"Why, you _are_," answered Paul in a surprised tone, and then with a rather sad little laugh, he added, "I wish I knew one tenth-one _hundredth_ as much as you do. I'm a dunce, I don't know as much as Lottie does-not nearly."

In the face of this humble remark, Carl remembered rather uncomfortably the innumerable jibes he had directed at his cousin's ignorance.

"Well, you can teach yourself a lot," he said a little patronizingly.

Paul laughed.

"I try to. But I-I can't even read decently, and it takes the d.i.c.kens of a long time."

"Can't _read_!" cried Carl.

"Well, not enough to boast of. I never went to school in my life. A long time ago my mother or somebody must have taught me something, and then I picked up what I could here and there. There was an old fellow I knew years ago,-he was a pa.s.senger on a little coast trading vessel-we were going from Ma.r.s.eilles down to the south of Italy, and on the voyage, which was pretty slow,-because we sometimes stayed for two or three days at different ports,-he taught me a few things. And then I learned to read French pretty well, and a little Italian, and a young Englishman-a college fellow, who'd given up studying for the ministry and run away to sea-even taught me some Latin, though what under Heaven he thought I'd do with it I don't know. He was a funny one," said Paul, chuckling reminiscently, "a thin little chap, with a long nose. He used to say that every gentleman should have a knowledge of the cla.s.sics, and you'd see him washing the deck, with copy of some old Latin fellow's poetry sticking out of his back pocket."

"What did he go to sea for?" inquired Carl; for the first time he had deigned to listen to some of Paul's adventures, and he found himself getting very much interested.

"I don't know. His uncle was a lord or something-at least he told me so, and I daresay it was true. He said he was a younger son, though what that had to do with it I don't know. Anyway it seemed to be an awfully important thing for me to remember. He wanted to make something of himself, he said. I told him he'd do better as-well, anything but a cabin boy, or deck hand or whatever he was. But he said he loved the sea-though he was just about the worst sailor I ever saw."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't remember. Oh, yes, I do. The poor little cuss died-got typhus or something and off he went. Bill Tyler told me about it. They buried him at sea."

"Who was Bill Tyler?"

"Bill was-everything! He was an old bird-older than father. He'd done everything, seen everything-you never knew such a man! He couldn't write his own name, but he was the canniest, drollest-and talk about strength!

Next to father, I guess I liked him better than anyone on earth!" Paul's face glowed, and he launched forth into an animated account of his friend's virtues and exploits, urged on eagerly by Carl, who made him go on every time he stopped. There were no absurd exaggerations, a la Munchausen, in his tales that day. He was thinking only of amusing the sick, feeble boy, and making him forget his own dreary thoughts. Nor did he once reflect that it was this same boy who had told him so pa.s.sionately that he "hated him, and always would."

Elise appearing at the door with Carl's tray stopped short at the sound of his laugh-the first spontaneous laugh she had heard from him in many a day.

"How much better you seem, dear," she said, setting the tray on his knees, and shaking up his pillows. "Paul, your lunch is waiting for you." She sent him a grateful glance.

"If you haven't anything special to do, come on up when you've fed,"

suggested Carl elegantly. Elise nodded eagerly, and following Paul to the door, said in a low voice,

"I wish you would, cousin. There isn't much to be done to-day-I can take care of it, and it seems to have done him so much good."

So Paul spent the afternoon, a long, sunny afternoon, in that dark room, talking to his cousin, telling him about people he had seen-and what a heterogeneous collection they were!-places he had visited, adventures he and his father had had together. A whole new world he opened to the young bookworm, who listened with his hands folded, and a keen but detached interest, to all these tales of action and happy-go-lucky wanderings.

"All that's great to hear about," remarked Carl, "but I don't think I'd like to live that way. Too much hopping about, and too-uncomfortable."

"I suppose it was uncomfortable-but I never knew what it was to _be_ comfortable-that is, to be sure of a good bed to sleep in, and plenty to eat, and all that-so I never minded."

"It must bore you to be cooped up here-baking cakes! Ha-ha!" Carl laughed outright. "I never thought before of how funny that was!"

"I have," remarked Paul, drily.

"What do you suppose that Bill Tyler would say?"

"I can't imagine," replied Paul, smiling glumly. "He'd probably say it was a good job, and that I ought to thank Heaven for it. He was a practical old egg, or he pretended to be. He was forever preaching what he called 'hard sense'-and getting himself into more tight squeezes-he was worse than father. He had more common sense and used it less than any man I ever saw."

"Do you really want to be a painter?" asked Carl suddenly. "That's such a queer thing to want to be."

"Oh, well," said Paul, evidently not anxious to pursue the subject.

"And so-_useless_."

"That's what Bill Tyler used to say. And yet _he_ was the one who took me to a picture gallery for the first time in my life-I was only eleven or twelve years old. And it was there that I met old Peguignot-so it was partly Bill's fault that I began to think about painting at all. The old duffer! He'd spend an entire afternoon rambling around some gallery, going into raptures over this picture and that, pointing out what he liked and what he didn't like-and then when we'd come out, he'd say, 'but that's all nonsense, and waste of time.'"

"Who was Peguignot?"

"Why, he was a little artist-a funny, shabby, excitable little guy, with a perfectly enormous moustache that looked as if it were made out of a lot of black hairpins; and his eyebrows were just like it. When he talked and got enthusiastic about something, they'd all work up and down. Bill and I came upon him one day in some gallery or other. He was sitting up on a high stool making a copy of a big religious painting.

Bill began to talk to him, and, I suppose, just to tease him, started on his favorite line about what nonsense it all was. I thought Peguignot would blow up. He shook a whole handful of wet paint-brushes in Bill's face, called him every name he could think of-I began to laugh and then he turned on me, and told me I was a miserable boy, and please both of us to go far away from him. But I said I agreed with him altogether, and then we both started in on Bill. Well, anyhow it wound up by all of us getting to be the best of friends; and after that Bill and I used to go around and see him quite often. And he taught me all I ever learned about painting. He wasn't very good himself, and he certainly wasn't successful, but he knew a lot, and when he wasn't exploding about something, he could tell what he knew very clearly. Poor little beggar, he had a hard time of it-he was as poverty-stricken as Job most of the time." And then Paul began to laugh. "I remember one day his landlady came up to get his rent. He heard her coming, and got into a perfect panic, and was actually trying to crawl under his bed when she knocked at the door. Then he got very calm and dignified, and told me to let her in. So in she came, and then an argument began, and finally both of them started to weep and wring their hands-you never heard such a rumpus.

Finally he said to her, 'Madam, put me out. Put me out on the streets-it is what I deserve,' and he began to hunt for his bedroom slippers which were the things that were most precious to him I suppose. And then she threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and wailed, and said she couldn't do that because he was so 'leetle.' Well, at last he took a picture that I had painted down from his easel, and said to her, 'Madam, I give you this.

Sell it, and keep the money.' Well, she stood there glowering as if she simply couldn't think of anything strong enough to say; until she suddenly roared out, 'Ah-h-h! You leetle _moustache_! Why don't you sell it _yourself_! Then I should have my money.' And she took the picture with both hands, and banged him over the head with it. But at last she said she'd wait another month, and then she would have him imprisoned-and off she went with my picture."

Carl laughed.

"And did he pay her the next month?"

"I don't know. In any case, he certainly wasn't imprisoned. But don't think he took his debts lightly. He was ashamed of them and he was ashamed of himself; and he worked for money in the only way he could, and never tried to shirk his responsibilities. People knew that, and they were lenient with him, because he was honest and good and they loved him."

There was a pause, then Carl asked curiously, but with some hesitation,

"If I-if my eyes _don't_ get all right, what will you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean-will you stay on in the business?"

"In any case, it's my job, isn't it?" returned Paul evasively. Then suddenly, he dropped his face in his hands. For so many nights, in the little room to which he had been relegated since Carl's illness, he had been wrestling with that problem. A hundred times he had decided that there would be only one course open to him in the event that Carl should not get well; he would stay with his family and help them. His uncle was getting old, and the silent, tragic appeal in the poor man's eyes, and his dreadful anxiety about his son had touched Paul even more than Aunt Gertrude's sorrow.

"Ah, well, what's the use of trying to settle the whole course of your life," he said aloud, but more as if he were speaking to himself. "You get worked up, and start pitying yourself before there's anything definite to pity yourself for." Then suddenly, he said, "Tell me, cousin, I have wanted to ask you-why is it that you hated me? If you don't want to answer never mind. We seem to be friends now-or I may be mistaken."

Carl was silent for several moments, then he said rather gruffly,

"I-there was no reason perhaps. Let that be. You were right-when you said that I didn't hate you as much as I thought I did."

That was the last reference that was made to their former enmity. They were too different, perhaps, ever to be really intimate, but the hatchet was buried between them.

During Carl's convalescence Paul was with him a great deal. His stock of stories seemed inexhaustible, and in lieu of books Carl found them the only source of novel entertainment to be had; and for the time being Paul was exempted from his duties in the Bakery to amuse his cousin. It was not any too amusing for _him_; but he willingly pa.s.sed hour after hour at Carl's bedside. It was the sight of the bandaged eyes that kept his sympathy keen and made him gentle and patient even when Carl was fretful and hard to please.

One day Carl said to him,

"Why don't you read aloud to me? The doctor says it'll be all right now.

I've a mountain of stuff to make up for school, and we'll both gain something."

Paul blushed. He was not particularly keen on displaying his shortcomings outright to Carl, even if he did confess them. But oh second thoughts, he got the book that his cousin asked for, and opening it, plunged in bravely. It was a humiliating experience for him, to have to stop before a long word, and p.r.o.nounce it syllable by syllable, and although Carl did not laugh at him, he corrected him with an air of grave superiority that was even more trying. But the very fact that he did not shine in this particular province, increased Carl's good will toward him.

"You are getting on very well," he said in a patronizing tone. "Keep it up."