Tuesday had been a wonderful day. Never had the lake or the sky seemed so softly blue, the air so pleasant or the green bushes so nearly like real trees. The two boys had been good all day and Annie and Patsy had been sweet. There had been a late wild rose on the bush near Old Captain's freight car—a deep rose streaked with crimson. The Captain, heavy and clumsy, had scrambled up the bank to pluck it for Jeannette, who had placed it carefully in a green glass bottle on her father's little table.
Her lesson the night before had been a queer one. Her father had taught her how to dress herself in the new garments. Also, he had given her an obviously new brush and comb, and had compelled her to use them to reduce her almost-curly hair to a state of unaccustomed order. That had taken a very long time, because, when you have been using a very old brush and an almost toothless comb your hair does get snarled in spite of you.
Her lessons were getting so queer, in fact, that she couldn't help wondering what would come next. What came was the queerest thing of all.
The rose in the green glass bottle on her father's table filled the little room with fragrance. Again the door was fastened and the lid of the trunk cautiously lifted.
"Fix your hair as you did last night," directed Mr. Duval, in an odd, rather choked voice. "Put on your clothes, just as you did last night. Be very quiet about it. You were in the Pond today?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Good! Then you are clean. I will wait outside until you are dressed."
"Are we going some place, Daddy?"
"Yes," replied her father, who had taken a parcel from the box on which he usually sat. "Dress quickly, but neatly, and put on your hat. Put the gloves in your pocket. Then sit quietly here until I come for you."
Eyes shining, pulses leaping, Jeannette got into her new garments. But where were the extra ones that had been in the trunk? The two frilly night-dresses, the other chemise, the other petticoat, the extra stockings? Never mind. Her father, she was sure, had taken good care of them.
"There! my hair's going better this time. And my feet feel more at home in these shoes. And oh! My white, white petticoat—how nice you are! I never had truly white things. I suppose a real princess has heaps and heaps of them."
Mr. Duval had neglected to supply stocking-straps. It is quite possible that he didn't know that little girls' stockings were fastened that way. Motherless Jeanne certainly didn't. Mollie's were never fastened at all. Old Mrs. Shannon tied hers with a string. Jeannette found two bits of raveled rope, hanging from a nail. They, she thought, would answer the purpose.
"It's only for this evening," said Jeanne, eying with dissatisfaction the bits of frayed rope. "I'll find something better tomorrow—some nice pieces of pink calico like my dress, maybe."
Next she got into the pretty sailor suit and smoothed it into place. Then the good little dark blue hat was put on very carefully. Last of all, Jeanne lifted down the small, cheap mirror that hung on the rough wall.
"I certainly do look nice," said she. "I think Elizabeth Huntington would like me."
Most anybody would have thought the same thing. Certainly her father did when, a moment later, he opened the door.
"Turn out the light," said he. "It is time to start."
Hand-in-hand the pair stole silently along the pier to the low place where Roger Fairchild had climbed out of the lake. Here a small boat awaited them. In it were two rectangular objects that Jeanne did not recognize. They were piled one on top of the other, and the little girl was to sit on them. Blushing Barney Turcott had the oars. Evidently he was to do the rowing. Duval climbed in and took the rudder strings.
They were some distance from the dock, with the boat headed toward the twinkling lights of Bancroft, before anybody said a word. After that, while the men talked of fish, of nets, and of prices, Jeanne's investigating fingers stole over the surface of the objects on which she sat, until finally she discovered handles and straps. They were suitcases! People coming out of the Bancroft station sometimes carried them. Was it possible that she was to ride on a train or on one of the big lake steamers that came four times a week to the big dock across the Bay in the harbor of Bancroft? She who had never ridden in much of anything! Where could she be going?
When they disembarked near the foot of Main Street, Mr. Duval handed a letter to Barney Turcott.
"Please hand this to Mrs. Duval tomorrow morning," said he.
Barney nodded. Then, for once, he talked.
"Pleasant journey, sir," said he. "Good-by, Jeanne. I suppose—"
"Good-by," said Mr. Duval, taking the suitcases. "Come, Jeanne, we must hurry."
Jeanne wondered what Barney had supposed.
"I have our tickets," said Mr. Duval, as the pair entered the station; Jeanne blinking at the lights like a little owl. "Come this way. Our train is over here."
"Lower five and six," said he, to the colored man who stood beside the train. Jeanne wondered if the colored gentleman owned it; she would ask her father later.
Then they were inside. Her eyes having become accustomed to the light, Jeanne was using them. She didn't know which was the more astonishing, the inside of the coach or her father.
Like herself, Mr. Duval was clad throughout in new garments. He wore them well, too. Spotless collar and cuffs, good shoes and socks, and a suit that had the right number of seams in the proper places. He was all right behind, he was all right in front. Jeanne eyed him with pride and pleasure.
"Why, Father!" she said. "You don't even smell of fish."
"I'm glad to hear it," said he, his eyes very bright and shining. "Before I came to Bancroft I was dressed every day like this—like a gentleman. So you like me this way, eh?"
"That way and any way," she said. "But, Father. Where are we going?"
"You will sleep better if I tell you nothing tonight. Don't worry—that's all."
"But, Daddy, are we going to sleep here? I don't see any beds."
Presently, however, the porter began pulling beds right out of the air, or so it seemed to Jeanne. Some came down out of the ceiling, some came up out of the floor—and there you were, surrounded by beds! Oh, what a fairy story to tell the children!
A few whispered instructions and Jeanne knew how to prepare for bed, and how to get up in the morning. Also what to do with her clothes.
"We change in Chicago in the morning," added her father; "so you must hop up quickly when I call you."
Jeanne could hardly sleep for the joy of her lovely white night-dress. Never had the neglectful Shannons provided her with anything so white and soft and lovely as that night-dress for daytime, let alone night. Disturbing, too, was the motion of the train, the alarming things that rushed by in the darkness, the horrible grinding noises underneath, as if the train were breaking in two and shrieking for help. How could one sleep!
But finally she did. And then her father's hand was on her shoulder. After that, only half awake, she was getting into her clothes. Oh, such a jiggly, troublesome business! And one rope garter had broken right in two.
Next they were off the train and eating breakfast in a great big noisy station that seemed to be moving like the cars. Jeanne was whisked from this into something that really moved—a taxicab. After that, another train—a day coach, her father said. Jeannette was thankful that she didn't have to go to bed in that; but oh, how her head whirled!
And now, with the darkness gone, all the world was whizzing past her window. A shabby world of untidy backyards and smoke-blackened houses, huddled horribly close together—at least the Duvals had had no untidy neighbors and certainly there had been plenty of elbow room. But now the houses were farther apart. Presently there were none. The country—Oh, that was much better. If one could only walk along that woodsy road or play in that pleasant field!
"Jeanne," said Mr. Duval, touching her hand softly, "I'll tell you now where we are going. It happens that you have a grandfather. His name is William Huntington—your mother's father, you know. Some weeks ago I wrote to an old friend to ask if he were still living. He is. Your mother's brother Charles and his family live with him: a wife and three children, I believe. Your aunt is undoubtedly a lady, since your uncle's marriage was, I understand, pleasing to his family. Your mother was away from home at the time of our marriage and I met only her parents afterwards. Your grandfather I could have liked, had he liked me. Your grandmother—she is dead now—seemed the more unforgiving. Yet, neither forgave."
"Do they know about me?" asked Jeanne.
"They knew that you were living at the time of your mother's death. I want them to see you. If they like you, it will be a very good thing for you. It is, I think, the only way that I can give you what your mother would have wanted you to have; the right surroundings, the proper friends, education, accomplishments. You are nearly twelve and you have had nothing. If anything were to happen to me, I should want you with your mother's people rather than with Mollie. This—visit will—help you, I think."
"Shall I like my grandfather? And my uncle? I've never had any of those, you know."
"I hope so."
"But not as well as you, Daddy, not half as well—"
"We won't talk about it any more just now, if you please. See that load of ripe tomatoes—a big wagon heaped to the top. We don't have such splendid fruit in our cold climate. See, there is a farm. Perhaps they came from there. Such big barns and comfortable houses."
"Daddy," said Jeanne, "what does a lady do when her stocking keeps coming down and coming down? This morning I broke the rope—"
"The rope!" exclaimed astonished Mr. Duval.
Jeanne hitched up her skirt to display the remaining wisp of rope.
"Like that," she said.
"My poor Jeannette," groaned Léon Duval, "it is certainly time that you were with your mother's people. You need a gentlewoman's care."
"But, Daddy. You said we'd be on this train all day, and it's only nine now. My stocking drops all the way down. Haven't you a bit of fish-twine anywhere about you?"
"Not an inch," lamented Mr. Duval. "But perhaps the porter might have a shoestring."
"Shoestring? Yass, suh," said the porter. "Put it in your shoe foh you, suh?"
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Duval, gravely; but Jeannette giggled.
"Daddy, if you'll spread your newspaper out a good deal, I think I can fix it. There! That's ever so much better."
They spent the night in a hotel; Jeanne in a small, but very clean room—the very cleanest room she had ever seen. She examined and counted the bed-covers with much interest, and admired the white counterpane.
But she liked the outside of her snowy bed better than the inside, after she had crawled in between the clammy sheets.
"I wish," shivered Jeanne, "that Annie and Sammy were here with me—or even Patsy, if he does wiggle. It's so smooth and cold. I don't believe I like smooth, cold places."
Poor little Cinder from the Cinder Pond! She was to find other smooth, cold places; and to learn that there were smooth, cold persons even harder to endure than chilly beds.