Perhaps, if Jeanne had known that Aunt Agatha was all but tearing the old house to pieces in hopes of finding a certain very valuable document, she _might_ have remembered that unusual day in March, when she had helped her grandfather "clean house" in his safe. But, happily for her peace of mind, she knew too little of legal matters to connect the burned "trash" with the fact that, somehow or other, half of the Huntington fortune was hers. No one happened to mention any missing document.
Mr. Fairchild, however, was still keeping the secret of Jeanne's possible fortune from everybody but his wife. He was cautious and wanted to be absolutely certain.
"I shall _burst_," declared Mrs. Fairchild, earnestly, "if I have to keep it much longer. Think of breaking _good_ news to Jeanne--she's had so little."
One day, Mrs. Fairchild went alone to pay a visit to Old Captain. She returned fairly beaming.
"I invited him to our Christmas tree," said she. "He's willing to be Santa Claus. Barney's coming too."
Three days before Christmas, Jeanne obeyed a sudden impulse to call on Old Captain. She had purchased a pipe for Barney and wanted to be sure that it was just exactly right. Old Captain would know. It was Saturday. Old Captain would surely be home, tidying his freight car and heating water for his weekly shave.
But where _was_ Old Captain? The door of the box-car was _locked_. Such a thing had never happened before. Locked from the outside, too. There was a brand-new padlock.
"I guess he's doing his Christmas shopping," said Jeanne. "Or perhaps he's _done_ it and is afraid somebody'll steal my present. I wonder if it's a pink parasol, or some pink silk stockings. Dear Old Captain! He thinks pink is my color, and the _pinker_ it is the better he likes it. I do believe I'll buy him a pink necktie. But no, he'd _wear_ it. Besides, I have that nice muffler for him. Well, it's pretty cold around here and I'd hate to freeze to this bench, and there's no knowing when he'll get back. Maybe Mr. Fairchild knows about pipes."
So Jeanne trudged homeward, but not, you may be sure, without a searching glance at the beach, where the dream-chest should have been--but wasn't.
"We're going to have our tree Christmas eve," said Mrs. Fairchild, that evening, when the family sat before the cheerful grate fire that Jeanne considered much pleasanter than a gas log. "But we won't take anything off the tree itself until Christmas night. On Christmas eve we'll open just the bundles we find _under_ the tree. That'll make our Christmas last twice as long. Oh, I'm _so_ excited! Jeanne, you aren't _half_ as young as I am. Roger, you stolid boy, you sedate old gentleman, why don't you get up more enthusiasm?"