But was she better off? Having had a full moment to reflect there in the darkness and silence, she began to doubt it. Here she was in a strange place—some one’s basement, and all about her was darkness. That she had done some damage was certain.
“This,” she sighed, “is my luckee day. And what a start!
“Have to get going.” She made an attempt to free herself from the entangled mass into which she had fallen. She put out a hand and felt the rough edge of splintered wood. She moved a foot, and a fragment of glass crashed to the floor.
“The place is a wreck!” she all but sobbed. “And I did it. Or did I? How could I do so much?” She began to doubt her senses.
Now she sat up, silent, intent. Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps.
“Some one’s coming. Now I’m in for it!”
The footsteps seemed to fall as lightly as a fairy’s toes. Scarcely had Petite Jeanne begun to wonder about that when there came the sound of a door being opened. Next instant a light flashed on, revealing in the doorway the face of a girl.
And such a girl! Jeanne pronounced her Irish without a second’s hesitation. She had those unmistakable smiling Irish eyes. And they were smiling.
“She’s younger than I am, and no larger, though her shoulders are broader. She’s bony. Maybe she works too hard and eats too little.” These thoughts, flashing through the little French girl’s keen mind for the moment, drove all thought of her plight out of her head. For those eyes, those smiling Irish eyes, were the sort that take hearts captive. Petite Jeanne was a willing captive.
“Did you fall in the window?” the girl asked.