Jane Lends A Hand.

by Shirley Watkins.

CHAPTER I-AFFAIRS OF THE LAMBERT FAMILY

At six o'clock 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. Lambert's 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. Lambert's 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 circ.u.mstances 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 b.u.t.toned each other's dress and plaited each other's 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 sister's door, glanced in, and stood transfixed with horror at the sight of Jane rolled up like a dormouse, and still dozing peacefully.

"Oh, _Ja-ane_!"

A head covered with curly, reddish hair rose above the mountain of bed-clothes; a pair of sleepy eyes blinked at the little girl.

"Um." A yawn. "What time is it?"

"It's _half-past thix_, and breakfath's all ready, and you'll be late _again_, Jane. Whatever will Papa thay!" 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.

"I've got a-a headache," announced Jane unblushingly, "I don't think I'll go to school to-day."

"O-oh, Jane!" remonstrated the twins in chorus.

"Well, I haven't exactly got one _now_," said Jane, "but I would have if I got up too suddenly. I've been studying too hard. That's what."

"Ooooh, Jane!" The twins covered their rosy mouths with their hands, and t.i.ttered.

"You don't know anything about it," 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 Jane's fertile invention.

"Well, then put down the windows, Minie-like a good little darling, and I'll be down-stairs in three minutes. The day after to-morrow's Sat.u.r.day anyhow." And encouraged by this cheerful thought, Jane at length prepared to rise.

Her idea of "three minutes" was astonishingly inaccurate. She dawdled into her clothes, interrupted by fits of abstraction, during which, with one foot on the chair, and the b.u.t.ton-hook thrust through the b.u.t.ton-holes of her st.u.r.dy 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, una.s.sailable 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 Inst.i.tution.

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, "A.D. 1789."

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 wife's 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 father's 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 Jane's 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. Lambert's 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 cranberries-all the rich autumn produce of the fertile farming country beyond the town-were 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 summons-and this in the firm cold tones of Mr. Lambert himself-to breakfast.

"Jane! Coming? Or must I fetch you?"

"Jiminy!" 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 table-a miniature old lady with a frilled cap,-Mr. 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. Jane's 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 day's outlay of fresh cakes and bread were already issuing.

The big, bright room, with its cas.e.m.e.nt windows opening onto the small garden hemmed in by high brick walls, with its pots of geraniums, and Chinese lilies,-which were Elise's special care-its immaculately dusted cupboards on whose shelves gleamed rows of solid old German pewter ware, was the scene in which the Lambert's, great and small, carried on a large part of their daily affairs. In one corner stood Mr. Lambert's 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,

"Good morning, Jane."

And Jane said, beaming at him, "Good morning, Papa," and rose to kiss his cheek, and then to give her mother a hug that left the plump, smiling, dimpling Gertrude quite breathless.

"Sit down now, you bad child," whispered Mrs. Lambert, patting Jane's ruddy cheek, "and don't talk. Your father is going to."