Late that night, the great log cabin used as a lounge for the lodge was comfortably crowded with people. The little fisherman’s wife was there. One child was asleep in her lap, another played at her side. On her face was a look of joy.
“Listen!” she was saying to the old man near her, “how it rains!” Great sheets of rain were beating against the window panes. “A northeast wind,” she added in a whisper, “the fires are over. Our homes and our islands are safe.”
This was the joyous feeling in every heart. That was why they were there. Drawn together by an invisible bond of common interest and friendship in hope and in despair, they had gathered to celebrate.
In the corner, an impromptu trio—piano, cello and violin—began playing, Over the Waves.
As the music rose and fell, as the sparks from the driftwood fire leaped toward the sky, Florence thought that no moment in her whole life had been as joyous as this.
“Jeanne,” she exclaimed, “you must dance. Dance to the patter of rain on the roof.”
“Yes,” Jeanne agreed almost eagerly, “I shall dance. I have been practicing a new dance quite in secret.”
“A new dance,” exclaimed one of the musicians, “what is it?”
“Dance of the Flames,” said Jeanne.
“Good! We have the very thing, an Indian dance to the fire god—you shall dance to our music.”