"No, _no_! There's no mistake!" cried Jane. "It wasn't the burnt picture-it was the other one-the one he did on top of the flour barrel.

Don't you remember, Mummy?"

"How do _you_ know?"

"Why, because I sent it off. After Paul had gone-and he doesn't know _anything_!"

"Well, well-the boy must learn of this, somehow," said Mr. Lambert. "It was absurd of him to fly off in a temper as he did-but that's the way of young people. Gertrude, my dear, I think it would be quite proper to have a notice of this inserted in the _Frederickstown Star_. In fact, I dropped by on my way home this evening, and told Jim Braintree about it, and he's putting it in on the front page to-morrow. 'Well,' he said to me, 'I certainly must congratulate you, Peter Lambert.' The prize by the way was seventy-five dollars. Not bad for a youngster-by Jove!

Frederickstown will have reason to boast of this family for a good many years to come, _I'm_ thinking!" And the worthy old man swelled almost visibly with pride, as if in some way he was entirely responsible for the new honor that had been bestowed upon his house.

In fact, not even Jane herself was more delighted than her father who less than a year before had angrily consigned the prize-winning picture to dust and oblivion behind his desk.

But it was all very well to say that Paul must learn of his success.

Where was he? For all that they knew, for all that anyone knew, he might at that very moment have been once again on the ocean, or in New Zealand or Timbuctoo. This sad possibility somewhat dampened Jane's boundless, blissful rapture; and yet she declared stoutly that she had a feeling in her bones that Paul was coming back-

"And if he does come back, Daddy," she asked timidly, "will you-will it be all right?"

"I haven't the slightest doubt that as soon as he gets over his little fit of temper, he will return," replied Mr. Lambert. "He must be running short of money now, indeed-"

"_That_ won't bring him back!" interrupted Jane.

"Well, well, I am sure that he will feel-I am sure that he will realize-that he has acted very impetuously-and-and will do the sensible thing," said Mr. Lambert a trifle impatiently. "And now, Jane, will you bring me my slippers!"

CHAPTER XVIII-THE WANDERER COMES HOME

The weeks which seemed so long to Elise and Hyacinth, and so desperately crowded to Aunt Gertrude (who was quite as excited and fl.u.s.tered as if she were going to be married herself) _we_ can skip over at will. It is enough to say that within them the old house underwent such a cleaning and scrubbing and furbishing up as it had not known in five and twenty years. Mr. Lambert talked of building a new wing for the newly married couple. The floors were scrubbed and freshly oiled, the bra.s.s and pewter was polished until the antique household wares fairly winked at you through the gla.s.s doors of the cupboards. The woodwork was rubbed until it shone like satin; fresh curtains went up at the windows, carpets were beaten, the front door and the window frames received a fine new coat of green paint, and Mr. Lambert himself put on a new latch to the door of the Bakery. And when these wonders had been accomplished, Aunt Gertrude entrusted the proprietorship of the Bakery to Hyacinth and Anna, and solemnly shut herself up to make the wedding cake. It was to be such a wedding cake as Frederickstown had never seen before-a mammoth delicacy, destined to be long remembered, composed of spices and raisins and citron and nuts, all buried under a snowy frosting, and artistic decorations designed by the versatile Hyacinth, who was allowed to contribute to this part of it, only.

And then came the day when the Samuel Winklers arrived, and took up their quarters at the Red Fox Inn, midway between Frederickstown and Goldsboro. And after they had paid their respects to their cousins, and presented their daughter-in-law-to-be with innumerable gifts, there was a party in their honor, at which Granny presided with the greatest dignity and Mr. Lambert proposed no less than eighteen toasts which were enthusiastically drunk in blackberry wine. In fact, the wedding festivities in honor of a union which restored the house of Winkler to its former state of security threatened to completely disorganize the delighted community.

At last the sixth of December-the wedding-day-was come.

In accordance with a time-honored custom, the ceremony was performed at eight o'clock at night. And what a night it was! The first snow of the winter had fallen, covering streets and house-tops with a thick, soft, sparkling mantle. And like a Russian bride, Elise returned from the old church with the sound of sleigh bells jingling in the clear, frosty air.

A beautiful bride she was, too, rosy and golden-haired and blue-eyed; and as for Hyacinth! with a flower in his b.u.t.ton-hole, with his hair all sleek and glossy, with such an expression of importance and sedateness-it was no wonder that his parents gazed upon him with eyes actually moist with pride, and Elise thought him a matchless paragon amongst men.

No one knows to this day how all the guests that came managed to crowd themselves into the old house, but they did, and no less than thirty of them sat down at the table with the bride and bridegroom. There was scarcely one imprint of footsteps in the new-fallen snow that night that did not point in the direction of the Bakery.

A little after nine o'clock, the musicians arrived, Tom Drinkwater with his fiddle, and Mr. Mellitz with his trombone in a huge green felt case, and Frank Fisher with his harp and old Mr. Gilroy with his cello. They settled themselves in a corner, tuned up a bit, and then the dancing began.

It was with immeasurable pride that on this occasion, Mr. Lambert welcomed Mr. Sheridan amongst his guests-Mr. Timothy Sheridan, nephew to the late Major, and of a family that had had its roots in Frederickstown as long as the Winklers themselves, or nearly. Lily was a bridesmaid, and it was with her that Mr. Lambert himself started the dancing. Mrs.

Deacon was there, gorgeous in purple and plumes, the Websters in a solid phalanx-in fact there was not a face that was familiar in Frederickstown that was not to be seen that night glowing with satisfaction and good will and personal enjoyment under the roof of the Lambert-Winkler dwelling.

It was when the general merriment was at its height that Jane, laden with a tray of refreshments approached the overheated musicians who were sc.r.a.ping and blowing and thumping away in that corner of the dining room from which Mr. Lambert's desk-as an article that harmonized too little with the elegance of the occasion-had been temporarily banished.

"In another four or five years or so, we'll be making music at _your_ wedding no doubt-if we live, eh?" said old Elias Gilroy at last laying aside his cello for a moment, to take a long draught of cider. When he came out of the mug, wiping his grizzled moustaches delicately on a blue polka dot handkerchief he winked merrily at Jane, who had sat down beside him.

"And why aren't you twirling round with the boys, my la.s.sie?" he went on affectionately, now helping himself to a gigantic slice of cake.

"I came over to watch you-and besides, I'd rather look on," said Jane, carefully smoothing out the skirt of her new blue silk dress. "Shall I get you some more cider, Mr. Gilroy?"

"Well-I'll not trouble you," said he, uncertainly, "though if there's plenty to be had-"

"There's lots. There's lots and lots of everything!" cried Jane. "I'll bring a pitcher!"

When the enthusiastic musicians had had "fresh heart put into 'em" as Mr. Gilroy said, she stood by watching them tune up their instruments for a new onslaught on the famous, lively measures of "Old Uncle Ned."

"Oh, I _do_ wish I could make music out of that big thing!" she cried pointing to the cello.

"You have to be born to it," replied Mr. Gilroy solemnly, sawing away with all his might. "It's an easier matter to blow a tune through that-"

he jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Mellitz's gleaming trombone, whose huge tones fairly drowned out the voices of the other instruments.

Mr. Mellitz, though he might have taken offense at the disparaging manner in which his colleague referred to his instrument, seemed not to have heard Mr. Gilroy's remark. He sat behind the other three, directly under the window, staring fixedly down the shining tube of the trombone at his music;-a meager, melancholy looking man, little given to sociable conversation, with a tallow-colored face which just now was swollen out as he forced all the breath in his lean body into the mouthpiece.

"Why," wondered Jane, "did he choose to play the trombone?"

With her hands folded in her lap, she sat watching him fixedly, as he pushed his slide up and down. All around her people were dancing, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. People were leaving, people were coming-she was not thinking about them-she was not even thinking about solemn Mr. Mellitz nor of how Mr. Gilroy coaxed his deep, sweet tones out of the frayed strings of his old cello.

She was wondering where Paul was. The very gaiety of the family reunion made her feel the absence of the outcast all the more keenly. Her cheerful hope of his return had waned steadily during the past weeks.

There was no news of him, although Mr. Lambert himself had tried to trace him. No, he was gone.

"Well, my la.s.sie, if you watch us hard enough no doubt you'll learn a thing or two about it," remarked Mr. Gilroy, when the music came to a stop at the end of the dance, and the musicians mopped their perspiring faces. "Here, take this bow, since you're so curious, and have a try at it, while I breathe easy a moment or two." He put the neck of his cello into her hand, and showed her how to press her fingers on the strings.

"Now, just take the bow so-like this, see? That's better-and _bite_ the string with it-"

Jane laughingly tried to do as she was told, but the sound that the instrument emitted under her touch showed only too plainly that sweetly as it could sing under the fingers of Mr. Gilroy it had a very different temper for rash amateurs.

As she looked up, laughing, into the old man's face, she suddenly caught her breath in a gasp. Through the window, just behind the long head of Mr. Mellitz, it seemed to her that she had seen a face-though the next moment it had disappeared.

"What is it?" inquired Mr. Gilroy, noticing her frightened expression.

"Aren't seeing ghosts are ye?" he added jocosely.

Jane shook her head, but she looked again, uneasily, at the window.

There was nothing there but the reflection of the interior of the room-Anna taking plates of the table, two or three older men standing by the fire, the silhouettes of the musicians' heads, her mother hurrying in to see about something and then hurrying out again, people moving past the door.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was again! Fantastically white, it seemed to Jane, and apparently without any body accompanying it, so that it looked like a mask suspended outside the window. She sprang up in a fright, not thinking for a moment that it might be no more than the face of some inquisitive wayfarer, who had stolen into the garden to peer in upon the festivities.

All at once, hope, fear, doubt and joy broke over her.

_"Paul!"_

The cello fell over onto the floor with an indignant "thrum-m!" as she darted forward. The next moment, she had opened the door, and stood upon the snowy step, looking eagerly about in the shadows of the garden.

"Paul! Paul! Are you there?"

A figure moved out of the darkness, into the shaft of light that streamed through the open door.

"Janey!" She heard the unmistakably familiar short laugh as she flung herself into his bear-like hug.