for a while, I must say.â âI donât pry into other peopleâs affairs,â said Jane, quite unruffled. âMost of âem seem to like to talk, and I just listenâthatâs all.â âThereâs the bell, now! Hang it, weâre late. Why canât youââ but here Carl set off in a race for the school-house, outstripping the two squealing, panting twins. And in another moment, Jane, too, was scampering across the square as fast as her legs would carry her. That was, in truth, not destined to be a very successful day for Jane. To begin with, she was marked âtardyâ for the third time that month. The first classes went off passably; but she came to grief as she was congratulating herself on the fact that she had managed to scrape along fairly well. With all her quickness and curiosity, Jane had small love for hard study; but her aptness in gathering the general sense of a lesson at almost a glance stood her in good stead, and with very little trouble on her part she succeeded in shining quite brilliantly in history, general science, and geography. When it came to mathematics however, she met her Waterloo. This class was presided over by Miss Farrel, a vague old lady, with near-sighted, reproachful blue eyes, and an almost inaudible voice, who taught a dry subject in the dryest possible manner. For some reason, Jane found it more difficult than ever to keep her mind on square roots and unknown quantities that morning. Her eyes wandered longingly to the window. It was open, for the day had grown warmer toward noon, and in the quiet square an old man was raking up the fallen leaves into a row of small bonfires, and lifting them in bundles into a little wheeled cart. Patiently he limped back and forth, stopping every now and then to push his old felt hat back on his head and mop his forehead with a colored handkerchief, which in between times waved jauntily from his hip pocket. The pungent smell of leaf smoke drifted in through the window. The golden and ruddy foliage of the elm-trees and lindens made a fretted canopy over the drowsy green, through which sifted the mellow light of an Indian summer sun. Fat Lulu Piersonâs thick, glossy pig-tails next engrossed Janeâs attention. She took one gently in her fingers; the evenly clipped end of it reminded her of the brush that Sam Lung, the Chinese laundry-man used when he wrote out his receipts. She dipped it in the ink, and began to make hieroglyphics on her scratch-tablet. Then Lulu gave an impatient jerk, and the wet pig-tail just missed causing general disaster. Jane carefully took it again, dried it on her blotter, and made a serious effort to concentrate her attention by fixing her gaze gravely on Miss Farrelâs wrinkled face. But she soon found that she was merely wondering why that prim old dame took the trouble to wear a little bunch of false curls across her foreheadâsuch a remarkable cluster, as smooth and crisp as spun glass, pinned with a little bow of black taffeta ribbon. And so honestly falseâcertainly they could not have been selected with the intention of deceiving, for not even Miss Farrel, near-sighted as she was, could have imagined for a moment that they matched the diminutive nubbin into which her own grey locks were twisted every morning. âWhy doesnât she wear a wig? Though after all that auburn is rather nice. I donât see why she doesnât change âem around sometimesââ âWell, Jane, perhaps you can tell us,â Miss Farrelâs soft voice broke in upon these reflections, and Jane started as if she had been awakened from a sound sleep. She gasped, and then quickly recovering herself, said blandly, âYes, Miss Farrel.â There was a dead silence. Jane looked about her in surprise, to find every eye in the room fixed on her. âWell?â prompted Miss Farrel. Jane swallowed. She had not the remotest idea what the question was. Nevertheless she made a bold attempt to conceal this fact, and with an aplomb admirable under the circumstances, said, âI didnât exactly understand the question, Miss Farrel.â A faint tinge of color appeared upon each of Miss Farrelâs cheekbones, and her almost invisible eyebrows went up. âAnd what didnât you understand about it? I am sure I donât see how it could be expressed in any clearer terms. Will you repeat it to me? Then we can soon find out just where my words confused you.â The old lady felt that she was being exceedingly cunning. Jane winked her eyes rapidly, opened her mouth, shut it, and moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She knew she was cornered. âYes, Jane. And stand up please when you recite,â said Miss Farrel in ominously gentle tones. âAnd donât fidget, Jane. Put that eraser down. We are waiting, Jane.â âWell, what I didnât understand wasâwasâI didnât understandâI didnât understand the question.â Another silence. âDid you _hear_ the question?â âNo, Miss Farrel.â âOh. And what, pray, have you been doing?â âWhyâjust thinking.â âAh. How interesting. And what were you thinking of?â Jane tried to keep her face straight, and looked down to hide the laughter in her eyes. âNothing, Miss Farrel.â Silence again. Miss Farrel opened her little black record book, and slowly and deliberately registered Janeâs crime. âSit down, Jane. And will you please wait for me here after school. At three oâclock. Well, Isabel, will _you_ give me the formula for finding the area of a circle.â Jane took her seat. âWhat a goose I am, anyway,â she thought, and accepted her punishment with her usual calmness. At three oâclock, when the other girls, chattering and laughing gathered their books and left the school-room singly and in groups, she sat at her desk waiting for Miss Farrel. The cleaning woman came in, with her mop and bucket, and began to splash the dusty wooden floor. She was a talkative, good-natured old thing, and one of Janeâs numerous intimates. âWell, now, what are they keepinâ you here for, this fine afternoon, Miss Janey?â she said sympathetically. âOh, I donât mind much. Howâs Amelia, Mrs. Tinker?â âFine. Fine, miss, thank yer.â âAnd howâs Henry Clay?â âHeâs fine, too, I thank yer.â âIs Mr. Tinker out of the hospital yet?â âNot yet, I thank yer,â said Mrs. Tinker, cheerfully. âThey think as how heâll have to be there another six weeks or so. Well, Iâm not one to complain against what the Lord thinks best, and I says to Henry Clay, âDonât complain, Henry. You let well enough alone,â says I.â âIs Henry Clay the one thatâs going to be an undertaker?â âThatâs right, miss. The boyâs always had his heart set on it, and as I says to Mr. Tinker, âDonât oppose him.â And Henry shows wonderful talent for it, miss. Wonderful.â Jane was going to ask how a precocious talent for undertaking manifested itself, when Miss Farrel appeared. âPerhaps, Mrs. Tinker, you might work just now in one of the other rooms,â she suggested with dignity. âYou may return in an hour.â And then she turned her attention to Jane. The old lady began by a plaintive little discourse on Janeâs shortcomings, and on the future disasters that they would most certainly lead to. She tried to sound severe and cold, but now and then she said âmy dear,â and once she laid her small, old hand on Janeyâs. It was so difficult to be severe with Jane. âAnd now, Jane, we must review all last weekâs work. You see how much time you lose?â The lesson began; but it turned out that Jane was able to answer very nearly every question that Miss Farrel asked. âNow, you see? Oh, if you would only put your mind on your work, my dear, it would really be a pleasure to teach you. My dear old teacher used to sayââ And here, veering away from the discussion of altitudes and bases, the good dame began to prattle in the friendliest way about her own girlhood, and about the little school she used to go to, way up in the country, where half the tuition was paid in salt pork and other provisions, and about her father and brothers. Everybody seemed to drift into talking about their own affairs to Jane, and Jane remembered everything they told her. There was hardly a soul in Frederickstown whose general history she was not familiar with; very simple histories for the most part, for the inhabitants of Frederickstown were simple souls, yet each had its measure of comedy and tragedy, and each had its mysterious relationship to the character of its confiding narrator. So now Miss Farrel told her about her sister, Miss Elizabeth, who was, she said, so much the cleverer and better in every wayâthe last of her whole family, and crippled with inflammatory rheumatism; and about her wonderful cat, Amaryllis, and so on, and so on. It was nearly half-past four when the old lady suddenly realized how little of the time she had given to the lesson. Then she made a last attempt to assume her dignity. âWell, now, my dear. Let me see. I think that if only you will train yourselfâso much depends on our own selves, you know, my dear.â And then after a second little discourse, delivered no doubt principally to assure herself that everything she had been saying had had some bearing on Janeâs particular case, she picked up her inevitable knitting-bag, and took her departure. Jane, remembering her promise to Elise, to return Lilyâs patterns, set out toward the Deaconâs house. It stood just at the top of Sheridan Lane, a sleepy, prim old street, regarded as being rather fashionable and aristocratic, principally because at the lower end of it stood the deserted Sheridan mansion, which, notwithstanding the fact that its owners had not deigned to pay any attention to it in fifteen years, was still one of the prides of Frederickstown. The quiet street was paved with cobblestones as it descended the hill from Frederickstown itself, as far as the ancient rusty fountain, in whose basin the leaves collected in the autumn, and the birds bathed in the spring; but on the opposite side, where the hill began its rise, the street became simply a white dusty road, leading on through sweet smelling fields, over wooden bridges, where a meadow stream doubled back on itself in loops, past the Sheridan mansion, which marked the limits of Frederickstown proper, and on to the open country. The branches of the elm trees arched over Janeyâs head, and now and then, shaken by a drowsy breeze, the yellowed leaves fell noiselessly. Through the open window of the Deaconâs little parlour, came the sound of chords struck on a tinkling square piano, followed by scales and arpeggios sung in a sweet, if rather timid and unsubstantial, feminine voice. âAh-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.â Chord. âAh-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.â Chord. And so on, patiently up the scale. Miss Deacon was practising. It was a part of her daily program, and never would it have entered Lilyâs head to deviate from that daily program, mapped out by her excellent but strong-minded and dictatorial mamma. Singing was a very genteel accomplishment for a young lady, and Mrs. Deacon desired above all things that Lily should be elegant. Jane leaned on the window sill, and listened to the scales for a little while, watching Miss Lilyâs slender throat swell and quiver like a birdâs. âHow pretty she is. If I were as pretty as that, I think Iâd be perfectly happy; but she always looks sort of sad. Maybe itâs because sheâs always being fussed at.â There was indeed no girl in Frederickstown who could claim to be quite as pretty as Lily Deacon. Slender and small, with a little tip-tilted nose, which gave the most unexpected and charming spice of coquetry to her delicate face, with large serious blue eyes, and glossy black hair so neatly coiled on the nape of her neck, with beautifully drawn eyebrows, and a tiny mole at the corner of her under lip, accentuating the whiteness of her skin, she would have drawn her tributes of admiration from any pair of eyes that rested on herâand would have been perfectly blind to them. Lilyâs mother would not have allowed her for a moment to imagine that she was pretty, and Lily never thought of disobeying mamma. Prettiness, according to Mrs. Deaconâs severe judgement, counted for nothing; as she had once observed, âIt was only as deep as the epidermis.â Elegance alone was desirable. You should never say that you were âhotââa lady spoke of being âwarm.â And the word âscaredâ was abominable; you should speak of being âstartledâ or âalarmed.â Lily was almost perfectly elegant. She wore a silk dress, and her pink nails were polished, and even when she sat at the piano, she was so afraid of not having her feet demurely crossed, that she did not dare to use the pedals. âBut, Miss Lily, donât you ever sing anything but scales?â demanded Jane presently. Miss Deacon jumped, put her hand to her throat, and then slowly turned her head. âOhâJaney! How you sc-alarmed me!â âIâm sorry,â said Jane, âElise told me to give you these patterns. Here they are in my bag. NoâI donât believe she put âem in at all. Well, then itâs her fault this timeâno, here they are.â âThank you so much. How thoughtful of you. Wonât you come in?â âWell, youâre practising, arenât you?â Lily shook her head. âItâs nearly five. And Iâm tired.â âWhat a lovely day it is,â she got up, and came to the window, where she stood, looking up the street, one hand resting on the frame above her head. The wind ruffled her hair a little, and blew the end of her lacy kerchief against her cheek, shaking free a faint scent of sachet. She sighed gently, and a momentary frown ruffled her smooth forehead. âI wishââ she began impetuously, and then abruptly checked herself. âWhat?â prompted Jane, curiously. For some reason, she really wanted very much to know what Miss Lily wished. But Lily shook her head, smiling a little awkwardly as if she regretted even having said so much; or as if she wasnât sure herself what she did wish. Every now and again, one caught that quick, vanishing expression in her large blue eyes, which seemed to say, âI wishââ and never got any farther. âOh, I donât know what I was going to say. Something foolish, no doubt,â and then to change the subject, she said hastily, âI suppose you have heard the news about the Sheridan house?â âNo! What? It isnât sold, is it? If they tear it down, and build a horrid old factory there, I donât know what Iâll do.â âOh, noânot that. But some member of the family is going
{'title': 'Jane Lends A Hand by Shirley Watkins', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}