At the conclusion of Jeanne's first uncomfortable meal with her new relatives, Mrs. Huntington detained the children, for a moment, in the dining-room. "Next week," said she, "Jeannette will be going to school. You are not to tell the other pupils nor any of your friends, nor the maids in this house, anything of her former life. And you, too, Jeannette, will please be silent concerning your poverty and the fact that your father was a common fishman." "Gee!" scoffed Harold, holding his nose. "A fishman!" "He was a _gentleman_," replied Jeanne, loyally. "He was _not_ common. Mollie was common, but my father wasn't." "No gentleman _could_ be a fishman," returned Mrs. Huntington, who really supposed she was telling the truth. "You will remember, I hope, not to mention his business!" "Yes'm," promised Jeanne, meekly. "Yes, Aunt Agatha," prompted Mrs. Huntington. "Yes, Aunt Agatha," said Jeanne, thoroughly awed by the large, cold lady. "Now we will see what you need in the way of clothes. Of course you have nothing at all suitable." Jeanne followed her aunt upstairs. Mrs. Huntington noted with surprise that the garments in the drawers were neatly folded. Also that they were of astonishing fineness. "Did your stepmother buy these!" asked the lady. "No. My father." "These handkerchiefs, too!" "Yes, he bought _everything_." "But you have only six. And not enough of anything else. And only this one dress!" "That's all. Father didn't put any of my old things in. They weren't much good--I suppose Annie will have my pink dress." Mrs. Huntington wrote many words on a slip of paper. "I shall shop for these things at once," said she. "You need a jacket and rubbers before you can go to school. Of course you haven't any gloves." "Yes, ma'am--yes, Aunt Agatha. Here, in this drawer." "They're really very good," admitted Mrs. Huntington. "But you will need a heavier pair for everyday." "And something for my stockings," pleaded Jeanne. "I guess father didn't know what to get. You see, most of the time I went barefoot--" "Mercy, child!" gasped Mrs. Huntington, looking fearfully over her shoulder. "You mustn't tell things of that sort. They're _disgraceful_. Maggie might have _heard_ you." "I'll try not to," promised Jeanne. "But my stockings _won't_ stay up." Mrs. Huntington wrote another word or two on her list. "Anything else?" she asked. "Things to write a letter with--oh, please, ma'am--Aunt Agatha, could I have those? I want to write to my father--he taught me how, you know." "Maggie will put writing materials in the drawer of that table," promised Mrs. Huntington. "I'll ring for them now. I'm glad that you can at least read and write; but you _must_ not say 'Ma'am.' That word is for servants." "I'll try to remember," promised Jeanne. Jeannette's first letter to her father would probably have surprised Mrs. Huntington had she read it. Perhaps it is just as well that she didn't. DEAR DADDY [wrote Jeanne]: