“Oh!” she cried to Greta. “They are coming! Florence has found them. She knows how I love gypsies who are good. She will bring them.” She sprang into a dance so wild that Greta thought she would spin quite off the deck and go flying through the air to meet the gay white boat.
“It can’t be Bihari!” she exclaimed at last, throwing herself down upon the deck. “It just cannot be!”
It was Bihari for all that. The schooner was still an arm’s length from the side of the wreck when with one wild leap Jeanne was in Madame Bihari’s strong arms.
“Jeanne! My Petite Jeanne!” the good woman cried. Tears stood in her eyes. “Jeanne, you are with us once more!”
There followed hours of great joy, of music and feasting; telling of stories, too.
“In France,” Bihari said to Jeanne, “all is beautiful. Every day grows longer without you. We said, ‘Well, we will return to America.’ And here we are.
“We came to Chicago. You were not there. We came to the shore of Lake Superior. You were not there. They said, ‘She is on an island, Isle Royale.’ We said, ‘Take our vans. We must have a boat.’ See! We have a boat. Is it not a jolly one? And we have you!
“And see!” he exclaimed, pointing at a brown mass of fur against the cabin. “See, we have found you a bear. He is almost as wise as your other one. And Mama here has taught him some of your dances.
“Come!” he exclaimed, poking the sleeping bear with his foot. “Come! Dance for us!”
Unrolling himself, the bear stood up. At first, still groggy with sleep, he looked more like an empty sack trying to play it was a man. When Bihari seized his violin and began to play, it was as if the bear were run by a motor and the current was suddenly turned on. He began hopping about in a most grotesque manner. Soon he and Jeanne were doing a wild, weird dance.