Clara was obliged to admit that he hadn't. "But then," added Clara, cruelly, "a _real_ gentleman always hires a stenographer to write his letters. He doesn't _think_ of doing such things himself, any more than he'd black his own boots." "Then," said Jeanne, defiantly, "I'm glad my father's just a fishman." CHAPTER XII A HELPFUL GRANDFATHER During that first winter, Jeanne was fairly contented. Her school work was new and kept her fairly busy, and in her cousins' bookshelves she discovered many delightful books for boys and girls. Heretofore, she had read no stories. She had been too busy rearing Mollie's family. Shy and sensitive, for several months she made no real friends among her schoolmates. How _could_ she, with a horrible past to conceal? To be sure, when she thought of the big, beautiful lake, the summer days on the old dock, the lovely reflections in the Cinder Pond, the swallows going to bed in the old furnace chimney, the red sun going down behind the distant town, the kind Old Captain, the warm affection of Mollie's children, not to mention the daily companionship of her nice little father, it seemed as if her past had been anything _but_ horrible. But no city child, she feared, would ever be able to understand that, when even the grown-ups couldn't. From the very first, her Uncle Charles had seemed not to like her. And sometimes it seemed to Jeannette that her Aunt Agatha eyed her coldly and resentfully. She couldn't understand it. But James, the butler, and Maggie, the maid, sometimes gossiped about it, as the best of servants will gossip. "It's like this," said James, seating himself on the corner of the pantry table. "Old Mr. Huntington is the real master of this house. Young Mrs. Huntington comes next. Mr. Charles is just a puddin'-head." "You mean figure-head," said Maggie. "Same thing. Now, Mr. Huntington owns all this (James's comprehensive gesture included a large portion of the earth's surface), and naturally Mr. Charles expects to be the heir, when the old gentleman passes away. Now, listen (James's voice dropped, confidentially). There's a young nephew of mine in Ball and Brewster's law-office. One day, when he was filing away a document with the name Huntington on it, he mentioned me being here, to another clerk--Old Pitman, it was. Well, Old Pitman said it was himself that had made a copy of old Mr. Huntington's will, leaving all that he had to his son Charles. Now lookee here. Supposin' old Mr. Huntington was to soften toward his dead daughter for runnin' away with that Frenchman, and was to make a new will leavin' everything to his grand-child--that new little girl. Between you and me, she's a sight better child than them other three put together." "He wouldn't," said Maggie. "Of course, he might leave her _something_." "That's it. Mark my words, Mr. and Mrs. Charles can't warm to that child because they're afraid of her; afraid of what she might get. She's a frozen terror, Missus is."