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. Her grandfather, who seldom interfered in any way with Mrs. Huntington's plans, had objected to Miss Turner. "She may be an excellent teacher for ordinary children," said he, "but she isn't Jeannette's kind, and she isn't pleasant." "She is not unpleasant to _me_," returned unmoved Aunt Agatha, whose opinions were exceedingly difficult to change. "At any rate, it is too late to discuss the matter. I have engaged her for the summer, at a definite salary. Next summer, if it seems best, we can make some different arrangement."