"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.