  The following day the weather was threatening. Dark clouds came rolling down from the north. The biting chill they brought told that they had journeyed far, from the very shores of Hudson Bay. Petite Jeanne took one look at the out-of-doors; then she threw fresh wood upon the fire, curled up in her favorite chair, and lost herself in a French romance. Not so, Florence. For her all days were alike. Come sunshine, come rain, come heat, come cold, calm, or storm, it was all the same to her. The world outside ever beckoned, and she must go. This day she chose to wander alone over unfamiliar trails. As she plunged into the depths of the forest, she felt the cold and gloom press in upon her. It did not rain; yet the trees shed tears. From all about her came the sound of their slow drip-drip-drip. A cold mist, sweeping in from the lake, enveloped all. Now and again, as she passed through a grove of cottonwoods, a flurry of golden leaves came fluttering down. “Autumn is here,” she told herself. “We must be going back soon. But how I long to stay! “I love you, love you, love you,” she sang. And the song was meant for lake and beach, forest and stream, alike. Her trail was long that day. She wandered so far that she began to be a little frightened. “Can I find my way back?” she asked herself. Well enough she knew that before her lay endless miles of slashings and young timber which were known only to the wild deer and the porcupine; that it was quite possible for one to become lost here for days and perhaps die of exposure and starvation. She was thinking of turning back, when to her great surprise she heard voices. “In such a place!” she whispered to herself. At the same moment she noted that the forest ahead of her had grown thin, that she could see patches of sky beyond. Once more she had crossed a broad point and had come to a strange shore. But what shore? And who were these people? Again she paused. As before, she caught the sound of voices, this time much more distinct. “But what a strange language!” she thought to herself. She concluded that she must be entering some Finnish settlement. “Safe enough,” she reassured herself. For all that, she moved forward cautiously. Safety first. She was far from her own cabin. She had just reached a point where, by parting the bushes, she thought she might be able to catch a glimpse of the strangers, when, with the suddenness of an eagle’s cry, a scream rent the air. And after that, another and yet another. They were a woman’s screams. “What is this?” she asked herself, as her cheeks blanched and the blood seemed to stand still in her veins. “Is this a murder?” The question spurred her to action. She was young and strong as a man. If someone needed aid, it was her duty to step out and do her bit. With little thought of further concealment, she moved rapidly through the thin screen of brush. Imagine her surprise when, upon emerging, she saw a man and a woman, gypsies, both splashing through the lake water to their waists. Mystification replaced surprise and fear but for a moment. It was replaced by sorrow; for, suddenly stooping beside a great rock, the gypsy man put out his hand and lifted a small form from the water. “The child!” she exclaimed in a low voice, tense with emotion. “Their child! She has been playing on the rocks. A wave caused by some passing ship carried her away. Perhaps they did not notice in time. She may be dead.” Without having seen Florence, the gypsies waded ashore. There, with a look of infinite sadness, the man placed the dripping child on the ground. The woman joined him. And there they stood, the two of them, in the bowed attitudes of those who mourn for the dead. It came to the girl then that these gypsies, who had spent all their lives in caravans on land, knew little or nothing of the water, which they had apparently adopted as their temporary home. No sooner had she thought this than she sprang into action. Without so much as a “May I?” or “If you please,” she leaped forward, pushed the astonished parents aside, seized the child and held her, head down, in the air. Water poured from the child’s nose and mouth. Next, Florence placed her across the trunk of a fallen tree and rocked her back and forth. At last she laid her on the ground and began to work her arms in an attempt to restore respiration. All this time the gypsies stood looking upon her as if she might be a goddess or a demon, sent to restore or devour their child. Suddenly the child sneezed. On hearing this, the gypsy woman once more sent forth a piercing scream, then threw herself upon Florence’s neck. Shaking herself free, Florence resumed her work. A moment later the child began to cry. A few husky wails from the child, and Florence’s work was complete. After removing the child’s damp clothing, Florence joined the man in making a fire. She taught the woman, who had partially regained her composure, how to chafe the child’s hands and feet; then she prepared to leave them. “I wish Jeanne were here,” she told herself. “I would like to know who they are, where they came from, and why they are here. So would Jeanne. But Jeanne is far away. If I bring her here they will be gone. I cannot take them to her. Have to trust to good fortune to bring us together again.” Did she trust in vain? If she had seen the look on that woman’s face as she once more vanished into the forest, she would have known certainly that in this world there was one person who would, if fate required it, go to the gallows or the electric chair for her. Thus does fate play with the children of men. She casts before them golden opportunities. If they prove themselves steadfast, true and fearless, in her own good time, in some far future it may be, in ways of which they do not dream, she sends her reward. |
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