This time, at sight of Jeanne, Barney began to fumble awkwardly at his pockets. Finally he pulled forth a large bag of peanuts and a small brown turtle. He laid both in her lap, for by this time Jeanne was perched on the bench outside the old car. "Thank you, Barney," smiled Jeanne. "We'll have a tea-party with the peanuts tomorrow and I'll scoop out a tiny pond, some place, for the turtle. Isn't he lovely!" Barney grinned, but made no other response. "I'm glad you folks come," chuckled Old Captain. "Barney here has nigh about talked me to death." CHAPTER VIII A SHOPPING EXPEDITION Still, it appeared, even the matter of the out-of-date coat could not put off the evil day forever. One Saturday night--the only night that stores were open in Bancroft--Mr. Duval took Jeanne to the business section of the town, where they entered the very store in which Old Captain had made his purchases. The month was September and the pink dress, washed many times by Jeanne herself and dried in the full sunshine on the old dock, had faded to a more becoming shade. Unlike the Captain, Léon Duval behaved quite like an ordinary shopper. He carried himself with dignity and seemed to know exactly what he wanted. He said: "Stockings for this little girl, if you please." The clerk, after a hasty glance at the rather shabby garments of her customers, laid some cheap, coarse stockings on the counter. "Better ones," said Mr. Duval. "Not good enough," said he, rejecting a second lot. "Something thinner and finer. Yes, these are better. Four pairs, please. "Now I shall want some underwear for her. Lisle-thread or balbriggan, I think. Also two chemises, night-dresses, whatever petticoats are worn now and a good, serviceable dress--a sailor suit, I think. And after that shoes." "Why, Daddy!" gasped Jeanne. "I thought you were going to buy _nails_. You _said_ nails." "Nails, too, perhaps; but first these." Jeanne regarded her father thoughtfully. He had always been very gentle with her, but of late--yes, certainly--he had been very much kinder to her. And now, all these clothes. Was he, perhaps, going to send her to a real school--the big public school that stood so high that one could see its distant roof from the wharf? A lack of proper clothing had heretofore prevented her going--that, the distance, and her usefulness at home. She was older now, she could manage the walk. Michael disliked the task, but he _could_ look after the younger children. But with _clothes_, she could go to school. That would be splendid. Perhaps, in another year, Michael could have clothes, too. But how particular her father was about hers. The chemises must have a little fine lace on them, he said. And the petticoats--the embroidery must be finer. Yes, the blue serge dress with the fine black braid on the sailor collar would do nicely. And next, a small, neat hat.