The light they saw was the gleam of a camp fire. In this desolate spot it seemed strangely out of place; yet there is that about fire and light that suggests security and peace. How often in her homeland had Petite Jeanne felt the cozy warmth of an open fireplace and, secure from all danger, had fallen asleep in the corner of a gypsy’s tent. How often as a child had Florence, in a cane-seated rocker, sat beside the humble kitchen stove to hear the crackle of the fire, to watch its glow through its open grate and to dream dreams of security and peace.
What wonder, then, that these two bewildered and frightened ones, at sight of a glowing fire, should leap forward with cries of joy on their lips?
Nor were they destined to disappointment. The man who had built that fire loved its cheerful gleam just as they did, and for the very same reason: it whispered to him of security and peace.
He was old, was this man. His face had been deeply tanned and wrinkled by many a sun. His hair was snow white. A wandering philosopher and preacher, he had taken up his abode in a natural cavern between great rocks. He welcomed these frightened girls to a place of security by his fireside.
“Probably nothing to frighten you,” he reassured them. “There are many of us sleeping out here among the rocks. In these times when work is scarce, when millions know not when or where they are to eat and when, like our Master, many of us have nowhere to lay our heads, it will not seem strange that so many, some by the aid of a pile of broken bricks and some with cast-off boards and sheet-iron, should fashion here homes of a sort which they may for a brief time call their own.
“Of course,” he added quickly, “all too soon this will be a thing of the past. Buildings will rise here and there. They are rising even now. Three have been erected on these very shores. Scores of buildings will dot them soon. Palm trees will wave, orange trees blossom, grass and flowers will fringe deep lagoons where bright boats flash in the sun. All this will rise as if by magic and our poor abodes built of cast-off things will vanish, our camp fires gleam no more.” His voice trailed off into nothingness. For a time after that they sat there silent, staring at the fire.
“That,” said Florence, speaking with some effort, “will be too bad.”
“No, I suppose not.” The old man’s voice was mellow. “It’s going to be a Fair, a great Exposition. Millions of eager feet will tramp over the very spot where we now sit in such silence and peace. They are to call it the ‘Century of Progress.’ Progress,” he added dreamily. “Progress. That is life. There must be progress. Time marches on. What matter that some are left behind?
“But, see!” His tone changed. “Great clouds are banking up in the west. There will be a storm! My poor shelter does well enough for me. For you it will not suffice.
“You will do well to go forward,” he advised, as they sprang to their feet. “It is a long way back over the path you have come. If you go forward it is only a matter of a few blocks to a bridge over the railroad tracks. And across that bridge you will find shelter and a street car to carry you home.”