“What do I think?” said Petite Jeanne, with a shy smile in return for his. The light in her eyes was kindly, and the touch on his arm gentle, for the little French girl loved old men with long gray hair, and she was charmed by their stories as she was charmed when she was six. “What do I think? I think you have no umbrella at all.”
“No umbrella!” He put out a hand as if to grasp one. Then, springing to his feet, he pretended to search the bench.
“Bless me!” he cried. “Some one has stolen it! My grandfather’s umbrella. And such a fine umbrella, all silk from China. Little yeller women—”
“Yes, I know. You told me,” laughed Petite Jeanne. “But see! The sun is smiling on the water! I must dance him out for a new day.
“And this,” she sang as she danced away, “this is my luckee day!”
CHAPTER IV
SIX FEROCIOUS BEARS
“And now,” said Jeanne, as she returned from dancing the sun up, “tell me another story.”
As the old man looked at her a droll smile played over his wrinkled face. “I don’t think you believe my stories,” he said.
“Oh, yes, I do!” she protested vigorously. “At—at least, almost.”
“Well, then—” He placed his feet on the ground, then prodded the sod with his cane. “Once I was in the Catskill Mountains—or was it the Cascades? I disremember.”