"They don't even go to school," sighed Jeanne. "But oh, I wish they had a nice aunt. There must be _some_ nice aunts in the world; but I'm sure _she_ isn't a nice one."
"I guess poor John picked the wrong woman," said Old Captain, shrewdly. "There's some that's kind to other people's children and some that ain't. John seemed a kind sort of chap, himself; but if his wife wan't a natural-born mother, with real mother feelin's, why all John's kindness couldn't make up for her cussedness, if she felt to be cussed. It's too bad, too bad. They was good little shavers. That there Sammy, now. I'd take _him_, myself."
"Oh," pleaded Jeanne, "I wish you'd take them _all_."
Old Captain shook his head. "My heart's big enough," he said, "but my freight car ain't."
"But the dock is," said Jeanne. "And there's the shack--"
"That shack's no place for children in cold weather. It's too far to school and _I_ got to stay with my fish. Besides, I ain't goin' to marry no lady whatsoever to take care of no family of children. I'm a _durned_--hum, ladies present--real good cook and women-folks is mostly one kind outside and another kind inside. I had one wife and she give me this."
Jeanne and Mrs. Fairchild looked with interest at the inch-long furrow on the Captain's bald pate.
"She done it with the dipper," concluded the Captain.
"I'm sure I don't blame you," said Mrs. Fairchild, "for your caution."
"I s'pose," queried Old Captain, who seemed to be enjoying the glass of sweet cider and the plate of cookies that Mrs. Fairchild had offered him, "you ain't heard nothin' from the Huntingtons?"
"Well," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "I wrote to Mrs. Huntington two weeks ago, explaining matters and asking for news of Jeanne's grandfather--she has been very anxious about him, you know--"
"An' she ain't wrote _yit_? Well, the old _iceberg_!"
Jeanne giggled. She couldn't help it. She had so often compared chilly Aunt Agatha, whose frozen dignity had unpleasantly impressed older persons than Jeanne, with the curious ice-formations along the lake shore in winter. They looked, sometimes, precisely like smooth, cold ladies, waiting for the warm sun to come and melt them. Aunt Agatha, however, had not melted.
"She sent Jeanne's clothes," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "but she didn't write. Evidently, she is going to let us keep our nice girl."