Then, out of what was seemingly a clear sky, came a thunderbolt. Jeanne's self-satisfied Aunt Agatha, at least, had noticed no gathering clouds; and for that reason, perhaps, was the harder hit. Something happened. Something that no one had ever dreamed _could_ happen in so well-ordered a house as Mrs. Huntington's. There is no doubt that the impaired faculties of old Mr. Huntington had a great deal to do with it. Possibly the "impaired faculties" combined with his ever-increasing dislike for his daughter-in-law had even more to do with it. Anyway, the astounding thing, for which Mrs. Huntington was never afterwards able to forgive "that wretched child from Bancroft," happened; but, as you shall see, it wasn't exactly Jeanne's fault. She merely obeyed her grandfather. It was not until the deed was done that she began to realize its unfairness to Mrs. Huntington, to whom Jeanne was not ungrateful. This is how it happened. Jeanne, who had never really _complained_ in her letters to her father, in her conversations with her grandfather, or in fact to anybody; Jeanne, who had borne every trial bravely and even cheerfully, had, for three days, burst into tears every afternoon at precisely four o'clock. You see, this was the time when the postman made his final visit for the day. As the lonely little girl usually spent her afternoons in the dismal garden with her grandfather, he had witnessed all three of these surprising outbursts. She hadn't said a word. She had merely turned from the letters that James had laid on the table, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. For two days her grandfather had not seemed to notice. Nowadays, he _didn't_ notice a great deal. On the first occasion of her weeping, he had even fallen into a doze, while Jeanne, her head on the littered table, had cried all the tears that had _almost_ come during the preceding weeks. The third afternoon, her grandfather appeared brighter than he had for days. He noticed, while she watched for the postman, that the child's face seemed white and strained, that there were dark rings about her eyes. Again there was no letter from her father. Again she broke down and sobbed. "Tell me about it," said he, with a trembling hand on Jeanne's heaving shoulder. As soon as Jeanne was able to speak at all, she poured it all out, in breathless sentences mixed with sobs. She was lonely, she wanted a letter from her father, she wanted her father himself, she wanted the children, she wanted the lake, she wanted to go home--she had wanted to go home every minute since--well, _almost_ every minute since the moment of her arrival. She hated Miss Turner, she hated to practice scales, she hated the hot weather, she was homesick, she wanted Mollie to _smile_ at her--Mollie was always good to her. And oh, she wanted to cuddle Patsy. "He--he'll _grow up_," wailed Jeanne. "He won't be a baby if I wait three--three years, or wu--one muh--month less than three years. I--I wu--wu--want to go home."