 CHAPTER 19 WITH THE ROSETERS Not only Allen, but Allen's mother met the young traveller when she stepped from the train in Chicago. Such a bright, attractive mother with such a nice, motherly smile. No wonder Allen was a pleasant boy with gentle manners. It must be pretty nice, thought Jean, to live with a mother like that. We're going to take you home with us, said Mrs. Roseter. We brought the car so we can take your suitcases right along with us. We'll have lunch at home with Allen's grandmother. She is very anxious to see you. She used to know your father's people, you know. They were neighbors once in Philadelphia. I'd like that, said Jean. After lunch we'll show you a little bit of Chicago, Lincoln Park, I think, and then we'll give you some dinner and put you on your train. You'd needn't worry about anything. Our young railroad man here has it all fixed up for you. That's lovely, said Jean, gratefully. Any adventures along the way? asked Allen, who had carried the suitcase and the workbox, too, all the way to the automobile. Only one, said Jean. I lost Bayard Taylor. He was a great American traveller, you know. We had him in school. Was it a book? asked Mrs. Roseter. Perhaps we can inquire. I found him again, laughed Jean. He was my pet snail. Where is he now? asked Allen. In my stocking, confessed Jean. Aunt Agatha had my jacket pockets sewed up, so they wouldn't get bulgy. You see, I wanted a kitten or a baby or a puppy or any kind of a pet, but Aunt Agatha doesn't like pets. Her own children never had any. But I just had to have something. And Bayard Taylor is it. A snail is a lovely pet. He is so small nobody notices him. He doesn't need much to eat, and he's so easy to carry around. I hope he doesn't do any travelling while he is in your stocking. laughed Mrs. Roseter. He's in his little box, said Jean. At my grandfathers I made a small yard for him under one of the evergreens with toothpicks stuck all around in the clay. He liked that and the little clay house I built. How do you know he did? asked Allen. He couldn't purr or wag his tail. He stuck up his horns and kept his appetite. The Roseter's house was home-like. Even the furniture wore a friendly look. An affectionate cat rubbed against Jean's stockings, and an old brown spaniel trustfully rested his nose upon her knee. Jean liked them both, but she loved the big old grandmother because she had so many pleasant memories of Jean's own grandmother. The finest little lady I ever knew, said she, an aristocrat to the very tips of her fingers, and your grandfather Deval was another. Ever so far back their people were Huguenots. Although they lost their estates and their descendants were never particularly prosperous in business, they were always refined, educated people. Your father met your mother when she was visiting in Philadelphia. It was a case of love at first sight in your mother's hostess, a very sentimental woman she was, my dear. Rather helped the matter along. They were married inside of three weeks, and you were born a year later in your grandmother's house in Philadelphia. She died very shortly after that, and some business opening took your father to Jackson, Michigan. I believe he and your mother settled there. Her own people had not forgiven her hasty marriage, but I assure you, my dear, your young cousins have no reason to be ashamed of you. Your blood is quite as good as theirs. Her tone implied that it was better. That's enough past history, Granny, said Allen. I want to show her my stamp collection, my coins, my printing press, and my wireless station on the roof. Jean thoroughly enjoyed the noon meal. She hadn't supposed that nice persons could be so jolly and informal at the table. The ride through the park, too, was delightful. It's lovely, she said, to have this nice ride. The wind is blowing all the whirly gigs out of my head. I suppose you had lots of rides in the Huntington's new car. Allen says they have one. Not so very many. It was always closed to keep the dust out, and Aunt Agatha liked to sit alone on the back seat. Sometimes she took Pearl or Clara, never more than one at a time. She said it looked common to fill the car up with children. But once in a while, when I had to go to the dentist or have something tried on, I had a chance to ride. Is there anything you'd especially like to see? asked Allen. Yes, said Jean promptly. I like a good look at Lake Michigan. That's easy, said Allen. You shall have two looks. But when they reached a point from which Lake Michigan was plainly visible, Jean was disappointed. Are you sure she asked that that's it? Why, yes, smiled Mrs. Rosseter. What's wrong with it? I thought, said Jean, that all lakes were blue. This one is brown. It is brown today, said Mrs. Rosseter. Sometimes it has more color, but never that intense blue that you have up north. We once took a lake trip on one of the big steamers, and I saw your blue lake then. Oh, this is a nice lake, said Jean, anxious to be polite. But of course I'm more used to my own. The Rosseters liked their visitor and urged her to remain longer, but Jean very firmly declined. I'd love to, she said, and I would if I were going away from home, but I'm just counting the minutes. It would be just like Patsy to grow another inch while I'm on the train tonight. I know just how you feel, assured Mrs. Rosseter, but perhaps when you are on your way back you'll be able to stay longer. If she doesn't get back by the time she's twenty, laughed Allen. I'm going after her. Just remember, Jean, I want to be on hand when you're ready to decide about that husband. I should hate to have that Iceman get ahead of me. All right, agreed Jean cheerfully. Just hunt me up about six years from now. If I have time to bother with any husbands at all, I think maybe I'd rather have you around than the Iceman. Be sure, said Mrs. Rosseter at parting, to let us know when you're starting back this way. I will, promised Jean. I've had a lovely time. Goodbye, everybody, and thank you so much. Jean slept soundly that night, and Bayard Taylor did no extra traveling, because Allen had made a tiny cage for him from a small wooden box with bars of very fine wire. At Nagani Jean succeeded in lugging all her belongings safely, if not comfortably, across the platform from one train to the other. Is this the train to Bancroft, she asked? It is, said the breakman, helping her aboard. The last half hour of the journey seemed a year long. She had had no breakfast, and she was sure that Patsy had gotten up earlier than usual that morning, just on purpose to grow. Never was train so slow. Never had fourteen miles seemed so many. The other passengers looked as if they had settled down and meant to stay where they were for weeks, but Jean was much too excited to do any settling. She wanted to get off and push. But it last a beautiful voice. That is, it sounded like a beautiful voice to the impatient little traveler, shouted, All off for Bancroft! In spite of her weighty belongings, the first passenger off that train was Jeanette Huntington-Deval. There was a parcel room in the station at Bancroft. Jean checked her suitcase. Alan had told her how to do that, put her check in her other stocking for safekeeping, and then burdened only with her workbox, set out to surprise the Devales. Her father, she was sure, would be willing to go for the suitcase that evening. He'd surely be home by now, even if Dan McGraw had taken him for a long trip. No doubt she had passed his letter on the way, and how those children would come whoopin' down the dock at sight of her. The sky was blue, and all Jean's thoughts were happy ones. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 A Missing Family The walk was long, but at last Jean reached the blossoming bank against which Old Captain's freight car rested. Nobody home at Old Captain's, but it was much too pleasant a day for a fisherman to stay ashore. One of his nets, however, hung over his queer house, and his old shoes were beside his bed. The biggest, broadest shoes in all Bancroft. There was no mistaking those. Half a dozen steps down the grassy dock, and Jean stood stock still. The lake. There, all big and clear and blue, and just the same. Her lake. A great big lump in her throat, and suddenly the lake became so misty that she couldn't see it. What a goosey thing to do, said surprised Jean, wiping away the fog, when I'm glad all the way to my heels. I didn't believe folks really cried for joy, but I guess they do. I wonder where those children are. They ought to be catching polywags, but they aren't. And here are flowers just asking to be picked. Annie must be getting lazy. Why doesn't somebody see me and come running? And why isn't Molly sitting outside the door in the sun? Why, how queer the house looks, sort of shut up. By this time Jean was almost at the end of the dock, and her heart was beating fast. The house was shut up. But not that, but boarded up from the outside. It was certainly very strange and disconcerting. Puzzled Jean ceded herself on an old keg, and reflectively eyed her dessert at home. They've moved, she decided. They've rented a house somewhere in town, so Michael and Sammy can go to school. It's probably more comfortable, but I know the yard isn't half so beautiful. Buy and buy when I can stop looking at the lake. I'll find something to eat in old Captain's house. I'm just about starved. I'll have to wait until he comes home to find out about everybody. I wonder why nobody told me. It was five o'clock when Barney's boat touched at the dock. Old Captain climbed out, Barney followed. Together they picked their way along the crumbling wharf. Something brown, a warm brown, that caught the glow from the afternoon sun was curled on Captain Blossom's doorstep. When you've travelled for two nights and spent a long day outdoors on a breezy wharf exploring all the haunts of your childhood, sleep comes easily. There was Jean. Her head on her elbow sound asleep. Barney took one good look at the small brunette face, and then, as if all the bad dreams he had ever had had gotten after him at once, fled up the steep bank behind old Captain's car and was gone. The Captain, when he had recognised his sleeping visitor, looked as if he too would have been glad to flee. So, so, he muttered, helplessly wringing his big hands. Darned if I—hmm, ladies present—dinged if I know what to do. Suddenly Jean sat up and looked at him. Next she had flown at him and had kissed both of his broad red cheeks. Well, she exclaimed, it's time you were coming home. Where is my father? Where's everybody? Well, you see, said old Captain, patting her gently. They ain't—well, they ain't exactly here. I can see that, returned Jean exasperated by the Captain's remarkable slowness, but where are they? Well, now, Jean girl, maybe your father wrote you about Miss Shannon's son, John, taking her away to St. Louis last spring. Well, he'd done it. Yes. After—well, after a while, Molly was took sick. You see, there was some sort of reason for their laziness of her. There was something wrong with her inside. Her brother, John, come, I telegraphed him and had her took to a hospital, up at St. Mary's, to other side of town. She's there yet. She ain't going to come out, they say. Oh, breathe, Jean! Her eyes very big. Oh, poor Molly! She's just as contented as ever, assured the Captain, whose consoling paths had grown stronger and stronger, until now they were so nearly blows that Jean winced under them. I'll take you to see her first chance I get. She'll be there for some time yet. But the children pleaded to Jean, where are they? Well, they're in St. Louis. Oh, no! I'm afraid they be. You see, Miss Shannon was no good at housekeeping with that their rumitism of her, so John up and married a real strong young woman to do the work. When he come here to look after Molly, he took Sammy and Annie, and a little on back to St. Louis with him. And Michael? I'll tell you the rest to Mari, promised the Captain, who had stopped patting Jean to wipe large beads of perspiration from his brow. I'm a hungry man, and I got a heap of work to do after supper. You got to sleep somewhere, as you know. My idea is to knock out the doors and windows of the two best rooms in your old shack out there. This here fish car ain't no real proper place for a lady. It was me nailed them doors up after, um, me nailed them up. After what? demanded Jean. After, after breakfast, I think it was. Dissembled old Captain Lamely. I wished that mean skunk of a Barney, um, ladies present, that their Barney, I mean, was here to help. Now, girl, I'm going uptown to get something fitting for a lady's supper. I ate all your crackers and all your cheese, confessed Jean. Glad you did. You can put a chip in the fire now, and again to keep her going. I'll start it for you and put the kettle on. Anything I can do for you in town? Yes, said Jean. I checked my suitcase at the station. Don't you carry it? Here's a quarter. Get some boy to do it. Huh, grunted old Captain. There ain't no boy going to carry your suitcase. No Surrey, not while I'm here to do it. Just let these here potatoes bile while I'm gone. Jean, finding no cloth, spread clean newspapers over the greasy table, scoured two knives and a pair of three-tined forks with clean white sand from the beach, and set out two very thick plates, one cup and a saucer. After that she washed the teapot and found old Captain's caddy of strong green tea. Then she picked up a basket of bits of snowy driftwood from the beach. Such clean, smooth pieces that it seemed a pity to burn them, yet nothing made a more pleasing fire. Presently old Captain returned with Jean's suitcase. With him was a breathless boy who had found it difficult to keep up with the Captain's long stride. The boy's basket contained bread, butter, eggs, and a piece of round steak. Also there was a bundle containing a brand new sheet in pillowcase. Thumb there is a present for you, explained old Captain. They was something the matter with the towels, had glue in them, I guess, stiff as a board anyhow, but your Paul left them in his room. Where is my— Now I'm cooking, returned old Captain hastily. When I'm cooking I ain't answering no questions. I'm asking them. You can tell me how you got here and what started you. I'm dying to hear all about it. But you can't ask no questions. And just remember this. I'm darn glad—um, real glad you're here. This here's a lonesome place with no children running around. And I might have glad to hear something Twitter in besides them swallows. So just Twitter away. First of all, who brung you? In spite of her dismay at Molly's illness, in spite of her keen disappointment regarding the missing children, in spite of her bewilderment and her growing fear concerning her strangely absent father, Jean was conscious of a warm glow of happiness. Even if everybody had been gone, the cinderpond, more beautiful than ever, would still have been her home. But old Captain's hearty welcome, and more than all, the kindliness that seemed to radiate from his broad, ruddy face seemed to enfold her like a warm, woolly bathrobe. The Captain was rough and uncultured, but you couldn't look at him without knowing that he was good. Supper was a bit late that night. Jean, very neat in her brown poplin dress, hold Captain very comfortable in his faded shirt sleeves, ate it by lamplight at the Captain's small square table. Truly an oddly contrasted pair. But in spite of the fact that the Captain's heart was much better than his table manners, Jean was able to eat enough for two small girls. After supper, the Captain lighted a big lantern, collected his tools, and trudged down the cindery road to the deval corner of the old wharf. Presently Jean, who was clearing away after the meal, heard the sound of hammering in the squawk of nails being pulled from wood. Noises travel far over water that is quiet. When she had washed and dried the dishes she followed old Captain. Thought you'd come too, did ye? Well, she's all opened up. You'd best take your father's room for tonight, anyway. It ain't been disturbed since, um... The blankets is all right, I guess. There's a bolt on the door. Better lock yourself in. Few boats every touch here, but one might come. I'd hate like thunder to have you kidnapped. Wouldn't want to lose ye so soon. Did you bring along that sheet? Good. I'll leave you the lamp while I fix this up a bunk in Molly's part of the house for my old bones. The little room seemed full of her father's presence. An old coat hung behind the door. The little old trunk stood against the wall. On the big box it served for a table, with a mark to keep the place, was a library book. Happily, sleepy Jean did not think of looking at the card. If she had looked, she would have learned that the book was long overdue. Thanks to the big, clean lake and the windswept wharf, there was no dust to show how long the place had been untenanted. The music of the water rippling under the old dock how sweet it was. The air that blew in at her open window, how good and how soothing. The bright stars peeping in through the little square seemed such friendly stars. Even the cold stiffness of the brand new sheet was not sufficiently disturbing to keep the tired little girl awake. She found her breakfast on the captain's stove. Just in time for the fire was out and a bright-eyed chipmunk perched on the edge of the frying pan was nibbling a bit of fried potato. The captain had disappeared. Jean didn't guess that he had purposely fled. There's so much to do, said Jean, eyeing the captain's grimy tea kettle after she had finished her breakfast. But I don't know where to begin. If I could find my old pink dress, I know what I'll do. I'll buy something and make me a great big apron. Even my everyday clothes are too good for a working lady. But first, I guess I'll clean the room old captain slept in. Molly kept a lot of old stuff that ought to be thrown away. I hope there aren't any rats, and I must remember to mail the letter that I wrote to my grandfather just before I got to Chicago. It's still in my workbox. I think some fresh hay would be nice for the captain's bunk. There's a lot of long grass on top of the bank. Perhaps I can cut some of that and dry it. I used to love to do that. I could make fresh pillows, too. But I must have something to work in. A very ragged blue cotton shirt of old captains was finally pressed into service. Of course it was much too big, but Jean tied up the flopping sleeves with bits of twine, found the captain's broom, and marched down the dock. The morning was gone by the time captain's new room was cleared of rubbish. Jean clad mostly in the old blue shirt, dumped it into the lake. Once her work had been interrupted by an old man who wanted to buy a fish. Jean, giggling at a sudden amusing thought, trotted down the dock to sell it to him from the end of the captain's car. The business now was mostly a wholesale one, but neither Jean nor the customer knew that, so the fish was ungrudgingly displayed. You are the fisherman's little girl, he asked, as Jean weighed the trout he had selected. I be, she returned gravely. But as soon as the customer was out of earshot, Jean's amusing thought became too much for her. If Aunt Agatha could see me now, she giggled, she'd drop into the cinder pond, and what a splendid splash she'd make. Think of Aunt Agatha's niece selling a fish. I hope I charged him enough for it. He looked as if he thought it was a good deal. It was a good deal. The captain chuckled when she told him about it. You'd make money at the business, said he, but I ain't going to have you selling fish. Besides, we ship most of them wholesale out of town. There'd been none in that there box if Barney'd been tending to business. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of the Cinder Pond by Carol Watson Rankin This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 21 Old Captain's News When Jean had finished her morning's house cleaning, the room contained only the two built-in bunks, one above another, a small box-stove, a battered golden oak table that had once belonged to Mrs. Shannon, a plain wooden chair, and a homemade bench. Someday, said Jean, I'll scrub that furniture. But if I don't eat something now, I'll die. I'm glad James gave me too much money, and I have $19 in my pin-cushion. After I've had lunch I'll go shopping, for I need a lot of things. Old Captain shall have sheets, too, and I'll buy some cheap stuff for curtains. It'll be fun to make them and put them up. I wonder if oil cloth, like Aunt Agatha had in her kitchen, costs too much. That would be pleasanter to eat on than newspapers, and very easy to wash. White would be nicest, I think. And if I could buy some pieces of rag carpet, my floor is pretty cold. It was rather a long way to town, but Jeanette, freshened by a bath in the cinderpond, and clad in a clean, dull blue linen frock, trudged along the road until she reached the sidewalk. Here she unfolded something that she carried in her hand, a small square of cloth. With it she carefully wiped the dust from her shoes. There, said she, throwing away the rag, the cinderpond's savage looks a little more like Jeanette Huntington de Valle. She proved a better shopper than Old Captain. A new five-and-ten-cent store provided her with some excellent plated knives, forks, and teaspoons. She bought three of each. Barney might want to stay to supper sometime. Also a nice smooth saucepan, some fruit, some rolls, some cookies, besides the white oil cloth which had proved inexpensive, and some other dry goods. So many things, in fact, that she wondered how to get them home. Where, asked the clerk at the last place, shall I send this? It's out quite a little beyond the town, said Jean doubtfully. This side of the lighthouse? Yes. Well, we'll send it for you. The wagon is going to the life-saving station today. I'll send your other parcels, too, if you like. Good, said Jean, who meant to watch for the wagon where the road turned. Now we'll be able to buy one or two more things. Jean knew no one in the little town. When you live on a dock your nearest neighbors are apt to be seagulls. But as she turned the corner near the post office, where she was going to buy stamps, she almost bumped into a former acquaintance. It was Roger Fairchild, the boy that she had rescued more than two years previously. Roger was taller, but he was still quite plump. Oh! gasped Jean, recognizing him. Did the water spoil your clothes? I've always wondered about that. Roger looked at her sharply. Was it? Yes, it was that little shrimp of a girl that had pulled him out of the lake. She had grown a little, but she was that same child. The tomatoes in the corner grocery were no redder than Roger turned in that moment. Ah, guan! muttered, embarrassed Roger. Brushing past her. I don't know ya. Jean felt slightly abashed. I'm sure thought she glancing after him that that's the same boy. There can't be two as fat as that. Probably he doesn't know me in these clothes. Next time I'll say a little more. Of course Jean had learned under the Huntington Roof that introductions were customary. But you see, when you saved a person's life you feel as if that event were introduction enough without further ceremony. Also, when you've been kind to anybody, even an ungrateful boy, you have a friendly feeling for him afterwards. Besides, Jean rather liked boys in a wholesome comradey sort of way. But if Roger seemingly lacked gratitude his mother did not. She knew that Lake Superior was both deep and cold and that even the best of swimmers had been drowned in its icy waters. She felt that she owed a large debt of thanks to the tall, mysterious young woman who had saved her only child from certain death. For two years she had longed to pay that debt. The captain and Barney were landing when Jean reached the freight car. She ran down to hold out a hand to Barney, but Barney put his big hands behind his back. They ain't clean, said he. Then he turned to old captain and spoke in an undertone. You got to tell her, he said. I know I promised, but I can't. I guess it's got to be did, said the old captain, but you got to stand by. This part of the wharf, remarked Jean, looks a great deal battered up. Aren't some of the timbers gone? Yes, returned old captain, you see, there was a bad storm last May. Barney was out on it. It damaged his boat some. Was Barney alone? No, your father and Michael was with him. Barney demanded, Jean, where's my father now? Barney, who was scooping fish into a basket, grabbed the handle and strode away as fast as his long legs would carry him. Old captain shouted, Barney, but the younger man did not pause. Jeannie girl, said old captain as they followed Barney down the wharf. Barney's ashamed to meet you, but he ain't got no call to be. What happened weren't his fault. But he thinks you'll hate him like Pison when you know. What happened pleaded Jean pale with dread. It was like this. The squall came up sudden and the boat went over. A tug picked Barney up. He was hanging on to the bottom of the boat. And Daddy? There was nobody there when the tug come but Barney. Was my father, you said Daddy and Michael, they did go out that day? They surely did go in the boat? Yes, returned old captain sorrowfully. They went and they didn't come back. That's all. They went and they didn't come back. They went and they didn't come back. Jean's feet kept time to the words as the pair walked up the dock. They went and they didn't come back. Jean couldn't believe it. Yet somehow she had known it. All that summer in spite of her brave assurances to herself she had felt fatherless. The fatherless feeling had been justified. Yet she couldn't believe it. Her precious father and poor little Michael. Maybe you'd want to go inside and cry a bit, suggested the worried captain. Shall I just hang about outside? Jean dropped to the bench outside the car. Her eyes very wide open but perfectly tearless were fixed on old captain. Her cheeks were white. Even her lips were colorless. Captain Blossom didn't know what to do. A crying child could be soothed and comforted with kind words. But this frozen image, this little white girl with wide black eyes staring through him at the lake, what could a rough old sailor man do to help her? Suddenly a lanky, bow-legged boy with big red ears that almost flopped came round the corner of the car. Say, said he, I'm looking for a party named Devil. Jane at a hungry Devil looks like. Right here, returned old captain, it's Jeannette Huntington Devall. Every inch of that boy was funny. Even his queer voice was provocative of mirth. Jean laughed. But the boy had barely turned the corner before surprised Jean, a little heap on the bench, with sobbing sobs of great many sizes too large for her small body. It's soaked in, said the captain patting her ponderously. There, there, genie girl. There, there. Just cry all you want to. I cried some myself when I heard about it. Presently the big old captain went inside his old car, and there was a great clatter among the cooking utensils, mingled with a sort of muffled roar. He was working out his overcharged feelings. Jeannette sobbed. Having gradually subsided, she began to be conscious of the unusual disturbance inside the car. Next she listened, and hoped that old captain wasn't saying bad words, but... Hum, lady is present. Rows suddenly above the clatter of dishes. The silence followed by... Dumb as she has neaten all the bread. Right after that the listening captain heard the sound of tearing paper. A moment later Jeannette was in the doorway, a loaf of bread in one hand, a basket of peaches in the other. Her face was tear stained, but her eyes were brave. She even smiled a little twisty smile, a smile that all but upset old captain. There's some rolls too, she said, in rather a shaky voice. Take these, and I'll bring you the tablecloth. After this I'm going to be the supper-cook. I planned it all out this morning. Jeannette, brave little soul that she was, was back among the everyday things of life. The greatly relieved captain beamed at the shining white tablecloth and the cheap-plated silver. He picked up one of the new knives and viewed it admiringly. I ain't at with a shining life like this since I was keeping bachelor's halls, said he. I'll just admire eaten fried potatoes with this here knife. The captain was very sociable that evening. He had to see the contents of all the parcels and expressed great admiration for the checked gingham that was to be made into a big apron. Once he disappeared to rummage about in the dark, further end of the long car, presently he returned with a rusty tin box. This here, said he, is my bank. He opened it. It was filled with money. You see, said he, when you earns more than you spends the stuff piles up. Now here's a nice empty can. We'll set it, inconspicuous like in this here corner of the cupboard. Any time you want any money for anything, clothes or food or anything at all, you look in this can. There'll be some there. You see, you're my little girl just now. The rust'll be put away safe. You can forget about that. Was that there, yawn? Getting sleepy, are you? Well, well, where's the lantern? At the door of the Deval Shack, Jean stumbled over something. A large basket with the cover fastened down tight. Jean carried it inside and lifted the cover. It contained four small kittens in a bottle of milk. A card hung from the neck of the bottle. On it was printed, We got no mother, from Barney. Drat him, said the captain. Them kittens'll keep you awake. Not if I feed them, returned Jean. Of course, I shall still love Bayard Taylor, but after all, kittens are a lot more cuddly than snails. I'm so glad Barney thought of them. They're dear, such a pretty silvery gray with white under their chins. I do hope they'll find me a nice mother. By the time the kittens were fed in asleep, Jean, who had certainly spent an exhausting day, was no longer able to keep her eyes open. CHAPTER XXII. This here is Saturday, said old captain at breakfast time. Our cupboard is pretty bare of bacon, potatoes, and things like that. I'll go uptown after the fodder. Then this afternoon me and you will go to see Molly. Most generally, I takes her something, fruit-like, or of OK. Old Mrs. Schmidt gives me a grand bunch for a quarter. It's quite a walk to that there hospital, so don't you go a tiring of yourself out doing too much work. But I sure did enjoy my room last night all clean and ship-shape. Wait till to-night, said Jean. You'll have sheets. Will I, returned old captain, a bit doubtfully? While I may get used to them, they does dress up a bed. In spite of the squealing kittens, in spite of the many small tasks that Jean found to do, many times that morning her eyes filled with tears. Poor Daddy and Michael to go like that. Curiously enough, the remembrance of a drowned sailor whose body had once been washed up on the beach near the dock brought Jean a certain sense of comfort. The sailor had looked as if he hadn't cared. He was dead and he didn't mind. He had looked peaceful, almost happy, as if his body was just an old one that he had been rather glad to throw away. His soul, Leon Duvall had said, when he found his small daughter in the little crowd of bystanders on the beach, isn't there. That is only his body. The man himself is elsewhere. Father doesn't care, said Jean, and tried to be happy in that comforting thought. That afternoon they visited Molly. This being a special occasion, said old Captain, I got both fruit and flowers. You can carry the bouquet. It took courage to carry it, but Jean rose nobly to the occasion. She couldn't help giggling, however, when she tried to picture Mrs. Huntington, suddenly presented with a similar offering. There was a tiger lily in the center, surrounded by pink sweet peas. Instead of this, successive rings of orange marigolds, purple asters, scarlet geraniums, and candy tufts, with a final fringe of blue corn flowers. If I meet that fat boy, thought Jean wickedly, I'll bow to him. Once I took all white one, confessed Captain Blossom with a pleased glance at the bouquet. But the nurse, she said, bring colored flowers. They're more cheerful. Make it cheerful, says I to Mrs. S. Now that there is cheerful, eat it. Yes, agreed Jean, it is. Even at Aunt Agatha's biggest dinner party there wasn't a more cheerful one than this. I'm sure Molly will like it. But was that Molly? That absolutely neat white creature in the neat white bed? There was the pale red hair neatly braided in a shining halo above the serene forehead, the mild blue eyes looking lazily at the bouquet, then at Jean. The old good-natured smile curved her lips. Hello, Jean, said she. You're looking fine. You see, I'm sick of bed, but I'm real comfortable, real comfortable and happy. Then she fell asleep. It's the medicine, said the nurse. She sleeps most of the time. But even when she's awake nothing troubles her. Nothing ever did, returned old Captain. But then there's sums that worries too much. They met Barney in the road above the dock. Jean held out her hand. Big raw-boned Barney gripped it with both of his, squeezed it hard, and fled. You tell him, said Jean, with the little twisty smile that was not very far from tears, to come to dinner tomorrow that I invited him and am going to make him a pudding. Poor old Barney, we've got to make him feel comfortable. Tell him I bought a fork. No, a knife, especially for him. Barney's as good as gold, returned old Captain. But for a man of forty-seven he's too dinged shy. Barney says I, more and once, you ought to get married. There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out, says Barney. Yes, says I, but ain't the bait getting some stale? Is it really September? asked Jean one morning, studying the little calendar she had found in her work-box. Today's the fourteenth, replied old Captain. What of it? I'm worried, said Jean. I came to make a visit, but I haven't heard a word from Aunt Agatha or my grandfather about going back or anything. Of course I ought to be in school. And there's a good school here. You have clothes and can get more. I don't want to go back to Aunt Agatha, you know. I'm sure she's very angry at me for running away. It took her a long, long time to get over it after I went swimming in the fountain. I suppose this is worse. Well this here warn't exactly your fault. I'm bothered about my grandfather, too. I've written to him four times, and I haven't heard a word. You told them about your father? No, confessed Jean. I didn't. I couldn't write about it to Aunt Agatha. She despised him. And I heard James say that any bad news or anything very sudden would bring on another one of those strokes. Of course they think I'm with Daddy. I didn't think of that. I didn't mean to deceive anybody. Well, said old Captain, I guess your idea of not startling your granddaddy was all right. But you'd better write your Aunt Agatha some day and tell her about your father. There's no hurry. I'd rather you stayed right here. And I'd rather stay. Then stay you do. But before real cold weather comes we gotta fix up some place ashore for you, where there's somebody to keep a good fire going. Maybe me and Barney can build on an addition behind this here car, say two good rooms with a door through from here. But there's no need to worry for a good while yet. We're cozy enough for the present, and October sure to be pleasant, always is. About school now. I guess you'd better start next Monday. Whatever damage there is for books or anything else, I'll stand it. And if there was music lessons, now... Gene made a face, old Captain chuckled. Maybe, said he, there wouldn't be time for that. I'm sure there wouldn't, agreed Gene. On Saturday Gene went uptown to buy food, but first she visited the five and ten cents store to buy an egg beater. Just outside she came face to face with Roger Fairchild and his mother. Gene in impish light in her black eyes. She was only sorry that she wasn't carrying one of Mrs. Schmidt's outrageous bouquets. Stopped square in front of the stout boy and said, Did you spoil your clothes? As before, Roger turned several shades of crimson. Gene did not look almost fourteen, for she was still rather small for her years. Did you? persisted his tormentor. Yes, I did, growled Roger. Hurry on, mother. I gotta get a haircut as soon as we've had that ice cream. Gene explained the matter to old Captain who had heard about the accident to Roger. He's one of the kind of boys you can tease, said Gene. I'm afraid I'd like to tease just a little. He looks that sort of a baby boy, doesn't he? Meanwhile the boy's mother was questioning her a curiously embarrassed son. Roger, said she, who was that pretty child and what did she mean? I don't know, fibbed Roger. Yes, you do. What clothes? Oh, old ones, don't bother. I insist on knowing. Ah, what's the use? The ones that got in the lake and shrunk so I couldn't wear them, mumbled Roger. Come on, here's the ice cream place. How did she know about your clothes? persisted Mrs. Fairchild. Ah, growled Roger. She was hanging round. When you fell in, demanded Mrs. Fairchild eagerly, does she know that noble girl that saved you? Does she? Does she, Roger? Oh, I suppose so, said Roger. How should I know? Come on, your ice cream will get cold. But Roger... Say, said desperate Roger, whose chin was as smooth as his mother's. If you ever buy me a razor, I wish you'd buy this kind, here in this window. Look at it. That's a dandy razor. A razor, gasped Mrs. Fairchild. What in the world? Roger gave a sigh of relief. His mother had been switched from the miserable Cinderpond's child. He chatted so freely about razors that his mother was far from guessing that he knew as little about them as she did. Fancy you wanting a razor? commented his astonished mother. There's no great rush, admitted Roger, feeling his smooth cheek. But I'll bet I'll get whiskers before you do. They'll be pink like your eyebrows, retaliated Mrs. Fairchild. But never mind. My eyebrows grew darker, and yours will. Gee, thought Roger. I'm glad I thought of that razor. That was a close shave. End of Chapter Twenty-Two. Chapter Twenty-Three of The Cinderpond by Carol Watson Rankin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter Twenty-Three. A New Friend for Gene. The very next day, when old Captain and Gene were coming away from the hospital, they met Mrs. Fairchild going in to visit a sick friend. The impulsive little lady pounced upon Gene. Please don't think I'm crazy, said she, in a voice that Gene considered it decidedly pleasing. But you're just the person I wish to see. One day more than two years ago my son Roger fell into Lake Superior and was almost drowned. He says that you know the girl, a very large girl, Roger said she was, that saved his life. Just think. Not a word of thanks have I been able to give her. I am so anxious to meet that brave girl. Well, said old Captain, with a twinkle in his eye. You're meeting her right now. She tore a hole two feet across that there net of mine, saving your boy. That's how I come to know about it. Not this little girl. It was mostly the net, said Gene, modestly. I just threw it over the place where he went down. His fingers had to grab it. I lived right there, you know, and I had pulled my little brother Sammy out ever so many times. He was always tumbling in. My dear, declared Mrs. Fairchild, I'm going home with you. I want to see the exact spot. Roger has always been so vague about it. Get into my car. It's just outside the gate, and I'll drive you there. I must run in here first, but I won't stay two minutes. It was old Captain's first ride in an automobile, and he was surprised to find himself within sight of his own home in a very few minutes after leaving the hospital. This here buggy is some traveller, said he admiringly. They escorted Mrs. Fairchild to the end of the dock to show her the spot from which Roger had taken his dangerous plunge. She looked down into the green depths and shuddered. Ugg, said she, it looks a mile deep. Oh, I'm so thankful you happened to be here. Next she inspected the shack on the dock. After that the Captain's old freight car. And you live here? She said, seating herself on the bench outside and drawing Jean down beside her. I want you to tell me all about it and about you. I want your whole history. By asking a great many questions she had lived with Roger long enough to learn how to do that. She soon knew a great deal about Jean, her life on the wharf, her two years with the Huntingtons, her father's wishes for her. Jean found it not only easy but pleasant to chatter to her sympathetic new acquaintance. This is a beautiful spot in the summer, said Mrs. Fairchild when she had the whole story. But it is no place for a girl in winter. The minute cold weather comes unless your people have already sent for you I am going to carry you off to visit me. Of course if you didn't happen to like us you wouldn't have to stay but I do want you to try us. You know who Mr. Fairchild is, Captain Blossom, the lawyer you know, so you see you can trust us with her. At any rate, my dear, you can stay with me until your people send for you. You see, neither Mr. Fairchild nor I will be able to rest until we've had a chance to know you better and to thank you, to really thank you. I'm grateful to you. Roger's our only child. You saved him for us. I've had you on my conscience for more than two years. You will come, won't you? If I could think about it just a little, said Jean Shiley. You must persuade her, Captain Blossom. You know she'd be better off with me, so much nearer school and other nice girls of her own age. I shall simply love to have her. I'm fond of her already. Mrs. Fairchild was a pretty little woman, impulsive, kind-hearted, and very loyal in her friendships. One had only to look at her to know that she was good. Not a very wise woman, perhaps, but a very kind one. Her son Roger, she had lost her first two babies, was undoubtedly rather badly spoiled. Had her other children lived Roger would certainly have been more severely disciplined. I'm coming tomorrow afternoon, said she at parting, to take this little girl for a ride. That'll be lovely, returned Jean. After that Mrs. Fairchild made a point of borrowing Jean frequently. Her comfortable little open car often stopped in the road above the Captain's old freight car to honk loudly for Jean and she often carried the Cinderpond child home with her and captured to meals. Mrs. Fairchild was the nearest approach to a girl companion that Jean had ever had. Jean liked the pretty fair-haired lady who was so delightfully young for her thirty-seven years. She also liked Mr. Fairchild, whose clothes were quite as good as those of her Uncle Charles, while his manners were certainly better, at any rate far more cordial. I'm crazy about dolls, confessed Mrs. Fairchild one day when I saw Jean beside her in the little car. I've promised to dress a whole dozen for the church-gild. I want you to help me buy them right now. Won't that be fun? And we'll dress them together. You shall choose to dress us for six of them. Isn't it shame I never had any little girls of my own? Of course sympathetic Mrs. Fairchild heard all about Sammy, Annie, and Patsy and how disappointed Jean had been to find them missing. I'm worried about them, confessed Jean. Their new Uncle may be good to them, but I'd like to know for certain. I'm bothered most about Annie. She's such a good, gentle little thing, and Mrs. Shannon was always awfully cross to her. While we're dressing our other dolls, said Mrs. Fairchild, we might make a little dress for Annie. She's almost six, sighed Jean. I do wish I could watch her grow up and teach her to be nice, but of course making a dress for her will help little. Of Roger, Jean saw but little. At first he avoided her. Still he did speak when they met face to face, and in the course of time he was even able to say hello, Jean, without blushing. Jean went to school. It was a long walk and she hated to miss a single moment of the outdoor life on the Old Dock. But going to school was something that she could do for her father. Her clothes were beginning to trouble her a little. Some were wearing out, others seemed to be getting smaller. Jean, you see, was growing and her garments were not. Still, the other pupils were far from suspecting that Jean was a motherless, fatherless wave from the cinder pond. She was always neat and even daintier than many of her classmates. But the washing, ironing, and mending necessary to ensure this daintiness meant considerable work on Jean's part. One evening, when she had taken off her dress to replace a button, it occurred to Jean to feel in the pockets of her father's old coat, the coat that still hung behind the door of Leon DeVall's room. She found in the pocket a letter that he had written, except for a stamp it was all ready to be mailed to her. She read it greedily. There was the usual home news, but one paragraph stood out from all the others. Be patient and learn all you can, my Jean. You, in turn, can teach it all to Annie and your brothers. Even the hated arithmetic you must conquer. Oh, side Jean, I'm so glad I found this. I will conquer those mathematics and I will teach those children some day. Perhaps I'll have to teach kindergarten after all, so as to earn money enough to go after them. And dear me, they're growing older every minute. But no matter how hard it is for me, I'm going to look after those children the very first minute I can. While Jean was waiting for the first cold weather, or else for news from the Huntingtons, one couldn't tell which would come first. She studied to such purpose that her first month's marks surprised even her they were so good. Another night, when she had gone early to the shack in order to mend a long rent in her petticoat, she found herself with half an hour to spend before bedtime. She had left her books on old captain's table, and the kittens were also in the captain's car. For once, now that her mending was finished, she had nothing to do unless she were to dress and go up the dock to old captain's. And that, she decided, was too much trouble for so short a time. She was obliged to stand on a box to reach the nail she liked best for her dress. As she did so this time the lamplight fell upon a crack in the wall that was level with her eyes and contained something that suddenly glittered. She fished the small object from its hiding-place, and recognized in it the key to her father's little old trunk. She looked at it thoughtfully. Perhaps, since she was so very lonely for her father, he wouldn't mind if she opened that trunk to see what articles he had handled last. She moved the lamp to a box beside the trunk, turned the key, and lifted the cover. Her father's best suit was there, very neatly folded in his shoes. From under these came a gleam of something faintly pink. Jean carefully drew it forth. My old pink dress, she exclaimed. Jean slipped it on. It was much too short. Why, said she, what a lot I've grown. Upright in one corner of the trunk, Jean found a green bottle. It held a withered stock to which two dried pink petals still clung. I left that bottle with a rose in it on father's table when I went away, said Jean. He must have found it there when he got back and kept it. In this dress he didn't give it to Annie. He kept it. And I'm glad. Sometimes when I was so awfully lonely at Aunt Agatha's I used to wonder if my father really did love me. And now I know he did, every single minute. I'll put this dress back where I found it. Another thing that came to light was her father's bank book. She showed that the next day to old captain who studied it carefully. I'm glad, said Jean, that there's a little money. It may be needed for Molly. It was. One day early in October Molly failed to awaken from one of her comfortable naps. Thanks to Leon DeVall's modest savings poor Molly was decently buried. Mrs. Fairchild took Jean and old captain and all the flowers from Mrs. Schmidt's little greenhouse to the very simple funeral. I've got to be a mother to Molly's children just as soon as I ever I can, said Jean on the way home. I was going to do it for Daddy anyway, but now I want to for Molly too. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 24 of The Cinder Pond by Carol Watson Rankin Chapter 24 Molly's Babies The following week Jean and two of the kittens went to live with Mrs. Fairchild. The other two were to stay with old captain who it seemed was fond of kittens. Jean was spared the necessity of dividing the snail. Bayard Taylor had run away. As snails aren't exactly built for running, old captain and Barney discuss a huge joke. Whether Bayard Taylor crawled over the edge of the dock and fell in, or whether one of the playful kittens battered him overboard, or whether he was hidden in some crevice among the cinders nobody ever knew, though diligently sought for the great American traveller never turned up. Mr. Fairchild warmly welcomed both Jean and the kittens and declared that he was delighted to have somebody to make the table come out even at mealtimes. With three people, said he, there's always somebody left out in the cold. Now we can talk in pairs. Mrs. Fairchild was like a child with a new toy. Jean's room was newly decorated and even refurnished for her. It was the very girliest of girls' rooms and the windows overlooked the lake. Jean was glad of that. It made it seem like home. Next her wardrobe was replenished. Mrs. Huntington had replenished Jean's wardrobe more than once, but this was different. Loving care went into the selecting of every garment, and it made a surprising difference. Jean loved her new clothes, her pretty yet suitable trinkets, for Mrs. Fairchild's taste was better than Mrs. Huntington's, and she took keen pleasure in choosing shades and colors that were becoming to Jean's gypsy-like skin. The Fairchilds were delighted with her appearance. Roger proved a comfortable housemate. He wasn't a tease like Harold. Jean neither liked nor disliked him. She merely regarded him as part of the Fairchild's furniture, the dining-room furniture because she saw him mostly at meals. Roger certainly liked to eat. When he discovered that the visitor showed no inclination to talk about his undignified tumble into the lake, he found her presence rather agreeable than otherwise. With Jean to consider, his mother hadn't quite so much time to fuss over him. He hated to be fussed over. Moreover, she couldn't look at Jean and the Marmalade at the same time. Roger, who loved Marmalade, was glad of that. One morning the express wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Fairchild's house. The express man delivered a large wooden box addressed to Miss J. H. DeVall. This must be for you, Jean, said Mrs. Fairchild. Why, yes, said Jean, eyeing the address. I suppose I am Miss J. H. DeVall. I wonder who sent it. Let's look inside, said Mrs. Fairchild. We'll get Roger to open it. The box proved, when opened, to contain every garment and every article that Jean had left at the Huntington's. The things had not been nicely packed and were pretty well jumbled together. I guess, said Mrs. Fairchild shrewdly, they were just dumped in. What are they, anyway? The clothes I left behind me returned Jean, who had flushed and then paled at sight of her belongings. I guess—I guess Aunt Agatha doesn't want me to go back. Jean didn't want to go back. Yet it seemed rather appalling to learn so conclusively that she wasn't expected. Her lips began to quiver ominously. I'm glad she doesn't, said Mrs. Fairchild, with an arm about Jean. I want you myself. I couldn't think of losing you now. You see, I wrote to her and told her that you were to visit me and about your father. I suppose this is her reply. It isn't exactly a gracious one. I'm afraid I've outgrown some of the things, but this party dress was always too long, and the petticoats have tucks in it. Perhaps we can send whatever proves too small to Annie. They'd be too big for a year or two, but I'd like to keep them for her. I'm glad of my books, anyway, in Daddy's letters. They're safe in this writing-paper box. Suddenly Mrs. Fairchild began to laugh softly. Jean looked at her in amazement. Jean herself had been rather close to tears. I feel, said Mrs. Fairchild, as if I'd been unexpectedly slapped in the face. I wrote Mrs. Huntington such a nice letter, and now this box hurled at little you. Aunt Agatha always makes people feel slapped, assured Jean brightening. Then I'm gladder than ever that she doesn't want you. I was horribly afraid she might. Shortly after this, old Captain, who had sent the news of Molly's death to St. Louis, received a letter from Molly's brother. Captain Blossom toiled up the hill to show it to Jean. Things were going badly in John Shannon's family. Work was slack, and old Mrs. Shannon was a great trial to her daughter-in-law, who was not very well. The children, too, were very troublesome. Their new aunt, it seemed, had no patience with brats. They had all been sick with mumps, measles, and whooping-coff, and wood, just as like as not, come down with scarlet fever and chickenpox. Both Sammy and Patsy seemed to be sickly anyway. You see, explained old Captain, them children didn't have no chance to catch nothing in Bancroft out on that their old dock where nobody ever come with them their germs. No wonder they're sick, with all them germs getting them to wants. Altogether it was a very depressing letter. It confirmed all Jean's fears and presented her with several new ones. They don't even go to school, sighed Jean. But oh, I wish they had a nice aunt. There must be some nice aunts in the world, but I'm sure she isn't a nice one. I guess poor John picked the wrong woman, said old Captain Strudley. There's some that's kind to other people's children, and some that ain't. John seemed a kind sort of chap himself, but if his wife wanted a natural-born mother with real mother feelings, why all John's kindness couldn't make up for her cussedness if she felt to be cussed. It's too bad, too bad. They was good little shavers, that they're Sammy now. I'd take him myself. Oh, pleaded Jean, I wish you'd take them all. Old Captain shook his head. My heart's big enough, he said, but my freight car ain't. But the dock is, said Jean, and there's the shack. That shack's no place for children in cold weather. It's too far to school, and I got to stay with my fish. Besides, I ain't going to marry no lady whatsoever to take care of no family of children. I'm a darned, hum, lady's present. A real good cook, and women folks is mostly one kind outside and another kind inside. I had one wife, and she'd give me this. Jean and Mrs. Fairchild looked with interest at the inch-long furrow on Captain's bald peat. She'd done it with a dipper, concluded the Captain. I'm sure I don't blame you, said Mrs. Fairchild, for your caution. I suppose, quarried Old Captain, who seemed to be enjoying the glass of sweet cider in the plate of cookies that Mrs. Fairchild had offered him. You ain't heard nothing from the Huntingtons. Well, explained Mrs. Fairchild. I wrote to Mrs. Huntington two weeks ago, explaining matters and asking for news of Jean's grandfather. She had been very anxious about him, you know. And she ain't wrote yet? Well, the old iceberg. Jean giggled. She couldn't help it. She had so often compared chili Aunt Agatha, whose frozen dignity had unpleasantly impressed older persons than Jean, with the curious ice formations along the lakeshore in winter. They looked sometimes precisely like smooth, cold ladies, waiting for the warm sun to come and melt them. Aunt Agatha, however, had not melted. She sent Jean's clothes, explained Mrs. Fairchild, but she didn't write. Evidently, she is going to let us keep our nice girl. Jean was glad she was to stay. But those poor children, the more comfortable she was herself, the more she worried over their possible discomforts. She possessed a vivid imagination, and it busied itself now with those three poor babies. If Molly had been too lazy to properly wash and clothe her children, at least she had cuddled and comfort them with her soft affection at hands. Even cold Mrs. Huntington had not been cross or ugly. She had merely been unloving. Suppose, in addition to being unloving, the new Aunt was cross and cruel. Suppose she whipped those ailing babies and locked them up in dark closets. Jean worried about it before she went to sleep at night, and awoke before daylight to imagine new horrors. No Aunt could have been as black as Jean's fancy finally painted that one. That child is moping, said Mrs. Fairchild one day. In some ways she is an old little person. Sometimes she reproaches herself for having deserted her grandfather. She fears he may be missing her, and she is terribly unhappy about those children. She thinks of them constantly and imagines dreadful things. Since that letter came she hasn't been able to enjoy her meals, for fear Annie and Sammy have been sent supper-less to bed. I declare some days more than half tempted to send for those children. Not with my consent, said Mr. Fairchild firmly. I am glad to have Jean here. It's a good thing for both of you, and it isn't doing Roger any harm. I'm glad to feed and clothe and educate her, and to keep her forever if necessary, because she's all wool and a yard wide. You know what I mean. I like her well enough to do anything in reason for her. But Roger will have to go to college some day, and you know, my dear, I am only a moderately rich man. I can take care of you three, but that's all. It wouldn't be fair to Roger to add three more, or even two more to this family. You see something might happen to me, and then where would you be with five hungry children to support? Of course you're right, sighed Mrs. Fairchild, but Jean is certainly unhappy about those children. We must learn to be contented without them, returned Mr. Fairchild. She'll forget them in time. But Jean wasn't contented, and she couldn't forget the babies that had been so much a part of her young life on the dock. Still, because she was a considerate young person, she tried not to talk about them. She even tried to pretend that she wasn't thinking of them. But Mrs. Fairchild knew when she caught the big dark eyes gazing off into space that they were seeing moving pictures of Sammy, Annie, and Patsy, getting spanked by the crosses of ants and scolded by the ugliest of grandmothers. Of course she had written to them from time to time, but Sammy was barely seven and probably couldn't write. At any rate, no one had answered her letters or acknowledged her small gifts. Chapter 25 The House of Dreams Letters for everybody, said Roger one morning, even for Jean who never gets any. A bill for you, Father, an invitation for you, Mother, a circular for me, and Jean gets the only real letter in the bunch. It's from Chicago. The Fairchilds were at the breakfast table, and everybody eagerly at Jean. It must be from the Rosseters, said she. I wrote to Mrs. Rosseter ever so long ago. Oh, they've been to Alaska. They always travel a lot. And my letter followed them from place to place, and they didn't get it until just the other day. But oh, there's news of my grandfather. I'll read it to you. We were so sorry to hear through Mr. Charles Huntington that your grandfather is in such a hopeless condition. He has been absolutely helpless for the past three months, and his mind is completely gone. He knows no one, and I am sure does not miss you. So, my dear, you need worry no longer about that. I doubt if he has been well enough for a single day since you saw him last, to miss anybody. I'm sorry my grandfather's like that, said Jean. But of course I'm glad he doesn't miss me. I'm afraid he won't be able to use the nice handkerchief that I'm embroidering that lovely achon for Christmas. Poor grandfather, he's been sick so long. Anyway, said Mrs. Fairchild, seeking to divert her, and he will like her doll. Yes, said Jean Brightening. She'll just love it. We never had any Christmas on the dock, and the Huntingtons had a very grown up one. No toys or trees or stockings. I've always wanted to see a merry Christmas. You're going to, assured Mrs. Fairchild. Captain Blossom shall come to dinner, and we'll have a tree. He'd make a splendid Santa Claus, wouldn't he? We'll all be young and foolish, and you shall invite Bessie and Lucy, and any other of your schoolmates that you like to your tree. There'll be plenty of extra candy boxes, and a lot of little trinkets that will fit anybody. For Jean had girlfriends. More than that, Lucy's father was a carpenter, and Mrs. Fairchild didn't care. She said he was a good carpenter, and that Lucy was a sweet girl. And Bessie lived in an unfashionable part of town. Mrs. Fairchild didn't mind that either, nor the fact that the girl's father sold meat in his grocery. Bessie, she said, was a dear, with such a nice mother. She had taken pains to find out. Jean couldn't help remembering her experience with Lizzie, Susie, and Aunt Agatha, nor feeling that Mrs. Fairchild's attitude toward her friends was much pleasanter. She was having lunch with Bessie one day in November, when Mr. Fairchild brought home a piece of news. Does anybody in this house happen to know the whereabouts of a young woman named Jeanette Huntington-Deval, he asked when he came in that noon? Jean, she's having lunch with Bessie. It's Bessie's birthday. Good. And Roger? Gone to Ishpeming for the ball-game. Good again. I have something to tell you. A very good-looking young lawyer from Pennsylvania was directed to my office this morning, in his search for the missing heir to a very respectable fortune. What do you mean? demanded Mrs. Fairchild. Whose heir? Whose fortune? Jean's grandfather died nearly two weeks ago, returned Mr. Fairchild. Although he is known to have made a will many years ago, leaving all his money to his son Charles, no such will has been found among his FX. He kept it in his own possession. Unless it turns up, and you can believe me, the Huntingtons have made a pretty thorough search. His very comfortable estate will be equally divided between his son and Jean. Our Jean. It is practically certain that the will no longer exists. I do hope it doesn't, since Mrs. Huntington was so horrid to Jean. So do I. You must tell Jean about her grandfather, I suppose, but it will be wiser not to mention the money until we are sure. I'm certainly glad we adopted her before this happened. I'd never have considered to adopt an heiress. Nor I, said Mrs. Fairchild, I think I'd almost rather have her poor. It's such fun to give her things. Well, she may be, if that will turns up. Be sure you don't tell her. I won't, promised Mrs. Fairchild. I'd hate to have her disappointed. That afternoon the good little woman broke the news of Mr. Huntington's death to Jean, who took it very calmly. Poor grandfather, she said. I don't believe he minds being dead as long as he couldn't get well. But Uncle Charles was always very kind to him. In what way? Why, he gave him a comfortable home in that nice James to take care of him, and a trained nurse when he needed one. Aunt Agatha said that trained nurses cost a deal. I guess Uncle Charles is glad now that he gave his father everything he needed. So Jean had not known that the money had belonged to her grandfather, or that the house that Mrs. Huntington always called my house had also belonged to the old man. She had loved him for himself. Mrs. Fairchild was glad of that. But she found keeping the secret of Jean's possible fortune a very great trial. You know, Edward, she complained to her husband, I never could keep a secret. Do write to that lawyer man and find out for certain. Still she kept it, but she couldn't resist playing around the troublesome burden. What would you buy? she asked the first time she was alone with Jean. If you had oodles and oodles and oodles of money, an automobile, a diamond ring, a pet monkey, or all three. How big is an oodle? asked Jean cautiously. That's too much for me, laughed Mrs. Fairchild. But suppose you had a million, or enough so you'd always have plenty for whatever you happen to feel like doing. Would you travel? Yes, said Jean, to St. Louis to get those children. Sometimes I make up a sort of a story about that when I can't go to sleep. I find a great big chest full of money on the cinderpond beach, and then I spend it. How? Well, first I go after those children, and then I buy the cinderpond and build a lovely big homey house, like this on the green hillside back of it, across the road, you know, from where we go down to the dock. And of course I always buy the dock and the pond for sort of an extra front yard. Then I have a comfortable big automobile with a very good-natured chauffeur to take the children to and from school, and a rented mother. A what? A nice motherly person to keep house and tell the cook a very good one like Bridget what to give us for meals. I always have a nice supper ready for old captain, ready on his table to surprise him when he comes home at night. That is, in summer. In winter he lives with us. Of course I'm having the children educated so they can earn their own living when they grow up, because I might want to be married some day. I've decided to wait, though, until I'm about twenty-seven, because it's so much fun to be just a girl. I'll have Sammy learn to be a discoverer, I think, because he's so inquisitive. And maybe Annie can sing in a choir. She has a sweet little voice. And Patsy loves grasshoppers. I don't know just what he can do. Perhaps he'll make a good naturalist, a professor of zoology, laughed Mrs. Fairchild. But you've left me out. Oh, no, I haven't. You're my fairy godmother and my very best friend. You always help me buy clothes for the children and pick out wallpapers and rugs and things. You always have lovely times in my house. I'd certainly have the time of my life, agreed Mrs. Fairchild, if your dream house were real. Well, side Jean, it isn't in the daytime. I've only two dollars left in my pin cushion. I guess that wouldn't raise a very large family. And there isn't any way for a chest of gold to be washed up on the Cinderpond beach, because no ship could get inside the pond unless it climbed right over the dock. And of course without that chest the rest of the dream wouldn't work. I've tried to move the chest to the other beach, but some way it doesn't fit that one. Other people might see it there and find it first. Yes, agreed Mrs. Fairchild, the chest is certainly the most necessary part of that dream. But I fear Old Captain is the only golden treasure the Cinderpond has for us. I like him better every time I see him. CHAPTER XXVI. A PADLOCKED DOOR. Mr. Huntington's lawyers assured Mr. Fairchild, who had written to find out more definitely about the settling of Mr. Huntington's estate, that there was practically no doubt that Jeanette Huntington DeVall, being her mother's sole heir, would inherit half of her grandfather's large fortune, safely invested in a long list of things, as soon as certain formalities had been observed. Further search had revealed no trace of the lost document. Undoubtedly Mr. Huntington had destroyed it. Perhaps if Jean had known that Aunt Agatha was all but tearing the old house to pieces in hopes of finding a certain valuable document, she might have remembered that unusual day in March when she had helped her grandfather clean house in his safe. But happily for her peace of mind she knew too little of legal matters to connect the burned trash with the fact that somehow or other half of the Huntington fortune was hers. No one happened to mention any missing document. Mr. Fairchild, however, was still keeping the secret of Jean's possible fortune from everybody but his wife. He was cautious and wanted to be absolutely certain. I shall burst, declared Mrs. Fairchild earnestly, if I have to keep it much longer. Think of breaking good-nosed Jean. She's had so little. One day Mrs. Fairchild went along to pay a visit to old captain. She returned fairly beaming. I invited him to our Christmas tree, said she. He's willing to be Santa Claus. Barney's coming too. Three days before Christmas Jean obeyed a sudden impulse to call on old captain. She had purchased a pipe for Barney and wanted to be sure that it was just exactly right. Old captain would know. It was Saturday. Old captain would surely be home tidying his freight car and heating water for his weekly shave. But where was old captain? The door of the boxcar was locked. Such a thing had never happened before. Locked from the outside too. There was a brand new padlock. I guess he's doing his Christmas shopping, said Jean. Or perhaps he's done it and is afraid somebody'll steal my present. I wonder if it's a pink parasol or some pink silk stockings. Dear old captain, he thinks pink is my color, and the pinker it is the better he likes it. I do believe I'll buy him a pink necktie. But no, he'd wear it. Besides, I have that nice muffler for him. Well, it's pretty cold around here, and I'd hate to freeze to this beach, and there's no knowing when he'll be back. Maybe Mr. Fairchild knows about pipes. So Jean trudged homeward. But not, you may be sure, without a searching glance at the beach, where the dream-chest should have been, but wasn't. We're going to have our tree Christmas Eve, said Mrs. Fairchild that evening, when the family sat before the cheerful great-fire that Jean considered much pleasanter than a gas log. But we won't take anything off the tree itself until Christmas night. And Christmas Eve will open just the bundles we find under the tree. That'll make our Christmas last twice as long. Oh, I'm so excited. Jean, you aren't half as young as I am. Roger, you stolid boy, you sedate old gentlemen. Why don't you get up more enthusiasm? I always get all the things I want, and then some, said Roger lazily. So why worry? Here a spoiled child, laughed Jean. Mr. Fairchild, however, seemed to wear an air of pleased expectancy, quite different from Roger's calmness. Having a daughter to liven things up, said Mr. Fairchild, is a new experience for us. You can see how well it agrees with us both. I hope, Jean, you're giving me a pipe just like Barney's. Nobody ever gave me one like that. I'm awfully sorry, said Jean, but I haven't the price. That pipe cost sixty-nine cents, and I haven't that much in all the world. You'll have to wait till my kindergarten salary begins. Mr. Fairchild looked at his wife, touched his breast pocket where a paper rustled, threw back his head and roared. How perfectly delicious! exclaimed Mrs. Fairchild. Then her merry laugh rang out. What is the joke? asked Jean. Can you see it, Roger? No, I can't. They're just having fun with us. But if eleven cents would help you any. Roger's clothes fitted so snugly that it was rather a difficult task to extract the eleven pennies from his pocket. But he fished them out one by one. There, as your captain would say, them's yarn. I hope you won't be reckless with them, because they're all I've got. Except a quarter. You can't have that. Why? said Jean, who had been counting on her fingers. This makes just enough. I had fifty-eight cents. I wonder what Uncle Charles would have done if I'd bought him a pipe. He always smoked cigarettes, a smelly kind that I didn't like. I wouldn't have dared. He'd have been polite, but he would have looked at the pipe as if—as if it were a snail in his coffee. Oh, Jean! protested Mrs. Fairchild. What a horrid thought. Isn't it? Now when can I buy that other pipe? Not tomorrow because of that school entertainment. That'll last until dark. Not the next day morning. Very late the day before Christmas, decided Mrs. Fairchild quickly. I'll take you downtown in the car. Then you can take your parcels to Bessie and Lucy and invite them to the Christmas night part of the tree, while I'm doing a few errands. Remember Christmas night, not Christmas Eve. When the time came to do this final shopping Jean was left alone to select the pipe and to go on foot first to Lucy's then to Bessie's. Mrs. Fairchild was to call for her at Bessie's. I may be late, said she, but no matter how long it is I want you to wait for the car. It'll be dark by that time. The days are so short. You telephoned Bessie that you were coming? Yes, she'll surely be home. Then that's all right. Be sure to wait for the car. Goodbye, dear. Have a good time. Jean paused for a moment to gaze thoughtfully after the departing lady. Looks nice. She sounds nice. She IS nice, said Jean. I suppose Aunt Agatha had to stay the way she was made. But as long as there's so much of her it seems a pity they left out such a lot. Perhaps they make folks the way they do plum puddings and don't always get the fruit in even. Maybe they forgot Aunt Agatha's raisins and most of the sugar and put extra ones in Mrs. Fairchild. Maybe I ought to try to like Aunt Agatha better. I'm glad I made her a needle-book anyway, if it happens that she isn't to blame for not having any raisins. But it's nice not to have to try to like Mrs. Fairchild. I'd have to try not to. The shops were very Christmassy and all the shoppers seemed excited and happy and busy. There were parcels under all the arms or else there were baskets filled with Christmas dinners. Jean loved it all, the Christmas feel in the air, the Christmas shine in the faces. Unconsciously she loitered along the busy street after the pipe was purchased, thinking all sorts of quaint thoughts. If my father and my grandfather are in the same part of heaven, said she, I'm sure they must be friends by now because they loved me and my mother. They'd have lots of things to talk about. Perhaps they can see me now. Perhaps they're glad that my heart is full of Christmas. I know they must be thankful for Mrs. Fairchild. But if Molly can see her children... Oh, I hope Mrs. Fairchild got their box off in time and I do hope that new Aunt has some Christmas in her heart. All these people with bundles are just shining with Christmas. Jean, of course, was far from suspecting that her own bright little face was so radiant with the holiday spirit that many a person paused for a second glance. CHAPTER 27 THE PINK PRESENT Although Jean loitered outside shop windows and kept a sharp look-out for old captain, who might be shopping for pink parasols, although she lingered at Lucy's and stayed and stayed and stayed at Lucy's, it seemed as if it were taking Mrs. Fairchild a very great while to come with the promised car. It was that lady's husband who came with it finally. Come on, sister, said he, when Jean appeared on the doorstep. That other child is still finding things to put on that tree. ROGER? asked Jean. No, indeed, Mrs. Fairchild. She's our youngest these days. So I had to come for you. Hop in. It's pretty cold for the engine. Did you buy that pipe? Good. We'll stop for some tobacco. Shall I get you some for Barney? He's coming to the tree, too, is he? That's good. If his pipe draws better than mine, I'll take it away from him. Now you cuddle under the rugs and I'll stop for the backey. There were other errands after that, in spite of Mr. Fairchild's cheerful conversation concerning these various errands, it seemed to Jean that the fastest little car in Bencroft was very slow about getting home that evening. They arrived just in time for dinner. Mrs. Fairchild met them at the front door. Don't waste a minute, said she, fairly dragging them inside. Dinner's on the table. Your soup's getting cold. You can wash your hands in the downstairs laboratory, Jean. No time to go upstairs. Mother's so excited that her hair's coming down, observed Roger at the table, and she's so mysterious that I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she had a young elephant or a full-grown horse hidden upstairs in the spare-room closet. Look at her eyes! I feel, confessed Mrs. Fairchild, who had never looked prettier than she did at that moment, as if I were jumping right out of my skin. Did I eat my soup, or did Mary take it away? Roger roared. Oh, mumsy, he said. You're younger than I was at three. If you had two girls to fix a tree for, you'd starve. You haven't touched your steak. What is that noise? This house is full of strange sounds, as if Santa Claus were stuck fast in our chimney. Shall I— Mrs. Fairchild hopped up, ran to the front hall, and slipped a record into the phonograph. A noisy record, and the machine wide open. Why, mumsy, said Roger as the clattering music filled the room. I thought you hated that record. I didn't look, said Mrs. Fairchild, to see what it was, but I'll admit taking it from the noisy pile. A few moments later Roger pushed his chair back. Please excuse me, said he. I don't like the dessert we're going to have tonight. No, please sit still, pleaded his mother hastily, put on another record, that nice brass band one on the top of the pile, and then come back to your place. I see, laughed Roger, you're trying to drown the noises my giraffe is making upstairs. He obeyed, however, and presently everybody's tapioca pudding was eaten. Now good people, said Mrs. Fairchild, rising from her chair. I'm going to slip into the parlour for one moment to switch on the lights, and to make sure that—wait here, everybody, until I come for you. Of all the kids, declared Roger, my mother's the kiddiest one. It's my first merry Christmas, said Jean. That's why. She's just excited over me and my first tree. Now come, said Mrs. Fairchild, appearing in the parlour doorway. You first, Jean. With Mrs. Fairchild's fingers over her eyes, Jean was propelled across the hall into the big best room. Now look, said Mrs. Fairchild, stepping back. Jean looked. The tall tree was ablaze with electric lights and glittering ornaments. Captain Blossom stood at one side of it and Barney at the other. Both were grinning broadly. Jean's dazzled eyes travelled from the top of the tree to the beaming faces beside it, and then to a point not very far above the floor where the light shimmered upon three balls of reddish-carot gold and three pairs of bright expectant eyes. Sammy shrieked Jean darting forward. Annie, Patsy, are you real? Oh, you darling babies! It was true. There they were, dirty, ragged, and rather frightened, especially Patsy, who couldn't understand what was happening. Captain Blossom and Barney have been keeping them quiet in the attic, explained Mrs. Fairchild. The Captain went to St. Louis to get them and got to Baincroft with them this morning. They've been fed, but that's all. They haven't even had a bath. I wanted you to have the pleasure of doing everything. Annie is to sleep with you and the two boys are to have the nursery. There are night-dresses for them and a little underwear, but you were to have the fun of buying all the rest. There are toys under the spare room bed, and your box for them is there, too. That's why we are having two celebrations. I couldn't keep those children hidden a moment longer. How do you like your presents? Jean, her arms full of children, turned slowly to face the Fair Childs. Tears were sparkling on her eyelashes, but her eyes were big and bright. Oh! she said. You have also a little gift from your grandfather, said Mr. Fair Child, showing Jean a folded paper and then returning it to his pocket for safekeeping. I'll read this to you some time when you're not so busy. I just wanted you to know that your grandfather has left you enough money to buy two cinderponds, build a small orphan asylum, and feed and educate at least half a dozen small children. Oh! said Jean, using the only word she seemed to have left. Santa Claus seems to be making up for lost time, said Roger, who had caught his mother wiping away happy tears, and had feared for one dreadful moment that he himself was going to shed a couple. He never gave me three children and a fortune all at one whack, and what I heard upstairs wasn't even a goat. Never mind, said Jean, with her little twisty smile. I'll buy you one. Then she went swiftly to Mrs. Fair Child, put her arms about that little lady's waist, and laid her cheek against hers. You are my nicest Christmas present, said she. I just love you. THE END A month later. Did you ever hear the words THE END and then turn over the pages at the back of the book to see if there wasn't just the least scrap more hidden somewhere? This time there is. Everybody knows that you are quite clever enough to guess everything that happened afterwards to Jean and her family. But old Captain wants you to know for certain that Annie was perfectly sweet and lovely in her new clothes, that Sammy was so bright and attractive in his that the first grade teacher just loved him and gave him a splendid start along the road to knowledge, and that Patsy proved so good and so charming in every way that Mrs. Fair Child fairly adored him. And this is THE VERY END. END OF CHAPTER 27 END OF THE CINDER POND by Carol Watson Rankin Read by Betsy Bush, Marquette, Michigan, June, 2010