"You will sleep better if I tell you nothing tonight. Don't worry—that's all."
"But, Daddy, are we going to sleep here? I don't see any beds."
Presently, however, the porter began pulling beds right out of the air, or so it seemed to Jeanne. Some came down out of the ceiling, some came up out of the floor—and there you were, surrounded by beds! Oh, what a fairy story to tell the children!
A few whispered instructions and Jeanne knew how to prepare for bed, and how to get up in the morning. Also what to do with her clothes.
"We change in Chicago in the morning," added her father; "so you must hop up quickly when I call you."
Jeanne could hardly sleep for the joy of her lovely white night-dress. Never had the neglectful Shannons provided her with anything so white and soft and lovely as that night-dress for daytime, let alone night. Disturbing, too, was the motion of the train, the alarming things that rushed by in the darkness, the horrible grinding noises underneath, as if the train were breaking in two and shrieking for help. How could one sleep!
But finally she did. And then her father's hand was on her shoulder. After that, only half awake, she was getting into her clothes. Oh, such a jiggly, troublesome business! And one rope garter had broken right in two.
Next they were off the train and eating breakfast in a great big noisy station that seemed to be moving like the cars. Jeanne was whisked from this into something that really moved—a taxicab. After that, another train—a day coach, her father said. Jeannette was thankful that she didn't have to go to bed in that; but oh, how her head whirled!
And now, with the darkness gone, all the world was whizzing past her window. A shabby world of untidy backyards and smoke-blackened houses, huddled horribly close together—at least the Duvals had had no untidy neighbors and certainly there had been plenty of elbow room. But now the houses were farther apart. Presently there were none. The country—Oh, that was much better. If one could only walk along that woodsy road or play in that pleasant field!
"Jeanne," said Mr. Duval, touching her hand softly, "I'll tell you now where we are going. It happens that you have a grandfather. His name is William Huntington—your mother's father, you know. Some weeks ago I wrote to an old friend to ask if he were still living. He is. Your mother's brother Charles and his family live with him: a wife and three children, I believe. Your aunt is undoubtedly a lady, since your uncle's marriage was, I understand, pleasing to his family. Your mother was away from home at the time of our marriage and I met only her parents afterwards. Your grandfather I could have liked, had he liked me. Your grandmother—she is dead now—seemed the more unforgiving. Yet, neither forgave."