"Now, I'm cookin'," returned Old Captain, hastily. "When I'm cookin', I ain't answerin' no questions. I'm askin' 'em. You can tell me how you got here and what started ye—I'm dyin' to hear all about it. But you can't ask no questions. And just remember this. I'm darn glad—hum—real glad you come. This here's a lonesome place with no children runnin' 'round; and I'm mighty glad to hear somethin' twitterin' besides them swallows, so just twitter away. First of all, who brung you?"
In spite of her dismay at Mollie's illness, in spite of her keen disappointment regarding the missing children, in spite of her bewilderment and her growing fear concerning her strangely absent father, Jeanne was conscious of a warm glow of happiness. Even if everybody had been gone, the Cinder Pond, more beautiful than ever, would still have been home.
But Old Captain's hearty welcome, and, more than all, the kindliness that seemed to radiate from his broad, ruddy face, seemed to enfold her like a warm, woolly bathrobe. The Captain was rough and uncultured; but you couldn't look at him without knowing that he was good.
Supper was a bit late that night. Jeanne, very neat in her brown poplin dress, Old Captain, very comfortable in his faded shirt-sleeves, ate it by lamplight at the Captain's small, square table. Truly an oddly contrasted pair. But in spite of the fact that the Captain's heart was much better than his table manners, Jeanne was able to eat enough for two small girls.
After supper, the Captain lighted a big lantern, collected his tools, and trudged down the cindery road to the Duval corner of the old wharf. Presently Jeanne, who was clearing away after the meal, heard the sound of hammering and the "squawk" of nails being pulled from wood—noises travel far, over water that is quiet. When she had washed and dried the dishes, she followed Old Captain.
"Thought ye'd come, too, did ye! Well, she's all opened up. You'd best take your father's room—for tonight, anyway. It ain't been disturbed since—hum! The blankets is all right, I guess. There's a bolt on the door—better lock yourself in. Few boats ever touches here, but one might come. I'd hate like thunder to have ye kidnapped—wouldn't want to lose ye so soon. Did you bring along that sheet? Good. I'll leave you the lamp while I fixes up a bunk in Mollie's part of the house for my old bones."
The little room seemed full of her father's presence. An old coat hung behind the door. The little old trunk stood against the wall. On the big box that served for a table, with a mark to keep the place, was a library book. Happily, sleepy Jeanne did not think of looking at the card. If she had looked, she would have learned that the book was long overdue. Thanks to the big clean lake and the wind-swept wharf, there was no dust to show how long the place had been untenanted.
The music of the water rippling under the old dock, how sweet it was. The air that blew in at her open window, how good and how soothing. The bright stars peeping in through the little square seemed such friendly stars. Even the cold stiffness of the brand-new sheet was not sufficiently disturbing to keep the tired little girl awake.
She found her breakfast on the Captain's stove. Just in time, for the fire was out and a bright-eyed chipmunk, perched on the edge of the frying-pan, was nibbling a bit of fried potato. The Captain had disappeared. Jeanne didn't guess that he had purposely fled.
"There's so much to do," said Jeanne, eying the Captain's grimy teakettle, after she had finished her breakfast, "that I don't know where to begin. If I could find my old pink dress—I know what I'll do, I'll buy something and make me a great big apron. Even my everyday clothes are too good for a working lady. But first, I guess I'll clean the room Old Captain slept in. Mollie kept a lot of old stuff that ought to be thrown away. I hope there aren't any rats. And I must remember to mail the letter that I wrote to my grandfather just before I got to Chicago. It's still in my work-box. I think some fresh hay would be nice for the Captain's bunk. There's a lot of long grass on top of the bank—perhaps I can cut some of that and dry it. I used to love to do that. I could make fresh pillows, too. But I must have something to work in."