 CHAPTER X The Arrival In the morning Jean dressed again in her new clothes, then the travelers had breakfast. By this time, you may be sure, Jean was very grateful for her father's past instructions and table manners. They had proof particularly useful in the dining-car, where Mr. Deval had added a few more lessons to fit napkins, finger bowls, and lamb chops. After a leisurely meal they got into a street-car in which they rode for perhaps twenty minutes along paved streets lined with high buildings or large houses very close together. Then they got out and walked along several blocks of very hard pavement until they came to a large gray house with a tall iron fence. They climbed a number of stone steps leading to a tightly closed, forbidding door. "'Your grandfather lives here,' said Mr. Deval, ringing the bell. A very stiff butler opened the door, ushered them in, and told them to be seated in a very stiff reception-room, while he presented the letter that Mr. Deval had handed him. Jean eyed the remote ceiling with wonder and awe. The butler returned presently with six persons at his heels. They had evidently risen hastily from the breakfast-table, for two of them had brought their napkins with them. A very tremulous old man, a large, rather handsome woman, a stout but decidedly mild-looking gentleman, two tall girls and a boy, all looking as if they had just had a shock of some kind. They did not shake hands with Mr. Deval. They all gazed instead at Jean. A great many eyes for so small a target. Jean could feel herself shrinking under their piercing glances. For what seemed like a very long time no one spoke. But oh, how they looked and looked and looked! Finally Mr. Deval broke the embarrassing silence. "'You have read my letter?' he asked, addressing the older man. "'Yes.' "'Then pardon me if I suggest that you grant me an interview apart from these young people. I have much to say to you, Mr. Huntington.' "'In here,' said the mild gentleman, opening a door. "'Remain where you are, Jeanette,' prompted her father. Jeanette, left alone with the strangers, inspected them with interest. The girls looked like their mother, she decided, rather smooth and polished on the outside, like white fish, for instance, with round, hard grayish eyes. The boy's eyes were different, yellow, she thought, or very pale brown. His upper lip lifted in a queer way as if nothing quite pleased him. They were all rather colorless as to skin. She had seen children. There had been several on the train, in fact, whose looks were more pleasing. She began to wonder after a while if somebody ought not to say something. Was it her place to speak? But she couldn't think of a thing to say. She felt relieved when the three young Huntingtons began to talk to one another. Now and again she caught a familiar word, but many of their phrases were quite new to her. At any rate they were not speaking French. She had heard her father speak that. She had heard too little slang to be able to recognize or understand it. Jean had risen from her chair because her father had risen from his. She thought now that perhaps she ought to resume her seat. But no one had said, as old Captain always did, set right down, honey, and stay as long as you like. Visiting old Captain was certainly much more comfortable. Still doubtful, Jean took a chance. She backed up and sat down. But Harold, yielding to one of his sudden malicious impulses, jerked the chair away. Of course she landed on the floor. Worst of all, her skirt pulled up and there, for all the world to see, was a section of frayed rope dangling from below her knee. The shoestring showed too. For half a dozen seconds the young Huntingtons gazed in silence at this remarkable sight. Then they burst into peals of laughter. The fact that Jean's eyes filled with tears did not distress them. They continued to laugh in a most unpleasant way. Jean scrambled to her feet, found her chair, and sat in it. Who are you anyway? asked the boy. The letter you sent in gave the family a shock, all right, and we'd just had another. Elastic would be expensive where you came from. Or is that the last word in stocking supporters? Hey, girls! His sisters tittered. Poor Jean writhed in her chair. No one had ever been unkind to her. Even Mrs. Shannon, whose tongue had been sharp, had never made her shrink like that. I am Jeanette de Valle, returned the unhappy visitor. My mother was Elizabeth Huntington. This is where my grandfather lives. Goodness! exclaimed the taller of the two girls whose name was Pearl. She must be related to us. Elizabeth Huntington is the aunt that we aren't allowed to mention, isn't she? asked the younger girl. Yes, returned the boy. She ran away and married a low-down Frenchman, and my grandfather turned her out. That old gardener we had two years ago used to talk about it. He said she was the best of all the Huntingtons. But, of course, he was crazy. Say, Clara, said the older girl, we'll be late for school. You too, Harold. The three deserted Jean as unceremoniously as they did the furniture. Left alone Jean looked about her. The floor was very smooth and shiny. There were rugs that looked as if they might be interesting close, too. There were chairs and tables with very slender, high-polished legs. There was a large mirror built into the wall. Part of the time she had seen six cousins instead of three, and a big fireplace with a white and gold mantle. That's a queer kind of stove, thought Jean, noting the gas log. After a thousand years, it seemed Jean, the four grown-ups returned. Her father came first. You are to stay here for five years, said he, taking her hands in his. After that we shall see. We have all decided that it is best for you to be here with your mother's people. They have consented to care for you. I shall pay as I can for what you need. For the rest you will be indebted to the kindness of your grandfather. I need not tell you, my Jean, to be a good girl. You will write to me often, and I will write to you. And now, good-bye, I must go at once to make my train. He kissed Jean first on one cheek, then on the other, French fashion, then with a gesture so graceful and comprehensive that Jean flushed with pride to see it. Leon de Valle took leave of his relatives-in-law. He isn't a low-down Frenchman, and I know it, was her comforting thought. Poor child, the rest of her thoughts were not so comforting. Five years! Not to see her wonderful father again for five years! Not to see good-natured Molly or Michael or Sammy or Annie or Patsy! Why, Patsy would be a great big boy in five years! There would be no one to make clothes for the children, no one to make Annie into a lady. She had firmly intended to do that. Unselfish might that she was, her first distressing thoughts were for the other children. A maid will come for you presently, said a large, smooth lady addressing Jean, and will show you your room. I will look through your clothes later to see what you need. I am your Aunt Agatha. This is your Uncle Charles. This is your grandfather. I must go now to see about your room. Your Uncle Charles nodded carelessly in her direction, looked at his watch and followed his wife. The room to which the maid escorted Jean was large, with cold gray walls, a very high ceiling with white doors. The brass bed was wide, very white and smooth. The pillows were large and hard. The towels that hung beside the stationary basin looked stiff and uninviting. Jean wondered if one were supposed to unfold those towels. It seemed a pity to wrinkle their polished surface. All together it was not a cozy room, not more than Mrs. Huntington was a cozy person. Jean turned, hopefully, to the large window. There was another house very close indeed. The gray brick wall was not beautiful, and the nearest window was closely shuttered. Where, asked Jean, turning to the maid who still lingered, is the lake. The lake, exclaimed the maid. Why, there isn't any lake. There's a small river, they say, downtown somewhere. I never saw it. Pretty dirty, I guess. When your trunk comes, push this button and I'll unpack for you if you like. There's your suitcase. You can use these drawers for your clothes. Maybe you'd like to put them away yourself. I'll go now. Jean was glad that she had her suitcase to unpack. It was something to do. But when she opened it, kneeling on the floor for that purpose, she found that it contained two articles that had not been there earlier in the morning. She remembered that her father had closed it for her on the train. Perhaps he had put something inside. There was a small new purse containing a few coins, two dollars altogether. It seemed a tremendous sum to Jean. The other parcel seemed vaguely familiar. Jean removed the worn paper covering. Oh! she breathed rapturously. There was her mother's beautiful lace handkerchief, wrapped about the lovely little miniature of her mother. Her father, who had cherished these treasures beyond anything, had given them to her. And he had not told her to take good care of them. He had known that she would. Oh, Daddy! she whispered, it was good of you. When Jean, who had had an early breakfast, had come to the conclusion that she was slowly but surely starving to death, the maid, whose name proved to be Maggie, escorted her to the dining-room. In spite of her father's instructions she made mistakes at the table, principally because there were bread and butter knives and bouillon spoons invented since the days of Deval's young manhood. At least, however, she didn't eat with her knife. Unhappily, whenever she did the wrong thing, one or another of her cousins laughed. That made her grandfather frown. Someway embarrassed Jean was glad of that. She was to learn that her cousins were much better trained in such matters as table manners than in kind and courteous ways toward other persons. Their mother was conventional at all times. She couldn't have used the wrong fork. But there were certain well-bred persons who said that Mrs. Huntington had the very worst manners of anybody in her set, that she never thought of anybody's feelings but her own. But the self-satisfied lady was far from suspecting any such state of affairs. She thought herself a very nice lady and considered her children most beautifully trained. Only by watching the others, Jean, naturally bright and quick, soon learned to avoid mistakes. As she was also naturally kind, her manners were really better in a short time than those of the young Huntingtons. Her new relatives, particularly the younger ones, asked her a great many questions about her former life. Had she really never been to school? Weren't there any schools? Was the climate very cold in northern Michigan? Were the people very uncivilized? Were they Indians or Eskimo? What was her home like? What was the Cinderpond? Sometimes the children giggled over her replies. Sometimes they looked scornful. Almost always both Mr. and Mrs. Huntington appear to shocked. It wasn't so easy to guess what old Mr. Huntington thought. CHAPTER XI. Next week, said she, Jeanette will be going to school, and you are not to tell the other pupils nor any of your friends nor the maids in this house anything of her former life. And you too, Jeanette, will please be silent concerning your poverty in the fact that your father was a common fisherman. G! scoffed Harold, holding his nose, a fisherman. He was a gentleman, replied Jean loyally. He was not common. Molly was common, but my father wasn't. No gentleman could be a fisherman, returned Mrs. Huntington, who really supposed she was telling the truth. You will remember, I hope, not to mention his business? Yes, I'm, promised Jean meekly. Yes, Aunt Agatha, prompted Mrs. Huntington. Yes, Aunt Agatha, said Jean, thoroughly awed by the large, cold lady. Now we will see what you need in the way of clothes. Of course, you have nothing at all suitable. Jean followed her aunt upstairs. Mrs. Huntington noted with surprise that the garments in the drawers were neatly folded, also that they were of astonishing fineness. Did your stepmother buy these? asked the lady. No, my father. These handkerchiefs, too? Yes, he bought everything. But you have only six, and not enough of anything else, and only this one dress? That's all. Father didn't put any of my old things in. They weren't much good. I suppose Annie will have my pink dress. Mrs. Huntington wrote many words on a slip of paper. I shall shop for these things at once, said she. You need a jacket and rubbers before you can go to school. Of course, you haven't any gloves. Yes, ma'am. Yes, Aunt Agatha. Here, in this drawer. They're really very good, admitted Mrs. Huntington. But you will need a heavier pair for every day. And something for my stockings, pleaded Jean. I guess Father didn't know what to get. You see, most of the time I went barefoot. Mercy-child! gasped Mrs. Huntington, looking fearfully over her shoulder. You mustn't tell things of that sort. They're disgraceful. Maggie might have heard you. I'll try not to, promised Jean. But my stockings won't stay up. Mrs. Huntington wrote another word or two on her list. Anything else? she asked. Things to write a letter with. Oh, please, ma'am, Aunt Agatha, could I have those? I want to write to my father. He taught me how, you know. Maggie will put writing materials in the drawer of that table, Mrs. Huntington. I'll ring for them now. I'm glad that you can at least read and write. But you must not say, ma'am, that word is for servants. I'll try to remember, promised Jean. Jeanette's first letter to her father would probably have surprised Mrs. Huntington had she read it. Perhaps it is just as well that she didn't. Dear Daddy, wrote Jean. The picture is safe. The handkerchief is safe. The purse is safe. And so am I. I am too safe. I should like to be running on the edge of the dock on the dangerous side, almost falling in. See the nice tail on the comma? I like to make commas, but I use more periods. The periods are like frog's eggs in the cinder pond, but the commas are like polywogs with tails. That's how I remember. Mrs. Huntington is not like Molly. Molly looks soft all over. Someday I shall put my finger very softly on Mrs. Huntington to see if she feels as hard as she looks. Her back would be safest, I think. She is very kind about giving me things, but I do not know her very well yet. She does not cuddle her children like Molly cuddles hers. She is too hard and smooth to cuddle. There are little knives for bread and butter, and they eat green leaves with a funny fork. I ate a round green thing called an olive. I didn't like it, but I didn't make a face. I didn't know what to do with the seed, so I kept it in my mouth until I had a chance to throw it under the table. Was that right? There is no lake. They get water out of pipes, but not in a pail. Hot and cold right in my room. Maggie, she is the maid, showed me how to make a light. You push a button. You push another, and the light goes out. She said two years ago this house was all made over new inside. This is another day. My bed is very big and lonesome. I am like a little black huckleberry in a pan of milk when I am in it. I can see in the glass how I look in bed. I have a great many new clothes. I have tried them on. Some do not fit and must go back. I have a brown dress. It is real silk to wear on Sunday. I have a white dress. It looks like white clouds in the sky, and a red jacket, and more under things, but I like the ones you bought the best because I like you best. This is four more days. I have been to church. I stood up and sat down like the others. I liked the feathers on the ladies hats and the little boys and nightgowns that marched around and sang. Next Sunday I am to go to Sunday school. Mrs. Huntington says I am a heathen. I got a chance to touch her. Her back is hard. But I will say good-bye. But I like to write to you, so I hate to send it away, but I will begin another letter right now. Maggie will put this in the letter box for me. I like Maggie, but I am afraid I will tell her about my past life. Mrs. Huntington says I must never mention bare feet or fish. Yours truly, Jeanette Huntington-DeVall. PS. Mrs. Huntington told a lady I was that. But you know I am just your Jean. I love you better than anybody. Jean, you will notice, made no complaints against her rude young cousins and passed lightly over matters that had tried her rather sorely. From her letters her father gathered that she was much happier than she really was. Perhaps nobody ever enjoyed a letter more than Mr. DeVall enjoyed that first one. He went to the post office to get it, because no letter-carrier could be expected to deliver mail to a tumble-down shack on the end of a long, far-away dock. He read it in the post office. He read it again in Old Captain's freight-car, and when Bonnie Turcotte came in, he too had to hear it. Then Molly read it, and as she read it her face was quite beautiful with the mother-look that Jean liked. It was the only attractive thing about Molly. Then the children awoke and sat up in their bunks to hear it read aloud. Poor children! They could not understand what had become of their beloved Jean. Afterwards Mr. DeVall laid the letter away in his shabby trunk beside the little green bottle that still held a shriveled pink rose, the late wild rose that Jean had left on his table that last day. He had found what remained of it on his return from his journey. It was certainly very lonely in that little room evenings without those lessons. Jeanette Huntington DeVall found school decidedly trying at first. The pupils would pry into her past. Their questions were most embarrassing. Even the teachers, puzzled by many contradictory facts, asked questions that Jean could not answer without mentioning poverty or fish. Yes, she had lived in the country. Is Anadok in the country, wondered truthful Jean? No, she truly didn't know what a theater was, and she had never had a birthday party nor been to one. What did keeping one's birthday mean, Jean had asked? How could one give her birthday away? Of course she knew all the capitals of South America, mountains and rivers too. She could draw maps, showing them all. She loved to draw maps. But asparagus, what was that? And velvet? And vanilla? And plumber? Really, said Miss Wardell one day after a lesson in definitions, you can't be as ignorant as you seem. You must know the meaning of some words as jardinière, tapestry, doily, mattress, counterpain, banister, Newell post, brocade. Didn't you live in a house? Yes, Miss Wardell, stammered Jean, coloring as a vision of the duval shack presented itself. Didn't you sleep on a mattress? Jean hung her head. She had guessed that that thick thing on her bed was a mattress. But how was she to confess that hay in a wooden bunk had been her bed? Fortunately Jean did not look like a child who had slept on hay. She was small and daintily built. Her hands and feet were beautifully shaped. Her dark eyes were soft and very lovely, her little face decidedly bright and attractive. She suffered now for affection, for companionship, for the freedom of outdoor life, but never for food or for suitable garments. It is to be feared that Mrs. Huntington, during all the time that she looked after Jeanette, put clothes before any other consideration. The child was always properly clad. Unfortunately, in spite of all Jean's precautions, her cousins succeeded in dragging from her all the details of her former poverty. They never got her alone that they didn't trap her into telling things that she had meant not to tell. At those times even Harold seemed almost kind to her. Mean children they were pumping her, of course, but for a long time honest Jean did not suspect them of any such meanness. After they had learned all that there was to know, Jean's eyes were opened and things were different. Sometimes Harold, in order to embarrass her, told his boyfriends a weird tale about her. That's our cousin, the cinderpond savage, Harold would say. Her only home was a dry goods box on the end of a tumble-down dock. She sold fish for a living and ate all that was left over. She never ate anything but fish. She had nineteen step sisters with red hair and a cruel stepmother who was a witch. She wore a potato sack for a dress and never saw a shoe in her life until last month. When captured she was fourteen miles out in the lake chasing a whale. Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen, to see the cinderpond savage. Harold's friends seemed to consider this amusing, but Jean found it most embarrassing. The strange boys always eyed her as if she really were some little wild thing in a trap. She didn't like it. Clara put it differently. My cousin, Jeanette Huntington de Valle, has always lived on my uncle's estate in the country. She didn't go to school but had lessons from a tutor. But however they put it, Jeanette realized that she was considered a disgrace to the family, a relative of whom they were all secretly ashamed. And her father, her good, wonderful father, was considered a common low-down Frenchman who had married her very young mother, solely because she was the daughter of a wealthy man. I don't believe it, said Jean, when Clara told her this. My father never cared for money. That's why he's poor. And he's much easier to be friends with than your father. And he reads a great many more books than Uncle Charles does. So I know he isn't ignorant, even if you do think he is. Besides, he writes beautiful letters with semicolons in them. Did your father write to you that time he was gone all summer? Clara was obliged to admit that he hadn't. But then added Clara cruelly. A real gentleman always hires a stenographer to write his letters. He doesn't think of doing such things himself any more than he'd black his own boots. Then, said Jean defiantly, I'm glad my father's just a fisherman. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII OF THE CINDER POND by Carol Watson Rankin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XII A HELPFUL GRANDFATHER. During that first winter Jean was fairly contented. Her school work was new and kept her fairly busy, and in her cousin's bookshelves she discovered many delightful books for boys and girls. Here too for she had read no stories. She had been too busy rearing Molly's family. Shy and sensitive, for several months she made no real friends among her schoolmates. How could she, with a horrible past to conceal? To be sure, when she thought of the big beautiful lake, the summer days on the old dock, the lovely reflections in the cinder pond, the swallows going to bed in the old furnace chimney, the red sun going down behind the distant town, the kind old captain, the warm affection of Molly's children, not to mention the daily companionship of her nice little father. It seemed as if her past had been anything but horrible. But no city-child she feared would ever be able to understand that when even the grown-ups couldn't. From the very first her Uncle Charles had seemed not to like her. And sometimes it seemed to Jeanette that her Aunt Agatha eyed her coldly and resentfully. She couldn't understand it. But James, the butler, and Maggie, the maid, sometimes gossiped about it as the best of servants will gossip. It's like this, said James, seating himself on the corner of the pantry-table. Old Mr. Huntington is the real master of this house. Young Mrs. Huntington comes next. Mr. Charles is just a puddin' head. You mean figurehead, said Maggie. Same thing. Now Mr. Huntington owns all this. James's comprehensive gesture included a large portion of the earth's surface. And naturally Mr. Charles expects to be the heir when the old gentleman passes away. Now listen. James's voice dropped confidentially. There's a young nephew of mine in Ball and Brewster's law office. One day, when he was filing away a document with the name Huntington on it, he mentioned me being here to another clerk. Old Pittman it was. Well, Old Pittman said it was himself that had made a copy of Old Mr. Huntington's will, leaving all that he had to his son Charles. Now looky here. Supposing Old Mr. Huntington was to soften toward his dead daughter for running away after that Frenchman, and was to make a new will leaving everything to his grandchild, that new little girl. Between you and me she's a sight better child than them other three put together. He wouldn't, said Maggie. Of course he might leave her something. That's it. Mark my words. Mr. and Mrs. Charles can't warm to that child because they're afraid of her, afraid of what she might get. She's a frozen terror, Mrs. is. While they're as cold to her as a pair of milk cans of them, too. Maybe that's the reason. Probably it was. And it is quite possible, too, that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Charles Huntington realized the reason for their lack of cordiality. Only they were not cordial. At first Jean had seen but little of her grandfather. On pleasant days he sat with his book in the fenced-in garden behind the house. On chilly days he sat alone in his own sitting-room where there was a gas-log. But sometimes at the table he would ask Jean questions about her schoolwork. Well, Jeanette, how about school? Are you learning a lot? Ever so much, Jean would reply, there are so many things to learn. One day when he asked the usual question, Jeanette's countenance grew troubled. Next week, she confided, we are to have written examinations in everything, and there are a thousand spots where I haven't caught up with the class. Mathematics, language, United States history and French. The books are different, you see, than the ones I had. I'll have to cram. Mathematics are the worst. I can't do the examples. Suppose you bring them to me after lunch. I used to think I was a mathematician. That was the beginning of a curious friendship between the little girl and the very quiet old man. After that there was hardly a day in which Jean, whose class was ahead of her in mathematics, did not appeal for help. She liked her grandfather. He seemed nearer her own age than anyone else in the house. You see, when people get to be ninety or a hundred, they are able to be friends with persons who are only seventy or eighty, a matter of twenty years makes no difference at all. Mr. Huntington was sixty-eight, which is old enough to enjoy a friendship of any age. But when people are young like Pearl and Clara, two years difference in their ages makes a tremendous barrier. Clara was almost three years older than Jean, and Pearl was fourteen months older than Clara. Harold was younger than his sisters, but older than Jean, who often seemed younger than her years. Pearl and Clara looked down with scorn upon any child of twelve. Indeed they had been born old. Some children are, you know. Also it seemed to their grandfather they had been born impolite. For all they called her the cinderpond savage, Jean's manners were really very good. She seemed to know instinctively how to do the right thing. That is, after she became a little accustomed to her new way of living, and she was always very considerate of other people's feelings. So was her grandfather most of the time. But Mrs. Huntington wasn't, and her children were very like her, cold, self-centered, and decidedly snobbish. Jean was quite certain that her girl-cousins had never played. Harold, to be sure, occasionally played jokes on the younger members of the family or on the servants, but they were usually rather cruel, unpleasant jokes, like putting a rat in Maggie's bed or water in Pearl's shoes or spiders down Clara's back. For Jean he reserved the pleasant torture of teasing her about her father. Ugg, he would say, holding Jean's precious mail as far as possible from him. While, with the other hand, he held his nose. This must be for you. It smells of fish. Your father must have sold a couple while he was writing this. Sometimes he would point to shoe advertisements in the paper with, Here's your chance, Miss Savage. No need to go barefoot when your five years are up. Just lay in a whopping supply of shoes all sizes at one sixty-nine. His grandfather liked his youngest grandchild's manners. He told himself, once he even told his son, that he couldn't possibly give any affection to the daughter of that wretched Frenchman who had stolen his daughter. Perhaps he couldn't just at first. No doubt he thought he couldn't. But he did. Way down in his lonesome old heart he was glad that mathematics were hard for her because he was glad that she needed his help. Just what are you thinking? asked her grandfather one day. I was making an example, explained Jean. I've been here seven months. That leaves four months and five years. But the last two months went faster than the first two. If five years seems like a thousand years to begin with, in the last two months, I refuse, said her grandfather with a sudden twinkle in his eye, to tackle any such example as that. Well, laughed Jean, here's another. Miss Wardell asked us in school today to decide what we'd like to do when we're grown up. We're to tell her tomorrow. Rather short notice, isn't it? Yes, said Jean. You see, ever since I visited Miss Wardell's sister's kindergarten I thought I'd like to teach that. But I thought I'd like to get married, too. What? gasped her grandfather. Get married. I should like to bring up a family right, with the proper tools. Old Captain says you have to have the proper tools to sew with. I think you have to have the proper tools to bring up a family. Toothbrushes and stocking straps, smelly soap and cold cream and under-clothes. Have you picked out a husband? asked her grandfather. That's the worst of it. You have to have one to earn money to buy the proper tools. But it's a great nuisance to have a husband around, Bridget says. She's had three, and she'd rather cook for Satan himself, she says, than a husband. Jeanette, you mustn't repeat Bridget's conversations. Does Mrs. Huntington like you to talk to the servants? No, returned Jean, blushing a little. But sometimes I just have to talk. You see... well, you see... yes. Well, Bridget likes to be talked to. I'm not sure, always, that anybody else. Well, it's easy to talk to Bridget. How about me? You come next, assured Jean. The next day Jean returned from school with her big black eyes fairly sparkling. She went at once to her grandfather's room. I've decided what I'm going to do, said Jean. I'm going to be married. Why? asked her grandfather. Well, you see, if I had a kindergarten I couldn't tuck the children in at night. That's the very nicest part of children, tucking them in. But the husband wouldn't need to be much trouble. He could stay away all day like Uncle Charles does. What does Uncle Charles do, when he isn't at the club, I mean? He is in a bank from nine until three every day. Only that little bit? I guess I'd rather have an ice-man. He gets up very early and works all day, doesn't he? Anyway, Miss Mordell said I didn't need to worry about picking him out until I was twenty. Sometimes I wish Aunt Agatha liked kittens and puppies, don't you? They're so useful while you're waiting for your children. CHAPTER XIII BANISHED FRIENDS I have a letter from old Captain, confided Jean that same afternoon. Don't you want to read it? You wouldn't laugh at it, would you? Certainly I wouldn't laugh, assured her grandfather taking the letter. Dear and honoured miss, wrote old Captain in a large, sprawling hand. This is to let you know that it is a warm day for April. The lake is still froze. It seems as if the sun shines more when you are here. Sammy lost his freckles for a while, but they came back again last week. Michael and Annie were here yesterday. He says your father is teaching him to read. As I am a better hand with a boat-hook than I am with this here pen, I will close, so no more at present. Your true friend and well-wisher, Captain John Blossom. Old Captain is my true friend, explained Jean. He taught me to make dresses and things. But I have learned some more things about sewing in school. I can put in a lovely patch where the checks and stripes all matching, and darn and hem and fell seams and make buttonholes. Old Captain's buttonholes were so funny. He cut them round in all different sizes. I'm ever so glad Michael is learning to read. It's too far for small children to walk to school. Besides their clothes, well, their best clothes aren't just right, you know. I guess they haven't any by this time. Do you really like those children? asked her grandfather. I love them. Annie and Patsy are sweet, and Sammy is so funny. He's so curious that he gets too close to things and either tumbles in or gets hurt. Once it was a wasp, I guess I couldn't live with people and not like them a little. Then you like your cousins? I—I haven't lived with them very long, evaded Jean. Her grandfather chuckled. He had lived with them for quite a while. By the coming of June Jean began to yearn more than ever for the lake. She told Miss Wardell about it in the day she had to stay after school to redraw her map. Jeanette, asked the teacher, what possessed you to draw in all those extra lakes? You know there are no lakes in Kansas. That's why I put them in, explained Jean earnestly. There ought to be. If there were a large lake in the middle of each state, with all the towns on the shore, it would be much nicer. But I didn't mean to hand that map in. It was just a play map. You see, when you can't have any real water, you like to make pictures of it. Are you lonesome for Lake Superior? Oh, yes. Last Sunday when the minister read about the flood, I just hoped it would happen again. Not enough to drown folks, you know, but enough to make a lot of beautiful big lakes, enough to go round for everybody. You've been to the park? Yes, but the lake there isn't as big as our cinder pond, and its brick edges are horrid. It looks built. Of course, it is artificial, but it's better than none. Yes, admitted Jean, very doubtfully. I guess I like real ones best. Along towards Spring, when her past had become a little more comfortably remote, Jean had made a number of friends among her classmates. She had particularly liked Lizzie McCoy, because Lizzie's red hair was even redder than that of the young Devalls, and her freckles more numerous than Sammy's, and Lizzie had liked Jean. But when Lizzie had ventured to present herself at Mrs. Huntington's door, she had been ushered by James into the awe-inspiring reception room, where Mrs. Huntington inspected her coldly. I came, explained Lizzie nervously, to see Jean. I don't seem to recall your name. McCoy. Ah, yes. What is your father's business? He's a butcher, returned Lizzie. Where do you live? Spring Street? Mrs. Huntington shuddered. Fancy anyone from Spring Street venturing to ring at her exclusive portal? Jeanette is not at home, said she. Susie Morris fared no better. Susie was round and pink and pleasant. Everybody liked Susie. Several times she had walked home with Jeanette, but they had always parted at the gate. Do come in, pleaded Jean. I'll show you my new party dress. It's for the dancing school party next week, you know. All right, said Susie. The dress was lovely. Susie admired it in her shrill piping voice. The sound of it brought Mrs. Huntington down the hall to inspect the intruder. Jeanette, she asked, who is this child? Susie Morris, she's in my class. What is her father's business? He's a carpenter, piped Susie. Where do you live? asked Mrs. Huntington. Spring Street? confessed Susie. Mrs. Huntington shuddered again. Another child from that horrible street. A blind child could have seen that she was unwelcome. Susie, who is far from blind, stayed only long enough to say goodbye to Jean. You must be more careful, said Mrs. Huntington in your choice of friends. Everybody likes Susie, returned Jean loyally. Her people are common, explained Mrs. Huntington. I should be glad to have you bring Lydia Coleman or Ethel Bailey home with you. I don't like them, said Jean. Why not? There isn't a bit of fun in them, declared Jean, blushing because the resemblance to her cousins was her real reason for disliking them. While there's Cora Farnsworth, surely there's plenty of fun in Cora. I don't like Cora either. She says mean things just to be funny, explained Jean, who had often suffered from Cora's fun. I don't like that kind of girls. Lydia, Ethel, and Cora live on the avenue, returned Mrs. Huntington. You ought to like them. At any rate you must bring no more east side children home with you. I can't have them in my house. Mrs. Huntington always talked about the avenue as Bridget, who was very religious, talked of heaven. When their ship came in, Mrs. Huntington said, they should have a home in the avenue. The old house they were in, she said, was quite impossible. Old Mr. Huntington, Jean gathered, did not wish to move to the more fashionable street. Jean wondered about that ship of Anteagathas. The river, she had seen it once, was a small muddy affair, surely no ship that could sail on that shallow stream would be worth waiting for. She asked her grandfather about it. Her grandfather frowned. We won't talk about that ship, said he. I don't like it. Don't you like boats? asked Jean. Very much, but not that kind. Jean was usually a very well-behaved child, but one Saturday in June she fell from grace. An out-of-town visitor, a very uninteresting friend of Mrs. Huntington's, had expressed a wish to see the park. Pearl, Clara, and Jean were sent to escort her there. It was rather a bracing day. Walking sedately along, the cement walks seemed to high-spirited Jean a very tame occupation. Presently she lagged behind to feed the crumbs she had thoughtfully concealed in her pocket to a sad squirrel with a skinny tail. He was not half as nice as the chipmunks that sometimes scampered out on the cinder-pond dock, but he reminded her of those cheerful animals. The squirrel seized a crumb and scampered up a tree. Jean looked at the tree. Why, said she, it's a climby tree, just like that big one on the bank behind old Captain's house. I wonder. Off came Jean's jacket. She dropped it on the grass, seized the lowest branch, and in three minutes was perched like a bluebird well toward the top of the tree. About that time her cousins missed her and turned back. Unhappily the park policeman noticed the swaying of the topmost branches of that disc-crated tree and hurried to investigate. Clara and Pearl arrived in time to hear the policeman say, Here, boy, come down from there. It's against the park rules to climb trees. Jean climbed meekly down, much to the astonishment of the policeman, who grinned when he saw the expected boy. Well, said he, you ain't the sort of bird I was looking for. I should think, said Pearl, who was deeply chagrined. You'd be ashamed. At any rate, we're ashamed of you. I shall tell mother about it, said Clara, virtuously. Clara's principal occupation, it seemed, Jean was telling mother. The idea climbing trees in the park, right before mother's company too, I don't wonder that Harold calls you the cinder-pond savage. CHAPTER XIV at 4 A.M. Jean spent a very dull summer. Part of the time her cousins were away visiting their grandmother, Mrs. Huntington's mother. Jean had eyed their departing forms a bit wistfully. I wish, thought she, they'd invited me. The sea, she was sure, would prove almost as nice as Lake Superior. Unless, of course, one happened to be thirsty. Unfortunately, the grandmother had had room for only three young guests. Possibly, she had been told that Jean was a little savage, and feared to include her in her invitation. After school closed, she had only her grandfather, the garden, books, and her music lessons. She hated her music lessons from across old professor. It was bad enough to hear Pearl and Clara practice without doing it herself. Her thoughts, when she practised, were always gloomy ones. Once downstairs Maggie had sung a song beginning, I am always saddest when I sing. And I, said Jean, in the big lonely drawing-room, whose corners were always dark enough to conceal most any lurking horror, am always saddest when I practice. I'd much rather make things. That's the kind of fingers mine are. However, after she had discovered that two very deep bass notes rolled together and two others higher up could be mingled to make a noise like waves beating against the old dock, she felt more respect for the piano. Perhaps in time she could even make it Twitter like the going-to-bed swallows. The garden had proved disappointing. Jean supposed that a garden meant flowers. It did in Bancroft. But this was a city garden. The air was always smoky, almost always dusty. The garden, except just after a rain, never looked clean. There was a well-kept hedge, but it collected dust and papers blown from the street. The best thing about it was the large fountain, with three nymphs in the center, pouring water from three big shells. The nymphs were about Jean's eyes and looked as if they had been working for quite a number of years. Besides the fountain there were four vases of red geraniums, two very neat walks, and some closely trimmed dusty grass. Also some small evergreen trees clipped to look like solid balls, and one large elm. Her grandfather often sat under the elm tree on an iron bench. Fortunately he didn't object seriously to caterpillars. One day he discovered Jean flat on her stomach, dipping her fingers into the fountain. My dear child, said he, what are you doing? Just feeling to see how warm it is, said Jean, kicking up her heels in order to reach deeper. It's awfully cold, isn't it? If there weren't so many windows and folks around, I think I'd like to go in swimming. Swimming? Can you swim? Of course, returned Jean. I swam in the stinter pond. From time to time homesick Jean continued to test the waters of the fountain. In August, to her delight, she found the water almost lukewarm. To be sure, the weather was all but sizzling. Her grandfather, accustomed to seeing her dabble her fingers in the water, was far from suspecting the shocking deed she was contemplating. Then the deed was accomplished. For thirteen blissful mornings the cinder pond savage did something that made Harold seem, to his mother, like a little white angel compared with that dreadful child from Bancroft. Of course it was pretty dreadful. For thirteen days Jean slipped joyfully from her bed at four o'clock, crept down the stairs out of the dining-room door and along the walk to the fountain. She slipped out of her night-dress, slid over the edge, and for three quarters of an hour fairly reveled in the fountain. For thirteen glorious mornings and then Mrs. Huntington had had a troublesome tooth. She rose to find a capsicum plaster to apply to her gum. To read the label it was necessary to carry the box to the window. She glanced downward and dropped the box. Something white and wet and naked was climbing out of the fountain. Had some horrid street boy dared to profane the Huntington fountain? The boy, poised on the curb, shook his dark head. A bunch of dark, almost curly hair fell about his wet shoulders. Jean gasped, Mrs. Huntington. What will that wretched child do next? Jean was late to breakfast that morning. She had fallen asleep after her bath. When she slipped rather guiltily into her place at the table, her Uncle Charles, who ordinarily paid no attention to her, raised his eyebrows superciliously and fixed his gaze upon her as if she were an interesting stranger. Her grandfather too regarded her oddly. So did her Aunt Agatha. I'm sorry I'm so late, apologized Jean. I slept too long. You are a deceitful child, accused Mrs. Huntington frigidly. You were not asleep. For how long may I ask if you've been bathing in the fountain? About two weeks, said Jean calmly. It's lovely. Lovely! exclaimed Mrs. Huntington. It's disgraceful, and for two weeks. Are you sure that no one has seen you? Only a policeman. He was on horseback. You see, I frightened a blue jay, and he squawked. The policeman stopped to see what had frightened him, but I pretended I was part of the statue in the middle of the fountain. Uncle Charles suddenly choked over his coffee. Her grandfather too began suddenly to cough. Dignified James, standing unobserved near the wall, actually bolted from the room. Mrs. Huntington continued to frown at the small culprit. You may eat your breakfast, said she sternly, come to me afterwards in my room. There was to be no more bathing in the fountain, even in a bathing suit. Jean learned that she had been a very wicked child and that it wouldn't have happened if her father hadn't been a common fisherman. I am thankful, concluded Aunt Agatha, that your cousins are out of town. They wouldn't think of doing anything so unladylike. After that, Jean's liveliest adventures were those that she found in books. Fortunately, she loved to read. That helped a great deal. She was really rather glad when the dull vacation was over, and also delighted to see Lizzie and Susie. All that first week she couldn't help whispering to them in school, even if the new teacher did give her bad marks and move her to the very front seat. I'd go home with you if I could, said Jean, declining one of Susie's numerous invitations, but I have to go straight home from school always. You went into Lydia Coleman's house yesterday, objected jealous Susie. Only to get a book for my cousin, besides, that's right on my way home. Maybe if you lived on the avenue Susie, sneered Lizzie, who understood Mrs. Huntington's snobbishness only too well, she'd be allowed to go with you. Hurry up and move, said Jean. I'd love your house, Susie. I know it's a homey house. I liked your mother when she came to the school exercises, and I'm sure I'd like any house she lived in. But you see, I do so many bad things without knowing that I'm being bad, that it never would do for me to be really bad. Besides, I promised my father I'd mind Aunt Agatha, so of course I have to. I'd love to go home with both of you. Next to her grandfather, Jean's pleasantest companion out of school was a small brown maid in the big mirror set in her closet door. There were mirrors like that in all the Huntington bedrooms, so it sometimes looked as if there were two claras and two pearls and two Aunt Agatha's, which made it worse if either of the girls were snippish or if Aunt Agatha happened to be thinking of the fountain. Apparently Mrs. Huntington would never forget that, Jean thought. But to Jean's mind the girl she saw in her own mirror had a nice face, even if it was rather brown. She liked the other child's big dark eyes, now serious, now sparkling under very neat, slender eyebrows with some new entertaining thought. The mirror girl's mouth was just a bit large, perhaps, with red lips, full of queer little wiggly curves that came and went according to her mood. Her nose, rather a small affair at best, did it turn up or didn't it? One couldn't be quite sure. Lizzie's turned up. Ike Goldberg's turned down. But this nose seemed to do both. For that reason it seemed a most interesting nose, even if there were no freckles on it. When lips are narrow and straight, when noses are likewise absolutely straight, as pearls and claras were, they may be perfect or even beautiful, but they are not interesting. A wiggly mouth, as Jean said, keeps one guessing. So does an uncertain nose. But there was the mirror child's chin. Not a big chin like the one in the picture of Bridget's first husband, the prize fighter, nor a chinless chin like Ethel's. Quite a good deal of a chin, I should say, was Jean's verdict. Then the rest of the mirror child. A little smaller, perhaps, than many girls of the same age, but very nicely made. Arms the right size and length, hands not too big, shoulders straight and not too high like Bridget's, nor too sloping like Maggie's. A slight waist that didn't need to be pinched in like Aunt Agatha's. Legs that looked like girls' legs, not like piano legs, like Hannah Schmitz did, for instance, when Hannah wore white stockings. The feet were small. The hair grew pridly about the bright sociable face. You're just about the best young friend I have, declared Jean, missing the mirror child. I'm glad you live in my closet. I'd be awfully lonesome if you didn't. Jean, however, was not a vain little girl, nor a conceited one. She simply didn't think of the mirror child as herself. The girl in the mirror was merely another girl of her own age, and she loved her quite unselfishly. Perhaps Jean's most personal thought came when she washed her face. I'm so glad I don't have beginning whiskers like the milkman, said she, or a wart on my nose like Bridget's. It's much pleasanter, I'm sure, to wash a smooth face like this. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 The Cinderpond by Carol Watson Rankin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15 Alan Rosseter In November there came a day when nobody in the Huntington house spoke above a whisper. There was a trained nurse in the house, three very solemn doctors coming and going, and an air of everybody waiting for something. James told Maggie, and Maggie told Jean, that old Mr. Huntington had had a stroke. Is my grandfather going to die? asked Jeanette, when Maggie had patiently explained the serious nature of Mr. Huntington's sudden illness. I don't know, returned Maggie, nobody knows, not even the doctors. For a great many dreary days her grandfather remained just the same, until Jean considered those three words the most hateful ones in the English tongue. Then, one memorable morning, years later it seemed, she heard Dr. Duncan say on his way out, a decided change for the better, Mrs. Huntington. Jean was so glad that she danced a little jig with her friend in the mirror. Often, after that, she way-laid the pleasant white-capped nurse to ask about the invalid. But Miss Raymond's one response was, Nicely, my dear, Nicely. For weeks and weeks Jean saw nothing of her grandfather. Consequently her mathematics became very bad indeed. But at last, one Sunday morning the nurse summoned her to her grandfather's room. Your grandfather wants to see you, said Miss Raymond. You must be very quiet and not stay too long, just five minutes. Five minutes were enough. There was a strange wrinkled old man who looked small and shriveled in that big white bed. Her grandfather's eyes had been keen and bright. The eyes of this stranger were dull, sunken, and oh so tired. How do you do? said Jean, primly. I'm—I'm sorry you've been sick. Better now, I'm better now, quavered a strange voice. How is the arithmetic? Very bad, said Jean. Miss Turner says I plastered a room with two bushels' votes, and measured a barn for an acre of carpet, instead of getting the right number of apples from an orchard. You have to do so many kinds of work in examples, that it's hard to remember whether you're a farmer or a paper-hanger. I suppose wet things would run out of a bushel basket, but wet measure and dry measure get all mixed up. I think your grandfather is asleep, said the nurse gently. You may come again to-morrow. As Mr. Huntington improved, Jean's visits grew longer. After a time he was able to help her again with her lessons, but all that winter the old man sat in his own room. In February the nurse departed and James took her place. James, who had lived with the family for many years, was fond of Mr. Huntington and served him devotedly. As before, Jeanette spent much time with her grandfather. Also in obedience to their mother's wishes, the young Huntington's entered the old man's room decorously once a day to say good morning. Neither the children nor Mr. Huntington appeared to enjoy these brief daily visits. Jean was certainly a more considerate visitor. She was ever ready to move his footstool a little closer, to peel an orange for him, to find him a book, or to sit quietly beside him while he dozed. One day in March he told her where to find some keys, and how to fit one of them to a small safe in the corner of his room. Bring me all the papers in the first pigeon-hole to the left, said he. It's time I was doing some spring-house cleaning. I love to help, said Jean, swiftly obedient. He sorted the papers, dividing them into two piles. Put these back and bring me everything in the next hole. Jean did that. This operation was repeated until all the papers, many quite yellow with age, had been sorted. These, said her grandfather, pointing to the documents on the chair beside him, are of no use. We'll tear them into small pieces and wrap them in this newspaper. That's right. Now do you think you could go to the furnace and put this bundle right on top of the fire without dropping a single scrap? Do you know exactly where the furnace is? Yes, said Jean. When I first came I asked Maggie what made the house warm. She said the furnace did. I wanted to see what a furnace was, so she showed it to me. Where is Mrs. Huntington? She's out with the girls at the dress-makers, I think. And Bridget? A sleep in her room? This is Maggie's afternoon out. Bridget always sleeps when Maggie isn't here to tease her. What is James doing? I guess he's taking a nap on the hat-rack. He does sometimes. Very well, the coast seems to be clear. Put the bundle in the furnace, see that it catches on fire. Also, please see that you don't. I've cooked, laughed Jean, and I've never yet cooked myself. In five minutes Jean was back. James is snoring, said she. He does that only when Aunt Agatha is very far away. Listen, he does lovely snores. Did the trash burn? Every scrap, replied Jean, I opened the furnace door after a minute or two to see. The fire was pretty hot and they burned right up. It is foolish, said the grandfather, to keep old letters and old vows. During the Easter vacation the Huntington's entertained a visitor, an attractive lad of fifteen whose home was in Chicago. His name was Alan Rosseter. He's sort of a cousin, explained Harold. His grandfather and my grandfather were brothers. Jean decided that Alan was a pleasant sort of a cousin, a fair, clean-looking lad with wide-awake blue eyes. Alan was tall for his age and very manly. I've heard a lot about you, said Jean, the day Alan paid his first visit to old Mr. Huntington. You've been here before, haven't you? Yes. You see, my father's a railroad man, so naturally I have to practice traveling because I'm going to be one, too. I've learned how to order a meal on the train and have almost enough left to tip the porter. You've accomplished a great deal, smiled Mr. Huntington. More than that, said Alan, I know how to read a timetable, how to tell which trains are AMs and which are PMs, which ones are fast and which are slow. Here's a time card. I have ten lovely folders in my pocket. Tell me where you want to go, Jeanette, and I'll show you just how to do it. To Bancroft, said Jean, it's way, way up on Lake Superior. Here's a map. Now where is it? Right there, said Jean. Yes, that's it. And here's the right time card. You go direct to Chicago. I know that, said Jean. But you want a fast train. Here's a dandy. It starts at 9.30 p.m. That's at night, you know. You are in Chicago at noon. The first train out of there for Bancroft leaves at eight o'clock at night. Then you change at Nagani. That's easy, said Jean. He just walked across the station and say, Is this the train to Bancroft? Daddy told me always to ask. But what do I do in Chicago? That's the hardest part. You go from this station to this one. Here are the names, do you see? There, I've marked them. I'll tell you what I'll do. You telegraph me and I'll meet you and put you aboard the right train. When do you start? Just three years and three months from now, right after school closes. Well, laughed Alan, you certainly don't intend to miss that train. But I'll meet you. I'm the family meter. I meet my grandmother. I meet my aunts and all my mother's friends. I'm always meeting somebody with a suitcase full of bricks. Anyway, nobody ever brings a light one. But your shoes, I'm sure, wouldn't weigh as much as my grandmothers. She's a big grandmother. May I keep this time card? asked Jean earnestly. You may, returned the smiling lad. But it'll be pretty stale three years from now. And three months, sighed Jean. But having this to look at will make Bingcroft seem nearer. So, said Mr. Huntington, you're going to be a railroad man. Yes, replied Alan, if they have railroad ladies by that time Jeanette, I'll give you a job. I shan't need it, said Jean. I'm going to be married. To whom? asked Alan, got him picked out. The Iceman, I think. Oh, does a railroad man stay away from home a great deal? Almost all the time, my mother says. Goodie, that's what I'll have, a railroad man. I'll wait for you, laughed Alan. You're the funniest little kid I've met in a long time. I don't have to decide until I'm twenty, said Jean cautiously. I might find a more stay-away husband than that. The next morning the postman brought a letter from Jean's father. As usual, Harold, who had rudely snatched the mail from James, held Jean's letter behind him with one hand and held his nose with the other. What's the matter? asked Alan. Fish! returned Harold, pretending to be very ill. Her father's a fishman, you know. You can smell his letters come in while they're still on the train. Alan glanced at Jeanette. She was red with embarrassment and very close to tears. You young cub, said he, I've heard all about Jean's father from my grandmother. I don't know what he's doing now, but the devils were a splendid old French family even if they were poor. Way back they were Huguenots, perhaps you've had that in school. Anyway, they were fine people and Jeanette's father was well educated and a gentleman. It isn't a bit worse to sell fish than it is to sit all day in a bank. I'd rather sell fish myself, particularly if I could do the catching. You'd better not let mother hear you, said Clara primly. We aren't allowed to say anything about Jeanette's people. I'm sure we don't want to, said Pearl, virtuously. Well, returned Alan, my grandmother says that the devils began being an old family long before the Huntingtons did. That's all I know about it. But my grandmother never tells fibs and she knows the devils. The rest of us don't. Hurry up and read your letter, Jeanette. We're all going to the park to feed the animals. Which one shall we feed you to? Jean laughed. Alan had hoped that she would. It was a nice laugh, quite different from Harold's teasing one. At the park Jean had another embarrassing moment when Clara maliciously pointed out the tree that Jean had climbed, but Alan had pretended not to hear. Harold, who had carried an umbrella because Pearl had insisted, slashed the shrubbery with it and used it to prod the animals. He annoyed the rabbits, tormented the parrots, the sea lions, and finally the monkeys. Quit it, said Alan. You're a sissy, retorted Harold, unpleasantly. No, I'm not. Men don't torment animals. Harold always does, said Pearl. It's hard enough to live in a cage, said Jean, without being poked. There, Mr. Monkey has torn your umbrella. Little brute, snarled Harold, aiming a deadly thrust at the small offender. I'll teach you. Alan wrenched the umbrella from his angry cousin. Let me carry it, said he. There's a guard coming and you might get into trouble. Alan's visit lasted for only five days. Jean was sorry that he couldn't stay for five years. He respected her father. If that had been his only admirable trait Jean would have liked him. Remember, said Alan at parting, that I am to act as your guide three years and three months from now. I won't forget, promised Jean, who had gone to the station with her cousins to see the visitor off. I have your address, and I learned in school how to write a long, long telegram in less than ten words. You'll surely get it some nice warm day in June, three and a quarter years from now. How Jeanette kept this promise you will discover later. There's a great big piece of news in my letter from daddy, confided Jean, who had been summoned to sit with her grandfather. He had been alone for longer than he liked. Since his illness, indeed, he seemed to like someone with him, and Jean was usually the only person available. What kind of news, he asked. Good news, I guess. My step-grandmother is gone forever, and I'm sort of glad. What, is she dead? Oh no, I wouldn't be glad of that. You see, she had a bad son named John, who ran away from home ever so long ago. He was older than Molly. His mother and everybody thought he was dead. It was so long since they had heard anything from him. But he wasn't, he was working. They never guessed he'd do that. He hadn't any children, but he had a real good wife, a very saving one. After she died, he didn't have anybody, so he thought of his poor old mother. About time, I should think. Yes, wasn't it? Well, he went to Bancroft to hunt for his mother, and he's taken her to St. Louis to live. He gave Molly some money for clothes and quilts and things, but it won't do a might of good. Why not? Molly would be too lazy to spend it, or to take care of the things if she had them. Her mother spent a great deal for medicine for her rheumatism, but Molly just bought things to eat if she bought anything. She loved to sit outside the door, all sort of soft and lazy with the wind blowing her pale red hair about her soft white face and a baby in her lap. I can just see her this very minute. I can't see, said Mr. Huntington Testily, why your father ever married that woman. He didn't, said Jean. She married him. Barney Turcut said so. Daddy had nursed my mother through a terrible sickness. I think it was typhoid, he said, and in spite of everything he could do, she died. Afterwards, he was almost crazy about it, about losing her. He couldn't think of anything else, and while he was like that, he had a fever and was sick for a long, long time. Before he was really well, he was married to Molly. Barney said the Shannon's took adventures. No, that isn't it. Advantage. Yes, that's it. Advantage of him. They thought, because his clothes were good, that he had money. But they took very good care of me at first, Barney said. But Molly kept getting lazier and lazier, and father kept getting stronger and healthier. But the better he got, the more discouraged he was about having Molly and all those children and not enough money. You see, he wasn't really well until after they were living on the dock. Barney said the fresh air was all that saved him, and that now he is a different man. Molly's cooking is enough to discourage anybody. But Barney says, by gum he's stuck by her like a man. My child, you mustn't quote Barney quite so literally. Surely he didn't say all that to you. No, Barney never talks to anybody but men. He's so bashful. He was telling another man why he liked my father. They were reeling a net. Where were you? Behind them peeling potatoes. I didn't know then that it wasn't polite to listen. You poor little savage. I don't mind, assured Jean, when you call me a savage, but when Harold does I feel like one. Jean had been warned never to mention her mother in her grandfather's presence, and she had meant not to. But by this time you have surely guessed that Jean, with no one else to whom she could talk freely, was apt to unbottle herself, as it were, whenever she found her grandfather in a listening mood. She was naturally a good deal of a chatterbox, but, like many another little chatterbox, preferred a sympathetic listener. Sometimes, as just now, she spoke of her mother without remembering that she was a forbidden subject. But now some of the questions that she had been longing to ask thronged to her lips. Her grandfather was so very gentle with her. Oh, if she only dared! What are you thinking about? asked Mr. Huntington after a long silence. That is a very valuable picture, and you are looking a hole right through it. I was wondering, said Jean, touching her grandfather's hand timidly. If you wouldn't be willing to tell me something about my mother. Nobody ever has. What she was like when she was little, I mean, when she was just thirteen and a half. Did she ever look even a little scrap like me? Yes, replied her grandfather quite calmly. You are like her. Not so much in looks as in other ways. You are darker and your bones are smaller, I think. But you move and speak like her sometimes. And you too are bright and quick. And some part of your face is like hers. But I don't know whether it's your brow or your chin. Now you may clean my glasses for me and hunt up my book. I think James must have moved it. It's time you were changing your dress for dinner. After that Jean learned a number of things about her mother. That she had loved flowers when she was just a tiny baby. That pink was her favorite color. That she had liked cats and peppermint and people. That she was very impulsive, often doing the deed first, the thinking afterwards. And yes, her impulses had almost always been kind. Once, Jean's grandfather so far forgot his grievance against his only daughter as to chuckle softly at the remembrance of the childish prank. She had felt so sorry for a hungry tramp that the cook had turned away that the moment cook's back was turned, Bessie had, at the risk of being severely burned, pulled a huge crock of baked beans from the oven, wrapped a thick towel about it, slipped outside and thrusted upon the tramp. The tramp had been burned, and they had had to send for a policeman in order to get his bad language off the premises. Jean had heard this story the night that she had had her dinner with her grandfather. She was supposed to be eating in the breakfast-room with her cousins. But when Maggie had cleared Mr. Huntington's little table that evening, preparatory to bringing in his tray, Jean had said, Bring enough for me too, Maggie. I'm going to stay right here. You'll let me, won't you, Grandaddy? I'll invite you, was the response. I don't know why I didn't think of doing it long ago. Oh! You see, whenever the Huntington's entertained at dinner, as they frequently did, the children were banished to the breakfast-room. Between Pearl's snippishness, Clara's snubbing, and Harold's teasing, these were usually unhappy occasions for Jean. And generally the three young Huntington's quarreled with one another. Besides, with no elders to restrain him, Harold was decidedly rude and grabby. I think, said Jean, after one particularly uproarious meal, during which Harold had plastered Pearl's face with mashed potato, and poured water down Jean's back, that I've learned more good manners from Harold than from anybody else. His are so very bad that it makes me want nice ones. After the meal with her grandfather was finished, he showed her where to find an old photograph album hidden behind the books in his bookcase. There, said he, opening it at a page containing four small pictures. This is your mother when she was six months old. She was three or four years old in this next one. And here is one at the age of twelve. She was seventeen when this last one was taken. Is this all there are? asked Jean, who had studied the four little pictures earnestly. Of her, I mean. Yes, only those four. Young people didn't have cameras in those days, you know. Keep the place for me, said Jean, returning the book to her grandfather's knee. I'll be back in just a second. She returned very quickly with the miniature of Elizabeth Huntington-Deval that she had been longing to show to her grandfather. My father had a friend who was an artist, said Jean breathlessly. He painted that soon after they were married, for a present, father said. Wasn't it a nice one? Why, I'm delighted to see this, my dear, said her grandfather gazing eagerly at the lovely face. It's by far the best picture of Bessie I've ever seen. It is very like her and her face is full of happiness. I'm very glad of that. I had no idea of its existence. I'm very glad indeed that you thought of showing it to me. So am I, said Jean. You're always so good to me that I'm glad I could give you a pleasure for once. You must take very good care of this, said Mr. Huntington. It's a very fine miniature. I always do, returned Jean. I thought it was ever so good of my father to give it to me, the only one he had. It was, indeed, said Mr. Huntington appreciatively. Now put it away, my dear, and keep it safe. In the dining-room, to which the guests had been ushered by James, in his very grandest manner, a lady had leaned forward to say gushingly to her hostess. What a lovely child your youngest daughter is, Mrs. Huntington! I saw her at dancing school last week and simply fell in love with her, so graceful and such a charming face. She came in with your son. Clara is a lovely child, returned Mrs. Huntington complacently. I think, said the guest, my little son said that her name was Jeanette. That, said Mrs. Huntington coldly, people were always singing that wretched child's praises. Was merely my husband's niece, who has been placed in our care for a short time. That time, I am happy to say, is almost half over. She is such a great trial. Fortunately, my children have been too well brought up to be influenced by her incomprehensible behaviour, her hoidinish manners. At this moment there came the sound of a sudden crash, followed by shrieks faintly audible in the dining-room. Although Mrs. Huntington guessed that Harold had, at last, succeeded in upsetting the breakfast-room table, and that either Pearl or Clara had been burned with the resultant flood of soup, she turned, without blinking an eyelash, to the guest of honour on her right to speak politely of the weather. It was Jean who rushed to the breakfast-room to find the table overturned and all three of her cousins gazing with consternation at a wide-scalded area on Clara's white wrist. It was Jean, too, who remembered that lard and cornstarch would stop the pain. Also it was Jean, whom Mrs. Huntington afterwards blamed for the accident. Her bad example, her wicked influence, was simply ruining Harold's disposition. Sure, said Maggie, telling Bridget about it later, that lad was born with a ruined disposition. As for Miss Jeanette, there's more of a mother's kindness and one touch of that little tyke's hand than there is in Mrs. H's whole body, and think of her knowing enough to use lard and cornstarch, the doctor said she did exactly the right thing. Jean had liked her first teacher, Miss Wardell, very much indeed, and pretty Miss Wardell had been fond of Jeanette. She knew that the child was shy and the considerate young woman managed frequently to shield her from embarrassment and to help her over the rough places. Miss Turner was different. She said that Jeanette made her nervous. It is possible that the other thirty-nine pupils helped, but it was Jean whom she blamed for her shattered nerves. It is certain that Miss Turner made Jean nervous. No matter how well she knew her lesson, she couldn't recite it to Miss Turner. A chatterbox with the right sort of listener, Jean was stricken dumb the moment Miss Turner's attention was focused upon her. What a very bad card, said Mrs. Huntington at the end of May. It is even worse than it was last month. Pearl and Clara had excellent cards, and Harold had higher marks in two of his studies than you have. You are a very ungrateful child. You don't appreciate the advantages we are giving you. When school is out, I shall engage Miss Turner to tutor you through the summer. Horrors, thought Jean. Miss Turner tutored Ethel Bailey all last summer, continued Mrs. Huntington. Mrs. Bailey says that Ethel now receives excellent marks. For Miss Turner, said Jean shrewdly, Ethel doesn't know a thing about her lessons. She's the stupidest girl in our grade. I know mine, but it's hard to recite. If I must have a tutor, couldn't I have Miss Wardell? I liked her, and she'd be glad of the extra money because she takes care of her mother. Oh, please, let me have Miss Wardell. No, returned Miss Huntington firmly, Miss Turner will know best what is needed for your grade. You are learning nothing, only forty in history. Well, sighed Jean, I'm not surprised. I said that Benedict Arnold wrote the Star-Spangled Banner, and that Lafayette painted Gilbert Stewart's Portrait of Washington. I knew better, but oh, dear, when Miss Turner looks me in the eye and asks a question, my poor frightened tongue always says the wrong thing. She'd freeze a lamp post, said Harold, for once agreeing with his cousin. I had her last year. Don't look at her eyes, look at her belt buckle when you recite. I have to look at her eyes, sighed Jean miserably. One is yellow, the other is black. I hate to look at them, but I always have to. I know, agreed Harold. I had ten months of those eyes myself. I hope you'll never meet a snake. You'd be so fascinated that you couldn't run. Miss Turner's eyes have nothing to do with the question, said Mrs. Huntington. Mrs. Bailey said she made an excellent tutor, so I shall certainly engage her. Perhaps, suggested Harold consolingly, when his mother had left the room, she won't be able to come. She may want a vacation. Oh, I hope so. So do I, said Harold, making a face. You see, my marks in Latin are about as bad as they make them. It may occur to mother to let Miss Turner use up her spare time on me. Wow! Anyhow, said Jean, I much obliged to you for trying to help. All too soon it was June. School was out and Jean hadn't passed a single study. Even her deportment had received a very low mark. Miss Turner, contrary to Jean's fervent hope, had gladly accepted the position Mrs. Huntington had offered her. Mrs. Huntington broke the discouraging news at the breakfast table. Your lessons will begin at nine o'clock next Monday, Jeanette. Said she, firmly believing that she was doing the right thing by a strangely backward student. With only one pupil, Miss Turner will be able to give all her attention to you. Again Harold agreed with his cousin. I'm sorry for you, said he. All of Miss Turner's attention is more than any one human pupil could stand. Mother suggested Clara not without malice. Why don't you let Miss Turner help Harold with his lessons? Ouch! You beast! Stop pinching me! Why that, approved, Mrs. Huntington, is a very good idea. I'm glad you mentioned it. Still, you are going to your grandmother so soon. I fear Harold's Latin will have to be postponed. So great was Harold's relief that he collapsed in his chair. The summer was to prove a dreary one. Besides a daily dose of Miss Turner, Jean was worried because for six weeks there had been no letter from her father. Previously he had written at least twice a month, and from time to time had sent her money that she might have a little that was all her own. Indeed, Mr. DeVall, who had no lack of pride, had every intention of repaying the Huntingtons as soon as he could for whatever they had expended for his daughter. But that would take time, of course. At any rate, Jean was well provided with pocket money. To be sure, Pearl, who loved to order expensive concoctions with queer names at soda fountains, usually borrowed the money, sometimes forgetting to return it. Also, thus adding insult to injury, Pearl always invited her own friends to partake of these delicacies without inviting Jean, even though that wispful small person was at the very door of the ice-cream parlor. Pearl, seven years older than her cousin, and much taller, didn't want children tagging along. But now, for six weeks there had been no letter from her father and no money. She didn't care about the money. When you were going home in three years, eleven months, and fourteen days, you were so afraid that you won't have enough money for your ticket when the time comes that you save. Jean had saved her money whenever she could, and with the thrift that she had perhaps inherited from some remote French ancestor, had hidden it in the fat pincushion of the work-box that Mrs. Huntington had given her for Christmas. She had hidden it so neatly, too, that no one would ever suspect that dollar bills had gradually replaced the sawdust. Only her grandfather knew about the money, and he had promised not to tell. But after Jean had entrusted him with the secret, and when James was shaving the old gentleman, Mr. Huntington had suddenly chuckled, I beg your pardon, sir? I am thinking about my youngest grandchild, explained his master. She is the wisest little monkey I ever knew. She has enough common sense for a whole family. She has that, agreed James. Mrs. Huntington, sir, wouldn't dash to try to teach Cook how to make a new pie, cooks that set in her own conceit, much less do any cooking herself. But that little black-eyed thing comes in last month with a new dessert that she had learned in her domestic science, and if Cook didn't sit right down like a lamb and let her make it. What's more, Bridget asked for the rule and had made it herself every Sunday since. Cook says many a married lady is less handy than that small girl. She's got brains. That'll do, James. I like your enthusiasm, but not when you gesticulate with the razor. I can't spare any of my features. But I agree with you about the child. She is thoughtful beyond her years. The postman came and came and came, and still there was no letter. Old Captain, to be sure, had written oftener than usual, and, when one came to think about it, had said a great deal less. She knew from him that Spring had come to the Cinderpond, that the going-to-bed swallows had returned, that the pink-tipped clover had blossomed, that the mountain ash tree that had somehow planted itself on the dock promised an unusual crop of berries, that the herring were unusually large and abundant, but whitefish rather scarce. Also, the lake was as blue as ever. She had asked about that, and Barney had a boil on his neck. But not a word about her father or Molly or the children. Usually there had been some new piece of inquisitiveness on Sammy's part for the Captain to write about, for Sammy was certainly an inquisitive youngster if there ever was one. But even news of Sammy seemed strangely lacking. And he had forgotten twice to answer Gene's question about Annie's clothes, if the little ready-made dress that Gene had sent for Christmas was still wearable or had she outgrown it. Then came very warm weather, and still no news of her relatives and no letter from her father. Once he and Barney had taken rather a long cruise to the North Shore. Perhaps he was gone again with Dan McGraw, for instance, who was always cruising about for fish, for berries, or for wreckage. Dan had often invited her father to go. Still it did seem as if he would have mentioned that he was going, unless indeed he had gone on very short notice. Or perhaps, and that proved a more distressing thought, perhaps she had been gone so long that he was beginning to forget her. Perhaps Michael, to whom he had been giving nightly lessons, had taken her place in her father's affections. Indeed, Harold had once assured her that fathers always liked their sons better than their daughters. Perhaps it was so, for Uncle Charles, who paid no attention whatever to Pearl and Clara, sometimes talked to Harold. As before the young Huntingtons had gone to their seashore grandmother. Jeanette, of course, had to remain within reach of Miss Turner, who now gave her better marks in spite of the fact that her recitations were no more brilliant and even less comfortable than they had been in school. Her grandfather, who seldom interfered in any way with Mrs. Huntington's plans, had objected to Miss Turner. She may be an excellent teacher for ordinary children, said he, but she isn't Jeanette's kind and she isn't pleasant. She is not unpleasant to me, returned unmoved Aunt Agatha, whose opinions were exceedingly difficult to change. At any rate, it is too late to discuss the matter. I have engaged her for the summer at a definite salary. Next summer, if it seems best, we can make some different arrangement. Then I suppose we'll have to stand it, sighed Mr. Huntington, but it seems decidedly unfortunate that when ninety-nine school mams out of a hundred have some measure of attractiveness, you should have chosen the hundredth. Perhaps Mr. Huntington might have made some further effort toward dislodging Miss Turner, but shortly after the foregoing conversation he was again taken ill. For more than a week he had been kept in bed and James had said something to the cook about a slight stroke. But to Jean's great relief this illness was a shorter duration than the preceding one. He was up again in spending his waking hours in a wheeled chair under the big elm in the garden. Jean, however, could see that he was not so well. His eyes had lost some of their keenness and often the word that he wanted would not come. He seemed quite a good many years older and not nearly so vigorous as he had been before this new illness. Jean hovered over him anxiously. Sometimes Mrs. Huntington told visitors that she feared that her father-in-law's faculties were becoming sadly impaired. He seems to dislike me, she added plaintively when she mentioned impaired faculties to her husband. James overheard this. Indeed, James was always overhearing things not meant for his two receptive ears, because he was so much a part of the furniture that no one ever remembered that he was in the room or gave him credit for being human. James told Bridget about it. The old gentleman, said he, nor anybody else, doesn't need impaired faculties to dislike that lady. If she's got any real feelings inside her they're cased up in a bestess like the pipes to the furnace. They never comes out. She's a human icicle she is. I declare if she'd get real mad just once and sling the soup-tereen at me, I'd take the scalding gladly and say, Thank you kindly, ma'am, it is a pleasure to see you thawing just for once. James, you have noticed, was much more human in the kitchen than he was in the dining-room. Mrs. Huntington, who had lived under the same roof with him for many years, would certainly have been surprised if she had heard him, for, in her presence, James was like a talking doll, in that he had just two such speeches. They were, yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am. She's padded with her own conceit, said Bridget, and there's a cast iron crust outside that. She shows no affection for her own children, let alone that motherless lamb. If she ever swallowed her pride, said Maggie, twid choker. Then I hope she does it, said James, going meekly to the front of the house to say, yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am, to his frigid mistress. For, if James were more talkative in the kitchen than he was in the dining-room, he was also much braver. CHAPTER XVIII. A Thunderbolt. Then, out of what was seemingly a clear sky, came a thunderbolt. Jean's self-satisfied Aunt Agatha, at least, had noticed no gathering clouds, and for that reason, perhaps, was the hardest hit. Something happened, something that no one had ever dreamed could happen to so well order the house as Mrs. Huntington's. There is no doubt that the impaired faculties of old Mr. Huntington had a great deal to do with it, possibly the impaired faculties, combined with his ever-increasing dislike for his daughter-in-law, had even more to do with it. Anyway, the astounding thing for which Mrs. Huntington was never afterwards able to forgive that wretched child from Bancroft happened. But, as you shall see, it wasn't exactly Jean's fault. She merely obeyed her grandfather. It was not until the deed was done that she began to realize its unfairness to Mrs. Huntington to whom Jean was not ungrateful. This is how it happened. Jean, who had never really complained in her letters to her father, in her conversations with her grandfather, or in fact to anybody, Jean, who had borne every trial bravely and even cheerfully, had, for three days, burst into tears every afternoon at precisely four o'clock. You see, this was the time when the postman made his final visit for the day. As the lonely little girl usually spent her afternoons in the dismal garden with her grandfather, he had witnessed all three of these surprising outbursts. She hadn't said a word. She had merely turned from the letters that James had laid on the table, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. For two days her grandfather had not seemed to notice. Nowadays he didn't notice a great deal. On the first occasion of her weeping he had even fallen into a dose, while Jean, her head on the littered table, had cried all the tears that had almost come during the preceding weeks. The third afternoon her grandfather appeared brighter than he had for days. He noticed, while he watched for the postman, that the child's face seemed white and strained, that there were dark rings about her eyes. Again there was no letter from her father. Again she broke down and sobbed. Tell me about it, he said, with a trembling hand on Jean's heaving shoulder. As soon as Jean was able to speak at all, she poured it all out in breathless sentences mixed with sobs. She was lonely. She wanted a letter from her father. She wanted her father himself. She wanted the children. She wanted the lake. She wanted to go home. She had wanted to go home every minute since—well, almost every minute since the moment of her arrival. She hated Miss Turner. She hated to practice scales. She hated the hot weather. She was homesick. She wanted Molly to smile at her. Molly was always good to her. And oh, she wanted to cuddle Patsy. He—he'll grow up, wailed Jean. He won't be a baby if I wait three—three years or wha—one ma—month less than three years. I—I—w—w—w—w—want to go home. Why, bless my soul, said her surprised grandfather, with a sudden brightening of his faded eyes. There's no good reason, my dear, why you shouldn't go home for a visit. I didn't realize. I didn't guess. And Agatha never would let me, said Jean hopelessly. I've asked her twice since school was out. It's so hot, and I'm so worried about Daddy. I thought if I could go for just a little while, but she says it costs too much money, that I mustn't even think of such a thing. Oh, she did, did she? Jean was startled then by the look that came into her grandfather's sunken eyes. It was a strange look, a malevolent look, a look full of malice. Except for the first few weeks of her residence with her grandfather, his eyes had always seemed kind. Now they glittered, and his entire face settled into strange new lines. It had become cruel. Call James, he said. Jean jumped with surprise at the sharpness of his voice. Faithful James, who was snoring on the hat-rack, Mrs. Huntington being out for the afternoon, and the hat-rack seat being wide and comfortable, hurried to his master. James, said Mr. Huntington, leaning forward in his chair. Not a word of this to anybody, do you promise? Yes, sir. Agreed James, accustomed to blind obedience. You are to find out what time the through-train leaves for Chicago. Tonight's train, I mean. Be ready to go to the station at that time. You are to buy a ticket from here to Bancroft, Michigan, Upper Michigan, for my granddaughter. Reserve the necessary births. She will have two nights on the sleeper. She will find money in the left-hand drawer of my dresser. If it isn't enough, you will lend me some. She will need something extra for meals and so forth. And remember, not a word to anybody, if necessary go outside to telephone about the train. Very well, sir, said James. I understand, sir. And by jinx I'm with you. Good. Now, Jeanette, as soon as we know what time that train goes. I do know, said Jean, nine-thirty p.m. I have that time card, the one that Alan Rosseter gave me, with the trains marked right through to Bancroft. But James had better make sure that the time hasn't been changed. And please, couldn't he send a telegram to Alan and Chicago to meet me? I have his address. Of course, returned Mr. Huntington, I had forgotten that. Alan will be of great assistance. Now, go very quietly to your room. You are not to say goodbye to anybody. No one but James is to know that you are going. Put on something fit to travel in and pack as many useful clothes as your suitcase will hold. Things that you can wear in Bancroft. Have your hat and gloves where you can find them quickly and take your money with you. James will take care of everything else. Now go. When Mr. Huntington said, now go, people usually went. Jean wanted to throw her arms about her grandfather's neck and say a thousand thank yous. But plainly this was not the time. She flew to her room. Fortunately the house was practically deserted, for Jean was too excited to remember to be quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Huntington, however, had left at two o'clock for a long motoring trip to the country and would not be home until midnight. It was Bridget's afternoon out and Maggie was busy in the kitchen. All the things I don't want, said she opening her closet door, I'll hang on this side. I shan't need any party clothes for the cinder pond, nor any white shoes. Of course the suitcase wouldn't hold everything. No suitcase ever does. Jean's selection was really quite wonderful. She would have liked to buy presents for all the children, but there was no time for that. Besides, to the cinder pond child, the city streets had always been terrifying. She had never visited the shopping district alone. But there was a cake of smelly white soap to take to Sammy and an outgrown linen dress to cut down for Annie, and perhaps Allen would find her something in Chicago for the others. She hoped Sammy wouldn't eat the soap. The suitcase packed, Jean, who was naturally orderly, folded her discarded garments neatly away in the dresser drawers. No one would have guessed that an excited traveller had just packed a good portion of her wardrobe in that perfectly neat room. Certainly not Maggie, who looked in to tell her that her dinner was ready in the breakfast room. "'And not a soul to eat it, but you,' added Maggie. "'Couldn't I have it with my grandfather?' "'He said not,' returned Maggie. I was setting it in there, but he said he wanted to eat by himself to-night. He seems different. Better, maybe. Sick folks, they say, do get a bit short like when they're on the mend.' At eight o'clock Jean tapped at her grandfather's door. There was no response. She opened the door very quietly and went inside. Although he usually sat up until nine, Mr. Huntington was in bed and apparently asleep. "'When you don't wish to say good-bye to a person that you love very much and possibly never expect to see again, perhaps it is wiser to pretend that you are asleep.' Jean left the softest and lightest of kisses on the wrinkled hand outside the cover, and then tiptoed to the hall to find James. Her only other farewell had been given to the mirror child in the closet door. "'Ready, Miss Jean? Very well, Miss. I'll get your suitcase. We'd better be starting. It's a good way to the station, and there's quite a bit to be done there. You can sit in a snug corner behind a newspaper while I bar your tickets and all.' "'I'll carry this,' said Jean, who had a large square package under her arm. It's my work-box. I shall need that. I expect to sew a lot in Bancroft, but it wouldn't go into my suitcase. And, James, I left two of my newest handkerchiefs on my dresser. Tomorrow will you please give one of them to Maggie, the other to Bridget. I tried to find something for you, but there wasn't a thing that would do.' "'Well,' returned James, it isn't likely I'll forget you, and the madam will be giving me cause to remember you by to-morrow.' When Jean was aboard the train and James, with a great big lump in his throat, had gulped out, good-bye, Miss, and a pleasant journey to you, she yielded to the conductor as much as he wanted of her long yellow ticket. Unconsciously she imitated what she called Aunt Agatha's carriage-manner. When Mrs. Huntington rode in any sort of a vehicle, she always sat stiffly upright, presenting a most imposing exterior. Jean was a good many sizes smaller than Aunt Agatha, but she, too, sat so very primly that no stranger would have thought of chucking her under the chin and saying, "'Hello, little girl. Where are you going all by yourself?' Certainly no one had ever ventured to chuck Aunt Agatha. And then, remembering her other experience in a sleeper, Jeanette sat about her preparations for bed as sedately as any seasoned traveller. She did one unusual thing, however, something that Aunt Agatha had never done. As soon as the curtains had fallen about her, she drew from the top of her stocking a very small paste-board box. The cover was dotted with small pin-pricks. "'I'm afraid,' said Jean, eyeing this object doubtfully, "'this car is pretty warm. Maybe I'd better raise the cover just a little.' She slept from eleven to four. Having no watch, she felt obliged after that to keep one drowsy eye on the scenery. She hoped she would be able to recognize Chicago when she saw it. Anyway, there was plenty of time, since she was to have breakfast on the train. Nobody seemed to be stirring, but something had stirred. When Jean looked into the little box on the window sill, it was empty. Making as little noise as possible, Jean searched every inch of her bed, her curtains, her clothes. She even looked inside her shoes. "'Oh, Baird Taylor,' she breathed, "'I trusted you!' And then Jean was seized by a horrible thought. Goodness!' she gasped. "'Suppose he's in somebody else's bed. They'd die of fright!' As soon as the other passengers began to stir, Jean hurriedly dressed herself. Then she pressed the bell-button in her berth. "'Mr. Porter,' said she, "'I wish you would please be very careful when you make this bed. I have lost something. You mustn't step on it.' "'Your watch, Miss? Your pocket-book?' asked the solicitous Porter. "'No,' returned Jean a bit sheepishly. Just my pet snail.' Happily, not very much later, the wandering snail was safely rescued from under the opposite berth. "'Is this your bug, which you all done lost?' asked the Porter, grinning from ear to ear as he restored Jean's property. "'Well, I declared to goodness. I never did see no such pet as that before, in all my born days.' "'I hope,' said Jean anxiously, that I can buy a tiny scrap of lettuce-leaf for his breakfast. I didn't have a chance to bring anything.' End of Chapter 18