“How strange these gypsies are!” Jeanne mused after a moment of silence. “Always they are on islands and on points of land where there are no roads. They travel by water. Water gypsies. How quite novel that is! And yet, in southern France there are some such people. There are villages where all the fisher-folk are gypsies. Brave and daring seamen they are, too.
“Ah, yes, very brave. You must not think that gypsies are cowards. Gypsies fought in the great war, fought and died. Ah, yes! So you see this beautiful story of the stage, this play in which I am to have so wonderful a part, this tale of gypsies in war, is not without its parallel in life.”
At that she lapsed into silence. She was thinking again of that night, which each sunset found a day nearer, when on an American stage, before many hundreds of people, she should dance the gypsy tarantella on a miniature battlefield beneath the light of an imaginary moon.
At such times as this, Florence loved to watch the changes that passed over Jeanne’s face. As she imagined herself in the wings, awaiting her cue, a look of uncertainty, almost of fear, was written there. As, still in her imagination, she stepped out to face her audience, a wistful expression banished fear. After that, as she entered into the compelling rhythm of the dance, came complete transformation. Her face, warmed as if by the mellow light of the morning sun, became the face of a Madonna.
“I only hope,” Florence thought to herself, “that the play proves a great success. It means so much to her. And she is so kind-hearted, so unspoiled. She has lost so much; has so much to win.”
“Listen to the rain!” cried Jeanne. “Who would believe it could come down so hard?”
“Three days’ rain. That’s what the old timers say it will be. We have so little time to spend here. And there is so much that might be done.” Florence sighed.
“Do you know,” she spoke again, after watching the glow of the fire and listening to the steady patter-patter on the roof, “living in a place like this affects me strangely.”
She stretched herself full length in the great cedar chair. “I feel as if I had always lived here, never been out of the woods; as if I were very poor, ignorant and strong. I find it hard to believe that I have warm, soft, bright garments of fine spun cotton and silk. It is as if my garments had always been of brown homespun, my boots of coarsest leather, my hat of rain-proof stuff; as if I tramped days and days over miles of trail that would weary city-dwellers, but can only bring fresh joy to the one of browned features and brawny limbs.
“And why not?” she cried with some passion, sitting up quite abruptly. “Why not a cabin like this, and peace? In winter the trap line, a long, long tramp in high boots through drifted snow. A weasel pelt here, a mink there, and by this pond muskrat skins.