“What a sour pickle indeed!” agreed Jeanne.
“And to-morrow we leave for Chicago.”
“To-morrow! It does not seem possible.” The little French girl’s heart went into a flutter. This meant that ten days from this time she would be at the center of a great stage strewn with broken instruments of war, and lighted only by an artificial moon, doing the gypsy tarantella while a vast audience looked on and—
Applauded? Who could say? So much must come of this crowded quarter of an hour. Her heart stood still; then it went racing.
“Ah, well,” she sighed, “only time can tell.”
“I guess that’s true,” Florence agreed, thinking of quite another matter. “We may be able to find her in Chicago and return her trunk.
“And now—” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Now I must go to our cabin and sleep.”
The remainder of that day was uneventful. But night set all the village agog.
After a good sleep, Florence had assisted Jeanne with the packing in preparation for the morrow’s departure. They had said their sad farewell to night and the stars, a farewell that night and stars were not to accept as final. They had crept beneath their blankets and had fallen fast asleep.
Florence awoke some time later with the glow of an unusual light in her eyes.