The Cinder Pond

"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 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 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 embarrassed 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 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 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 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"—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 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—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."

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 off his overcharged feelings.

Jeanne's sobs, 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! Ladies present," rose suddenly above the clatter of dishes. The silence, followed by: "Dumbed if she hasn't eaten all the bread!"

Right after that the listening Captain heard the sound of tearing paper. A moment later, Jeanne 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."

Jeanne, 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 et with a shiny knife like this since I was keepin' bachelor's hall," said he. "I'll just admire eatin' 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 wants any money for anything—clothes or food or anything at all—you look in this can. There'll be some thar. You see, you're my little girl, just now. The rest'll be put away safe—you can forgit about that. Was that there a yawn? Gettin' sleepy, are you? Well, well, where's the lantern?"

At the door of the Duval shack, Jeanne stumbled over something—a large basket with the cover fastened down tight. Jeanne carried it inside and lifted the cover. It contained four small kittens and 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 Jeanne. "Of course I shall still love Bayard Taylor, but after all, kittens are a lot more cuddle-y 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 and asleep, Jeanne, who had certainly spent an exhausting day, was no longer able to keep her eyes open.

ROGER'S RAZOR

"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."

A NEW FRIEND FOR JEANNE

The very next day, when Old Captain and Jeanne were coming away from the hospital, they met Mrs. Fairchild going in to visit a sick friend. The impulsive little lady pounced upon Jeanne.

"Please don't think that I'm crazy," said she, in a voice that Jeanne considered 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 ever 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 meetin' her right now. She tore a hole two feet across that there net o' mine savin' your boy. That's how I come to know about it."

"Not this little girl!"

"It was mostly the net," said Jeanne, 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's some traveler," 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.

"Ugh!" she said, "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 Jeanne 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 Jeanne, her life on the wharf, her two years with the Huntingtons, her father's wishes for her. Jeanne found it not only easy but pleasant to chatter to her sympathetic new acquaintance.

"This is a beautiful spot in 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 very 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 Jeanne, shyly.

"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 Jeanne.

After that, Mrs. Fairchild made a point of borrowing Jeanne frequently. Her comfortable little open car often stopped in the road above the Captain's old freight car to honk loudly for Jeanne, and she often carried the Cinder Pond child home with her, and kept her to meals. Mrs. Fairchild was the nearest approach to a girl companion that Jeanne had ever had. Jeanne liked the pretty, fair-haired lady, who was so delightfully young for her thirty-seven years. She also liked Mr. Fairchild child, 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 she had Jeanne beside her in the little car. "I've promised to dress a whole dozen for the church guild. I want you to help me buy them right now. Won't that be fun? And we'll dress them together. You shall choose the dresses for six of them. Isn't it a 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 Jeanne had been to find them missing.

"I'm worried about them," confessed Jeanne. "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 Jeanne. "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 a little!"

Of Roger, Jeanne 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, Jeanne!" without blushing.

Jeanne 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. Jeanne, you see, was growing and her garments were not. Still, the other pupils were far from suspecting that Jeanne was a motherless, fatherless waif from the Cinder Pond. She was always neat; and even daintier than many of her classmates; but the washing, ironing, and mending necessary to insure this daintiness, meant considerable work on Jeanne's part.

One evening, when she had taken off her dress to replace a button, it occurred to Jeanne to feel in the pockets of her father's old coat—the coat that still hung behind the door of Léon Duval'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 Jeanne. You, in turn, can teach it all to Annie and your brothers. Even the hated arithmetic you must conquer."

"Oh," sighed Jeanne, "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 Jeanne 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 herself, 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 spare 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, and his shoes. From under these came a gleam of something faintly pink. Jeanne carefully drew it forth.

"My old pink dress!" she exclaimed.

Jeanne slipped it on. It was much too short.

"Why," said she, "what a lot I've grown!"

Upright in one corner of the trunk, Jeanne found a green bottle. It held a withered stalk 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 Jeanne. "He must have found it there when he got back and kept it. And this dress. He didn't give it to Annie. He kept it. And I'm glad. Sometimes, when I was so awfully lonesome at Aunt Agatha's, I used to wonder if my father really did love me. But 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 bankbook. She showed that, the next day, to Old Captain, who studied it carefully.

"I'm glad," said Jeanne, "that there's a little money. It may be needed for Mollie."

It was. One day, early in October, Mollie failed to waken from one of her comfortable naps. Thanks to Léon Duval's modest savings, poor Mollie was decently buried. Mrs. Fairchild took Jeanne 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 Mollie's children just as soon as ever I can," said Jeanne, on the way home. "I was going to do it for daddy, anyway; but now I want to for Mollie, too."

MOLLIE'S BABIES

The following week, Jeanne 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. Jeanne 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 considered this a huge joke. Whether Bayard Taylor crawled over the edge of the dock and fell in, or whether one of the playful kittens batted him overboard, or whether he was hidden in some crevice among the cinders, nobody ever knew. Though diligently sought for, the great American traveler never turned up.

Mr. Fairchild warmly welcomed both Jeanne and the kittens and declared that he was delighted to have somebody to make the table come out even at meal times.

"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. Jeanne's room was newly decorated and even refurnished for her. It was the very girliest of girl's rooms and the windows overlooked the lake. Jeanne was glad of that. It made it seem like home.

Next, her wardrobe was replenished. Mrs. Huntington had replenished Jeanne's wardrobe more than once; but this was different. Loving care went into the selecting of every garment, and it made a surprising difference. Jeanne 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 Jeanne's gypsy-like skin. The Fairchilds were delighted with her appearance.

Roger proved a comfortable housemate. He wasn't a tease, like Harold. Jeanne neither liked nor disliked him. She merely regarded him as part of the Fairchilds' 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 Jeanne 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 Jeanne 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. Duval."

"This must be for you, Jeanne," said Mrs. Fairchild.

"Why, yes," said Jeanne, eying the address. "I suppose I am Miss J.H. Duval. 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 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," assured 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 nobody 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 glass 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 shore 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 space, 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.

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.'"

"I'm sorry my grandfather is like that," said Jeanne, "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 'H' on for Christmas. Poor grandfather. He's been sick so long."

"Anyway," said Mrs. Fairchild, seeking to divert her, "Annie will like her doll."

"Yes," said Jeanne, 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 Jeanne had girl friends! 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 corner grocery. Bessie, she said, was a dear, with such a nice mother. She had taken pains to find out.

Jeanne 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 Jeannette Huntington Duval?" he asked, when he came in that noon.

"Jeanne? 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?"

"Jeanne'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 effects. 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 considerable estate will be equally divided between his son Charles and Jeanne—our Jeanne. It is practically certain that the will no longer exists."

"I do hope it doesn't, since Mrs. Huntington was so horrid to Jeanne."

"So do I. You must tell Jeanne 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 consented 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 Jeanne, 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 and that nice James to take care of him, and a trained nurse when he needed one—Aunt Agatha said that trained nurses cost a great deal. I guess Uncle Charles is glad now that he gave his father everything he needed."

So Jeanne 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 Jeanne'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 Jeanne, "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 Jeanne, 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 happened to feel like doing. Would you travel?"

"Yes," said Jeanne, "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 Cinder Pond beach, and then I spend it."

"How?"

"Well, first I go after those children. And then I buy the Cinder Pond and build a lovely big home-y 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, mother-y 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 zoölogy," 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," sighed Jeanne, "it isn't—in the daytime. I've only two dollars left in my pincushion. 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 Cinder Pond 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 Cinder Pond has for us: I like him better every time I see him."

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 Jeannette Huntington Duval, 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 Jeanne had known that Aunt Agatha was all but tearing the old house to pieces in hopes of finding a certain very 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 Jeanne'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 news to Jeanne—she's had so little."

One day, Mrs. Fairchild went alone 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, Jeanne 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 box-car 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 Jeanne. "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 bench, and there's no knowing when he'll get back. Maybe Mr. Fairchild knows about pipes."

So Jeanne 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 grate fire that Jeanne considered much pleasanter than a gas log. "But we won't take anything off the tree itself until Christmas night. On Christmas eve we'll open just the bundles we find under the tree. That'll make our Christmas last twice as long. Oh, I'm so excited! Jeanne, you aren't half as young as I am. Roger, you stolid boy, you sedate old gentleman, 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?"

"You're a spoiled child," laughed Jeanne.

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, Jeanne, you're giving me a pipe just like Barney's—nobody ever gave me one like that."

"I'm awfully sorry," said Jeanne, "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 Jeanne. "Can you see it, Roger?"

"No, I can't—they're just havin' 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 yourn.' I hope you won't be reckless with 'em because they're all I've got—except a quarter. You can't have that."

"Why!" said Jeanne, 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, Jeanne!" 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, Jeanne 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. Good-by, dear. Have a good time."

Jeanne paused for a moment to gaze thoughtfully after the departing lady.

"She looks nice, she sounds nice, and she is nice," said Jeanne. "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 Christmas-y 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. Jeanne 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 both 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 Mollie 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."

Jeanne, 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.

THE PINK PRESENT

Although Jeanne loitered outside shop windows and kept a sharp lookout for Old Captain, who might be shopping for pink parasols, although she lingered at Lucy's and stayed and stayed and stayed at Bessie'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 Jeanne appeared on the doorstep. "That other child is still finding things to put on that tree."

"Roger?" asked Jeanne.

"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 'baccy."

There were other errands after that. In spite of Mr. Fairchild's cheerful conversation concerning these various errands, it seemed to Jeanne that the fastest little car in Bancroft 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 lavatory, Jeanne—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, Mumsey!" 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, Mumsey!" 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 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 parlor 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 Jeanne. "That's why. She's just excited over me and my first tree."

"Now come," said Mrs. Fairchild, appearing in the parlor doorway. "You first, Jeanne."

With Mrs. Fairchild's fingers over her eyes, Jeanne was propelled across the hall into the big, best room.

"Now look!" said Mrs. Fairchild, stepping back.

Jeanne 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.

Jeanne's dazzled eyes traveled 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, carroty gold—and three pairs of bright, expectant eyes.

"Sammy!" shrieked Jeanne, 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 Bancroft 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 are 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?"

Jeanne, her arms full of children, turned slowly to face the Fairchilds. 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. Fairchild, showing Jeanne a folded paper and then returning it to his pocket for safe-keeping. "I'll read this to you sometime when you're not so busy. I just wanted you to know that your grandfather has left you enough money to buy two Cinder Ponds, build a small orphan asylum, and feed and educate at least half a dozen small children."

"Oh!" said Jeanne, 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 Jeanne, with her little twisty smile, "I'll buy you one."

Then she went swiftly to Mrs. Fairchild, put her arms about that little lady's waist, and laid her cheek against hers.

"You are my nicest Christmas present," she said. "I just love you."

THE END