She was on Isle Royale. More than once she had been obliged to pinch herself to make sure of that.
“Airplanes are so sudden, so wonderful!” she had said to Sandy. “Now we are in Chicago; now we are in Duluth; and now we are on Isle Royale.”
Their trip north had been just like that, a short whirring flight, and there they were coming down upon Isle Royale. Landing on skiis, they had taxied almost to the door of the low fisherman’s cabin which was to be their temporary home.
Here Sandy was to study wild life, find out all he could about trapping wild moose and send interesting stories out over the short-wave radio. Here Jeanne was to wander at will over the great white wilderness. And this was exactly what she was doing now.
“What a world!” she breathed. “What a glorious world God has given us!” Her gaze swept a magic wilderness.
Her heart leaped anew as she thought of the chance circumstances that had brought her to this “Magic Isle” sixty miles from the Michigan mainland in winter.
“I am going to like Vivian,” she told herself. “I am sure she is quite grand.” She paused a moment to consider. Vivian was the fisherman’s daughter. Her hands were rough, her face was tanned brown. Her clothing of coarse material was stoutly made to stand many storms. Jeanne was dressed at this moment in a sweater of bright red. It was wool, soft as eiderdown. Her dark blue knickers were of the latest cloth and pattern. Miss Mabee had outfitted her in this lavish manner.
“Vivian and I shall be the finest friends in all the world!” she exclaimed.
With that, she squared her slender shoulders, threw back her thick golden hair, drew her wool cap down tight, then went struggling toward her goal.
Twenty minutes later a cry of pure joy escaped her lips. “How wonderful! How perfectly gorgeous!