Another night, when she had gone early to the shack in order to mend a long rent in her petticoat, she found herself with half an hour to spare before bedtime. She had left her books on Old Captain's table and the kittens were also in the Captain's car. For once, now that her mending was finished, she had nothing to do unless she were to dress, and go up the dock to Old Captain's. And that, she decided, was too much trouble for so short a time. She was obliged to stand on a box to reach the nail she liked best for her dress. As she did so this time, the lamplight fell upon a crack in the wall that was level with her eyes, and contained something that suddenly glittered. She fished the small object from its hiding-place; and recognized in it the key to her father's little old trunk. She looked at it thoughtfully. Perhaps, since she was so very lonely for her father, he wouldn't mind if she opened that trunk to see what articles he had handled last. She moved the lamp to a box beside the trunk, turned the key, and lifted the cover. Her father's best suit was there, very neatly folded, and his shoes. From under these came a gleam of something faintly pink. Jeanne carefully drew it forth. "My old pink dress!" she exclaimed. Jeanne slipped it on. It was much too short. "Why," said she, "what a lot I've grown!" Upright in one corner of the trunk, Jeanne found a green bottle. It held a withered stalk to which two dried pink petals still clung. "I left that bottle with a rose in it on father's table when I went away," said Jeanne. "He must have found it there when he got back and _kept_ it. And this dress. He didn't give it to Annie. He _kept it_. And I'm glad. Sometimes, when I was so awfully lonesome at Aunt Agatha's, I used to wonder if my father really _did_ love me. But now I _know_ he did--every single minute. I'll put this dress back where I found it." Another thing that came to light was her father's bankbook. She showed that, the next day, to Old Captain, who studied it carefully. "I'm glad," said Jeanne, "that there's a little money. It may be needed for Mollie." It was. One day, early in October, Mollie failed to waken from one of her comfortable naps. Thanks to Léon Duval's modest savings, poor Mollie was decently buried. Mrs. Fairchild took Jeanne and Old Captain and all the flowers from Mrs. Schmidt's little greenhouse to the very simple funeral. "I've got to be a mother to Mollie's children just as soon as ever I can," said Jeanne, on the way home. "I was going to do it for daddy, anyway; but now I want to for Mollie, too." CHAPTER XXIV MOLLIE'S BABIES