"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 up town after the fodder. Then this afternoon, me and you'll go to see Mollie. Most ginerally I takes her somethin'—fruit like, or a bouquet—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-tirin' of yourself out doin' too much work; but I sure did enjoy my room last night—all clean an' ship-shape."
"Wait till tonight!" said Jeanne. "You'll have sheets!"
"Will I?" returned Old Captain, a bit doubtfully. "Well, I may get used to 'em. They does dress up a bed."
In spite of the squealing kittens, in spite of the many small tasks that Jeanne 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 Jeanne 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," Léon Duval 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 Jeanne, and tried to be happy in that comforting thought.
That afternoon, they visited Mollie.
"This bein' a special occasion," said Old Captain, "I got both fruit and flowers. You kin carry the bouquet."
It took courage to carry it, but Jeanne 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. Outside of this, successive rings of orange marigolds, purple asters, scarlet geraniums and candytuft, with a final fringe of blue cornflowers.
"If I meet that fat boy," thought Jeanne, wickedly, "I'll bow to him."
"Once I took a 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, ain't it?"
"Yes," agreed Jeanne, "it is. Even at Aunt Agatha's biggest dinner party there wasn't a more cheerful one than this. I'm sure Mollie will like it."
But was that Mollie—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 looked lazily at the bouquet, then at Jeanne. The old, good-natured smile curved her lips.
"Hello, Jeanne," she said, "you're lookin' fine. You see, I'm sick abed, 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."
"Nothin' ever did," returned Old Captain. "But then, there's some that worries too much."
They met Barney in the road above the dock. Jeanne held out her hand. Big, raw-boned Barney gripped it with both of his, squeezed it hard—and fled.
"You tell him," said Jeanne, 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'n once, 'you'd 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 gittin' some stale?'"
"Is it really September?" asked Jeanne, 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 Jeanne. "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."
"There's a good school here. You have clothes—an' 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 weren'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 Jeanne, "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—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 idee of not startling your gran'-daddy was all right. But you'd better write your Aunt Agathy, some day, an' tell her about your father. There's no hurry. I'd ruther 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 goin'. 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's sure to be pleasant—allus 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. An' if there was music lessons, now—"
Jeanne made a face. Old Captain chuckled.
"Maybe," said he, "there wouldn't be time for that."
"I'm sure there wouldn't," agreed Jeanne.
On Saturday, Jeanne went up town to buy food. But first she visited the five-and-ten-cent store to buy an egg-beater. Just outside, she came face to face with Roger Fairchild—and his mother.
Jeanne, an 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. Jeanne did not look almost fourteen, for she was still rather small for her years.
"Did you?" persisted his tormenter.
"Yes, I did," growled Roger. "Hurry on, Mother. I gotta get a haircut as soon as we've had that ice cream."
Jeanne 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 Jeanne. "I'm afraid I like to tease, just a little. He looks like sort of a baby-boy, doesn't he?"
Meanwhile, the boy's mother was questioning her curiously embarrassed son.
"Roger," said she, "who was that pretty child and what did she mean?"
"I dunno," fibbed Roger.
"Yes, you do. What clothes?"
"Oh, old ones—don't bother."
"I insist on knowing."
"Aw, what's the use—the ones that got in the lake and shrunk so I couldn't wear 'em," mumbled Roger. "Come on, here's the ice-cream place."
"How did she know about your clothes?" persisted Mrs. Fairchild.
"Aw," growled Roger, "she was hangin' '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 s'pose so," said Roger. "How should I know—come on, your ice cream'll 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 that miserable Cinder Pond 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 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."