"That's a queer kind of stove," thought Jeanne, noting the gas log.
After a thousand years (it seemed to Jeanne) the four grown-ups returned. Her father came first.
"You are to stay here for five years," said he, taking her hands in his. "After that, we shall see. We have all decided that it is best for you to be here with your mother's people. They have consented to care for you. I shall pay, as I can, for what you need. For the rest, you will be indebted to the kindness of your grandfather. I need not tell you, my Jeanne, to be a good girl. You will write to me often and I will write to you. And now, good-by. I must go at once to make my train."
He kissed Jeanne first on one cheek, then on the other, French-fashion; then, with a gesture so graceful and comprehensive that Jeanne flushed with pride to see it, Léon Duval took leave of his relatives-in-law.
"He isn't a low-down Frenchman and I know it," was her comforting thought.
Poor child, the rest of her thoughts were not so comforting. Five years! Not to see her wonderful father again for five years. Not to see good-natured Mollie, or Michael or Sammy or Annie or Patsy—Why, Patsy would be a great big boy in five years. There would be no one to make clothes for the children, no one to make Annie into a lady—she had firmly intended to do that. Unselfish mite that she was, her first distressing thoughts were for the other children.
"A maid will come for you presently," said the large, smooth lady, addressing Jeanne, "and will show you your room. I will look through your clothes later to see what you need. I am your Aunt Agatha. This is your Uncle Charles. This is your grandfather. I must go now to see about your room."
Her Uncle Charles nodded carelessly in her direction, looked at his watch, and followed his wife.
The room to which the maid escorted Jeanne was large, with cold gray walls, a very high ceiling, and white doors. The brass bed was wide, very white and smooth. The pillows were large and hard. The towels that hung beside the stationary basin looked stiff and uninviting. Jeanne wondered if one were supposed to unfold those towels—it seemed a pity to wrinkle their polished surface. Altogether it was not a cosy room; any more than Mrs. Huntington was a cosy person.
Jeanne turned hopefully to the large window. There was another house very close indeed. The gray brick wall was not beautiful and the nearest window was closely shuttered.