When Jeanne had finished her morning's housecleaning, 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 home-made bench.

"Some day," said Jeanne, "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 nineteen dollars in my pincushion. 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 oilcloth like Aunt Agatha had in her kitchen costs very 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 Jeannette, freshened by a bath in the Cinder Pond 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 Cinder Pond Savage looks a little more like Jeannette Huntington Duval."

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 oilcloth, which had proved inexpensive; and some other drygoods. So many things, in fact, that she wondered how to get them home.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHE ALMOST b.u.mPED INTO A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE]

"Where," asked the clerk, at the last place, "shall I send this?"

"It's out quite a little beyond the town," said Jeanne, 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 Jeanne, who meant to watch for the wagon where the road turned. "Now I'll be able to buy one or two more things."

Jeanne 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 b.u.mped 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 Jeanne, 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.

"Aw, g'wan," muttered embarra.s.sed Roger, brushing past her. "I don't know yuh."

Jeanne 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 Jeanne had learned under the Huntington roof that introductions were customary; but you see, when you've 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, Jeanne rather liked boys, in a wholesome comrade-y sort of way.

But if Roger seemingly lacked grat.i.tude, 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 Jeanne 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," sighed the Old Captain, "but you got to stand by."

"This part of the wharf," remarked Jeanne, "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 in it. It--it damaged his boat some."

"Was Barney alone?"

"No. Your father and Michael was with him."

"Barney," demanded Jeanne, "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 p'isen when you know."

"_What_ happened?" pleaded Jeanne, pale with dread.

"It was like this. The squall came up sudden, an' the boat went over. A tug picked Barney up--he was hangin' on to the bottom of the boat."

"And--and daddy?"

"There was n.o.body 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"--Jeanne's feet kept time to the words as the pair walked up the dock. "They went and they didn't come back."

Jeanne couldn't believe it. Yet, somehow, she had known it. All that summer, in spite of her brave a.s.surances 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--maybe you'd want to go inside and cry a bit," suggested the worried Captain. "Shall I--just hang about outside?"

Jeanne 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 sailorman do to help her?

Suddenly, a lanky, bowlegged 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 et a Hungry Devil, looks like."

"Right here," returned Old Captain. "It's Jeannette Huntington _Duval_."

Every inch of that boy was funny. Even his queer voice was provocative of mirth. Jeanne _laughed_.

But the boy had barely turned the corner before surprised Jeanne, a little heap on the bench, was sobbing sobs a great many sizes too large for her small body.

"It's soaked in," said the Captain, patting her ponderously. "There, there, Jeannie girl. There, there. Just cry all ye want to. I cried some myself, when I heard about it."