“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?” “I don’t know, Janey. I can’t tell you. I don’t know anything now. But I shall be all right—don’t worry about me.” “Oh, will you ever, ever come back again?” Poor Janey’s tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. Paul looked at her seriously. “Yes, I will, Janey. I promise you that. I don’t know when or how, but I’ll be back some day. Now give me the kiss Aunt Gertrude sent, and one from you.” She dried her eyes on her apron, and then standing on tip-toe, put both her arms around his neck and kissed him on each cheek. “Good-bye, Paul.” “Good-bye, Janey.” She stood there under the sign-post, watching him as he walked briskly down the country road. Once, when to her he was only a miniature figure in the distance, he looked back and saw her, standing motionlessly, with the summer wind blowing her bright blue dress, and the summer sun shining on her red head. She had been, and was, and always would be, his faithful friend, and he knew in his heart he would never find anyone like her in the whole wide world that lay before him. When he had disappeared under the shadows of the trees far down the road, Janey turned and retraced her way homeward. She had been a little comforted by his promise to come back again, and was already imagining how one day he would walk into the bakeshop, suddenly, when no one was expecting him, and say that he was going to live with them all for ever and ever. And so he would live there, and everyone would love him, and he would paint wonderful pictures and become famous; but he would never go away again—the world would come to him! Never for a minute had Jane doubted that Paul was a rare and extraordinary being, and in his wildest moments of self-confidence he did not believe in himself as completely as she did. Then everything dropped from her thoughts, except the one idea that had come to her a little while before. To-day was the twenty-eighth. There was plenty of time. Aunt Gertrude, was in the Bakery setting the trays of freshly baked cakes under the glass counters, with a sad face. She missed her nephew, and in her heart believed that her husband had been harsh with the boy whose efforts to master himself had not escaped her, and whom she loved as much as her own son. But she knew quite well how useless it would have been for her to have tried to intercede for him—and after all, what had happened might be for the best. Aunt Gertrude was always inclined to believe that anything that happened was always “for the best” in the long run—and that, no doubt, was why, in spite of a life that had not escaped many sorrows and difficulties, she was still young and fresh in spite of her forty-odd years. But she had expected her Janey to return inconsolable for the loss of her beloved cousin, and was surprised and puzzled when her daughter ran into the shop in almost her usual state of high spirits.