For half a dozen seconds the young Huntingtons gazed in silence at this remarkable sight. Then they burst into peals of laughter. The fact that Jeanne's eyes filled with tears did not distress them; they continued to laugh in a most unpleasant way.
Jeanne scrambled to her feet, found her chair, and sat in it.
"Who are you, anyway?" asked the boy. "The letter you sent in gave the family a shock, all right. And we've just had another. Elastic must be expensive where you came from; or is that the last word in stocking-supporters? Hey, girls?"
His sisters tittered. Poor Jeanne writhed in her chair. No one had ever been unkind to her. Even Mrs. Shannon, whose tongue had been sharp, had never made her shrink like that.
"I am Jeannette Duval," returned the unhappy visitor. "My mother was Elizabeth Huntington. This is where my grandfather lives."
"Goodness!" exclaimed the taller of the two girls, whose name was Pearl; "she must be related to us!"
"Elizabeth Huntington is the aunt that we aren't allowed to mention, isn't she?" asked the younger girl.
"Yes," returned the boy. "She ran away and married a low-down Frenchman and my grandfather turned her out. That old gardener we had two years ago used to talk about it. He said she was the best of all the Huntingtons, but of course he was crazy."
"Say, Clara," said the older girl, "we'll be late for school. You, too, Harold."
The three deserted Jeanne as unceremoniously as they did the furniture. Left alone, Jeanne looked about her. The floor was very smooth and shiny. There were rugs that looked as if they might be interesting, close to. There were chairs and tables with very slender, highly-polished legs. There was a large mirror built into the wall—part of the time she had seen six cousins instead of three—and a big fireplace with a white-and-gold mantel.