The loss of her position had depressed her. Still, hope had returned when she secured part-time work at night.
Most of all she had been concerned with the success of the little French girl. Having induced her to come to America, Florence felt a weight of responsibility for her. Her continued success and happiness rested heavily upon Florence’s shoulders.
“And now—” She sighed unhappily.
But after all, what could have happened? She thought of the dark-faced gypsy Jeanne had spoken of; thought, too, of the Fire God that had fallen from some planet, been forged beneath the palms in some tropical jungle, or in one way or another had found its way into the wayside camps and the superstitious hearts of the gypsies.
“There might be many who would risk life itself to come into possession of it,” she told herself.
She thought of the curious phenomena that twice had frightened the little French girl.
“Wings,” she whispered. “Wings! The flutter of wings!”
The conductor called her station. Startled out of the past by the needs of the immediate present, she dashed off the street car, only to find herself thinking of the future.
“To-morrow,” she murmured, “what of to-morrow?”
How many millions had asked that same question during these trying times! And how varied were the answers!