“Why not, indeed?” Jeanne danced across the floor.
“Come, Tico!” she called, as she danced out of her bathrobe and into a gaudy gypsy costume. “To-night there is work to be done.”
Florence knew that it required real courage for Jeanne to take this step. She was afraid of dark places at night.
“And what is more spooky than a woodland trail at night?” she asked herself.
Her admiration for the little French girl grew. “She has real grit,” she told herself. “She means to succeed; she will do anything that will aid in making success possible.
“And she will succeed! She must!”
By the gleam of a small flashlight, they made their way, now between tall cedars that stood like sentinels beside their path, and now beneath broad fir trees that in the night seemed dark Indian wigwams.
They crossed a narrow clearing where the vacant windows of an abandoned homesteader shanty stared at them. They entered the forest again, to find it darker than before. The moon had gone under a black cloud.
“Boo!” shuddered Jeanne. “How quite terrible it all is!”
Tico rubbed against her. He appeared to understand.