Oars, a boat, and away. Sometimes they entered little land-locked bays where spotted perch lay fanning the water among the pike weed. Again, they sought out a great submerged rock, beneath whose shadows the black bass lurked.
Often, too, they left rod and reel untouched to watch a mother duck and her young busy themselves at the task of gathering the day’s supply of young frogs, bugs and snails.
There were wild, windy days, too, that seemed to shout at the wanton spirit of youth that was hers. This seemed always a challenge. Leaving Petite Jeanne to sit by the fire and dream of her beloved France, she would push her frail craft off from the shore to battle winds, waves and foam for hours on end.
As the wind rose and screamed at her, she would turn her face to it, let her hair fly wildly out, and scream back in wild defiance.
At such times as these, it seemed to her that she must have lived before, that for years on end she had battled winds and waves.
There are those who believe that we live our lives many times; that in some new form we return to earth to face life’s problems anew. Florence knew of this belief. As she battled the elements, it pleased her to assume the role of a Norseman’s bride. In fancy, riding at the head of some sturdy crew, she faced the battling waves of the fierce Atlantic and entered dark caves at night, to sit by a great roaring fire munching hard bread and venison roasted over the coals.
Florence Huyler’s love of nature amounted almost to a religion. And who will say that she might not have found a less desirable subject for devotion?
What is sweeter and finer than the heart of the forest, what purer than the soul of a crested wave?
For Petite Jeanne, too, woods and water held a great charm. Only her manner of responding to it differed. She lay for hours on the warm, sandy beach beneath a great umbrella, half asleep, dreaming. She, too, wandered in the forest. From these wanderings she returned in a pensive mood. These trees, these winding paths, reminded her of the forests of France. They whispered all too loudly of many happy days spent on the edge of those forests with the gypsies.
On a certain day Florence learned in a forceful manner just what the little French girl’s feelings were toward the strange people of her adoption. They were rowing past the end of a private dock which extended some distance into the waters of the bay, when Petite Jeanne suddenly cried out: