Leaping from her chair, the little French girl went whirling across the floor in her fantastic dance. She danced herself quite out of the cabin and out into the rain, leaving Florence to meditate upon her strange words, to conclude that Jeanne was more than half right, then to spring suddenly to her feet, crying:
“Come back here, Petite Jeanne! Come back right now. You will die of pneumonia.”
“Ever hear of a sprite dying of pneumonia?” Jeanne’s eyes were as full of laughter as her golden locks were of water, as she came dancing back.
“You’re not a sprite,” said Florence. “Even if you were one, who had taken human form, I’d have to keep you human until that play had its run.”
“Oh! the blessed play!” said the French girl contritely, at the same time snatching at her drenched garments. “How one does hate being in training for anything.”
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white, woolly blanket, she sat toasting before a fire. At this moment everything, past and future, was forgotten in the glorious now.
CHAPTER XIX
THE STOLEN TRUNK
The three days’ rain became a reality. A steady downpour, that set the forest mourning in earnest and turned the lake into a blanket of gray, settled down over all.
Petite Jeanne did not care. She had been sent north to rest. There was still a pile of unread romances in the corner cupboard. The shed at the back of the cabin was piled high with dry wood. The fire burned ever brightly. What more could she wish?
When she tired of reading she called to Tico, who lay sleeping by the fire hours on end, and together they went through some difficult step of the gypsy dance.