“You said you were in trouble, my little friend,” said Mr. Huntsworth, who had been taking note of Jeanne’s pale face and distressed air. “Tell us about it. We may be able to help you.”
“Will your father care if I talk to you, Bob?” asked Jeanne, longing to confide in these friends and yet hesitating to do so.
“Dad was sorry after you left that he had been so unkind to you,” said Bob. “Especially when he found how good you had been to send Frank to your home. He regretted his sternness. So we can be friends all right. Now tell us all about it.”
“I will,” and Jeanne told all that had occurred since she left the regiment and briefly sketched for Mr. Huntsworth’s benefit the happenings in New Orleans.
“My dear,” said the old gentleman, gravely, when she had finished, “you are indeed in trouble. I must think it over and see if I cannot help you.”
“I think your aunt is just about the meanest person I ever heard of,” declared Bob. “I am sorry that she is a Southerner. I didn’t know that we had any one among us that could be like that.”
“She is partly of foreign blood, Bob.”
“To be sure! That explains everything,” said Bob. “But what makes your uncle let her act so?”
“I don’t know,” said Jeanne, sadly, “he seems to have no will but hers. Sometimes I think that he is afraid of her, and yet why should a great big man be afraid of a slender woman?”
“I have known of such cases,” observed Mr. Huntsworth. “There may be more in that than you dream, my dear. We must think over the matter and see what can be done. And remember, child, that you have friends. That you are no longer alone but that we will help you some way.”