Florence gave up. Jeanne was at heart a gypsy. And for gypsies all manner of curious creatures are real, ghosts and devils, goblins and witches, all quite real, so what could she say?
It was a dark and gloomy night. Black clouds hurried over the black waters of Lake Michigan. The Tavern seemed dark, mysterious, uninviting. Yet, as ever, there was the pale light, the low fire of coals, the slender girl scrubbing on hands and knees.
“Jensie,” said Jeanne. Her voice was low and friendly when at last they sat before the fire, which had been made to glow a little. “Jensie, when the big show is over, shall you go back to your mountain home?”
“It is beautiful.” Jensie spoke slowly, and with seeming reluctance. “Y-e-s, I shall probably go back.”
“But you do not wish it?” Jeanne was surprised.
“I have been through eighth grade down there. It is as far as I can go. I walked four miles every morning and night for that. I—I would like to study—study more.”
“Where?” Jeanne’s voice was low.
“There is a place—” The mountain girl’s voice took on a new note of enthusiasm. “Such a beautiful place! A school. Lena, my chum, is there now. Her father has a coal mine.
“And this place—” She stared at the fire. “There are trees, great spreading elm trees, very old. And the brown stone building at the top of the hill is old, all grown over with ivy. Some of the teachers are old too. Their hair is like silver. But they are kind, oh so very kind. And they teach you so much. I have visited there. I know.” Her voice fell.
“Is it far?” Jeanne asked.