"Holy Mother defend us!" and a man crossed himself devoutly. "It is no living being, it is a ghost."
For she had disappeared. The wondering eyes glanced on vacancy, stupefied.
"I said she was dead from the first. She would never have gone off and left the poor Pani woman to die of grief. She sits there alone day after day, and now she will not eat, though Dame Margot and the Indian woman Wenonah try to comfort her. And this is Jeanne's spirit come for her. You will find her dead body in the cottage. Ah, I have seen the sign."
"It was a strange disappearance!"
"The captain can tell," said another, "for if she was rescued from the Indians he must have brought her down."
"Yes, yes," and they rushed in search of the captain, wild with superstition and excitement.
It was really Jeanne Angelot. She had been rescued and left at Bois Blanc, and then taken over to another island. A pretty, sweet young girl and no ghost, Jeanne Angelot by name.
Jeanne sped on like a sprite, drawing her cap over her face. Ah, the familiar ways and sights, the stores here, the booths shut, for the outdoors trade was mostly over, the mingled French and English, the patois, the shouts to the horses and dogs and to the pedestrians to get out of the way. She glanced up St. Anne's street, she passed the barrack, where some soldiers sat in the sunshine cleaning up their accouterments. Children were playing games, as the space was wider here. The door of the cottage was closed. There was a litter on the steps, dead leaves blown into the corners and crushed.
"O Pani! Pani!" she cried, and her heart stood still, her limbs trembled.
The door was not locked. The shutter had been closed and the room was dark, coming out of the sunshine. There was not even a blaze on the hearth. A heap of something at the side—her sight grew clearer, a blanketed bundle, oh, yes—