"Jeanne," said Mr. Duval, touching her hand softly, "I'll tell you now where we are going. It happens that you have a grandfather. His name is William Huntington--your mother's father, you know. Some weeks ago I wrote to an old friend to ask if he were still living. He is. Your mother's brother Charles and his family live with him: a wife and three children, I believe. Your aunt is undoubtedly a lady, since your uncle's marriage was, I understand, pleasing to his family. Your mother was away from home at the time of our marriage and I met only her parents afterwards. Your grandfather I could have liked, had he liked me. Your grandmother--she is dead now--seemed the more unforgiving. Yet, neither forgave."
"They knew that you were living at the time of your mother's death. I want them to _see_ you. If they like you, it will be a very good thing for you. It is, I think, the _only_ way that I can give you what your mother would have wanted you to have; the right surroundings, the proper friends, education, accomplishments. You are nearly twelve and you have had _nothing_. If anything were to happen to me, I should want you with your mother's people rather than with Mollie. This--visit will--help you, I think."
"Shall I like my grandfather? And my uncle? I've never had any of _those_, you know."
"But not as well as you, Daddy, not _half_ as well--"
"We won't talk about it any more just now, if you please. See that load of ripe tomatoes--a big wagon heaped to the top. We don't have such splendid fruit in our cold climate. See, there is a farm. Perhaps they came from there. Such big barns and comfortable houses."
"Daddy," said Jeanne, "what does a lady do when her stocking keeps coming down and coming down? This morning I broke the rope--"
"The rope!" exclaimed astonished Mr. Duval.
Jeanne hitched up her skirt to display the remaining wisp of rope.
"My poor Jeannette," groaned Léon Duval, "it is certainly time that you were with your mother's people. You need a gentlewoman's care."
"But, Daddy. You said we'd be on this train all day, and it's only nine now. My stocking drops all the way down. Haven't you a bit of fish-twine anywhere about you?"
"Not an inch," lamented Mr. Duval. "But perhaps the porter might have a shoestring."