"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."