At any rate, Jeanne was well provided with pocket money. To be sure, Pearl, who loved to order expensive concoctions with queer names at soda-water fountains, usually borrowed the money, sometimes forgetting to return it. Also, thus adding insult to injury, Pearl always invited her own friends to partake of these delicacies without inviting Jeanne, even though that wistful small person were at the very door of the ice-cream parlor. Pearl, several years older than her cousin and much taller, didn't want children tagging along.
But now, for six weeks, there had been no letter from her father and no money. She didn't care about the money. When you are going home in three years, eleven months, and fourteen days, you are so afraid that you won't have enough money for your ticket when the time comes that you save! Jeanne had saved her money whenever she could, and, with the thrift that she had perhaps inherited from some remote French ancestor, had hidden it in the fat pincushion of the work-box that Mrs. Huntington had given her for Christmas. She had hidden it so neatly, too, that no one would ever suspect that dollar bills had gradually replaced the sawdust. Only her grandfather knew about the money, and he had promised not to tell.
But after Jeanne had intrusted him with the secret, and when James was shaving the old gentleman, Mr. Huntington had suddenly chuckled.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I am thinking about my youngest grand-child," explained his master. "She is the wisest little monkey I ever knew. She has enough common sense for a whole family."
"She has that," agreed James. "Mrs. Huntington, sir, wouldn't dast try to teach cook how to make a new pie, cook's that set in her own conceit, much less do any cooking herself; but that there little black-eyed thing comes in last month with a new dessert that she'd learned in her Domestic Science, and if cook didn't sit right down like a lamb and let her make it. What's more, Bridget asked for the rule and has made it herself every Sunday since. Cook says many a married lady is less handy than that small girl. She's got brains—"
"That'll do, James. I like your enthusiasm, but not when you gesticulate with that razor—I can't spare any of my features. But I agree with you about the child. She is thoughtful beyond her years."
The postman came and came and came, and still there was no letter. Old Captain, to be sure, had written oftener than usual and, when one came to think about it, had said a great deal less. She knew from him that spring had come to the Cinder Pond, that the going-to-bed swallows had returned, that the pink-tipped clover had blossomed, that the mountain-ash tree that had somehow planted itself on the dock promised an unusual crop of berries, that the herring were unusually large and abundant but whitefish rather scarce. Also the lake was as blue as ever—she had asked about that—and Barney had a boil on his neck. But not a word about her father or Mollie or the children. Usually there had been some new piece of inquisitiveness on Sammy's part for the Captain to write about; for Sammy was certainly an inquisitive youngster if there ever was one; but even news of Sammy seemed strangely lacking. And he had forgotten twice to answer Jeanne's question about Annie's clothes; if the little ready-made dress that Jeanne had sent for Christmas was still wearable or had she outgrown it.
Then came very warm weather, and still no real news of her relatives and no letter from her father. Once, he and Barney had taken rather a long cruise to the north shore. Perhaps he had gone again; with Dan McGraw, for instance, who was always cruising about for fish, for berries, or for wreckage. Dan had often invited her father to go. Still, it did seem as if he would have mentioned that he was going; unless, indeed, he had gone on very short notice. Or perhaps—and that proved a most distressing thought—perhaps she had been gone so long that he was beginning to forget her. Perhaps Michael, to whom he had been giving nightly lessons, had taken her place in her father's affections. Indeed, Harold had once assured her that fathers always liked their sons better than their daughters. Perhaps it was so, for Uncle Charles, who paid no attention whatever to Pearl and Clara, sometimes talked to Harold.
As before, the young Huntingtons had gone to their seashore grandmother. Jeannette, of course, had to remain within reach of Miss Turner, who now gave her better marks, in spite of the fact that her recitations were no more brilliant and even less comfortable than they had been in school.