"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.
CHAPTER XXV
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."