The sun was still sleeping peacefully beneath the lake when she arrived at the grove of broad, spreading willows. Off to the east huge clouds like ghosts in dark robes were rushing over the water.
“Never you mind,” laughed Petite Jeanne, “I know you. You are only a great big bluff. When Mister Sun comes out he will dress you in pink and gold. After that he will fade you to palest pale and send you scampering away to cast thin shadows over meadows and pastures where lambs are feeding on clover.”
As if the thought of gamboling lambs set her limbs in motion, the little French girl went springing away in a sprightly dance.
For a full quarter of an hour she lost herself in the intoxicating joy of action. Now she raced away before a breeze. Now she whirled until all her red petticoats were wheels. Now she threw her head back and laughed at the birds who scolded from the trees. And now, snatching the sash from her waist, she went bowing and weaving away toward the sandy beach where little white waves were playing.
It was while on her way back from this little journey that she sought a lone bench beneath the greatest of the willows for a moment of rest.
It was that time of half-light just before dawn. Already the fearsome clouds were beginning to lose their terror. They had taken on a faint touch of old rose.
Jeanne dropped down upon the bench, as she had done many times before, without looking. The next instant she gave forth a startled little “Oh!”
A man was seated beside her. Quite an old man he was, with long gray hair protruding from an ancient slouch hat.
“So you are human!” His drawl was soft, melodious. “I didn’t believe you could be. Only fairies dance like that. I thought you a fairy.”
As if to assure himself that he could not be mistaken, he touched the hem of her broad, short skirt.