 CHAPTER I. OF THE CINDER POND. Read by Betsy Bush, Marquette, Michigan, May and June 2010. THE CINDER POND by Carol Watson Rankin. To Sally and Amogene. THE PERSONS OF THE STORY. Jeanette Huntington DeVall, the principal cinder, aged 11 to 14. Small cinders from the cinder pond. Michael, aged 8 to 10. Sammy, aged 4 to 7. Annie, aged 3 to 6. Patsy, a toddling infant. Leon DeVall, their father. Molly, a lazy but loving mother. Mrs. Shannon, a cross-grandmother. Captain Blossom, a faithful friend. Barney Turket, a bashful friend. William Huntington, a grandfather. Charles Huntington, a polished uncle. Mrs. Huntington, a polished aunt. Their perfect children. Harold, aged 12. Pearl, aged 15. Clara, aged 14. James, a human butler. Mr. Fairchild, both polished and pleasant. Mrs. Fairchild, a grateful parent. Roger Fairchild, an only son. Mrs. Rossiter, a motherly mother. Allen Rossiter, the family meter. CHAPTER I. THE ACCIDENT. The slim dark girl with big black eyes rushed to the edge of the crumbling wharf where she dropped to her hands and knees to peer eagerly into the green depths below. There was reason for haste. Only a second before the very best suit of boys' clothing in Baincroft had tumbled suddenly over the edge to hit the water with the most terrific splash. Now there was a wide circle on the surface with bubbles coming up. It was an excellent suit of clothes that went into the lake. A surge, fashioned by Baincroft's best tailor, to fit Roger Fairchild, who was much too plump for ready-made clothes. But here were those costly garments at the very bottom of Lake Superior. Not in the very deepest part, fortunately, but deep enough, and that was not all, their youthful owner was inside them. That morning, when Jeanette, eldest daughter of Leon de Valle, tumbled out of the rumpled bed that she shared with her stepsister the day had seemed just like any other day. It was to prove, as you may have guessed, quite different from the ordinary run of days. In the first place it was pleasant, the first really mild day after months of cold weather. In the second place things were to happen. Of course things happened every day, but then most things like breakfast, dinner, and supper have a way of happening over and over again. But it isn't every day that a really truly adventure plunges, as it were, right into one's own front yard. To be sure, Jean's front yard invited adventures. It was quite different from any other front yard in Bancroft. It was large and wet and blue, and big enough to show on any map of the western hemisphere. Nothing less indeed than Lake Superior. Her side yard, too, was another big piece of the same lake. The rest of her yard, except what was cinder pond, was dock. In order to understand the adventure, and indeed all the rest of this story, you must have a clear picture of Jean's queer home. For it was a queer home for even the daughter of a fisherman. You see, the devils had lived on dry land as long as they were able, which was not very long, to pay rent. When there were no more landlords willing to wait forever for their rent money, the Impecunius family moved to an old scow anchored in shallow water near an abandoned wharf. After a time the scow owner needed his property, but not the family that was on it. The devils were forced to seek other shelter. Happily they found it near at hand. Once on a time ever so far back in the history of Bancroft, the biggest, busiest, and reddest of brick furnaces in that region of iron and iron mines had poured forth volumes of thick black smoke. It was located right at the water's edge on a solid stone foundation. From it a clean new wooden wharf extended southward for three hundred feet, east for nine hundred feet, north for enough more feet to touch the land again. This wharf formed three sides of a huge oblong pond. The shore made the forth side. The shallow water inside this enclosure became known in time as the cinder pond. After twenty years of activity the furnace, with the exception of the huge smokestack, was destroyed by fire. After that there was no further use for the wharf. Originally built of huge cribs filled with stone, planked over with heavy timbers, it became covered in time, first with fine black cinders, then with soil. As it grew less useful it became more picturesque as things sometimes do. By the time the devals helped themselves to the old wharf, much of its soft black surface was broken out with patches of green grass, sturdy thistles, and many other interesting weeds. There were even numbers of small but graceful trees fringing the inner edge of the old wharf, from which they cast most beautiful reflections into the still waters of the cinder pond. No quieter, more deserted spot could be imagined. Jeanette's father, Leon de Valle, built a house for his family on the southwest corner of the crumbling dock, three hundred feet from land. When you have never built a house, and when you have no money with which to buy house-building materials, about the only thing you can do is to pick up whatever you can find and put it together in the best of your small ability. That is precisely what Leon de Valle did. Bricks from the old furnace, boards from an old barn, part of the cabin from a wrecked steamboat, nails from driftwood along the shore, rusty stove-pipe from the city dump-ground. All went into the house that, for many years, was to shelter the devals. When finished it was of no particular shape and no particular size. Owing to the triangular nature of the wharf at the point chosen, the house had to ramble a good deal, and mostly lengthwise, like a caterpillar. For several reasons it had a great many doors and very few windows. For as long as Jean could remember she had lived in this queer, homemade, tumble-down one-story cabin perched on the outside, that is, the lakeside of the deserted wharf. On the day of the mishap to Roger Fairchild's navy blue suit, Jean, having put on what was left of her only dress, proceeded to build a fire in the rusty rim shackle stove that occupied the middle section of her very queer home. Then, without stopping to figure out how many half-brothers it took to make a whole one, she helped three of these half-portions, all with tousled heads of reddish hair, into various ragged garments. Perhaps if all the devals had risen at once the house wouldn't have held them. At any rate, the older members of the family stayed a bed until the smaller children had scampered either northward or eastward along the wharf, one to get water, one to get wood. And then came the adventure. Roger didn't look like an adventure. Most anyone would have mistaken him for just a plump boy in very good clothes. He carried himself and a brand new fish-pole with an air of considerable importance. He had risen early for some a special reason and the reason evidently was located near the outer edge of the Deval dock. Because having reached a jutting timber a few feet east of the Deval mansion, he proceeded to make himself comfortable. He seated himself on the outer edge of the jutting timber, attached a wriggling worm to the hook that dangled from a brand new pole, and then, raising the pole to an upright position, proceeded to cast his baited hook to a spot that looked promising. He repeated this casting operation a great many times. Unfortunately, he failed to notice that the outward movement made by his arms and body was producing a curious effect on the log on which he sat. Each time he made a cast, the squared timber, jarred by his exertion, moved forward. Just a scrap at a time, to be sure. But if you have enough scraps, they make inches after a while. When the insecurely fastened log had crept out five inches, it took just one more vigorous cast to finish the business. Roger, a very much surprised young person, went sprawling suddenly into the lake, straight to the bottom of it, too, while the log, after making the mighty splash that caught Jeanette's attention, floated serenely on top. Jeanette, whose everyday name was Jean, promptly wrenched a great fishnet that was drying over the low roof of her home from its place, gathered it into her arms and rushed to the edge of the dock. She was just in time. The boy had come to the surface and was floundering about like a huge turtle. Jean threw a large portion of the big net overboard, keeping a firm grasp on what remained. Hang on to this, she shouted. Don't pull, just hold on. There, you couldn't sink if you wanted to. Now just keep still. Keep still, I tell you, and I'll tow you down to that low place where the dock's broken. You can climb up, I guess. Don't be afraid. I've pulled my brother out four times and my sister once, only it wasn't so deep. There, one hand on that plank, one on the net. Put your foot in the crack, that's right. Now give me your hand. There, stand here on my garden and I won't have to water it. My, but you're wet. Roger was wet, but now that he was no longer frightened, he was even angrier than wet. To be saved by a girl, a thin little slip of a girl at that, was a fearful indignity. A fellow could stand falling in, but to be saved by a girl. To make it worse, the dock was no longer deserted. There were folks gathering outside the tumbledown shack to look at him. That untidy woman with frowsy reddish hair, a bent old woman with her head tied up in a filthy rag, a small dark man with very bright black eyes, two staring children. The morning sun made three of the tousled heads blaze like fire, but the boy's wrath blazed even more fiercely. To be saved by a girl, and all those staring people watching him drip, it was too much. Without a word of thanks, and with all the dignity that he could muster, plump young Roger marched past the assembled multitude. It seemed like that to him. Straight along the dock toward the shore, leaving behind him a wet shining trail. With much difficulty because of his soggy shoes, he climbed the rough path up the bank to Lake Street, crossed that thoroughfare to clamber up the exceedingly long flight of stairs, four long flights to be exact, that led to the street above. A workman going down met him toiling up. Hey! the man called cheerfully. Looks like you've had an accident. Fell in somewheres? There was no response. Roger climbed steadily on. By sneaking through backyards and driveways, he managed at last to slip into the open door of his own home, up the stairs and into his own pleasant room, where he proceeded with some haste to change his clothes. He owned three union suits. He had one of them on, one was in the wash. The other should have been in his bureau drawer, but it wasn't. To ask for it meant to disclose the fact that he had been in a lake, a secret that he had decided never to disclose to anybody. With a sigh for his own discomfort, young Roger dressed himself in dry garments over his wet union suit. But what, said Roger, eyeing the heap of sod and clothes on the floor, shall I do with those? Finally he hung his wet suit in the closet with his dry pajamas spread carefully over them. He concealed his wet shoes with his socks stuffed inside, far back in a bureau drawer. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Part of the Truth Roger, with his rather long hair carefully brushed, sauntered downstairs to the nicely furnished dining-room where his mother was eating breakfast. Mrs. Fairchild was a most attractive little woman. Like Roger, she was blue-eyed and fair. She was taller, however, than Roger, and not nearly so wide. Good morning, said she, with a very pleasant smile. I guess we're both late this morning. Your father's been gone for twenty minutes. Good morning, shivered Roger. Dear me, said Mrs. Fairchild, catching sight of her son's remarkably sleek head. I do wish you wouldn't put so much water on your hair when you comb it. It isn't at all necessary, and it looks horrid, particularly when it's so long. Do be more careful next time. I will," promised Roger, helping himself to an orange. It must have taken you a great while to dress. I thought I heard you stirring about hours ago. Yes, I'm," returned Roger, looking anywhere except at his pretty mother. I'm glad you remembered to put on your old clothes since it's Saturday. But why, Roger, what is that? That was a thin, brownish stream, scarcely more than an elongated drop, trickling down the boy's wrist to the back of his plump hand. Roger looked at it with horror. His drenched, fleece-lined underwear was betraying him. Mrs. Fairchild pushed up his coat sleeve, turned back the damp cuff of his blue cotton shirt, and disclosed three inches of wet, close-fitting sleeve. She poked an investigating finger up her son's arm. Then her suspicious eye caught a curious change of color in the bosom of his blue shirt. It had darkened mysteriously in patches. She touched one of them. Then she reached up under his coat and felt his moist back. Roger, how in the world did your shirt get so wet? Surely you didn't do all that washing yourself. Noam. Have you been outdoors? Yes, I'm. Watering the grass? Noam. Hmm. Katie says somebody dug a hole in my pansy bed last night. It's a splendid place for worms. Have you by any chance been trying your new pole? Silence. Have you, Roger? Yes, I'm, gulped Roger. Did you fall in? Yes, I'm. How did you get out? Just, just climbed out. Roger Fairchild, you're shivering. That window wide open behind you. Come upstairs with me this instant and I'll put you to bed between hot blankets. It's a mercy I discovered those wet clothes. I'll have Katie bring you some hot broth the moment you're in bed. Roger, under a mountain of covers, was thankful that he hadn't had to divulge the important part Gene DeVall had played in his rescue. All that morning, when his mother asked troublesome questions, he shivered so industriously that the anxious little woman fled for more hot blankets or more hot broth. The blankets were tiresome and he already held almost a whole boy full of broth. But anything, he thought, was better than telling that he had been pulled out of the lake in a smelly old fishnet and by a girl, a small girl at that. But in spite of his care the truth, or at least part of it, was to come out. The very next day a small red-headed barefooted and very ragged boy appeared at the Fairchild's back door. He carried a fish pole in one hand, a navy blue cap in the other. Inside the cap neatly printed an indelible ink where Roger's name and address. For Roger, like many other careless boys, frequently lost his belongings. My sister, said Michael DeVall, handing the cap and the pole to the cook, sent these here. She pulled them out of the lake, same as she did the fat boy what lives here. How was that now? Asked Katie with interest. With a fishnet. It was awful deep where I fell in, way over your head. Wait here, Sonny. I'll tell the Mrs. about it. But when Katie returned after telling Mrs. that she found no small red-headed boy outside the door, Michael had turned shy, as small boys will, and had fled. Neither Katie nor Mrs. Fairchild gazing down the street could catch a glimpse of him. But Mrs. Fairchild managed to extract a little more information from Roger, now fully recovered from his unlucky bath. Yes, the water was deep, ten miles deep, he guessed, because it took an awful while to come up. Yes, he had been pulled out by somebody. Perhaps it might have been a girl. A big girl. A perfectly tremendous girl. A regular giantess, in fact. She had reached down with a long, long arm and helped him up. A fishnet? Oh yes, casually. He believed there was a fishnet there. Where, asked Mrs. Fairchild, was that dock? Oh, I don't know. Just around anywhere. There's a lot of docks in Baincroft. A fellow doesn't look to see which one he's on. But Roger, where does the girl live? We ought to do something for her. I'm very grateful to her. You ought to be, too. Can't you tell me where she lives? Didn't ask her, mumbled Roger. I just hiked for home. And you don't know her name? No, said Roger truthfully. I didn't ask her that, either. I'm glad I got my pole back, anyhow. Roger, said his mother earnestly. Hereafter, when you go fishing, I shall go with you and sit beside you on the dock and hold on to you. Another time there might not be a great big strong girl on hand to pull you out. We must thank that girl. I hate girls, said Roger, who had finally escaped from his persistent mother. And small ones, yeah! The girl that he thought he hated most was eleven years of age and small at that. Yet, because of her carefree outdoor life, she was wiry and strong, as active, too, as a squirrel. Also, she did a great deal of thinking. Little Jean de Val loved the old wharf because it was also beautiful. She liked the soft blackness of the cindery soil that covered the most sheltered portions of the worn-out dock. She liked the little sloping grass-grown banks that had formed at the inner sides of the dock, where it touched the cinder pond. She liked to lie flat near the steep straight outer edge of the dock to look into the green mysterious depths below. Anything might be down there in that deep, deep water. The cinder pond was different. It was shallow. The water was warmer than that in the lake and very much quieter. And there were small fish in it and a great many minnows. And in one sunny corner there were polywogs and lively crawfish. Also, blood-suckers that were not so pleasant and a great many interesting water-bugs. Then there were flowers. Wherever there was a handful of soil, seeds had sprouted. Each spring brought new treasures to the old dock. Each year the soil crept further lakeward, though the plinking was still visible at the deval corner of the wharf. The flowers near the shore were wonderful—pink and white clover with roses, bluebells, oxide daisies, black-eyed susans, wild forget-me-nots, violets. And sometimes seeds from the distant gardens on the high bluff back of the lake were carried down by the north wind. For, one summer, she had found a great scarlet poppy—another time a sturdy flame-colored marigold. What she liked best, perhaps, was a picture that was visible from a certain point on Lake Street. That portion of the so-called street, for as far as the eye could reach, was road—a poor road at that. There were no houses, and the road was seldom used. From it, however, one saw the tall old smokestack outlined against the sky, the long low dock with its fringe of green shrubbery reflected in the quiet waters of the cinder pond, and beyond the big lake, now blue, now green, or perhaps beaten to a froth by storm. Jean loved that lake. Seen from that distance even the rambling shack that her father had built was beautiful, because its sagging irregular roof made it picturesque. Jean couldn't have told you why this quiet spot was beautiful, but that was the reason. On the portion of the dock that ran eastward from the Deval House there were a number of the big reels on which fishermen wind their nets. These, seen from the proper angle, made another picture. They were used by her father, Barney Turcotte, and Captain Blossom. Barney and old Captain, as everybody called Captain Blossom, were her father's partners in the fishing business. Two of them went out daily to the nets, anchored several miles below the town of Bancroft. The third partner stayed on or near the wharf to sell fish to the chance customers who came, rather rarely indeed, on foot, in a creaking leisurely wagon, or perhaps in a small boat from one of the big steamers docked across the bay. Jean's playfellows were her half-brothers, Michael, aged eight, Sammy, aged five, and Patsy, who was not quite two, also her half-sister Annie, whose years were three-and-a-half. Jean and her father were French, her step-grandmother said. Her stepmother, Molly, and all her children were mostly Irish. But, said Jean, a wise little person for her years, I love those children just as much as if we were all one kind. And of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Cinderpond by Carol Watson Rankin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3. Jeanette's Queer Family. Although it was picturesque, the Deval Shack was not at all nice to live in. Perhaps one person, or even two neat persons, might have found it comfortable, but the entire, mostly untidy, Deval family filled it to overflowing. The main room, which had been built first, was kitchen, parlor, and dining room. It contained a built-in bunk besides, in which Mrs. Deval slept. South of it, but with no door between, was Leon Deval's own room. Around the corner, and at some little distance, was a fish shed. North of the main room, toward land, there was a small bedroom. North of that another small bedroom. Doors connected these bedrooms with the main room, and each contained two built-in bunks filled with straw. Jeanette spent a great deal of time wondering about her family. First, there was her precious father. He belonged to her. His speech was different from that of Molly, her stepmother. It differed, too, from the rough speech of the other fishermen that sometimes dried their nets on the dock, or came there to make nets. Even old captain, who lived in part of an old freight car on the shore near the smokestack, and who was very gentle and polite to little girls, was less careful in his speech than was Leon Deval. Her father's manners were very nice indeed. Jean could see that they sometimes surprised persons who came to buy fish. Sometimes, when the old grandmother wished to be particularly offensive, she called Jean's father a gentleman. Old Captain, too, had assured her that Leon Deval was a gentleman. No one, however, accused Molly of being a lady. Slipshot as to speech, untidy, unwashed, uneducated, and most appallingly lazy, Molly shifted the burden of her children upon Jean, who had cared for, in turn, each of the four red-headed babies. Fortunately, Jean liked babies. Molly and her mother, Mrs. Shannon, did the housework with much assistance from the children. In the evening Mr. Deval sat apart in the small room next to the fish shed with his book. He read a great many books, some written in French, some in English. He obtained them from the city library. He read by the light of a lamp carefully filled and trimmed by his own neat hands. This tiny room, with no floor but the plinking of the dock, with only rough boards over which newspapers had been pasted for sidewalls and ceiling, with no furniture but a small cot, a small trunk, a large box and three smaller ones, was always scrupulously clean. It was Leon Deval's own room. Like Leon himself, it was small and absolutely neat. Jeanette and old captain were the only two other persons permitted to enter that room. In it the little girl had learned to read, to do small problems in arithmetic, even to gain some knowledge of history and geography. She had never gone to school. First it was too far. Next Molly had needed her to help with the children. Besides she had had no clothes. Molly's own children had no clothes. To do Molly justice she was quite as kind to Jeanette as to her own youngsters. In fact she was kinder because she admired the little girl's very pleasing face, her soft black eyes and the dark hair that almost curled. She liked Jean. She was anything but a cruel stepmother. She had proved a poor one nevertheless. Good-natured Molly was thoroughly and completely lazy. She wouldn't work. She said she couldn't work. Molly's ill-tempered mother was just about as shiftless. But for her there was some excuse. She was crippled with rheumatism. She was also exceedingly cross. Jeanette was fond of Molly, but she disliked her step-grandmother very much indeed. Most everybody did. Jean couldn't remember when there hadn't been a heavy red-headed baby to move from place to place on the old wharf, as she picked flowers, watched polywags turn into frogs, or talked to old captain. She didn't mind carrying babies, but her father disliked having her do it. Don't carry that child, Jean, he would say. It isn't good for your back. Make him walk. He's big enough. If he can't walk, teach him to crawl. The good-god knows that he cannot hurt his clothes. Old captain and Leon Duvall were great friends. At first they had been rivals in business. The captain with a fish-shop and one end of his freight-car, Duvall with a fish-shop on the wharf. Before long, however, they went into partnership. A good thing for Duvall, who was a poor businessman and not so bad a thing for the captain. What are you captain of? asked Jeanette one day when her old friend was busy repairing a net. Well, returned old captain with a twinkle in his fine blue eye. Some folks take to making music. Some folks takes to making money. Some folks takes to making trouble. But I just naturally takes to boats. I always had some kind of a boat. Being as how it was my boat, of course, I was captain, wasn't I? So that's how. Didn't you ever have any wives? Just one, replied old captain, who loved the sound of Jeanette's soft earnest little voice. One was enough. Still, I'm not complaining. If I'd been pleased with that one, maybe I'd have tried another. I was spared that. Supposing a beautiful lady with blue eyes and golden hair should come walking down the dock and ask you to marry her, queried Jean. What then? I hope I'd have sense enough to jump in the lake, chuckled old captain. Oh, then! cried Jean seriously. I do hope she won't come. I was only thinking how glad you'd be to have her boil potatoes for you, so that they'd be hot when you got home. Most like she'd eat them all herself, and she might make things hotter than I'd like. Old captain's eyes were so blue that strangers looked at them a second time to make certain that they were not two bits of summer sky set in captain Blossom's good red face. Once his hair had been bright yellow, the fringe that was left was now mostly white. He was a large man, nearly twice as large, Jean thought, as her father. He was good, too. Of course, not twice as good as her good father, because she wouldn't admit that anybody could be better than her beloved daddy. As captain Blossom said, some people take to music others to boats. Old captain, however, took to both. But he had but one song. Its chorus balled forth, and the captain's big, rather tuneful voice ran thus. We sailor skip aloft to reef the gallant ship, while the landlubbers lie down below, below, below, while the landlubbers lie down below. Jean hoped fervently that she was not a landlubber. One day she asked old captain about it. What? said he? When you lives on a dock? No indeed, he assured her. You're the kind that always skips up aloft. One evening, when the sun was going down, behind that portion of the town directly west from the Deval Shack, and all the roofs and spires were purple-black against a glowing orange sky, Jean seized Sammy and Annie and, calling Michael to follow, raced up the dock toward the huge old furnace a smokestack. She was careful never to go very close to that, because old captain had warned her that it was unsafe. So she paused with her charges at a point where the dock joined the land. She loved that particular spot because the dock at that point was wider than at any other place. It had been wider to begin with. Then tons of cinders had been dumped into the cinder pond and into the lake on either side of the wharf, filling in the corners. This made wide and pleasing curves, rather than sharp angles at the joining place. Now, Mike, said she, you sit down and watch the top of that chimney. And you sit here, Sammy, where you can't fall in. Look up there, Annie. What do you see? Birdsies, lisped Annie. Gee, look at the birds, exclaimed Michael. Wait till I shy a rock at them. No you don't, replied Jean firmly. Those are old captain's birds. I'll tell him to thrash you if you bother them. He showed them to me last night. Now watch. Everybody watched. The birds were flying in a wide circle above the top of the old chimney. They had formed themselves into a regular procession. They circled and circled and circled, and all the time more birds arrived to join the procession. They were twittering in a curious, excited way. This lasted for at least ten minutes. Then suddenly part of the huge circle seemed to touch the chimney top. Why, gasped Michael, they look as if they were pouring themselves right into that chimney, like, like, like so much water. Yes, they're really going in. See, they're almost gone. They're putting themselves to bed. Their chimney swallows. They sleep in there. See there? Two belated birds, too late to join the procession, scurried out of the darkening sky and twittering frenziedly, hurled themselves into the mouth of the towering stack. Their policemen, said Michael, they've sent all the others to jail. Then what about that one, asked Jean, as a last lone bird, all but shrieking as it scurried through the sky, hurried itself down the chimney. That one almost got caught, said Sammy. See, there's a big bird that was chasing it. A night-hawk, said Jean. Old Captain says there's always one late bird and one big hawk to chase it. Now we must hurry back. It'll soon be dark. As the old wharf, owing to the rotting of the thick planking under the cinders, was full of pitfalls, even by daylight, the children hurried back to their home, chattering about the swallows. Will they do it again tomorrow night? asked Michael. Yes, Old Captain says they do it every night, all summer long. That's their home. Early in the spring there's only a few, but as the summer goes on there are more and more. Will you take us to see the birdsees some other night? asked Annie. Yes, if you're good. Does they take these feathers off? Oh, Sammy, of course they don't. Doesn't sing all night? No, they sleep, and that's what you ought to be doing. End of chapter three. Chapter four of The Cinderpond by Carol Watson Rankin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four. What was in an old trunk? Where you been? demanded Mrs. Shannon crossly from the doorway of the shack. Hurry up and put Sammy and Annie to bed, and don't wake Patsy. Your repah wants you to say your lessons, Jean. I gotta go uptown after yeast. Come along, Molly, we can go now. Here's Barney with the boat. Her family tucked into bed, Jean slipped into her father's room. Here I am, said she. I'm not a bit sleepy, so you can teach me a lot. Jean seated herself on her father's little old leather trunk, the trunk that was always locked, and padded it with her hands. There's my spelling book on the table, Daddy. There's a nice pink clover marking the place. Her father looked at her for a moment before reaching for the book. He liked to look at her. It was one of his few pleasures. A soft clear red glowed in her dark cheeks, and her eyes were very bright and very black. She was small and a slender build, but she seemed sufficiently healthy. Father, why do I have to speak a different language from Molly's? She had never called her stepmother by any other name, since her fastidious father had objected to Ma. What difference does it make anyway if I say I did it or I done it? Here was rebellion. Her small dark father looked at her again, this time not so contentedly. A rise from that trunk, said Mr. DeVall, whose speech retained a slight foreign touch that most people found most pleasing. I think I shall have to show you something that I have been keeping for you. Jeanette hopped up gleefully. She had always wondered what that trunk contained. Now it seemed she was about to find out. From a crack in the wall Mr. DeVall fished a small key, fitted it to the lock, turned it, and lifted the lid. There was a tray containing a few packages of letters and a small box. Her father opened the little box and drew from it something that had once been white, but was now yellow. Something wonderfully fine and exquisite, with a strange, faint perfume about it. A lace handkerchief. Even Jean, who knew nothing of laces, felt that there was something especially fine and beautiful about the filmy thing in her hands. Was it? Was it? Your mother's, assented Mr. DeVall. Is it like anything of Molly's? Well, your mother wasn't like Molly. She was fine and exquisite, like this little bit of lace. Now here is something else for you to see. Mr. DeVall placed in his daughter's hand a small oval frame containing a wonderful bit of painting. A woman's beautiful face. The countenance of a very young woman with a tender light in her brown eyes. And such a pretty mouth. And oh, such dainty garments, so becomingly worn. Your mother, said the little man briefly. Why, gasped Jean, she was a lady. Yes, admitted her father, she was a lady. And when she died you married Molly? When she died I died too, I think. I was ill, ill. I walked through the streets with you in my arms one day, here in this strange town when your mother's sickness compelled her to leave the steamboat. You were two years old. In my illness I fell in the street near the door of Molly's mother's house, near the cemetery where they had laid your most beautiful mother. They took me in and cared for me and for you. For weeks I was very, very ill, a fever. I did not improve. I wanted to die. But slowly, very slowly I grew better. Your mother had married against her father's wishes. Her father, I knew, would not receive you and I would ask no favors. Molly was young then and very good to you. I knew almost nothing about her except that she was giving you a mother's care. For that reason when Mrs. Shannon said it was the thing to do, I married her. You understand, my Jean. It was not because I cared for her. It was just because I cared for nothing in the world. Perhaps not even very much for you. I seemed to be asleep, numb and weak. It was two years before I realized what I had done for myself. Then it was too late. Of course I could not take Molly and her mother to the town where I had lived with your mother, so I was obliged to find work here. I tried to be good to Molly. She has always been kind to you. And now do you know why I want your speech to be different from Molly's? Yes, yes, cried Jean. I'll never say I'd done it again. Or I should have went. Or I ain't got no money. Oh, I wish I'd never said them. Daddy, do you suppose I could grow up to be a lady? Her father looked at the eager young creature. Yes, he said, I believe there's a way, but it's a hard, heartbreaking way for one of us. If you're the one, said Jean, I guess I'll stay just me and not be a lady. Anyhow, a girl has to grow up first, doesn't she? Of course, returned Mr. DeVall with a sudden brightness in his dark eyes and something very like a note of relief in his tone. There is still time for you to do a lot of growing. But these things had to be said. Now let us put the treasures away and do our spelling. Our old captain will get here and put an end to our lessons. Will you show me the picture again some day, Daddy? Some day, he promised, opening the spelling book at the Pink Clover. The next day was bright. The weather was warm and the little DeVall's, to put it frankly, were very, very dirty. Jean, who had charge of the family while Lazy Molly dozed in one of the frowsy bunks, decided to give her charges a bath. There was a beautiful spot for the purpose along the edge of the cinder pond. The bottom at that place was really quite smooth and sandy. A tiny bit of beach had formed along the sloping bank of fine cinders and never were young trees more useful than those in the two clumps of shrubbery that screened this little patch of sandy beach. The shallow water was pleasantly warm. Me first, me first! screeched Annie, who had wriggled out of her solitary garment and was already waiting recklessly in. Ladies first always, said Jeanette. Mike, you and Sammy go behind that bush and undress. Then you can paddle about until I'm ready to soap you. Here, Patsy, keep out of the water until I get your clothes off. There, Annie, you're slippery with soap. Go roll in the pond while I do Patsy. Don't get too far away, Sammy. I want you next. Annie, make a big splash, said that youngster flopping down suddenly. Annie, jump like hop-toed. Now, Annie, you've hopped enough. You watch Patsy while I do Sammy. Sammy, come back here. Michael, bring Sammy back. Goodness, Sammy, how wet you are. Don't put your hands on me. Wants, remarked Sammy, eyeing the big bar of yellow soap thoughtfully. I've seen white soap, white and smelly. The time the boat with big sails on it was here. Once I saw, corrected Jean, old captain said that was a yacht. I liked that lady with little laughs all over her face. You remember, Michael. She took us aboard and showed us the inside. My, wasn't that grand. She showed us the gold beds and nice dishes and everything. What for did the boat come? asked Sammy. They broke something and had to take it to a blacksmith to be mended. They stayed here most all day. Sammy tried to eat their smelly soap, said Michael. I didn't, denied Sammy. I just licked it like I'd done the cheese that was on the cook's table. He'd give me the cheese, but I'd rather I had the soap. It tasted better. You sure needed soap, teased Michael. I'd like to be all smiling on my face like that pretty lady, said Jean wistfully, and she hadn't any holes in her clothes. Well, got a pretty face, assured Annie, patting it with one plump hand. So have you when it's clean. Why don't you wash it yourself as I do mine? I'm sure you're big enough. Nothing to wipe it on, objected Annie. This was true. The family towel was a filthy affair when there was one. Even if Molly had had money, it is doubtful if she would have spent it for towels. As for washing anything, it was much easier to tuck it into the stove or to drop it into the lake. Molly simply wouldn't wash, and since Mrs. Shannon's hands had become crippled with rheumatism, she couldn't wash. Jeanette, however, washed her own shabby dress. Her father washed and mended his own socks and shirts. Also, he had towels for his own personal use, and those he managed to launder somehow. Time and again he had provided towels and bed linen for his family. But Molly, who grew lazier with every breath she drew, had taken no care of them. One by one they had disappeared. I think, said Jeanette wisely, that it would be a very good thing if I knew how to sew. Then perhaps father could get me some cloth and I could make things. I'd love to have nice clothes. Grown-up ladies, contributed Michael, wears a lot of white things under their dresses, twenty at a time, I guess. I've seen them on a clothesline. The lady that was hanging them up says, Don't you throw no mud on them under clothes? Any mud, corrected Jean patiently, and saw, not seen. The lady said no mud, insisted Michael. Then maybe she wasn't a truly lady. Sometimes you see a truly lady in a little gold frame and she never says I'd done it. How could she? demanded practical Michael, to whom Jean had entrusted the cake of soap in order that he might lather himself while she rinsed Annie's hair. For this process, Annie sat in the cinder pond, whose waters were so placid that even when the lake outside was exceedingly rough, there were no treacherous waves to trouble small children. Both boys could swim. Jean too could swim a little, but was too timid to venture into very deep water. There, said Michael, returning the precious cake, gave me the rag and I'll rub if I got to. Here, Sammy, I'll rub you first. Oh, no! protested Sammy, backing away. Let's sister do it. She rubbed softer. The bath lasted a good long time because, the worst of the agony over, the happy youngsters wished to play in the water. It was only with great difficulty that Jean finally coaxed her charges back into their clothes. I don't blame you, she mourned for hating them. I do wish you had some clean ones. Molly was peeling potatoes outside the cabin door when Jean returned home with her spotless family. She was peeling the vegetables wastefully, as usual. Molly could go everlastingly without things. She couldn't economize or take care of what she had, or at least she didn't. Molly, said Jean, I've been thinking that I'd like to sew. Could you teach me, do you suppose? Me? I couldn't sew, laughed Molly, good-naturedly, her soft-fat body shaking as she laughed. I never did so. Ma always done all that. I could tie a bow to pin on a hat, maybe, but so, lordy, I couldn't cut out a handkercher. Mrs. Shannon, in spite of the warm sunshine, sat inside, huddled over the stove. Her fingers were drawn out of shape with rheumatism. Her knees and her elbows were stiff. She sat with her back bent. Out of her shriveled, unlovely face, her eyes gleamed balefully. Granny, asked Jeanette, rather doubtfully, could you teach me to sew? I could, but I won't, snapped the old woman. Let your father do it. You're his young one. If he'd make money like a man ought to, you could buy clothes ready-made, but he ain't no money-maker, and he never will be. Jean backed hastily out of the shack. Even when Mrs. Shannon had pleasant things, which was not very often, she had a rasping, unpleasant voice. Clearly there was no hope in that quarter. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Cinderpond by Carol Watson Rankin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 The Sewing Lesson Jean's father was out in the fishing boat with Barney, but old Captain was mending a net near the door of his boxcar. Perhaps he could help her with this new and perplexing problem. She would ask. So, with her family trailing behind, she paid a visit to the Captain. Captain, said she, can you mend anything besides nets? Men's pants, returned old Captain briefly. Could you make anything? A shirt, do you know, or an apron? Well, replied the Captain doubtfully. I could sew up a seam, maybe, if somebody cut the darn thing. Hmm, ladies present. The old thing out. Could you teach me to sew a seam? You see, these children haven't a single clean thing to put on. If I could sew, I could make clothes for them, I believe, because I think Daddy would buy me some cloth. Well now, Jeannie, if you could manage to get the needle threaded, that there's what gets me. Hold on, I got a big one somewheres. Now where did I put that needle? Old Captain rose ponderously to his feet, shuffled about inside his cabin, and finally returned with a large spool of dingy thread, a mammoth thimble, and a huge, darning needle. Also he had found a piece of an old flower sack. Now sit down beside me here and I'll show you. First she ties a knot. Oh no, first you threads the needle like this. Well, by gum went in, didn't she? And then you ties the knot. A good bigan, so she won't slip out. Then you lays the edge of the cloth together like this, and you pokes the needle through. Inquisitive Sammy, you'll get your nose pricked. Inquisitive Sammy retired so hastily that he fell over backward. Now you pull up the slack like this. Hey, Mike, I did get you. Say, boys, you shear off a bit while this here's going on. I'm plum dangerous with this here tool. What do you do with the thimble? Asked Jeannie when she had removed Placid Annie to a safe distance. Durned if I didn't forget that. You puts it on this here finger. No, well, now you puts it on some finger and uses it to push the needle like that. How do you keep it on? Asked Jeannie, twirling it rapidly on an upraised finger. I guess you'd better use the side of this here freight car like Iolas does. Admitted old captain. Just push her in like that. Now you try. Jeannie sewed for a while according to these instructions, then handed the result to her teacher. The captain beamed as he examined the seam. Ain't that just plum beautiful, said he, showing it to Michael. That little girl can sew. But I ain't just sure them as the right tools. This here seam in my shirt now, well it ain't so gall-darned, hum-hum, ladies present. So tarnation thick as that there what I taught ye. At their worst the good old captain's mild oaths were never very bad. Unhappily Jean had heard of far more terrifying ones from sailors or passing boats. As you see, Captain Blossom tried to use his very best language in the children's presence. But his best, perhaps, wasn't quite as polished as Leon de Valls. I don't see any large black knots in your shirt seam, observed Jean. Mine look as if they'd scratch. Maybe they'd cut some off, returned the captain, eyeing the seam doubtfully. No by gum, this here's done by machine. Yours is all right for hand work. But I tell you what, Jeannie, you come round about this time to Mari, and maybe by then I can find better needles. And there was a sleeve I tore off an old shirt. Maybe that's so better. I've always wondered, said Jean, how people made buttonholes. They're such neat things. Can you make buttonholes? To be sure I can, nothing easier. You cut a round hole and then you take half hitches all around it. I'm a lead a lot of practice just now, but when I've practiced a bit, you see, you got to get started just right. But it's pretty soon to be thinking about the buttonholes. Do you make the holes to fit the buttons, or do you buy the buttons to fit the holes? Well, replied the captain, scratching his head. Mostly I make the holes first, like, and then I fits the buttons to them. That's what I'd done on this here best. You see, the natural ones was too small. Besides, I lost the button's first lick. Interested, Jean examined old captain's shabby waistcoat. There was a very large black button to fit a very large buttonhole. Next, a small white button with a buttonhole of corresponding size. Then a medium-sized, very bright blue button with a hole to match that. The other two buttons were gone, but the store buttonholes remained. Three buttons, as long as they're big enough, explained old captain, is enough to keep that their vest on. The rest is superfluous. Run along now, but mind you come to Mari and we'll have them other tools. I will, promised Jean. Me also too, promised Annie. Me too, said Sammy. How about you, Mike? laughed old captain. Ah, I wouldn't so. That's girl's work. The children had no sooner departed than old captain washed his hands and hurried into his coat. Failing in his pocket to make sure that his money was there, he clambered up the steep bank back of his queer house to the road above. This was a pleasant road because it curved obligingly to fit the shoreline. The absence of a sidewalk did not distress old captain. Half an hour later Jean's friend, having reached the business section of the town, peered eagerly in at the shop windows. There seemed to be everything else in them except the articles that he wanted. Presently choosing the shop that had the most windows he started in, collided with the lady in a baby carriage and backed out again. He mopped his bald pink head several times with his faded red handkerchief before he felt sufficiently courageous to make a second attempt. Finally he got inside. Tarnation, he breathed. This ain't no place for a man. I'm the only one. A moment later, however, he caught sight of a male clerk and started for him almost on a run. He clutched him by the sleeve. Say, said old captain, give me a girl-sized thimble, a spool of thread to fit in a whole package of needles. This young lady will attend to you," replied the man heartlessly deserting him. The smiling young lady was evidently waiting for her unusual customer to speak so the captain spoke. Will you kindly give me a girl-sized thimble, a spool of thread in a package of needles? What! exclaimed the surprised clerk. A thimble, a needle, a thread, shouted the desperate captain. What size needles! Why, about the size you'd used to sew a nice neat seam. Couldn't you mix up about a quarter's worth? They come in assorted packets. What color thread? Why, make it about six colors. Just pick them out to suit yourself. How about the thimble? Do you want it for yourself? No, it's for a girl. About how big a girl? Well, she's some bigger round than a white fish," said the captain, a bit doubtfully, but not so much bigger than a good-sized lake trout. Say, how much is them, thimbles? Five cents apiece. Give me all the sizes you've got, one of each. She might grow some, you know. Anything else? Yep, returned old captain. Suppose we match up them spools with some caliper. White with red spots or blue now. What do you say to that? Write this way, sir," said the clerk, gladly turning her back in order to permit the suppressed giggles that were choking her to escape. The big captain lumbered along in her wake, like a large scow towed by a small tug. He beamed in friendly fashion at the other customers. His dreaded shopping was proving less terrifying than he had feared. His pilot came to anchor near a table heaped with cheap print. We're having a sale on these goods," said she. What's the matter with them? asked old captain suspiciously. Why, nothing, replied the clerk. They're all good. How much do you need? How many yards? Well, just about three-quarters as much and a little over that it for you. No needo being stingy and we got to allow some for mistakes and cutting out. If you bought a pattern," advised the clerk, there wouldn't be any waste. But, said old captain earnestly, she needs a waste in a skirt, too. I mean you wouldn't waste any cloth. See, here's our pattern book. Old captain turned the pages doubtfully. Suddenly his broad face broke into smiles. Well, I swan. Here she is. This is her. The girl them things is for. Same eyes, same hair, same shape. But, queried the smiling clerk, do you like the way that dress is made? No, I don't, returned captain Blossom. It's got too many flub-dubs. I wouldn't know how to make them. You see, I'm teaching her to sew. Finally, by dint of much questioning, the girl arrived at the size pattern acquired in the number of yards. Then old captain selected the goods. Give me a bluer blue than that," he objected. You got to allow a whole lot for to fade. Same way with the pink. Now that there purple's just right. And what's the matter with them red stripes? And that they're white with big black dots. No, don't give me no plain black. I'll keep that, Spool, to mend with. How about buttons? The young ladies had one lesson already on button-holes. We're having a sale on those, too, right this way. About how many? About a pint, I guess, said old captain, and for Pete's sake, mix them up as to size so they'll fit all kinds of holes. This time the clerk giggled outright. They're on cards, said she. Here are three sizes of white pearl buttons, a dozen on each card, five cents a card. Make it three cards of each size, returned at the captain promptly. She might lose a few. And not be in flower seeds, they wouldn't sprout and grow more. Now what's the damage for all that? The captain's money smelled dreadfully fishy, like all the rest of his belongings. But the good old man didn't know that. He was greatly pleased with himself and with his purchases. But when he reached the open air he paused on the doorstep to draw a deep breath. To it had taken less time to bought the rigging for a whole boat, said he, mopping his pink countenance. But I made a rare good job of it. CHAPTER VI. When Jeanette, according to her promise, arrived the next afternoon, the impatient captain, who wished, he had said, mourning, escorted her inside the old box-car. Sammy and Annie were at her heels, but Patsy was having a nap. The rough table was nicely decorated with folded squares of gorgeous calico. The cards of buttons, spools of thread, and glittering fimbles formed a sort of fancy border along the edge. The packets of needles were placed for safety in the exact center of the table. Them's yarn, said the captain. This here's a pattern. You spread it on you to see if it fits. It's your size. But, said Jean, I wanted the clothes for the children. That's all right. You cut it out like this here paper. Then you just chop a piece off the end, wherever it's too long. There's enough for you in the little chaps, too. I'll get my shears, and we'll do like it says on the back of the pattern. The old shears, unfortunately, declined to cut. But the captain sharpened the blade of his jackknife, and after Jean had laid the pieces according to the printed directions, succeeded in hacking out the pink dress. The captain insisted that Jean should begin on the pink one. He liked that best. Fortunately, the shop girl had been wise enough to choose a very simple pattern, and Jean was bright enough to follow the simple rules. With one of them their charts, declared old captain admiringly, I could make a pair of pants or a winter overcoat. All but sewing. My kind's all right in summer, but wouldn't do in winter. We ended to get in between the stitches. Here, you ain't no making that not big enough. Don't you think a smaller one would do? asked Jean wistfully. I don't like such big black ones. See, this little one doesn't come through when I pull. Well, just add an extra hitch or two when you begin. That's right. Why, you're a natural-born sewer. It was a strange sight. The big red captain and a slight dark girl side by side on the old bench outside the battered freight car. Old captain busy with his net. The eager little girl busy with her pink calico. If it seemed almost too pink, she was much too polite to say so. She had decided that Annie should have the purple and that Sammy should have the blue. Little Patsy wouldn't mind the big black spots. As for the red stripes, that piece could wait. You see, thought Jean, I'll ask Father to buy Michael some regular boys clothes. A pair of trousers, anyway. If he doesn't get him a shirt, too, I suppose I can make him one out of that, but I'd rather have it for Annie. And I do hope I can squeeze out a pair of knickerbockers for Sammy. There was enough pink left for one leg, but I'll do his blue clothes before I plan any extra ones. Jean's fingers were as busy as her thoughts, and as the captain had hoped, the seams certainly looked better when done with the proper tools. I'd like to so, said Jean. Well, confided the captain, I can't say as how I do. Suddenly wild shrieks rent the air. Sammy was jumping up and down in a patch of crimson clover. One grimy hand clasped a throbbing eyelid. Sammy smelled a bumby bee! explained Annie when Jean, dropping her pink calico, rushed to the rescue. There were many other interruptions, happily not all so painful, before the new garments were finished. But for many weeks Jean's sewing travelled with her from end to end of the old dock, while she kept a watchful eye on her restless small charges. Father asked Jean one evening when the pink dress was finished and Michael had received what the captain called a real pair of store-pans. Aren't Michael and Sammy and Annie and Patsy your children too? Why yes, replied Mr. DeVall. Then why don't you take as much pains with them as you do with me? You never scold Michael for eating with his knife, or for not being clean, or for saying bad words. You didn't like it at all the day I said those bad words to Molly's mother. You remember. The words I heard those men say when their boat ran into the dock. You said that ladies never said bad words. Of course you couldn't make a lady out of Michael, but there's Annie. Why is it, Daddy? Well, returned Mr. DeVall carefully shaved and very neat and tidy in his shabby clothes. They are Molly Shannon's children. You are the daughter of Elizabeth Huntington. Your full name is Jeanette Huntington DeVall. I want you to live up to that name. Do you mean, asked Jean, who was perched on the old trunk, that Molly's children have to be like Molly? Something like that, admitted Mr. DeVall. That's a pity, said Jean. I like those children. They're sweet when they're clean, and Michael's almost always good to the others. Perhaps it wouldn't be right, said her father to make Molly's children better than she is. They might despise her and be unkind to her. It is best, I fear, to leave things as they are. Don't you love those other children, queried Jean? You are asking a great many questions, returned her father. It is my turn now. Suppose you tell me through what states the Mississippi River flows. Mr. DeVall admitted to himself, however, that he did not love those other children as he loved Jean. He tried hard, in fact, not to hate them. They were so dreadfully like Molly, so dirty, so untidy, so common. Dazed from his long illness, half crazed by the death of his beautiful young wife, he had married Molly Shannon without at all realizing what he was doing. He hadn't wanted a wife. All he thought of was a caretaker for wailing Jeanette, who seemed, to her inexperienced father, a terrifying responsibility. Molly, in her younger days, with a capable scheming mother to skillfully conceal her faults, her indolence, her untidiness, her lack of education, had seemed a fitting person for the task of rearing Jean. Bolstered by her mother, Molly looked not only capable, but even rather pleasing with the soothed and contented baby cuddled in her soft arms. At the moment the arrangement had seemed fortunate for both the DeValls and the Shannon's. DeVall, however, was not really so prosperous as his appearance led the Shannon's to believe. He had arrived in Bancroft with very little money. Time had proved to his grasping mother-in-law that he was not and never would be a very great success as a money-maker. Some persons aren't, you know. As soon as Mrs. Shannon had fully grasped this disappointing fact she suffered a surprising relapse. She began to show her true colors, her vile temper, her lack of breeding, her innate coarseness. Her true colors, in fact, were such displeasing ones that Leon DeVall was not surprised to learn that Molly's only brother, a lively and rather reckless lad by all accounts, had run away from home at the age of fourteen and was perhaps still running since he had given no proof of having paused long enough to write. When his absence had stretched into years, Mrs. Shannon became convinced that John was dead. But Molly was not so sure. The runaway had had much to forgive and the process with resentful John would be slow. Of course, without her mother's aid, easygoing Molly resumed her former slovenly habits, neglected her hair, her dress, and her fingernails. Most of her rather faint claim to beauty departed with her neatness. After a time when his strength had fully returned and his mental powers with it, DeVall realized that he had made a very dreadful mistake in marrying Molly, but there seemed to be nothing that he could do about it. After all, the only thing in life that he had ever really cared for was buried in Elizabeth Huntington's grave. At first Jean had been precious only because she was Elizabeth's daughter. As for Molly's children, they were simply little pieces of Molly. With the years Molly had grown so unlovely that one really couldn't expect a fastidious person to like four small copies of her. Unfortunately, perhaps, Leon DeVall was a very fastidious person. Mrs. Shannon perpetually crouched over the battered stow for warmth, had a grievance. If DeVall earned half as much as any other fisherman around here, said she and her harsh, disagreeable voice, we'd be living in a real house on dry land. And what's more, Molly, you ain't getting all he earns. He's saving on you. He's got money in the bank. I've seen a bank bookah sticking out of his pocket. You ain't getting what you'd ought to have. I know you ain't. Leave me be, returned Molly. We get's enough to eat and more in a body wants to cook. Clothes is a bother any way you want to look at him. He's a savin' for Jean, declared the old lady, taint fair to you, taint fair to your children. Well, said Molly, waking up for a moment, I didn't know as I blame him. I like Jean better myself. She's got looks Jean has, and she's always been a good child with nice ways with her. Neither me nor mine has much more looks nor a lump of putty. You'd have some if you was tidy. Well, I ain't, returned Molly truthfully. You got to lace yourself in and keep buttoned up tight and wear tight shoes and keep your stockings fastened up and your head full of hairpins if you want to look neat when you're fat like I'd be. I hate all of them things. I'd rather be comfortable. Jean had often wondered how soft plump Molly could be comfortable with strands of red hair straggling about her face, with her fat neck exposed to the weather, her uncorseted figure billowing under her shapeless wrapper, her feet scuffling about in shoes several times too large. Even when dressed for the street she was not much neater. But that was Molly, gentle as she was and thoroughly sweet tempered. It was as impossible to stir her to action as it was to upset her serenity. As for Raph, Molly simply hadn't any. You could burn the house down, declared Mrs. Shannon, and Molly'd crawl into the cinder pond and set there and sleep. Her paw died just because he was too lazy to stay alive and she's just like him, red hair and all. If it was red, red hair, there'd be some get-up-and-go to them, Shannon's, but it ain't. It's just carrot-red with yellow streaks. When Annie's hair has just been washed, championed Jean after one of Mrs. Shannon's outbursts against the family's red-gold locks, it's lovely. And if Sammy ever had a lazy hair in his head, I guess Michael pulled it out that time they had a fight about the fish-pole. Where's Sammy now? asked his grandmother suspiciously. Taint safe to leave him alone a minute. He's always prying into things. He and Michael are trying to pull a board off the dock for firewood. That was one convenient thing about the wharf. You could live on it and use it for firewood, too, provided you were careful not to take portions on which one needed to walk. To anyone but the long practiced devals, however, most of the dock presented a most uninviting surface, a dangerous one, in fact. If you stepped on the end of a plank, it was quite apt to go down like a trap door, dropping you into the lake below. If you stepped in the middle, just as likely as not, your foot would go through the decayed board. But only the long portion running east and west was really dangerous. The section between the devals and dry land, owing to the accumulation of cinders and soil bound together with roots of growing plants, was fairly safe. Of course, said Jean, who sometimes wished for patsy's sake, that there were fewer holes in the wharf. If it were a good dock, we wouldn't be allowed to live on it. And if people could walk on it, people would, and that would spoil it for us. As it is, it's just the loveliest spot in the whole world. Chapter 7. A matter of coats. Mrs. Shannon had been right about Mr. DeVall. He was saving money. Also, it was for Jean, or at least for a purpose that closely concerned that little maiden. What Mrs. Shannon had not guessed was the fact that old Captain and Mr. DeVall had discovered, or rather had been discovered by, two places willing to pay good prices for their excellent whitefish and trout. The chef of a certain hotel, noted for planked whitefish, gave a standing order for fish of a certain size. And a certain dining-car steward, having once tasted that delicious planked fish, discovered where it was to be obtained in a raw state, and thereafter, twice a week, ordered a supply for his car. The townspeople, moreover, liked to buy fish from old Captain's queer shop in the end of his freight car. The third partner, Barney Turcotte, whose old sailboat had been equipped with a gasoline motor, had been fortunate in his catches. All together the season was proving a satisfactory one. Sometimes DeVall looked at his bank book inside. He had vowed to save the money because it was right to save it for the unhappy purpose for which he wanted it. But when he should have enough? DeVall could not bear to think of that moment. It meant a tremendous sacrifice, a horrible wrench. Yet every penny, except what was actually needed for food, went into the bank, and the fund was growing almost too rapidly for DeVall's comfort. One evening, when Jean stepped over the high threshold of her father's little room for her lesson, no matter how tired the fisherman might be, the daily lesson was never omitted. She found Mr. DeVall kneeling beside the little old trunk. It was open and the tray had been lifted out. From the depth below her father had taken a number of fine white shirts, what old Captain called wild shirts. A pair of shoes that could have been made for no other feat than Leon DeVall's, they were so small, so trim and yet so masculine, stood on the table. Beside them were two pairs of neatly rolled socks. A finest silk had Jean but known it. Still in the trunk were several neckties, a suit of fine underwear, also a suit of men's clothing. DeVall carefully lifted out the coat and slipped it on. It fitted him very well. Tell me, little one, said DeVall eagerly, if it looks to you like the coats worn by the well-dressed men of today. I don't think I've seen very many well-dressed men, that is, to notice their clothes, said Jean. Nor I, said her father. I am on the lake day-times where the well-dressed are apt to wear white flannels and are nineteen years of age. Often there is a pink parasol. The lake fashions I fear are not for a man of my sober years. In the evening the well-dressed man is either indoors or in his overcoat. I think I must ask you to do me a favor. I'd love to, Daddy, what is it? Tomorrow you will be taking this book back to the library for me. On the way there and on your way back through the town, whenever you can, walk behind a well-dressed gentleman. I want you to study the seams and the tails of the coat. Now look well at these. Mr. Devald, sightedly dandified in his good coat, turned his back to his daughter. Observe the seams, said he, the length of the tails, the set of the sleeves of the shoulder, at the cut also in front, at the number of buttons. Tomorrow you must observe these same matters in the coats of other men. Above all, my Jean, do not seem to stare. But keep your eyes open. I will, Daddy. I know exactly what you mean. When I made this pink dress for myself and the things for Annie and Sammy, I looked at the clothes on other children, to see how wide to make the hems, how long to make the sleeves, how high to make the necks, and where to make things puffy. And you made a very good job of it all, too, my little woman. I am proud of your skill with the needle and greatly obliged to your good friend, old Captain. Now look again at the seams in the back and then for our lesson. But first, bring a plate of water and a large spoon. I will teach you how to eat soup. The garments were put away and the trunk closed by the time Jean returned. The soup lesson amused her greatly. I can eat it much faster, she said, the way Sammy does. And it's hard, isn't it, not to make a single bit of noise? I think I'm getting funny lessons, sitting with both feet on the floor and standing with my shoulders straight and cleaning my fingernails every day and brushing my teeth and holding my fork. And last night it was writing letters. I liked to do that. There is much more that I should teach you, my Jeanette, that I am unable. I am behind the times. Fashions have changed. Only a gentle woman could give you the things that you need. But books and life. Ah well, little Jean, some day you shall be your mother's true daughter and I shall have done one good deed at a very great cost. But take away these dishes you have eaten all your soup. It was pretty thin soup, laughed Jean. What are we to try next? Another good letter, I think. That's good, said Jean. I like to do letters, but I'm so afraid I'll forget and wipe my pen on this pink dress. I almost did last time. The next day Jean remembered about the coat. Unfortunately it was a warm day and an inconvenient number of well-dressed men had removed their coats and were carrying them over their arms. But those were mostly stout men. She was much more interested in short slender ones. Happily a few of slight build were able to endure their coats. Jean's inquisitive eyes all but bored twin holes in the backs of a number of very good garments. At first she had been very cautious, but presently she became so interested in their queer pursuits that she forgot that the clothes contained flesh and blood persons. Finally a sauntering young man wheeled suddenly to catch her very close to his heels. Say, said he grinning at her, I've walked twice around this triangle to see if you were really following me. What's the object? It's your coat, explained Jean, turning very crimson under her dusky skin. My coat? What's the matter with my coat? The, the style. What? Isn't it stylish enough to suit you? It's the seams. I'm, I'm using them for a pattern. Ah, I see. Behold the Lady Taylor planning a suit of clothes for her husband. Haven't any husband, denied Jean indignantly. I'm too young to be married, but I'm awfully glad to see the front of your coat. I've seen a great many backs, but it's harder to get a good look at fronts. Goodbye. Queer little kid, said the young man, pausing to watch Jean's sudden flight down the street. Pretty, too, with those big black eyes. Looks like a French child. In her flight Jean overtook a boy of about her own height, but far from her size. He was stout and he puffed as he toiled up the hill. Where had she seen that plump boy? Was it? Yes, it was, the very boy she had pulled out of the lake, that pleasant day in May when the lake was still cold. What should she do if that grateful boy were to thank her right there in the street? Having passed him she paused irresolutely to look at him. After all, if he wished to thank her he might as well have a chance to get it over. But Jean needn't have been alarmed. Roger glanced at her, turned bright scarlet and dashed into the nearest shop. Jean, eyeing the window, wondered what business a boy could possibly have in that particular place. So did Roger after he'd gotten side. It was a hairdresser's shop for ladies. He bolted out, tore past a bright pink dress, and plunged into a tobacco shop. That, at least, was a safe harbor for a man. I guess, said Jean, surprised at Roger's sudden agility, he didn't know me in these clothes. Next time I'll speak to him. That night Jean asked her father to try on the old coat in order that she might compare it with those she had seen. He slipped it on and turned so that she might view it from all sides. I'm afraid, Daddy, said she, sourfully, that none of the best coats are quite like yours. You have more seams, closer together, and not so straight, and your tails are longer, and you fold back differently in front. I feared so, said Mr. Deval. This coat was not new when I laid it away, and the styles have changed perhaps more than I suspected. I am sorry, apologized Jean. I fear I am not, said Mr. Deval with one of his rare smiles. You have put off an evil day, for me. It is too warm for lessons. Let us pay old Captain a visit. You must see the big trout that Barney brought in today. Not only Barney's big trout, but Barney himself was at old Captains. Jean liked Barney. He was younger than either of his partners, and so exceedingly shy that he blushed whenever anybody looked at him. But sometimes he brought candy to the Deval children, and he whittled wonderful boats. He never said anything, but he did a great deal of listening with his large red ears. This time at sight of Jean, Barney began to fumble awkwardly at his pockets. Finally he pulled forth a large bag of peanuts and a small brown turtle. He laid both in her lap, for by the time Jean was perched on the bench outside the old car. Thank you, Barney, smiled Jean. We'll have a tea party with peanuts tomorrow, and I'll scoop out a little pond some place for the turtle. Isn't he lovely? Barney grinned but made no other response. I'm glad you folks come, chuckled old Captain. Barney here has nigh about talked me to death. End of Chapter 7 CHAPTER VIII. A SHOPPING EXPEDITION Still it appeared even the matter of the out-of-date coat could not put off the evil day for ever. One Saturday night, the only night that stores were open in Bancroft, Mr. Deval took Jean to the business section of the town where they entered the very store in which old Captain had made his purchases. The month was September, and the pink dress washed many times by Jean herself, and dried in the full sunshine on the old dock had faded to a more becoming shade. Unlike the Captain, Leon Deval behaved quite like an ordinary shopper. He carried himself with dignity and seemed to know exactly what he wanted. He said, Stockings for this little girl, if you please. The clerk, after a hasty glance at the rather shabby garments of her customers, laid some cheap coarse stockings on the counter. Better ones, said Mr. Deval. Not good enough, said he, rejecting a second lot. Something thinner and finer. Yes, these are better. Four pairs, please. Now I shall want some underwear for her. A blile thread or Balbregan, I think. Also two chemises, night dresses, whatever petticoats are worn now, and a good serviceable dress. A sailor suit, I think. And after that shoes. Why, Daddy, gasped Jean. I thought you were going to buy nails. You said nails. Nails, too, perhaps, but these first. Jean regarded her father thoughtfully. He had always been very gentle with her, but of late. Yes, certainly, he had been very much kinder to her. And now all these clothes. Was he perhaps going to send her to a real school? The big public school that stood so high that one could see its distant roof from the wharf. A lack of proper clothing had, here to fore, prevented her going. That, the distance and her usefulness at home. She was older now. She could manage the walk. Michael disliked the task, but he could look after the younger children. But with clothes, she could go to school. That would be splendid. Perhaps in another year Michael could have clothes, too. But how particular her father was about hers, the chemises must have a little fine lace on them, he said, and the petticoats, the embroidery must be finer. Yes, the blue-surge dress with the fine black braid on the sailor collar would do nicely. And next a small neat hat. Jeanette gasped again. A hat? She had never worn a hat, except when she had gone up town, and then it hadn't been any special hat, just anybody's old cap. But, of course, if she went to school she'd need a hat. Now, if you please, said Mr. DeVall, we'd like to see some gloves. Kid or silk? Whichever is the more suitable. It's getting late for silk. Maybe you'd better take kid. Mr. DeVall did take kid ones. The saleswoman, with many a curious glance at her unusual customers, fitted a pair of tan gloves to Jean's unaccustomed fingers. Her fingers wouldn't stay stiff. They doubled and curled, but at last the gloves were on and off again. Jean gave a sigh of relief. Then there were shoes. Jean was glad that the holes in her stockings were quite small ones, supposing it had been her other pair, all holes. As it was, the man to whom the clerk had transferred her customer seemed rather shocked to see any holes. Was it possible that there were people, even entire families, with no holes in their stockings? The fat boy that had tumbled off the wharf that morning, and hadn't known her afterwards in the new pink dress, probably that fortunate child had hole stockings, because everything else about him seemed most gloriously new and whole. But surely the greater part of the population went about in holes. Molly, Mrs. Shannon, her father, even old captain, she had seen him put patches in his thick woolen socks. But what was the clerk putting on her feet? She had had shoes before, thick and heavy and always too large that they might last the longer. Molly had bought them, usually after the first snow had driven barefooted Jean to cover. But never such shoes as these. Soft, smooth, and only a tiny scrap longer than her slender foot. And oh, so softly black! And then a dreadful thought. Daddy, said Jean, I just love these shoes for myself, but I'm afraid they won't do. You see, Sammy gets them next. They aren't shoes. Those are your shoes, not Sammy's," replied her father. When Mr. DeVal had paid for all the wonderful things, they were tied in three big parcels. Jean carried one, her father carried two. It was dark and quite late when they finally reached the wharf. We will say nothing about this at home, said Mr. DeVal when Jean proposed stopping to show the things to old captain. For the time being, we must hide them in the old trunk. I have no wish to talk about this matter with anybody. It concerns nobody but us too. Can you keep the secret? Even from old captain? Why, I guess so. Will it be very long? I'm afraid it will bubble and bubble until somebody hears it. And oh, that darling hat! Not long, I fear. Try, promised Jean. Give me that package. Now run along to bed. I guess everybody else is asleep. It was a long time before excited Jean was able to sleep, however. One by one she was recalling the new garments. She wished that she might have had the new shoes under her pillow for just that one night. Perhaps the only thing that saved the secret next day was the wonderful tale that she told the children after she had led them to the farthest corner of the old wharf. The beautiful princess, said she, were a lovely white thing called a chemise, the prettiest thing there ever was. It was trimmed with lovely lace that had a blue ribbon run through it. There was a beautiful white petticoat over that, and on top of that a dress. What for, asked Sammy the inquisitive, did she cover up a pretty chemise with all those things? Was she cold? Oh no, only grand. A chemise is to wear under. I'm glad I'm not a princess, said Michael, bothering all the time with blue ribbons. Didn't she wear no crown? Any crown. No, she had just a little dark blue hat, the very color of her dress, some brown gloves, and oh, the smoothest shoes. They fitted her feet just like skin, and she had stockings. Ah, cut out her clothes, said Michael. What did she eat? School had started. Jean knew it, because on her last trip to the library she had met a long procession of boys and girls hurrying homeward. Chattering as only school children can chatter. But still Mr. DeVall had said nothing to Jeanette about going to school. The home lessons went on as usual, and the wondering pupil hoped fervently that she was not outgrowing that hidden wardrobe. That would be too dreadful. The following Saturday evening Mr. DeVall shopped again, this time he went alone, returning with more bundles. These, too, were concealed. The wharf afforded many a convenient hiding place under its old planks, and this time even Jean failed to suspect that anything unusual had happened during the evening. There were never any lessons Saturday night, and this particular evening she had been glad of the extra time. She was finishing the extra dress she had started for Annie, the red and white striped calico. Molly was in bed and asleep. Mrs. Shannon was dozing over the stove. Jean sat close to the lamp, pushing her needle through the stiff cloth. There, breathed Jean, thankfully, the last button's on. Tomorrow I'll dress Annie up and take her to call on old Captain. He'll like her because she'll look so much like the American flag. CHAPTER IX THE FLIGHT Tuesday had been a wonderful day. Never had the lake or the sky seemed so softly blue, the air so pleasant, or the green bushes so nearly like real trees. The two boys had been good all day, and Annie and Patsy had been sweet. There had been a late wild rose on the bush near old Captain's freight car, a deep rose streaked with crimson. The Captain, heavy and clumsy, had scrambled up the bank to pluck it for Jeanette, who had placed it carefully in a green glass bottle on her father's little table. Her lesson the night before had been a queer one. Her father had taught her how to dress herself in the new garments. Also he had given her an obviously new brush and comb, and had compelled her to use them to reduce her almost curly hair to a state of unaccustomed order. That had taken a very long time, because when you have been using a very old brush and an almost toothless comb your hair does get snarled in spite of you. Her lessons were getting so queer, in fact, that she couldn't help wondering what would come next. What came was the queerest thing of all. The rose in the green glass bottle on her father's table filled the little room with fragrance. Again the door was fastened and the lid of the trunk cautiously lifted. Fix your hair as you did last night, directed Mr. Deval in an odd, rather choked voice. Put on your clothes just as you did last night. Be very quiet about it. You were in the pond today? Yes, Daddy. Good, then you are clean. I will wait outside until you are dressed. Are we going someplace, Daddy? Yes, replied her father, who had taken a parcel from the box on which he usually sat. Dress quickly but neatly and put on your hat. Put the gloves in your pocket, then sit quietly here until I come for you. Eyes shining, pulses leaping, Jeanette got into her new garments. But where were the extra ones that had been in the trunk? The two frilly night-dresses, the other chemise, the other petticoat, the extra stockings? Never mind. Her father, she was sure, had taken good care of them. There my hair's going better this time, and my feet feel more at home in these shoes. And oh, my white, white petticoat, how nice you are. I never had truly white things. I suppose a real princess has heaps and heaps of them. Mr. Deval had neglected to supply stocking straps. It is quite possible that he didn't know that little girls' stockings were fastened that way. Motherless Jean certainly didn't. Molly's were never fastened at all. Old Mrs. Shannon tied hers with a string. Jeanette found two bits of rabbled rope hanging from a nail. They, she thought, would answer the purpose. It's only for this evening, said Jean, eyeing with dissatisfaction the bits of frayed rope. I'll find something better tomorrow, some nice pieces of pink calico like my dress maybe. Next she got into the pretty sailor suit and smoothed it into place. Then the good little dark blue hat was put on very carefully. Last of all Jean lifted down the small, cheap mirror that hung on the rough wall. I certainly do look nice, said she. I think Elizabeth Huntington would like me. Most anybody would have thought the same thing. Certainly her father did when a moment later he opened the door. Turn out the light, said he. It is time to start. Hand in hand the pair stole silently along the pier to the low place where Roger Fairchild had climbed out of the lake. Here a small boat awaited them. In it were two rectangular objects that Jean did not recognize. They were piled one on top of the other and the little girl was to sit on them. Blushing Barney Turcut had the oars. Evidently he was to do the rowing. Duvall climbed in and took the rudder strings. They were some distance from the dock with the boat headed toward the twinkling lights of Banecroft before anybody said a word. After that while the men talked of fish, of nets, and of prices, Jean's investigating fingers stole over the surface of the objects on which she sat until finally she discovered handles and straps. They were suitcases. People coming out of the Banecroft station sometimes carried them. Was it possible that she was to ride on a train or on one of the big lake steamers that came four times a week to the big dock across the bay in the harbor of Banecroft? She who had never ridden in much of anything. Where could she be going? When they disembarked near the foot of Main Street, Mr. Duvall handed a letter to Barney Turcut. Please hand this to Mrs. Duvall tomorrow morning, said he. Barney nodded. Then for once he talked. Pleasant journey, sir, said he. Good-bye, Jean. I suppose. Good-bye, said Mr. Duvall, taking the suitcases. Come, Jean, we must hurry. Jean wondered what Barney had supposed. I have our tickets, said Mr. Duvall, as the pair entered the station. Jean, blinking at the lights like a little owl, come this way, our train is over here. Lower six and five, said he, to the colored man who stood beside the train. Jean wondered if the colored gentleman owned it. She would ask her father later. Then they were inside, her eyes having become accustomed to the light, Jean was using them. She didn't know which was more astonishing, the inside of the coach or her father. Like herself, Mr. Duvall was clad throughout in new garments. He wore them well, too. Spotless collar and cuffs, good shoes and socks, and a suit that had the right number of seams in the proper places. He was all right behind, he was all right in front. Jean eyed him with pride and pleasure. My father, said she, you don't even smell a fish. I'm glad to hear it, said he, his eyes very bright and shining. Before I came to Bancroft I was dressed every day like this, like a gentleman. So you like me this way, eh? That way, and anyway, she said. But father, where are we going? You will sleep better if I tell you nothing tonight. Don't worry, that's all. But father, are we going to sleep here? I don't see any beds. Presently, however, the porter began pulling beds right out of the air, or so it seemed, to Jean. Some came down out of the ceiling, some came up out of the floor, and there you were, surrounded by beds. Oh, what a fairy story to tell the children. A few whispered instructions in Jean knew how to prepare for bed and how to get up in the morning. Also what to do with her clothes. We change in Chicago in the morning, added her father, so you must hop up quickly when I call you. Jean could hardly sleep for the joy of her lovely white night-dress. Never had the neglectful shannons provided her with anything so white and soft and lovely as that night-dress for daytime, let alone night. Disturbing too was the motion of the train, the alarming things that rushed by in the darkness, the horrible grinding noises underneath as if the train were breaking in two and shrieking for help. How could one sleep? But finally she did, and then her father's hand was on her shoulder. After that, only half awake, she was getting into her clothes. Oh, such a jiggly, troublesome business! And one rope garter had broken right in two. Next they were off the train and eating breakfast in a great big noisy station that seemed to be moving like the cars. Jean was whisked from this into something that really moved, a taxi cab. After that another train, a day-coach, her father said. Jeanette was thankful that she didn't have to go to bed in that. But oh, how her head whirled. And now, with the darkness gone, all the world was whizzing past her window. A shabby world of untidy backyards and smoke-blackened houses huddled horribly close together. At least the devals had had no untidy neighbors, and certainly there had been plenty of elbow room. But now the houses were farther apart. Presently there were none. The country. Oh, that was much better. If one could only walk along that woodsy road or play in that pleasant field. Jean, said Mr. Deval touching her hand softly, I'll tell you now where we are going. It happens that you have a grandfather. His name is William Huntington, your mother's father, you know. Some weeks ago I wrote to an old friend to ask if he was still living. He is. Your mother's brother, Charles, and his family live with him. A wife and three children, I believe. Your aunt is undoubtedly a lady, since your uncle's marriage was, I understand, pleasing to his family. Your mother was away from home at the time of our marriage, and I met only her parents afterwards. Your grandfather I could have liked had he liked me. Your grandmother, she is dead now, seemed the more unforgiving. Yet neither forgave. Do they know about me? asked Jean. They knew that you were living at the time of your mother's death. I want them to see you. If they like you it will be a very good thing for you. It is, I think, the only way that I can give you what your mother would have wanted you to have. The right surroundings, the proper friends, education, accomplishments. You are nearly twelve and you have had nothing. If anything were to happen to me I should want you with your mother's people rather than with Molly. This visit will help you, I think. Shall I like my grandfather and my uncle? I've never had any of those, you know. I hope so. But not as well as you, Daddy, not half as well. We won't talk about it any more just now, if you please. See that load of ripe tomatoes? A big wagon heaped to the top. We don't have such splendid fruit in our cold climate. See there is a farm. Perhaps they came from there. Such big barns and comfortable houses. Daddy, said Jean, what does a lady do when her stocking keeps coming down and coming down? This morning I broke the rope. The rope, exclaimed astonished Mr. Deval. Jean hitched up her skirt to display the remaining wisp of rope. Like that, said she. My poor Jeanette, groaned Leon Deval. It is certainly time that you were with your mother's people. You need a gentle woman's care. But, Daddy, you said we'd be on this train all day, and it's only nine now. My stocking drops all the way down. Haven't you a bit of fish twine anywhere about you? Not an inch, lamented Mr. Deval. But perhaps the porter might have a shoestring. Shoestring? Yes, sir, said the porter. Put it in your shoe for you, sir. No, thank you, replied Mr. Deval gravely. But Jeanette giggled. Daddy, if you'll spread your newspaper out a good deal, I think I can fix it. There, that's ever so much better. They spent the night in a hotel, Jean in a small but very clean room, the very cleanest room she had ever seen. She examined and counted the bed covers with much interest and admired the white counterpane. But she liked the outside of her snowy bed better than the inside after she had crawled in between the clammy sheets. I wish, shivered a Jean, that Annie and Sammy were here with me, or even Patsy if he does wiggle. It's so smooth and cold, I don't believe I like smooth, cold places. Poor little Cinder from the Cinder pond. She was to find other smooth cold places and to learn that there were smooth cold persons even harder to endure than chilly beds.