"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 Jeanne had left at the Huntingtons'. 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 Jeanne, who had flushed and then paled at sight of her belongings. "I guess--I guess Aunt Agatha doesn't want me to go back."

Jeanne 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 Jeanne.

"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 big tucks in them."

"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, and daddy's letters--they're safe in this writing-paper box."

Suddenly Mrs. Fairchild began to laugh softly. Jeanne looked at her in amazement. Jeanne 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," a.s.sured Jeanne, 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 Mollie's death to St. Louis, received a letter from Mollie's brother. Captain Blossom toiled up the hill to show it to Jeanne.

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 cough and would, just as like as not, come down with scarlet fever and chicken pox. Both Sammy and Patsy seemed to be sickly, anyway.

"You see," explained Old Captain, "them children didn't have no chance to catch nothin' in Bancroft--out on that there old dock where n.o.body ever come with them there germs. No wonder they're sick, with all them germs gettin' 'em to onct."

Altogether, it was a _very_ depressing letter. It confirmed all Jeanne's fears and presented her with several new ones.

"They don't even go to school," sighed Jeanne. "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, shrewdly.

"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 wan't a natural-born mother, with real mother feelin's, 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 there Sammy, now. I'd take _him_, myself."

"Oh," pleaded Jeanne, "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 Jeanne. "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 goin' to marry no lady whatsoever to take care of no family of children. I'm a _durned_--hum, ladies present--real good cook and women-folks is mostly one kind outside and another kind inside. I had one wife and she give me this."

Jeanne and Mrs. Fairchild looked with interest at the inch-long furrow on the Captain's bald pate.

"She done it with the dipper," concluded the Captain.

"I'm sure I don't blame you," said Mrs. Fairchild, "for your caution."

"I s'pose," queried Old Captain, who seemed to be enjoying the gla.s.s of sweet cider and the plate of cookies that Mrs. Fairchild had offered him, "you ain't heard nothin' from the Huntingtons?"

"Well," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "I wrote to Mrs. Huntington two weeks ago, explaining matters and asking for news of Jeanne's grandfather--she has been very anxious about him, you know--"

"An' she ain't wrote _yit_? Well, the old _iceberg_!"

Jeanne giggled. She couldn't help it. She had so often compared chilly Aunt Agatha, whose frozen dignity had unpleasantly impressed older persons than Jeanne, with the curious ice-formations along the lake sh.o.r.e 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 Jeanne's clothes," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "but she didn't write. Evidently, she is going to let us keep our nice girl."

Jeanne 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 Mollie had been too lazy to properly wash and clothe her children, at least she had cuddled and comforted them with her soft, affectionate 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 were cross and _cruel_! Suppose she whipped those ailing babies and locked them up in dark closets!

Jeanne 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 Jeanne'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 supperless to bed. I declare, some days, I'm more than half tempted to _send_ for those children."

"Not with my consent," said Mr. Fairchild, firmly. "I am glad to have Jeanne 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 good 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 Jeanne is certainly unhappy about those children."

"She must learn to be contented without them," returned Mr. Fairchild.

"She'll forget them, in time."

But Jeanne 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 s.p.a.ce, that they were seeing moving pictures of Sammy, Annie, and Patsy getting spanked by the crossest of aunts 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 XXV

THE HOUSE OF DREAMS

"Letters for everybody," said Roger, one morning; "even for Jeanne who _never_ gets any. A bill for you, Father; an invitation for you, Mother; a circular for me; and Jeanne gets the only real letter in the bunch.

It's from Chicago."

The Fairchilds were at the breakfast table and everybody looked eagerly at Jeanne.

"It must be from the Rossiters," said she. "I wrote to Mrs. Rossiter 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! Here'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.'"