Miladi dropped her arm.
"It grows chilly," she said, presently. "Shall we go in, or—" Somehow her voice seemed changed.
"I had better run down to the dame's. Good night, Miladi. I have been so happy. It is like a lovely dream of the summer under the trees. I am sorry I cannot be content to stay;" and she kissed the soft hand, that now was cold.
Miladi made no reply. Only she stood still longer in the cold, and murmured, "Jeanne Angelot, Jeanne Angelot." And then she recalled a laughing remark of Gaston's only that morning:—
"Jeanne has wintry blue eyes like my father's! Look, maman, the frost almost sparkles in them. And he says his came from the wonderful skies above the Arctic seas. Do you know where that is?"
No, Jeanne did not know where that was. But there were plenty of blue-eyed people in Detroit.
She ran down the steps in the light of the young crescent moon, and rubbed her arm a little where the fingers had almost made a dent.
The next day the "Return" touched at the island. It was not at all out of her way, and the captain and Loudac were warm friends. The boys clung to Jeanne and would hardly let her go.
"I wish my father could buy you for another sister," exclaimed Gaston hanging to her skirt. "If he were here he would not let you go, I am quite sure. It will take such a long while for Angelique to grow up, and then we shall be men."
Did Miladi give her a rather formal farewell? It seemed as if something chilled Jeanne.