"Tell me about it," said he, with a trembling hand on Jeanne's heaving shoulder.
As soon as Jeanne was able to speak at all, she poured it all out, in breathless sentences mixed with sobs. She was lonely, she wanted a letter from her father, she wanted her father himself, she wanted the children, she wanted the lake, she wanted to go home—she had wanted to go home every minute since—well, almost every minute since the moment of her arrival. She hated Miss Turner, she hated to practice scales, she hated the hot weather, she was homesick, she wanted Mollie to smile at her—Mollie was always good to her. And oh, she wanted to cuddle Patsy.
"He—he'll grow up," wailed Jeanne. "He won't be a baby if I wait three—three years, or wu—one muh—month less than three years. I—I wu—wu—want to go home."
"Why, bless my soul!" said her surprised grandfather; with a sudden brightening of his faded eyes. "There's no good reason, my dear, why you shouldn't go home for a visit. I didn't realize, I didn't guess—"
"Aunt Agatha never would let me," said Jeanne, hopelessly. "I've asked her twice since school was out. It's so hot and I'm so worried about daddy. I thought if I could go for just a little while—but she says it costs too much money—that I mustn't even think of such a thing."
"Oh, she did, did she?"
Jeanne was startled then by the look that came into her grandfather's sunken eyes. It was a strange look; a malevolent look; a look full of malice. Except for the first few weeks of her residence with her grandfather his eyes had always seemed kind. Now they glittered and his entire face settled into strange, new lines. It had become cruel.
"Call James!" he said.
Jeanne jumped with surprise at the sharpness of his voice. Faithful James, who was snoring on the hat-rack—Mrs. Huntington being out for the afternoon and the hat-rack seat being wide and comfortable—hurried to his master.
"James," said Mr. Huntington, leaning forward in his chair, "not a word of this to anybody—do you promise!"